Brian Moore - The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne

The double whiskey was served. He drank it in anger. Then got unsteadily off his stool and said good afternoon to the barman.

‘I’ll walk along with you, James,’ the major said, putting on his white chamois gloves.

‘I got a date.’

‘Oh-hoh! A lady fair?’

‘Yeah.’ Trapped by the falsehood, he elaborated. ‘A Miss Hearne. A business proposition. We might go in a deal together. I got something lined up.’

‘Well, that’s interesting. I didn’t know you were going to set up shop here.’

‘Ahh, I got a couple of deals cooking,’ Mr Madden said hurriedly, shutting off the talk. ‘Be seeing you.’

He went unsteadily to the door, pushed it open, met the wet face of the afternoon. Rain. What a country!

He walked out into Royal Avenue, crowded now with people going home from work. His fedora rode the back of his head, his drinker’s face was wet with rain drizzle. Can’t go home like this. Loaded.

A honking post office van honked at him and the driver roared a local insult: ‘The tap of yer head’s chocolate!’

‘Get the hell outa my way,’ Mr Madden roared, stumbling in the gutter beside the van.

A black uniformed policeman took his elbow. ‘Get back on the pavement. The light’s against you.’

Mr Madden was sobered by the sight of the arm that held his arm. ‘Okay.’

Watch it, he counselled his drunken self. Watch it. You’re loaded, he could take you in.

He nodded to the policeman and the policeman let go his arm. He walked off crookedly, watched by the policeman. A movie. Sleep it off. He saw a movie house. Paid, went inside, sprawled out in a back row and slept. Snored. Somebody complained. An usher’s flashlight found his face, woke him up.

He watched the movie for a while, slept again and opened his eyes when the lights went on at the change of programme. His watch said nine. He went out, ate in a cheap café and walked back to Camden Street. Another wasted day. The hell with it.

Sober now, he opened the front door quietly and looked down the hall to see if the light was on in his sister’s ground floor nest. All was dark. Painstakingly (only by an argument if she smelled it off me again) he went up the stairs, past Miss Friel’s door, past Miss Hearne’s, and turned towards the flight that led to the third floor and his room.

There was a noise up there, a whispering. He waited again. May? With Bernie maybe. No. He tested each step when he moved again. The light in Bernard’s room was out. Lenehan’s door was ajar and the noise of Lenehan’s snores could be heard in the landing. Mr Madden went past this door to his own and turned the handle.

Behind him, he heard a loud sudden giggle. He swung around, open-mouthed, in the rage of a man caught in a foolish action.

‘O, no,’ he heard. ‘No, no.’

A woman’s voice, soft, worried, sensual. It came from the half-flight of stairs that led to the attic. Jesus, it’s the maid. I wonder what …?

He went up. The light was on under her door. Giggles, a creak of bedsprings, a whispering. He waited, an old hotel doorman, waited.

‘O, Bernie, Bernie don’t.’

Mr Madden wrenched the door open.

‘What’s goin’ on here?’

Mary, transformed by nudity, sat on the edge of the narrow broken-down bed. She wore only coarse black lisle stockings and a pair of faded blue knickers.

And Bernard. Mother naked. Mr Madden came inside and closed the door. So that’s it. And her only a kid. But what a kid. What a build.

Bernard found his red silk dressing-gown, dragged it around him like a wrestler preparing to leave the ring.

‘Want something?’

Mr Madden’s face bled red with anger. ‘What do you mean, want something? What the hell do you think this is, a whore-house? A kid of her age, I should …’

‘Go back to your room,’ Bernard said venomously. ‘At once. It’s none of your business.’

‘None of my business?’ Madden watched as the girl pulled a blanket off the bed, wrapping it around the white nakedness of her body. Only a kid, but …

Christ, what’m I thinking? (Briefly, the picture of Sheila and that Hunky swam before his eyes. It’s guys like him that – and young girls like her) ‘What the hell you mean, my business? Whose business is it? What would your mother say, eh? What’s your mother goin’ to say?’

Mary began to weep, black curls tumbling over her face.

‘Never mind my mother. What are you, a Peeping Tom, or something?’

With an effort Madden took his eyes off the girl. ‘So it’s me is in the wrong, eh? Well, we’ll see about that. What about you? What about her? What would her father say, dirty little hoor, a nice thing for a Catholic home.’

Righteous indignation filled him, flooding his brain with the near-ecstasy of power. The day’s futile drinking, the loneliness, the frustrations, all swam away and left this glorious rage in their stead. No respect. Sheila, listen to your father! Laughing at me – taking her pants down behind my back, that Hunky. And her. As bad. Listen to your father. I’ll show … I’m your father! Old brawler, old underdog authoritarian, he moved towards the terrified girl. ‘And you – get your clothes on. Tramp, hoor in a decent house.’

His fingers tore the blanket away from her body. Master of the room, he smacked, open-handed, leaving red marks on her thighs.

‘Dirty little hoor!’ He grabbed her, fondled her in rage, sprawled her across the bed.

‘O, mister, please, mister. Don’t, mister.’

‘Leave her alone!’

‘Dirty little hoor!’ Standing over her, he flailed her buttocks. Sheila, the woodshed, should of paddled you sooner. I’ll teach you, teach you.

‘Leave her alone! LEAVE HER ALONE!’

Bewildered, he allowed Bernard to pull him away. He keeled over on his crippled foot, his breathing harsh and painful. Weak, giddy, he watched ever widening circles explode before his eyes.

It cleared. He saw Bernard’s face. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Get back in your room.’

‘You too.’

‘Okay.’

They went out together, leaving the girl whimpering on the bed. Stood in the darkness of the corridor in the exhaustion that follows passion.

‘I should tell May. I should tell your mother. A kid like that, you could be arrested. I could fix you , all right.’

‘Fix who? You went mad in there. Stark mad. You’d have raped her if …’

‘I’d of what?’

Bernard put a pudgy finger to his lips. ‘Shh! Keep your voice down. You’ll waken the whole house. I could make it sound bad against you too. And Mary would back me up. It would be two against one, remember that.’

‘You’re crazy …’ But what happened? Wearily, Madden tried to remember. Saw her. Only a kid. Like Sheila. I paddled her. Lost my head. That’s all. That’s ALL.

‘You screwed her, not me,’ he said angrily. ‘Don’t forget that.’

‘All right. But you pulled the blanket off her.’

Did I? What’s the matter with me? What a shit I am. Lost my head. The drink, my trouble. But him, he’s as bad. Worse. Did it sober. ‘All right, forget it,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

In uneasy alliance they descended the stairs.

Sunday was the great day of the week. To begin with, there was Mass, early Mass with Holy Communion, or a late Mass where you were likely to see a lot of people. The special thing about Sunday Mass was that for once everyone was doing the same thing. Age, income, station in life, it made no difference: you all went to Mass, said the same prayers and listened to the same sermons. Miss Hearne put loneliness aside on a Sunday morning.

And on Sunday afternoons there was the visit to the O’Neills, the big event of the week. It began with a long tram ride to their house which gave you plenty of time to rehearse the things you could tell them, interesting things that would make them smile and be glad you had come. And then there was the house itself, big and full of children, all shapes and sizes, and to think you had known even the big ones since they were so high. It was as though you were a sort of unofficial aunt. Almost.