The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (4 page)

‘Hotel business. I was in the hotel business right on Times Square. You’ve heard of Times Square?’

‘O, yes, of course. I’ve seen it on the newsreels. When the war was over and it showed all the people cheering. And all those huge advertisements. O, it must be an exciting place to

live.’

He smiled: ‘Times Square. Watch the world go by. The things I’ve seen in fifteen years on Broadway. It’s an education. Why, I couldn’t even begin to…’

‘Well, don’t begin then,’ Mrs Henry Rrice said. She stood at the opened door, monumental, stern. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Hearne, but I must let Mary tidy up. Jim would sit here all day boring the life out of you with his talk about New York.’

‘O, but it isn’t boring, Mrs Rice. On the contrary, I think it’s most exciting.’

Mr Madden stood up, indignant. He pointed at Miss Hearne. ‘This lady is interested in what goes on in the world. Not like you and Bernie.’

Mrs Rice did not seem to hear. ‘There’s such a lot of work to be done. You know what maids are like, Miss Hearne. You have to be after them all the time. That’s why I like to have

the dining-room done by ten.’

‘ Of course.’

Mr Madden went to the door. ‘Glad to have met you, Miss Hearne. We must have another talk real soon.’

‘Yes, indeed we must.’ Said with her gayest smile to show him she liked him.

Then Mrs Henry Rice offered her the Irish News to read and she took it and went upstairs to her room to finish unpacking. No need to hurry. Going over her linens, her packages of letters, and her collection of picture postcards, laying each thing away carefully in tissue paper, all of it could take a long time if you did it methodically. A long time.

But when the big trunks were opened and their trays were laid on the bed, Miss Hearne knelt in silence on the floor, abstracted, her hands idle, her mind filled with what had

happened that morning. He had been so glad to talk to her. And he had looked so big and stern and manly, hammering his fist on the table while he laid down the law to her. A big handsome man with that strange American voice.

He came into the room, late at night, tired after a day at work in his hotel. He took off his jacket and hung it up. He put his dressing-gown on and sat down in his armchair and she went to him prettily, sat on his knee while he told her how things had gone that day. And he kissed her. Or, enraged about some silly thing she had done, he struck out with his great fist and sent her reeling, the brute. But, contrite afterwards, he sank to his knees and begged forgiveness.

Judy Hearne, she said, you’ve got to stop right this minute. Imagine romancing about every man that comes along.

Her busy hands flew, unpacking the linen sheets, putting them away in the dresser drawer. But she paused in the centre of the room. He noticed me. He was attracted. The first in ages. Well, that’s only because i’ve been keeping myself to myself too much. Go out and meet new people and you’ll see, she told her mirror face. And the face in the mirror told it back to her, agreeing.

Why did he come home to Ireland? A visit maybe, to see his family. But he doesn’t seem on very good terms with his sister. He’ll go back to New York, of course, back to his hotel. Mr and Mrs James Madden, of New York, sailed from Southampton yesterday in the Queen Mar,. Mr Madden is a prominent New York hotelicr and his bride is the former Judith Hearne, only daughter of the late Mr and Mrs Charles B. Hearne, of Ballymena. The honeymoon? Niagara Falls, isn’t that the place Americans go? Or perhaps Paris, before we sail.

But the mirror face grew stearn and cross. You hardly know him, it said. And he’s common, really he is, with that ring and that bright flashy tie. O, no he’s not, she said. Don’t be provincial. Americans dress differently, that’s all.

A church bell tolled far away and she prayed. The library book would be due Wednesday, wasn’t it? Do you know, I’m awfully uninformed about America, when I come to

think of it. Outside, the grey morning light held, the rain still threatened. I could go down to the Carnegie library and read up on it. Especially New York. And then tomorrow at breakfast, I’d have questions to ask.

Maybe, she said, hurrying towards the wardrobe to pick out her red raincoat, maybe he’ll be in the hall and I’ll meet him and we might walk downtown together. I must hurry because if he’s going out, it should be soon.

But the hall was a dark, damp place with no sign of anyone in it. Mary had cleared the dining-room, restoring the chairs to their original anchorage around the table. The curtained door to Mrs Henry Rice’s kitchen was shut and the house was silent, a house in mid-morning when all the world is out at

world,

She went out, dejected, and walked along Camden Street with her head full of black thoughts. Why had she bothered to she made him climb the ladder twice to get her three books, one a picture book of New York and two books on America in general. She carried them to one of the slanting reading tables and sat down, slipping her neutral coloured glasses from her bag. Then amid the old men and students in the muted noises induced by ‘Silence’ signs, she read about America, Land of the Free, the New Colossus. All very heavy going, economic tables and business articles. She turned to the picture book and there was a picture of Times Square, and (gracious!) the hotels were immense, we times as big as the Grand Central, the Royal Avenue, or even the Gresham, in Dublin. O, he couldn’t own one of those. And what was his j ob? There were so many jobs in a hotel. Maybe an assistant manager. Surely in the administration somewhere. Otherwise, he would have said a cook, or a waiter, or whatever. O certainly nothing like that.

She read and read because she could feel the little crab of hunger nipping away at her insides. She tried to forget him, the expensive little rascal, but he just nipped harder. Finally, when the clock on the wall said three, she decided that just this once she’d have to give in to him, despite her resolution. So she gave the books back and went to a milk bar at Castle Jtmction and treated herself to a glass of milk and a raspberry tart. Afterwards, she looked at the shop windows for a while. But they hadn’t changed since last week, so this was dull sport.

As she was looking in the window at Robb’s, a little boy came running out, dragging his school satchel, his grey wool stockings down about his heels.

Tommy Mullen! She hurried over to him, forcing him to stop. His mother was a friend of the Breens, before the Breens moved to Dublin. Tommy had taken piano lessons last year. She saw the keyboard, his rather dirty hands, his wandering inattention, his fits of sulks and rages. No talent. His mother had stopped the lessons.

‘Well, if it isn’t little Tommy Mullen. And how are we getting along?’

‘Lo, Miss Hearne,’ he said, turning his cold-cheeked little face away from her kiss.

‘Well, and how’s my boy? My, we’re getting big. Too big to kiss, I suppose. I’m sure we’ve forgotten all our piano lessons now.’

He looked indignant. ‘No. I’ve got a new teacher. A man. Mr Harrington is his name.’

‘O, is that so?’ she said bleakly. ‘Well, isn’t that nice. I hope you are practising hard, eh, Tommy?’

‘Ycs, Miss Hearne.’ He looked around, inattentive. ‘There’s the bus,’ he yelled. ‘]3ye, bye.’ And ran offin the direction of the Albert Memorial.

A man. Another teacher. She walked down Cornmarket slowly, feeling the shaking start inside of her. No wonder his mother was so cool, nodding from the other side of the street when I saw her. Well, it wasn’t because I charged too much, goodness knows. Could I have said anything that time I

stayed for tea? No, of course not. I never said he had no talent. O, anyway.

Still, one less pupil, that’s what it amounts to. Or two less. Because she didn’t want Tommy to keep on but she said she’d get in touch with me about the little girl. She won’t now. Harrington, who’s he? Well, the nerve of some people. After all the time I slaved away with that boy. After all the extra half-hours without any additional charge. I don’t know what’s happened to my lucky star these past months. What’s happened to me, anyway? You’d think I had the plague, or something. That’s four pupils gone in the last six months. Only little Meg Brannon now and goodness knows how long that will last. As much ear for music as a heathen chinee.

The clock in Cornmarket said four. She walked down Ann Street with its jumble of cheap shops, its old shawled women and its loud crying fruit vendors. I wonder will the Technical School take me on for the embroidery class next term? Mr Heron said he hoped he would be able. But nobody does embroidery any more, that’s the truth of it. They have to have enough to make a class. And you can’t sell it, ruin your eyes at piece rates.

She came out near the docks and turned hastily back towards the centre of the city. The docks were no place for a woman to be wandering about, in among all those rough pubs and the Salvation Army. At Castle Junction the clock said half-past four. Go home. She walked back towards Camden Street. It began to drizzle but she was thinking about money, so she paid it no heed. Her Aunt D’Arcy had never discussed money. A lady does not discuss her private affairs, she used to say. And the D’Arcys never had to look where their next penny was coming from. There had been the house on the Lisburn Road. She had thought that it xvould fetch quite a bit. And then her aunt had said that Judy wouldn’t have to worry, there would be plenty until the right nlan came along and even if he didn’t. That was a long time ago, she said that. Ten years. More, thirteen, if I’m to be honest about it, Miss Hearne thought. First, there was the mortgage on the house. And then the money we

owed Dan Breen. And the annuity she left me, it was small then and nobody in the whole length and breadth of Ireland could live on a hundred pounds a year nowadays.

O, I should have kept up my shorthand and typing, no matter what. The piano lessons, yes, I tried to make a go of it. And fair’s fair, I was doing quite well until Mrs Strain spread that story about Edie and me all over town. You might know, being a Protestant, she wouldn’t have one ounce of Christian charity in her. Bad enough for me, but poor Edie, lying up there in that home, couldn’t raise a hand to help herself. I should go and see her. But the last time, all those bars on the windows and the old women in dressing-gowns. Depressing. Mrs Strain, what. did she know anyway, going off half-cocked like that? Amanda, her little girl’s name. What a silly name.

No charity, isn’t it the truth. People have none. And the Technical School, you’d think they could keep the embroidery class going just for old times sake. After all, there might be a revival of interest. Still, two girls dropped out last term, that leaves only four, not enough unless they can find new students.

She stopped at Bradbury Place. The rain was quite heavy now. She went into a shop and bought a quarter-pound of Kraft cheese and a bag of thick white biscuits. I have enough cocoa, she said, two cups. An apple, I must buy, to get the goodness of some fruit.

It was half-past five when she walked up Camden Street, wet with the rain in her shoes and her hair tossed by the blustery rainy wind. She let herself in as quietly as possible, hoping Mrs Henry Rice would think she had come home later, after having dinner out somewhere. She took her shoes off as she went up the creaky stairs.

The bed-sitting-room was cold and musty. She lit the gas fire and the lamps and drew the grey curtains across the bay window. Her wet raincoat she put over a chair with a part of the Irish News underneath to catch the drops. Then she took off her wet stockings and hung her dress up. In her old wool dressing-gown she felt warmer, more comfprtable. She put her rings away in the jewel box and set a little kettle of water

on the gas ring. It boiled quickly and she found only enough cocoa for one cup.

The rain began to patter again oft the windows, growing heavier, soft persistent Irish rain, coming up Belfast Lough, caught in the shadow of Cave Hill. It settled on the city, a night blanket of wetness. Miss Hearne ate her biscuits, cheese and apple, found her spectacles and opened a library book by Mazo de la Roche. She toasted her bare toes at the gas fire and leaned back in the armchair, waiting like a prisoner for the long night hours.

CHAPTER 3.

Shoes shined, clean white shirt, tie knotted in a neat windsor, suit pressed, top o’ the morning, James Patrick Madden went in to breakfast. His good humour fled when he saw them. Didn’t even look up, except the new one. Miss Hearne. She said good morning. He gave her his old doorman smile, a sort of half wink in it.

‘And how are you today?’

‘O, I’m very well, thanks.’

Not a sound out of the rest. May, with her face in the paper. And that Miss Friel, she thinks I’m a lush, or something. Lenehan, a know-nothing that thinks he knows everything.

His sister poured tea. Tea, Mr Madden considered a beverage for women in Schraffts. A good cup of coffee now, that would hit the spot.

‘O, Mr Madden!’ (She was all worked up about something.) ‘I happened to be in the library yesterday and I was looking at a picture book about New York. It reminded me of our conversation. About it being such a wonderful city, I mean.’

He smiled at her. Friendly, she is. And educated. Those rings and that gold wrist watch. They’re real. A pity she looks like that.

‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘Quite a town, eh? You see the

Brooklyn Bridge?’

‘O, yes indeed.’

Pleased, Mr Madden smiled again. In the four months he had been back in Ireland, he had found very few Irish people who showed any interest in the States. Most of them seemed to resent comparisons. An intelligent woman like Miss Hearne was a pleasure to talk to.

‘And the George Washington,’ he said. ‘That’s quite a bridge. We got a lot of good bridges in New York. There’s the Triborough…’

‘There’s a whole lot of bridges in Ireland too, but we’re not for ever talking about them,’ Lenehan interjected sourly.

Who asked him? ‘Bridges! You call them bridges? Listen Lenehan, I’m talking about real bridges. Big bridges.’