Brian Moore - The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne

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 comfortable. 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 on 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.

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.’

‘Ahh, give over,’ Lenehan said. ‘Sure, that’s all you Yanks ever think of. Blowing about how big and grand everything is in the States. What would be the point of building a big bridge over the Lagan, or the Liffey? Answer me that now. And if it’s bridges you want, we were building bridges in Ireland before America was ever thought of.’

Why isn’t he at work, instead of sticking his nose in where he’s not wanted? But he remembered that it was Saturday and Lenehan had all the time in the world on Saturdays. No good talking, he concluded sadly. He’ll just ball it up. Better I speak to her later, when we’re alone. Maybe ask her out, or something.

‘Good morning all,’ a soft voice said and they all looked at the door. Bernard, his dressing-gown trailing, his plump body in red silk pyjamas. Mrs Henry Rice smiled fondly at her boy.

‘Come and sit down, Bernie. Have a cup of tea.’

‘I rang my bell twice and not a sound out of that girl,’ Bernard said. ‘I suppose she was out all night gallivanting with some soldier or other. I’m starved, lying up there, waiting for her.’

‘Maybe some bacon and egg?’ Mrs Henry Rice said coaxingly.

Miss Friel, Mr Lenehan, Miss Hearne and Mr Madden looked up, anger plain as hunger in their faces.

‘Bernie’s very delicate,’ Mrs Rice said to no one in particular. ‘The doctor says he has to eat a lot to keep his strength up.’

Bernard sat down and seemed to think about food. Then, gleefully watching the boarders, he gave his order. ‘Two eggs, Mama, four rashers of bacon. And Mary might fry some bread to go with it.’

Mrs Henry Rice, submissive, jingled the little bell. Mary came to the door and was given her orders. The boarders exchanged glances, united in their hatred. Miss Friel, with the air of a woman storming the barricades, picked up a piece of toast, buttered it, then re-buttered it so that the wedge of butter was almost as thick as the toast itself. There, she seemed to say. If it’s a fight you want, I just dare you to say a word.

Mrs Henry Rice ignored the butter waste. Her eyes were on her darling as he sipped his tea.

‘Well now,’ Bernard said pleasantly. ‘What were we talking about when I interrupted? The wonders of America, was it?’

Mr Madden bit angrily into a hard piece of toast. Ham and eggs for him. Nothing for me, her brother.

Miss Hearne, watching him, saw that he was angry. And no wonder. Really, it was a bit thick, feeding up that fat good-for-nothing while the boarders, not to mention her own brother, went without. Still, it was better to pass these things over. Bad temper, bad blood, as Aunt D’Arcy used to say.

‘Yes, we were talking about America,’ Miss Hearne told Bernard. ‘About how wonderful it must be.’

‘And what’s wrong with Ireland?’ Mr Lenehan wanted to know.

‘O, I suppose when all’s said and done, there’s no place like Ireland,’ Miss Hearne agreed. ‘I know. Most of my friends have travelled on the Continent and you should hear some of the things they say. Backward, why you wouldn’t believe how backward the Italians are, for instance.’

Mr Madden coughed. ‘Pardon me, Miss Hearne, but there’s nothing backward about the States. Why, the States is a hundred years ahead of Europe in most things. And ahead of Ireland too. Why, Ireland is backward, backward as hell.’ He stopped in confusion. ‘If you know what I mean,’ he finished lamely.