The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (13 page)

mean, opening the doors of taxis?’

‘I meant he’

‘Now, mother,’ Bernard spoke hurriedly. ‘Uncle James wasn’t always a commissionaire. He had lots of jobs over there. And he did very well considering everything. Had his own car and gave his daughter a good education. It’s not every man can say as much.’

‘A lot of good that does me,’ Mrs Henry Rice said. ‘I don’t see much of it. Never as much as offered me a day’s rent all the time he’s here.’

‘Mother I’ Bernard looked upset, more credit to him, Miss Hearne thought. But what was that, opening the doors of taxis? A commissionaire, did he say? A doorman? O, no!

‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Henry Rice said. ‘I suppose Jim has his good points after all. But I must say he doesn’t spread himself, not on his family, anyway. Only on outsiders.’

‘Are you referring to me?’ Miss Hearne said, her dark

shifting eyes suddenly lit with anger.

‘Of course not.’

‘O, yes, you are. Did you ask me in here to insult me, I’d like to know?’

‘Now, now, don’t get-all excited,’ Mrs Henry Rice said, holding out fat white arms in supplication. ‘I didn’t mean anything of the sort. In fact, it never even occurred to me. Outsiders, no, I meant some of those fellows he spends his time with, buying them drinks, the bunch of good-for nothings. Like that Major Mahaffey-Hyde that he’s taken up with, a worthless streel of a fellow and not even a Catholic.’

‘I see. Well now, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs Rice, I’m going to bed.’

‘Won’t you have a cup of tea? It’s ready now and I’d be mortified if you took offence where none was intended. Really I would.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ Miss Hearne said, standing up. ‘We’ll lust say nothing more about it. Good night.’

She gave the door a tiny bit of a slam when she went out. The immortal cheek of some people! You’d think I’d asked him to take me out and spend money on me. O, the nerve of her. The vulgar lump, with her precious Bernie sitting up there half-naked and him a grown man. O, I’ll give her notice, really I will. The cheek of her!

But the anger had brought on that awful shaking so that she could hardly get her key out of her bag to open the door of the bed-sitting-room. A commissionaire, Bernard had said. A doorman.

As she fumbled with the key, a female voice whispered from the stairs above:

‘Is that you, Bernie?’

Miss Hearne looked up and there was Mary, the maid, tearful and nervous, standing at the head of the stairs. Bernie, indeed, the child was pretty familiar with him, wasn’t she?

‘Mary, I wonder if you would help me with this lock? I can’t see it in the dark here.’

‘O, yes, ‘m.’ And Mary. came down, took the key and opened the door. She drew Miss Hearne’s curtains, lit the gas stove and asked if there was anything else.

‘N no, good night. And thank you,’ Miss Hearne said, closing the door on her. Funny, her being up and waiting for Bernard like that. But goodness knows, she had troubles enough of her own without worrying about servant girls.

She sat down on the bed to unpin her hat. Her eyes went to the mantelpiece and there was her dear aunt, looking down at her, stern, reminding her of her behaviour.

A nice thing, Judy, her aunt said. I don’t know what’s come over you. You’ll be no better than a serving girl yourself if you get mixed up with that man. A doorman. Imagine!

Common as dirt. And that awful sister of his, vulgar woman, insulting you to your face.

‘She didn’t,’ Miss Hearne told the picture. ‘She didn’t insult me. And how do you know if she’s telling the truth? He might not have been a doorman anyway. That might just have been talk. He’s nice and he’s polite. He is.’

She looked away from her aunt’s accusing stare, remembering that her aunt was hard to please, and a little selfish too, if the truth were known. You wanted me all to yourself, she told the picture, just as long as I was there to read you Sir Walter Scott every evening and make your Bengers’ Milk at bedtime, you didn’t care what happened. You never let me meet anyone and you tried to put everyone off me. And Marius McKeown, the only young man who did come calling, do you remember what you said about him? O, yes, he wasn’t good enough because his people owned a pub and sold drink after hours and had been prosecuted for it. And Marius that afterwards bought one of the biggest golf hotels in the country with the money he came into. O, he wasn’t good enough for you, nobody’s good enough for you, nobody ever was and nobody ever will be. And it’s all your fault that I am where I am today, being insulted by some fat old landlady and living in furnished rooms.

She got up then and went to the mantelpiece. She turned the photograph towards the wall. Then she looked at the black passe-partout back of the photograph. There, she said, I’ll do what I want without your interfering.

Judy, he had called her. Judy, and tonight he had said that he needed someone to do things for. Tonight he had come as close as anything to telling her he wanted her for his wife. Only it had been on such a short notice. If they had known each other longer he would surely have spoken. Judy, the way he said it, with his American drawl. Judy.

But then before her, making the shaking start in her hands, came the faces of Bernard and his mother. Bernard, with his fat white tummy, his face uneasy, trying to talk nicely about his uncle, and his mother, sitting on her chair like a huge cream puff, her manner contemptuous, insinuating things

about her own brother. ‘All he was fit for was opening the doors of taxis.’ James Madden, dressed up in the ridiculous uniform of the doorman at the cinema, bowing as he helped a lady and gentleman in evening clothes into a long black limousine. James Madden in revolving doors, with halfa dozen suitcases tucked under his arms, James Madden saluting, as a taxi full of guests drew up outside the great hotel. A doorman, a lackey, a servant. Common, common as mud.

Contrite, she looked at the mantelpiece, at the photograph turned to the wall. You’re right, she told her dear aunt, right, you could never introduce him to a man like Owen O’Neill. Or to Dan Breen, who had his own firm of solicitors and was a Master of the Hunt once. No, he might do all right for America but he wouldn’t do for here. I’ll just have to drop him, or drop out of things if I ever get mixed up with him. But drop out of what things? she said, nobody cares any more. And Dan Breen, since he moved to Dublin, never a word out of him or his family. Not a line. And that little Una O’Neill making mock of me every Sunday. Who cares what I do any more? Drop out of what, indeed? James Madden may be common, but he’s a man, a good Catholic and he has enough money to live decently now with all those common jobs behind him.

Yes, and what’s wrong with that? she asked the hidden face behind the photograph. What in the world is wrong marrying a decent man like that? And if we went to America who would know the difference what he is? One man’s the same as another over there, rags to riches, the whole lot of them. There’s not a single thing wrong with James Madden that a good woman couldn’t change. And he’s no fool, he can be taught to change his ways.

She lay back on the bed and the tears were in her eyes and her whole body was shaking. She mustn’t think of it, because if she started wanting it, she’d have to have it and feel awful afterwards and be sick for days. No, no, she told herself, and looked up to the Sacred Heart for strength. He looked down, wise and stern and kindly, His fingers raised in warning. No, He said, you must not do it. It would be a mortal sin.

‘O, You’re right, You’re right, I mustn’t,’ she said aloud, burying her face in the bedclothes, crushing and twisting up her best rose pastel dress. ‘No, no, and besides, he isn’t worth it.’ James Madden, with a horrid white cap like the soft drink advertisement, and a white apron, tossing pancakes at the ceiling and she on her knees in a charwoman’s apron washing the floor. Over the counter the sign said, ‘Jim’s Car6’. No, no, no, no, she cried, pushing her face deep in the pillow and then she began to cough and the cough tore at her. I must have something to stop it, something to stop it, to cut the phlegm. I must. Just a little one, it won’t be more, I promise Thee, O Sacred Heart.

She slithered off the bed, twisting her stocking, putting a ladder all the way up to the knee. She scrabbled in the bureau drawer for the keys to the trunk and took them out with a hand that shook so the keys rattled. She unlocked it and found one bottle, wrapped in cheap brown paper. Then, apologetically, she clambered up on the bed and turned the Sacred Heart towards the wall. He looked at her, stern now, warning that this might be her last chance ever and that He might beconle the Stern Judge before morning came, summoning her to that terrible final accounting. No awakening to see James Madden, to walk ever in the city, to ever see him again. Tonight I may cast you down, He said. My Patience will not last for ever.

But the rage had started inside her, the pleasant urgency to open it, to fill a glass and sip it slowly, to feel it do its own wonderful work. So she turned the Sacred Heart to the wall, scarcely hearing the terrible warning He gave her.

Then she scrambled off the bed, shaking, took a glass from the trunk and scrabbled with her long fingers at the seal, breaking a fingernail, pulling nervously until the seal crumbled on the floor and the cork lay upended on top of the bedside table. She took off her clothes quickly, wise in the habits of it, because sometimes you forgot, later. She pulled on her nightdress and dressing-gown, sat quietly by the fire, shaking a little still, but with the rage, the desire of it. Then, while the bottle of cheap whiskey beat a clattering dribbling tattoo on

the edge of the tumbler, she poured two long fingers and leaned back. The 5Tellow liquid rolled slowly in the glass, opulent, oily, the key to contentment. She swallowed it, feeling it warm the pit of her stomach, slowly spreading through her body, steadying her hands, filling her with its secret power. Warmed, relaxed, her own and only mistress, she reached for and poured a tumbler full of drink.

CHAPTER 8.

BERNARD stopped outside Miss Hearne’s door and knelt down. He put his eye to the keyhole and saw her. In her dressing-gown. He listened for the sound of voices. Nothing.

Behind him, someone whispered:

‘Bernie?’

Mary, half dressed, looking over the banister.

‘Is he in there?’ Bernard whispered, pointing to Miss Hearne’s door.

‘No. He went in his own room - Bernie, I want to see you.’ ‘Go back to bed. I haven’t got time.’ ‘But Bernie, you promised.’

‘Go to bed. I’ve got to see him. It’s important.’

Dejected, she waited as he went up and crossed to Madden’s room. ‘Go on,’ he whispered. ‘Get up to bed.’

He watched as she went slowly up to the attic. Satisfied, he

knocked quietly on his uncle’s door. ‘Who is it?’ The . Bernard.’

Madden opened the door. He wore long white underwear,

shirt and shoes.

‘What?’

‘Can I come in for a minute?’

Madden turned his back on Bernard and walked slowly to the bed. He sat down on it, his back propped up by pillows. He grasped his left thigh with both hands and swung his crippled leg up on the bed. Bernard came inside and closed the door.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to explain about tonight.’

‘What?’

‘I mean mother saying those things about you taking Miss Hearne out. I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with it.’

Madden did not answer.

‘Honestly, Uncle James, it was as much of a surprise to me as to you.

‘Relax,’ Madden said. ‘Sit down. I’m not going to squeal on you, if that’s what you mean.’

‘No, no, I just wanted to let you know my position.’ Madden pointed to a pack of Camels on the bedside table. ‘Have a good cigarette and give me one too.’ He enjoyed making Bernard wait on him. He took his time about lighting the cigarette, letting Bernard hold the match until it had almost burned his fingers.

‘What’s wrong with May, anyway? What’s the matter with her?’

‘Well, it’s the rent, Uncle James. She thinks you should pay

her something for the room.’

‘Her own brother?’

‘Well, you know what Mama’s like. Between ourselves, she thinks you’re better off than you’ve told her. And she thinks

Miss Hearne has set her cap for you.’

‘I don’t get it.’

Bernard sighed. ‘She thinks Miss Hearne wants to marry

yOllo

‘Ah, she’s crazy.’

‘I know. But she’s always getting ideas like that. Honestly, I can’t move hand or foot, but she thinks I’m planning to leave her. Every time I try to do something on my own, she stops

me.

‘Hah! You never wanted to.’

Bernard shrugged.

‘Want to ask you somethin’,’ Madden said. ‘You think she’s got dough?’ He pointed his thumb at the floor, like a loman

senator calling for death. ‘Who, Mama?’ ‘Judy Hearne.’

‘I don’t imagine so. Why?’

‘You don’t imagine so. Jesus Murphy, you and May are two of a kind. Where d’you think she got all them jewels? She’s a real lady, Miss Hearne, a free woman. And smart too, she’s interested in what goes on in the world. She’s not like

you and May and the other jerks in this house. She’s got class. And dough. And what’s more, she’s the kind of woman if she likes you, there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for you.’

Bernard’s face was showing signs of weary irritation. But he still played diplomat. ‘Think so? Well, you might be right.’

‘I am right. I’ll tell you something. Tonight, when we were out, I was explaining an idea I got. You know what she said? You’ve got yourselfa partner. Her very words. I’d put money into that, she said. Smart business woman, though, wanted to know the details, costs, overhead, capital. Okay, I said, I’ll give you a report. What do you think of that?’

Bernard made a mock salute. ‘Congratulations. Does the deal include marriage?’

‘Lay off! Who said anything about marriage?’

‘No one. I only thought…’

‘Well, don’t. I’m not marrying anybody, get that straight. What do you think I am? This is a business deal, purely business. Hell, I haven’t made any passes at her, there’s nothing like that between us. That’s why I was mad at your mother. There’s nothing between us, not a thing. And you can tell your mother I said so.’