by Brian Moore
‘Mr Lenehan!’ Mrs Henry Rice was stern. ‘I’ll thank you not to discuss people when they’re hardly out of the room!’
‘No offence meant. I was only sympathising.’ He winked at Miss Hearne.
Keep your winks to yourself, you counter-jumper. Shameful, O shameful, being discussed like that, by such people, no tact, no manners. At least he had the sense to say nothing. Gentleman. One of nature’s gentlemen.
Miss Hearne drank her tea and forced a piece of sickening buttered toast into her mouth. Her stomach rejected it. Sick bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it. O, not here, I couldn’t be sick in front of him. Lie down, a good lie down and some broth tonight, and not another drop of liquor, not another drop ever. Go, I must. At once.
‘I think I’ll go to my room.’
‘Not feeling well?’ Mr Lenehan inquired.
The sick bile rose again. She shut her lips tightly and nodded. Mr Lenehan smiled. ‘A good rest is the best cure.’
I could kill him, the cheeky thing, as if it was any of his business. O, that shaking. Stop it. Stop it!
She ran upstairs to her room and reached the wash-basin just in time. Afterwards, she felt purged and weak.
She took off her dress and lay down on the bed. Nothing matters, she said. Nothing. I must sleep and get well. Can’t talk to him in this condition. I must look dreadful. O, I feel sick. The sickness.
But sleep came quickly and she lay in light nameless dreams all through the forenoon. It grew very cold in the room and she woke to pull the blankets over her. She slept on dreamlessly into the afternoon, making no sound, hidden in the cocoon of unconsciousness. To sleep and never wake. Wake to face him.
Someone outside?
‘Miss Hearne.’
She started up. ‘Who is it?’
‘There’s a Mrs Brannon on the ’phone.’
‘Mrs Brannon?’ O Sacred Heart, the lesson, little Meg, today, Thursday it is!
‘Did you tell her I’m not well?’
‘She wants to speak to you,’ the door cried, with the soft compelling voice of Bernard.
‘Just a minute.’
My dress, where? O Mother Mary, my heart, the pain of it. O, what’ll I say, what can I say? Sick, yes, unwell, O Sacred Heart help me. O Mother Mary, my good intention, help me now. I will not sin again.
Bernard, wearing a black turtleneck sweater, dirty flannels and slippers, was waiting on the landing outside. He followed her downstairs to the hall where the ’phone dangled like an evil fruit from its cord. Her hand shook as she put the black earpiece against her tousled hair.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that you, Miss Hearne?’ Mrs Brannon’s voice, twisted and harsh, leaped out of the little black cylinder. Mrs Brannon behind it, big, mean, opinionated.
‘Yes, Miss Hearne speaking.’ She looked back along the hall. Bernard, horrid fatty, was listening, sucking at a cigarette.
‘Well, I’d like to know what’s the meaning of this? Today’s your lesson with my Meg, you know that. And the poor child sitting there at the piano this last hour, waiting for you.’
‘O, Mrs Brannon, I’m terribly sorry. But I was ill. I’ve been in bed all day.’
‘That’s no excuse,’ the crackly mean voice roared out of the earpiece. ‘You might have ’phoned, it’s the least you could have done. Not leaving the child waiting hour after hour like that, no consideration at all. I like people to keep their appointments. If you can’t do that, I’ll just have to get someone else.’
‘O, Mrs Brannon, I’m sorry, really I am, I’ll come over right away, I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘So you’re not sick. Not sick, that’s a fine thing. I never heard the like. No, Miss Hearne, that won’t do. That won’t do at all. I’m sorry, I’ll just have to get someone else. I never heard of such a thing.’
‘But Mrs Brannon, I am sick. I mean that I’d come anyway. It skipped my mind, really, or I’d have ’phoned of course.’
‘Well, it didn’t skip Meg’s. I won’t have a teacher who forgets her pupils. Good day, Miss Hearne. You can send me a bill for the last two lessons.’
‘Mrs Brannon, really, I don’t think . . .’
‘Click!’ said the little black earpiece.
‘Bad news?’ It was Bernard, fat, sucking his cigarette, coming towards her.
‘No. No.’
‘Are you a teacher or something? I heard you mention going over. And the lady told me her little girl was waiting for you.’
‘I teach piano,’ Miss Hearne said, trying to walk round him and get back to her room.
‘I’m very fond of music myself. I have some good records and a record player, if you’d ever like to listen to them.’
‘That’s very kind of you, I’m sure. Now, I really must get out of this draughty hall. If you’ll excuse me . . .’
‘Horowitz, Schnabel, Gieseking, I’ve got a lot of good piano. Some lovely stuff.’ He leaned over the rail of the banister, watching her go up. ‘Lost a pupil?’ he asked.
O, the brute! Listening in on every word, the sneaky thing.
‘I said did you lose a pupil?’ He had raised his voice to a shout. She turned and looked down the stairs.
‘I’m not deaf, thank you, Mr Rice. The answer is yes. Although I don’t see that it’s any business of yours.’
‘I didn’t mean to be nosey. I just know some people who want a piano teacher for their little girl, that’s all. Maybe you’d be interested.’
‘Perhaps we can discuss it some other time.’
‘As you wish.’ He went off down the hall, whistling.
Whee-whe-whee-who . . . piano, pianissimo. I wonder now, a tidbit for little old New York upstairs? Yes, uncle dear, a piano teacher, a failed piano teacher at that. Heard her myself on the ’phone, not half an hour ago, terrified because somebody’d cancelled a lesson. How’d he take that, eh? What the hell do you know, roaring it out, but it’s true, I’d say, I will say, and he’ll know it. And talking of the lady’s special peculiarities, uncle dear, has it ever occurred to you that the evidence presented in the past twenty-four hours leads indisputably to a certain conclusion? Item: two empty whiskey bottles in her room. Item: loud solitary songs. Item: generally hung-over appearance at the breakfast table this morning. Yes, uncle, the verdict is that the lady, to put it crudely, is a boozer. Watch his meat-face rage, nonna my business, in Hollywood tough-talk out of the side of his mouth. Ah, I know him, the sod, he’ll bluster and bluff out with another mad scheme, he’ll be off to Connemara to drain the bogs of Ireland for uranium, handing out the big talk, but I’ll stop that, watch the fear when I point out, all reasonableness, mind you, that hell hath no fury like a spinster scorned. And that she’s been — led up the garden shall we say — by one James Madden and that he’d better watch his step now for she’ll be after him, thirsting for holy union. That should shift him.
But wait. Think about it. Messire Niccolo. Is this the way to proceed? There’s the affair of the serving girl, m’lud. And if he talks? No, in it himself, up to his neck, don’t worry. Yes, proceed as planned. And why not? If I tell him now that she is what she is, a piano teacher, a woman of straw, not a penny, then the business designs will stop, his interest will abate. He’ll avoid her. And then? A word in the other direction, a hint to the lady that all is not lost. She pursues, he flees, he cannot flee and continue to live here. An intolerable situation. Demands decisive action. Retreat. Pack. Bag and baggage. Out. Bye-bye blacksheep. Yes, worry him. Handle it diplomatically. Iron hand in velvet. Yes. Do it now. He’s in.
Whee-whe-whee-who . . . whistling once more, Bernard turned, climbed the stairs to his uncle’s room.
CHAPTER XII
THE MALE must pursue. Miss Hearne believed this. If Mr Madden did not seek her company, she would be abandoned. The woman’s place was to resist advances, to grant the favour of her company, to yield little by little.
But on the following day Mr Madden again preserved a total silence at the breakfa
st table. She tried to make him talk. He would not. Their cosy chats might never have been. He confined himself to the business of eating and drinking, and as soon as he had finished, he put on his hat and coat and went out. He was out all day. She waited for him, but the night came and sleep came and still he had not returned.
On the third day of Mr Madden’s silent retreat, she sought him out. Accidentally, as it were. But she pursued him. At breakfast he made her feel positively foolish when she drew him into conversation. Afterwards, she went to her room, put on her hat and coat, and sat down on the old straight-backed chair, facing the bay window. She allowed nothing to distract her: a moment’s inattention could mean another day of unhappiness. At eleven, she saw him come out on the front steps beneath her, dressed for the street. She jumped up and hurried down the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her. He was walking down the street. She ran after him.
‘O, good morning, Mr Madden,’ she called. ‘Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ Mr Madden said, looking at the sky. She fell in beside him.
‘Are you going downtown?’
‘I’ve got some business,’ he said.
‘O. Mind if I walk with you? I’ve been thinking a lot about you, you know.’
Mr Madden stared straight ahead. She tried again. ‘I mean, I’ve missed our little talks, you — you seem to have been very silent these last few days.’
‘Um.’
‘I was wondering, I mean, I wonder is anything wrong? You — ah, you haven’t had bad news or anything?’
‘Hey,’ Mr Madden said. ‘There’s my bus. I got to get it. I’ll see you later. I got to run now.’ And run he did, limping on his game leg, jumping on the back platform of the bus as it pulled away from the kerb. He waved good bye. Then was lost in traffic.
Avoiding me, O, it’s shameful of him, running away like that, as if I had the plague or something. You hurt me, James Madden, if you knew how much, you’d come back on your bended knees to apologise. Clutching her handbag to her stomach, she stared down the road. Ran from me. When I ran after him. Humiliated myself for him. He rejected. He turned away. But my own fault, yes, I’m the only one to blame, no I’m not, that horrid sister of his, telling him heaven knows what awful tale. Rejected, she looked at her long pointed shoes with the little shoe-eyes winking up at her. Little shoe-eyes, always there. But the magic didn’t work. The shoe-eyes were just buttons. Just shoe buttons.
O, she said, a woman in love can’t afford to be proud. He must be made to see, he must be made to come back. And I must do it myself, no matter how silly it looks. Tomorrow is Sunday, we first walked together on a Sunday. Tomorrow he must go to Mass and I will go with him, I will have it out, yes, I’ll come right out with it, no matter how much it hurts, ask him to explain himself. Because anything, anything is better than sitting here alone at night, not knowing. And what will I say? Subtle, yes, lead up to it gently, find out his intentions. O, maybe he would say it himself, not have to be asked, gentle, tender with me again. And he will, he will, he’s just put off by the things his horrid sister said against me. I’ll explain, the first time it ever happened, I’ll say, and it was because of you, you made me unhappy. Show him, I will, he is responsible for it all, come right out with it, I was upset for you, I only fell into it because you made me unhappy. And now you are cold, tell me why, I have a right to know.
She did not go to confession, although it was Saturday. Although drunkenness was a mortal sin. No, after tomorrow, after the Sunday talk, it could all be told to this new priest, Father Quigley, why it had happened. And maybe she might ask for advice on marriage. As her confessor, her new one in her new parish, he must be consulted, he would have advice to give.
The next morning she was up at six. She dressed carefully and sat by the window until nine. But he did not go out. So she went down to breakfast. The others were there, even Bernard, but he was not. She couldn’t eat a thing, she was so nervous. At a quarter to ten, he appeared and she dawdled with her cup of tea until he had finished eating. He did not speak to her. He lit a cigarette and stood up to leave. She went after him into the hall and saw him put on his coat.
‘Are you going to eleven, by any chance, Mr Madden?’
‘Well,’ he hesitated. ‘I might do that and I might go to twelve.’
‘Anyway, you’re going out?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I’d like to walk along with you. As a matter of fact, I’d like to have a word with you.’
‘Well — sure.’
They walked side by side down the street. ‘I think I’ll go to eleven,’ he said. ‘Have you been yet?’
‘No. I’ll go to eleven too. We can go together, if you’ve no objections.’
‘That’s fine.’
They turned out of Camden Street, passing the university.
‘You seem to have been very busy lately, Mr Madden.’
‘I had some business to attend to.’
Well, really. If he thinks he’s going to put me off like that, he’s got another think coming. Out with it, out with it, and shame him.
‘I — you’ll think it forward of me — but I had the impression you were avoiding me.’ Her face coloured scarlet as the words came out.
‘Where did you get that idea? I was busy, that’s all. I’m going to Dublin on business.’
‘O?’
‘That restaurant project. A friend of mine is coming back to Ireland for a holiday. I want to discuss it with him.’
‘I see. And when are you planning to run off to Dublin, may I ask?’
‘Well — uh, I haven’t decided yet. Soon. My friend will be here soon. I got a letter from him yesterday.’
‘You might have told me. After all, I’m interested in what you do.’
‘Well, uh, I got two letters. I mean, I got a letter a while ago and then another one yesterday. It isn’t sure though, when he’s coming.’
‘But I don’t see what two letters have to do with it. You made up your mind to go to Dublin and you didn’t even have the decency to tell me.’
He stopped walking and stared at her. ‘What’s it to you?’ he said harshly. ‘That’s my personal business. If I want to go to Dublin, or New York, or anywhere, that’s my business. I might even go to New York. I tell you it’s not sure yet.’
‘New York? But you said you were going to stay here. Why, you told me yourself — why only last week you said . . .’
‘Last week was different.’
‘I don’t see how.’
He began to walk again at a terrible pace. She had to run to keep up with him. ‘Last week I thought I had a partner for that restaurant deal,’ he said, his head down, his rough-red face angry. ‘This week, I find you’ve been stringing me along.’
‘Me? But Mr Madden — Jim — I don’t understand. If you mean what happened, your sister told you I drink, I mean, it’s not true.’
‘Never mind that. I hear you’re a piano teacher, is that right?’
‘I don’t see what that has to do with it.’
‘It’s got everything to do with it. I need a partner for this hamburg joint I got in mind. I thought you were on the level. Well — are you? If you’ve got a couple of thousand pounds we can talk business.’ He stopped walking, took her roughly by the arm. ‘Well, how about it? You want to be partners with me?’
‘But — but that’s impossible. I haven’t got any money. I . . .’
He let go of her arm. ‘See what I mean? I thought not. Phoney, same as everybody else in this town. Okay, I’m going to Dublin, see what I can do. And if it doesn’t work, I’m going back to the States. I never should of come here.’
‘But I thought you were going to stay in Ireland. I thought that was why you retired from business over there.’
‘Ireland!’ He stared at the rain-threatening sky. ‘Who’d stay in Ireland, unless he had to? Tell me that?’
She was silent. As though by common consent, they began to walk again.
‘Well, what d’you mean well? What I do’s my business.’
‘Your business? And what about me, Mr Madden? What am I to think? You took me out, you might say you confided in me, you gave me certain ideas, you led me on to think all sorts of things and then you just ignore me. I have to humble myself to run after you and then you have the nerve to tell me you were only courting me because you thought I might put some money in your silly restaurant.’
They had reached Saint Finbar’s. The people were coming out from the ten o’clock Mass, meeting the people who were waiting to go in for the eleven o’clock. He looked at the crowd and then looked at her.
‘Come on with me,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you. In private.’
He walked past the church, down a side street. She followed, her face mottled with blushes, her whole body quivering with indignation and shame. In the side street, he stopped and looked back at the crowds.
‘Now, listen, Judy. You’ve got this all wrong. I took you out — sure. You had nobody else around. I liked you, I thought you were a fine woman. I thought you and me were interested in the same things. But I didn’t make any passes, did I? I didn’t give you any ideas. Let’s get that straight.’
‘It’s that horrid sister of yours,’ she cried, her voice shrill with fear. ‘She turned you against me. She told lies about me.’
‘May? May’s got nothing to do with this. Besides, I didn’t need May to tell me you were drunk, that day. I’ve got ears.’
‘O, but you mustn’t believe it. It was because of you. She upset me with what she said, I couldn’t bear it, I had a drink, medicinal, purely medicinal. I took it to soothe my nerves.’
‘Well, that’s your business. I didn’t ask you your business, did I?’
‘I know what’s wrong,’ she screamed, clutching at his sleeve, standing out in the street with the tears blinding her. ‘You think I’m a drunkard, you do, that’s why you’re going away, that’s why you’ve been so cold. The other thing is only an excuse. But it’s not true, Jim, it’s not true, I hardly ever touch it, that’s why it affected me, I’d make you a good wife, Jim, really I would. I’d be a help to you, I don’t care what you were, I don’t care, I don’t care.’