The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (27 page)

‘O, you’re not yourself, Judy,’ Mrs O’Neill said, shocked.

‘You don’t realy mean that.’

‘I do. I do.’

‘Now, Judy, why don’t you let me take you home? Tomorrow, when you feel better, you can go and talk things over with your confessor.’

‘He won’t listen to me,’ Miss Hearne said, beginning to cry again.

‘Now, that’s nonsense, Judy. Of course, he will. Have you talked to him already?’ ‘He didn’t pay any attention!’

‘Well, perhaps he didn’t understand how seriously you felt. Go and see him again. Or you can go and see an Order priest. They’re very understanding.’

‘Mama?’ A voice said at the door. Mrs O’Neill hastily stood

up, blocking Miss Hearne from the newcomer. ‘What is it?’ she said crossly. ‘I’m busy.’ ‘Hello, Miss Hearne,’ the little girl said.

‘Hello, Kathy. My own Kathleen,’ Miss Hearne cried, getting up from her chair. She advanced, falteringly, her arms wide in

welcome.

‘Judy[‘ Mrs O’Neill detained her. ‘Run along, Kathy, I’m too busy to talk to you now.’

She hurried the little girl out of the room. But the child had seen Miss Hearne advancing in a parody of affection, her outstretched arms trembling like a pilgrim’s.

And Miss Hearne saw the fright in the child’s face. And the way Mrs O’Neill came between them. She turned, clutching

the dining-room table and searching Mrs O’Neill’s face for the truth, seeing herself, a child, hurried on along the street when a drunk man passed. Not in front of the children. What have I done? she thought, allowing Mrs O’Neill to seat her in a chair. Coming here like this, in this condition, telling her all those secrets, telling her what I think of her.

And it came to her then that in all the years she had known the O’Neills, they had never really known her. In all the thousands of conversations with Moira, she had never so much as hinted at the things she had told today, openly, irrevocably. All the years of polite chatter, all the small Christmas presents exchanged, all the little courtesies accepted, the wine, the cakes, the tea, all of these things had been swept away for ever by this one small encounter. The child at the door; the mother hurrying to shelter it from these signs of an adult grief, an adult failing; the drink poured not in hospitality but to supply a shameful need; the confession of feeling, the admission that she disliked Moira, nullifying scores of Sunday afternoons of polite inquiry, hundreds of false pleasant welcomes; all of these things came to her mind now with brutal clarity. The choice of the dining-room as a place to talk had not been for the purpose stated: it had been to hide her from the children, to keep her shameful condition from their eyes. And Moira’s kind words were only to calm her down, to shut off this shocking flow of unwanted confidence. In Moira’s eyes I am drunk, that is all she sees, a drunk person, nobody takes them

seriously. Lie down and you’ll feel better. Nobody listens. I am drunk.

I must get out.

She bent to the floor to pick up her bag and saw the shameful neck of the bottle sticking out of it. O! Her red hat rolled offher head again and settled on the carpet. Mrs O’Neill picked it up.

‘I must go now,’ Miss Hearne said, scrabbling to hide the bottle inside her bag. ‘I’m sorry, Moira, I must have been an awful nuisance to you. With your lunch ready and everything. I must go at once.

‘That’s perfectly all right,’ Mrs O’Neill said, handing her

the red hat. ‘I think I’d better take you home in a taxi. just wait a minute while I get my hat and coat.’

‘No, no. I’m going alone. No, you mustn’t come.’

‘It’s no trouble, Judy. I’d feel happier if I went with you. Then you can have a good nap and you’ll feel better.’

The red hat would not fit somehow. Mrs O’Neill straightened it. ‘There, that’s better. I’ll get a taxi.’

‘I have a taxi. It’s outside now. And I’m going alone.’

‘A taxi? Waiting all this time?’

‘Yes. Good bye, Moira.’ She did not kiss her. I couldn’t. Not after what I said.

But Mrs O’Neill impulsively put her arms around Miss Hearne and kissed her on the cheek. ‘O Judy,’ she said. ‘Take care of yourself.’

‘I’m sorry, Moira.’ The tears, uncontrollable, began again in her eyes.

‘Nothing to be sorry about.’ But Mrs O’Neill looked cautiously into the hall before she showed her out. They clasped hands again.

‘Sure you’ll be all right?’ ‘Yes. Good bye dear.’ ‘Good bye.’

Moira watched as she walked to the waiting cab. Watching me, mustn’t stumble. Mustn’t stu…

‘Here you are, mum.’ The taxi driver steadied her. ‘That’s right.’

He helped her in and shut the door. It was beginning to rain. Through the blurred pane of glass she saw Moira wave,

standing at the door of her house. ‘Where to now, mum?’ Where?

CHAPTER 18.

Reverend Francis Xavier Quigley was taking his ease in front of a roaring fire in the back parlour of his presbytery, his black boots propped up on the fender, a copy of the Tablet rising and falling gently on his lap. Nearby, on his cluttered desk, the monthly report on the School Building Fund waited his scrutiny as did the returns from the Black Baby Society. But Father Quigley’s eyes were closed. It was the slack time of day, half-past one. Two whole hours of peace before his afternoon calls. ‘There’s a woman to see you, Father,’ said Mrs Connolly.

Father Quigley opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. ‘What?’

‘She come in a taxi,’ Mrs Connolly offered.

‘Is it somebody sick?’

‘She kept the taxi-man waiting, Father.’

Father Quigley closed his eyes.

‘To tell the truth, Father, I think she has a drop taken.’ ‘Well, find out what she wants.’

‘I told her to come back later, Father, but she didn’t heed me. She wouldn’t let on what she wanted, Father.’

Father Quigley swung his feet front the fender to the floor. The Tablet fell beside the grate.

‘She’s in the front parlour, Father,’ Mrs Connolly said, her mission accomplished.

Father Quigley pulled the ends of his black clerical waistcoat down over his hard narrow stomach. His hollow-cheeked face flushed by the fire, he left the cosy warmth and strode down the dark presbytery hall. The taxi driver, waiting by the front door, did not salute him. Father Quigley gave him a

sharp look and went into the parlour.

‘Good afternoon.’

The woman looked at him out of staring dark eyes that were swollen from weeping. Her red hat was awry, her red raincoat unbuttoned down the front. She came forward,

through the maze of worn Victorian furniture, and fell on

her knees at his feet, clutching his trouser legs.

‘O Father, Father, help me,’ she sobbed.

Father Quigley disengaged her clutching hands from his

shanks and surreptitiously hoisted his trousers. Then he bent

“down and dragged the woman to her feet.

‘Now, now,’ he said. ‘Control yourself. What’s the matter?’

But, as he said it, he smelled the drink off her. Stotious, she

is, stotious drunk.

‘0 Father…’

Father Quigley guided her to a chair. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered.

He sat down opposite her. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘And you mean to say you’ve come here to see me, drunk?’ ‘I’m sorry, Father. But Father, I had to. I need your help.’ ‘What kind of help?’

‘You know I’ the woman said.

Father Quigley shook his head in irritation. ‘How can I

know, if you haven t told me?

‘But I told you in confession.’

‘My good woman, I hear a lot of confessions. And I don’t

know who’s making them. You should know better than that.’

‘Father,’ the woman said, beginning to weep. ‘Father, I’m

all alone. I need somebody.’

She bent over. Her red hat fell off, rolled on the floor.

Father Quigley picked it up.

‘I need a sign,’ the woman said. ‘I need a sign from God.’

‘You need to sober up, that’s what you need.’

‘But Father, I’m not - not drunk, now. Honestly. Father, I

can’t believe any more. I can’t pray. He won’t listen. Maybe it’s the devil tempting me as you said, Father, but I just don’t feel that God is there any more. Nobody is listening. All my

life I’ve believed, I’ve waited - Father, listen to me!’

‘I’m listening,’ Father Quigley said grimly.

‘Father, why is it? You’re a priest. Are you sure He’s there?

Are you really sure?’

‘Now, get a hold of yourself,’ Father Quigley said.

‘You’re not sure, are you? Then how can I be sure? Father,

if there isn’t any other life, then what has happened to me? I’ve wasted my life.’

‘Now, what nonsense is this, woman? It’s the drink talking in you. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, drinking like that, making a public spectacle of yourself, a well-brought-up woman like you?’

But the woman did not seem to hear. She sobbed, making short panting noises, like a tired dog. ‘Do you understand?’ she said. ‘Do you understand?’

Shepherd, he looked at his sheep. What ails her? Father, he did not comprehend what his child was saying. Priest, he could not communicate with his parishioner. ‘No,’ Father

Quigley said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ ‘Then nobody does. Nobody will,’ the woman cried. ‘Now, you listen to me,’ Father Quigley began. ‘Go home and sober up and examine your conscience while you’re at it. You can’t think straight in this condition. And tomorrow evening I’ll be hearing confessions from six to eight. Come and see me then, and we’ll have a talk. Are you from this parish? What’s your name?’

‘Hearne, Father. Judith Hearne.’

‘All right, now, Miss Hearne. You have a taxi waiting I believe?’

‘Father, I’ve got to get this settled. Father, can you tell

me…

‘Now, Miss Hearne, I want you to promise me that you’ll

go straight home. Where do you live?’

‘I have no home.’

‘Well, where are you living at present?’

She did not answer.

Father Quigley got up and went to the door. He beckoned to the taxi driver in the hall. ‘Do you know where this lady lives?’

‘I picked her up at the Plaza Hotel, Sir.’

‘I see.’ He went back into the parlour and closed the door. The taxi-man was a Protestant. Nice thing for him to see. ‘Now, where do you live, Miss Hearne? We’ve got to get you home.’

‘I’m at the Plaza.’

Humph! That’s funny. ‘Now look, Miss Hearne, will you

promise me one thing on your word of honour? Promise not to touch another drop of drink until you’ve been to see me again. Will you do that for me now?’

She stopped crying. ‘But why, Father, why? What’s the

good of word of honour? What’s the good of anything, unless it’s more than bread. More than bread, do you understand, Father?’

‘Miss Hearne, that’s a terrible thing for a Catholic woman

to say to her priest. That’s a terrible sin, talking that way about the Blessed Sacrament. That’s what you’re talking about,

isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ ‘You should be heartily ashamed of yourself, then. Coming

in here drunk at this time of day and talking that way about Our Blessed Lord. O, what a terrible thing to let drink take hold of you like that, you should be down on your bended knees, praying for forgiveness. A terrible, terrible thing! Shocking! Now, you go straight home and say a mouthful of prayers. And not another drop of drink, mind, not another drop. You should be grateful that God hasn’t punished you worse, mortal sin on your soul and you not in a fit condition to receive absolution. I never heard the like I’ He paused for breath, his eyes lit with anger.

‘And is that all you have to tell me?’ she said sadly.

‘What do you mean-I…’

But she had picked up her bag and was preparing to leave.

‘Now, just a minute. I want you to come back and see me.

You’ll do that now?’

But she was out in the hall and it was very awkward in front

of the Protestant taxi driver.

‘You’ll take this lady back to her hotel,’ he said to the man.

‘And I’d be obliged if you’d make sure she’s staying there before you leave her. If not, well, bring her back here and

we’ll try to fred out more about her.’

‘All right, sir.’

She had opened the front door. Father Quigley hurried

forward and caught her by the arm. ‘Now, Miss Hearne, remember what I told you. Come back and see me when you’re feeling better. Tomorrow. Just give me a ring and I’ll arrange to see you.’

But she paid no attention. Too far gone in drink, Father Quigley judged. He nodded to the taxi driver and the man took her arm and walked her to the presbytery gates. She got into the taxi, leaving Father Quigley standing at the presbytery door, troubled, sensing his failure. A terrible thing, drink. Or the change of life, it might be. A bit young for that. Hearne? I wonder who would know her. At the Plaza Hotel, doesn’t live there at all. Or she might be from out of town. But then, why pick on me? She might. He thought of his fire and the Tablet. But he did not close the door. He waited.

The taxi driver, who had not yet been paid, carefully placed Miss Hearne in the back seat of his car and started the engine. But as the car moved away, it passed the gates of the church. Miss Hearne rapped on the glass panel behind his head. ‘Stop I’

‘But the Reverend said to take you back to the hotel, mum.’

‘Stop. I want to go into the church for a minute.’

He stopped. These bloody Papishes, you never knew what

they were up to. ‘It’s a long time on the meter,’ he warned. ‘You’ll be paid. Just wait here.’

She left her bag on the seat and got out of the car. Faltering, her red hat awry on her head, she walked through the gates and into the quiet darkness of the vestibule.

He didn’t understand, he could only say the silly, ordinary things you would expect him to say. Words, all he had was words. Supposing he knew that there was nothing in the tabernacle - ah then, what could he say? And perhaps he did know, he was so angry at my asking, he ran outside into the hall once to compose himself. Was he afraid? Afraid, because he knew?