Brian Moore - The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne

Mr Madden arrested his teacup in mid-air, put it back on his saucer. ‘You can say that again. Greatest city in the world.’ His eyes focused, found her and she smiled as though they had mutually agreed on something which had escaped the others. Her awkwardness was forgotten. For once, she had found the key.

‘What part of Ireland you come from?’ he said.

‘O, I’m from Ballymena originally. But I’ve spent most of my time here in Belfast.’

‘That so?’ He produced a package of cigarettes. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

‘O, no. I don’t smoke myself but smoking never bothers me.’

‘That’s good.’ He laughed without laughter, watching Miss Hearne.

He wants to talk, she thought, he’s lonely. And she returned his look. Then she helped him, made it easy for him to tell what he wanted to tell: America.

‘O, Belfast’s not like New York, I suppose. You must get lots of snow and sunshine there.’

‘All kinds of weather. I’ve seen it go up to a hundred and ten in the shade, in summer. And in winter, down to ten below zero. I’ve seen it so hot you’d have to change your shirt twice in one morning.’ He stopped, vaguely conscious of indelicacy. But she put him at ease.

‘Well, there must be an awful lot of laundry to do then. It must be exhausting. In summer, I mean.’

‘We got air conditioning, and central heating in winter. They never heard of that over here.’

Miss Friel closed her book with a snap and stared at the grandfather clock. She got up and went out without a goodbye. Mrs Henry Rice, informative, drooped her huge bosom over the table like a bag of washing. ‘She’s a schoolteacher,’ she said. ‘Public elementary.’

‘O?’

Mary came in with toast and the Irish News. Miss Hearne took toast, noticed that there were four slices, no sign of an egg, or anything.

‘Butter?’ Mr Madden offered butter and she saw that he was admiring the little gold wristlet watch on her wrist. She was glad she’d worn it. She looked at Mrs Henry Rice but Mrs Henry Rice had opened the Irish News and was reading births, marriages and deaths.

‘And how do you find Ireland, Mr Madden, now that you’ve come home?’

‘Been a lot of changes.’ He stared at the teacup. ‘It’s different.’

‘So you prefer New York then?’

Mr Madden inhaled. Cigarette smoke spewed from his large nostrils. ‘New York’s a rat race,’ he said.

She didn’t know what to answer. Really, what could he mean, a rat race? They certainly had queer expressions, these Yankees.

Mrs Henry Rice put the paper down. ‘You’ll excuse me now, Miss Hearne, but I must go up and say good morning to Bernard. Just ring for Mary if you want more tea.’

As Mrs Henry Rice moved towards the door, Miss Hearne’s nervousness increased. She had been forward, no two ways about it, asking all those questions, leading him on. And now she was to be left alone with him. Alone. The dining-room with its cold morning light, its heavy furniture, its dirty teacups and plates, became quiet as a church. Alone with this lonely stranger, she waited for his fumbled excuses, his departure. For now that the others had gone, it would be as it had always been. He would see her shyness, her stiffness. And it would frighten him, he would remember that he was alone with her. He would listen politely to whatever inanity she would manage to get out and then he would see the hysteria in her eyes, the hateful hot flush in her cheeks. And he would go as all men had gone before him.

And as she waited, with her hands pressed hard against the edge of the table, she felt the blushes start, the hateful redness and fire creep up her neck. She set her features in a stiff, silly smile and scuffed her feet under the table. She turned to him, still smiling, and a mechanical silly voice leaped out of her mouth, shocking her with the forward thing it said:

‘O, you must tell me more about America, Mr Madden. I’d love to go there.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I could talk all day and never finish. What did you have in mind?’

In mind. Something, something had to be said.

‘Well, is it true that the men over there put their wives on a pedestal, so to speak?’

He laughed, a big heavy laugh. He didn’t seem at all put out by her blushes, by her silly voice.

‘Yes, that’s correct, more’s the pity. That’s what’s wrong with the system, if you want to know. Guys beating their brains out to keep their wives in mink. It’s the women’s fault. No good. You should see some of the girls that walk on Broadway or Fifth. All dressed up with a dollar sign for a heart. Walking cash registers. Me, I wouldn’t have nothing to do with them.’

Wouldn’t have nothing, well, he certainly wasn’t very well educated, whatever else he was. So he didn’t get married. ‘O, that’s not like Ireland, Mr Madden. Why, the men are gods here, I honestly do believe.’

‘And right too. Head of the house. That’s the teaching of the Church. What the man says goes. Now, in the States, the women want it both ways. They do no work and they want to be boss as well. And dumb, well, you wouldn’t believe how dumb some of those dames are.’

He was so big, so male as he said it that she felt the blushes start up again. His big hand thumped the table.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Irishmen certainly wouldn’t stand for that, would they?’

‘Every man’s a sucker for a good shape. I know. In my business, you see some funny things.’

Dangerous waters. Discussing women’s figures, well, who but an American would have the vulgarity? Change the subject. ‘And what is your business, Mr Madden?’

‘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 Rice 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.