The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (14 page)

Bernard stood up. ‘All right, I understand. Good luck to

you.

Madden swung his bad leg off the bed and began to pull his shirt over his head. Watching him, Bernard stuck his tongue out. ‘Good night, Uncle James.’

‘Good night,’ Madden said from the folds of his shirt. ‘Close the door when you go out.’

When Bernard had gone, Madden took offhis long underwear and put on pyjama pants. Then he heard whispering in the corridor. He put on a bright blue robe and jerked his door open.

Bernard fled down the stairs. Mary scuttled barefoot up to the attic. Madden saw that she was wearing her shabby grey tweed overcoat over a short pink slip. He stared her out of sight. Short slip, white creamy legs, O Christ, a pleasure it would be.

He closed the door: forget it, only leads to trouble. What

kind of guy are you, anyhow, at your age, you should be ashamed. Lie down, forget it. Now, that restaurant deal. Might go up to Dublin for a couple of days, look the place over, make a few inquiries. After tonight, I got a backer. After tonight, I can get going again, make a new start. Business. And May— ah, May, what does she know about business, sticking her nose into my private affairs.

He carefully removed his left shoe and got into bed. He put the light off’. But in the darkness, images came.

Young — Christ, is there a Mann Act in Ireland? She’s just a kid, scared of me since it happened, can’t look me in the eye. That morning I went out for a crap and she was on the stairs. Up her legs, all the way. Ahh, I’m rotten - why can’t i stop it? A country kid, if they knew back in her home town, they’d tan the arse off her. No, she wouldn’t talk. But if they found out, her father, some big country bastard breathing murder. Forget it, can’t you?

Still-she’d be nice. Scared of me. Nice, I haven’t had a piece since… Don’t get it, that’s why I’m all worked up. A guy like me, used to it regular, needs it, keeps you healthy, at my age that’s important. That counts. Ah, forget it, get to sleep.

But the images came. Flashing, fading, coming close, dose. Breasts, thighs, bellies. Moving, asking - give it to me.

And her overcoat on the floor, the slip torn down off her back. Yes.

Christ, he groaned. Let it be. Let it be.

But nobody would know, no harm. Nobody would know. She won’t tell.

just this once. Just…

He stood up, hot, excited, his legs trembling. Listened to his heart beat out a loud dead march. With a shoe horn, he adjusted his specially built shoe. He put his other foot in a slipper, wrapped his blue robe about him and went to the door. Quiet and dark. He went out.

Snores from Lenehan’s room. Then up the half flight of stairs to the attic. Easy does it. My heart, for christs-sakes, you can hear it. No light in her room.

He opened the door gently, closed it behind him. Moved towards the bed. She was awake.

‘Who’s that? Is that you, Bernie?’

He said nothing, found the edge of the bed and sat on it,

jangling the worn and twisted bedsprings.

‘O, Mr Madden, is that you…?’

‘Quiet,’ he whispered, his voice trembly and hoarse. ‘You’ll wake the mistress.’

‘O, mister, don’t. Mister please!’

He searched for her in the bed now, his hands feeling her

face, her breasts, like a boy playing blindman’s buff. ‘Quiet now, quiet and there’ll be no trouble.’ ‘Don’t mister. I’ll yell mister…’

‘Easy there. Be nice. It will only take a minute, honey. Be nice, be nice, easy - easy.’ Patiently he fumbled with the neck of her nightdress.

And she was quiet. Her body shrank away from him, her fretful hands gave him the pitiable resistance his ageing senses needed. He fumbled patiently but all coherence was gone. He had found her; in the darkness he tore and shook her like a dog at meat.

‘Easy, easy. Be nice, be nice, just a minute, a minute.’

He heard himself moaning, heard her muted terrified pleading. The bedsprings whirred and jangled in the darkness like an old-fashioned clock readying the stroke of one.

In a surprisingly short, a surprisingly timeless moment, he lay sweating, seeking memory by her side.

It came back, as memory will, coupled with fear. ‘It’s okay now,’ he whispered. ‘Okay. You be nice to me, I won’t tell t hhe mistress. Okay? Okay?’

She was weeping. She did not, would not answer. He rolled stiffly off the bed, wrapped his blue robe right around him, found the draw-strings of his pyjama pants.

‘Nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing happened. Just a little fun, eh Mary? Just a little fun. Now, you be nice, be nice.’

He heard her turn to the wall. Ah, what the hell! He left the room as carefully as he had entered. Dragged downstairs to his own bed.

CHAPTER 9.

AT HALF-PAST TEN on the following morning there was a

knock on Miss Hearne’s door. Miss Hearne woke from a thick, confused doze and called: ‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s me, Miss. Mary. I’ve come to clean the room.’ ‘Never mind. I’ll do it myself. Leave me alone.’

She screamed this out in an arrogant manner, slurring the vowels in such a way that her voice sounded altogether different. But Mary, preoccupied with her own troubles, was in no mood to worry about other people. It had been like a bad dream, what happened, but her torn nightdress told her it could not be dreamed away. And she was afraid to face him again, now or ever, the dirty ould slabber. She couldn’t even tell Bernie what had happened because Bernie would want to know why she didn’t let a yell out of her. An’ ruin myself, she answered the question, easier to let him feel away for a bit, an ould gaum like him, it was all over in a minute an’ besides, if my da ever found out, he’d kill me an’ if I yelled, Mrs Rice would come an’ then I’d be sent home. The dirty ould slabber, he knew I coulcha’t tell on him. I’ll lock the door tonight, so I will, an’ if he comes back, I’ll throw the chairs about an’ wake the whole house.

‘Go away,’ Miss Hearne repeated. ‘Go away.’

Ah, for all you have to worry, y’ ould cod, Mary thought, looking at the closed door. She bent down, picked up her broom and pail, and went into Miss Friel’s room, wich was empty.

Wakened, Miss Hearne looked dully at the gas fire. The room was hot and very dry. The bottle beside her was empty and a second bottle, almost full, stood beside it. She had no idea of the time. The curtains were still drawn and the lights were burning. She turned the stove off, pulled the curtains and let the daylight in. Then, feeling light-headed, but full of light spirits and power, she poured herself another drink.

A drink would put things right. Drink was not to help

forget, but to help remember, to clarify and arrange untidy and unpleasant facts into a perfect pattern of reasonableness and beauty. Alcoholic, she did not drink to put aside the dangers and disappointments of the moment. She drank to be able to see these trials more philosophically, to examine them more fully, fortified by the stimulant of unreason.

Thus, she did not shirk consideration of the fact that she had sat up all night in a chair, that she might have made a lot of noise, that everyone might know her secret. She was drunk, so she found these possibilities amusing but unlikely. She did not forget her unpleasant conversation with Mrs Henry Rice. She remembered it with relish and her mind triumphantly altered the facts to a more bold, more heroic pattern.

What if he is a doorman? Yes, I put her in her place, the fat hussy. Don’t you dare insult me, I said, don’t you realise you’re merely a common lodging-house keeper? Don’t apologise, my good woman. You’re forgiven.

Forgiving, she sat down in her chair, tumbler in hand, and turned to her aunt for confirmation. But her dear aunt was turned towards the wall. Poor aunt turned to the wall like a naughty little girl. O, she wouldn’t have liked that at all.

All right, I’m coming, she told her aunt condescendingly, lurching to her feet again. I’ll set you right, aunt dear, but you must promise not to be nasty again. Promise now! She turned the picture over and was set into minor convulsions by the outraged look on her aunt’s frowning face. Smile, she said, and the photograph smiled weakly. That’s better, aunt dear. That frown-we’ve had too much of it.

The frown was familiar. Remember, Judy said, when I came back from convent? In nineteen thirty-one and I wanted to go to the Swiss finishing school? Ah, you frowned then, better stay here in the good home provided for you, you said, and we’ll see what we will see.

So she stayed. Where else was there for her to go? Aunt D’Arcy was very musical and there were musical evenings at home with dear old Herr Rauh and little Evaline de Courcy as soloists. And the hours of daily piano practice, a pity, Aunt D’Arcy said, that Judy has so little talent for anything; with

this depression in industry, eligible young men are hard to find, and the few there are want a dot and if there’s no money, then they want a great beauty, a beautiful woman can improve a man’s chances, especially if she comes from a good family. A pity, her aunt said, that Clodagh, Judy’s mother, married a bit unwisely in that respect. Family, she meant, but of course it’s not your poor dead father’s fault that he was born a Hearne. And then, speaking of great beauties, you’ll never have a quarter the looks of your poor mother. No, you take after the Hearnes, more’s the pity. And they were nothing to write home about. Plain.

A plain girl with no dot has little choice but to reconcile herself to God’s will, so Judy began to study shorthand and typing with Edie Marrinan, a convent classmate, a jolly chum and a plain girl herself. Edie got a civil service job out of it, passing the exam and settling down with a nice salary. But Aunt D’Arcy frowned on the idea, they’re bigoted in the civil service, she said, if anything goes wrong, they’ll blame the Catholic. Still, fair’s fair, and Aunt D’Arcy was a great one for fairness and when Judy had worked and reworked the Pitman’s shorthand book until the binding came apart and was letter perfect in typing, her aunt ‘phoned up Dan Breen, the solicitor, and a friend of the family, and asked him if he would have a vacancy for her niece.

He didn’t, but he sent her to old Mr Donegan, another Catholic solicitor, and for three months Judy worked in his office, typing law documents and taking letters. Three months to the day, until her aunt came down with a stroke and Judy would have been downright ungrateful if she didn’t give up her job and look after her aunt until things got better.

The stroke passed, but Aunt D’Arcy never moved out of the house again. She set up a system of bells in every room in the house, with strings running out of every door and up the sides of the stairs, all going to the front bedroom and joined at the head of the sickbed, so that Aunt D’Arcy, a huge old woman now, with a yellow face, a hawk nose and masses of white hair tumbled about her shoulders, could ring at all hours of the day and night for attention. And ring she did, driving

them distracted, especially old Bridie, the housekeeper, who had a heart attack and died of it, at five o’clock one morning, running downstairs when the bells went off. And after Bridie’s funeral, Aunt D’Arcy frowned and said, goodness knows, she couldn’t be expected to break in a new girl, with herself bedridden, it was the least Judy could do to stay at home and see her through the few days left to her. So Judy stayed. It was lonely, nobody paid social calls any more. A few old friends came, talked in whispers to Judy in the hall, and left with the exaggerated quietness of people who have visited a house ofsorrow.

When the second war started, Judy was twenty-seven. She made up her mind to study hard at the shorthand again and if she got a job, to use the money to get a good nurse for her aunt. And study it she did, despite the fact that her aunt, as though she sensed she was being deserted, rang her bells all day and every time she woke at night. But Judy worked the shorthand up until she was letter perfect and one day she went downtown with a newspaper advertisement in her handbag and came back with a job at three pounds a week in a big new contracting firm. That evening, she went up to the nuns at the convent and asked them to hunt high and low for a good woman to look after her aunt. God answered her prayers over the week-end and by Monday morning, the woman, a Mrs Creely, was settled in and running the big house like clockwork. When she heard the news, Aunt D’Arcy said not one word to her niece for three whole weeks. Then she began to complain about the way Mrs Creely was ruining her treasures and er house. But Judy put her foot down, once and for all, and she went offto work every day, taking down letters and typing them out on a big new typewriter. And she hurried home in the evenings to give poor Mrs Creely a rest.

In 1941, the air raids came. The night the first big raid started, her poor aunt refused to go down to the cellar. It took Mrs Creely, Judy and an air-raid warden to get her out of bed, with her screaming and shouting and talking to people Judy knew were dead years ago.

She never came out of that stage. Dr 13owe, who came the next day, took Judy into the hall afterwards and said: ‘Miss Hearne, your aunt’s mind has been affected by her illness and she will need a lot of nursing. She isn’t a responsible person any more.’ In all fairness, Judy felt obliged to tell Mrs Creely and Mrs Creely said she was sorry, but Miss Hearne had better look for another woman, because she was giving her notice.

Miss Hearne never found another woman. Some weeks later the construction company sent her a letter with the money owing to her and told her her place had been filled. There were no maids to be had at that time, all the country girls had factory jobs, and Miss Hearne settled down to look after her aunt on her own.

It got worse. Her aunt gave her no peace. She rambled in her talk, she shouted at the top of her voice, she pulled and pushed at her niece and, when she was angry, she sometimes threw the chamber-pot at her. But she was big and strong and she ate everything that was put in front of her, and when Dr Bowe looked at her he said she might live to be a hundred. Then, one day, he came with another doctor and they talked things over with Miss Hearne. They advised her to commit her aunt to a private home, a private asylum really, because she was so hard to handle and too much for Miss Hearne to look after alone. Miss Hearne had to admit she didn’t know if they could afford it, her aunt had always been very secretive about money matters, all she knew was that Dan Brcen, the solicitor, handled her aunt’s affairs and sent a housekeeping cheque once a month. Dr t3owe said he would try to arrange something, there was always Purtysburn, the asylum, and the care was very good there. Then he and the other doctor went in to see Aunt D’Arcy. They came out after half an hour and said they were satisfied and would sign the papers. Miss Hearne would have to sign too, and it would be as well if she could find another relative to sign consent. After the doctors had gone, Miss Hearne wept. She thought of the poor soul lying in the front-room, not knowing what was being done to her. Will she know, she wondered, will she ever know, even when they come and take her and put her in