by Brian Moore
Carefully, he lifted her hands off his sleeve. ‘Who said anything about getting married? Did I? I never even considered it. Listen, Judy, get a hold of yourself. I like you, I thought of you as a good friend. That’s all, that’s all. Marry? Are you crazy in the head, or something? Marry! At my age. At yours. What is this?’
‘O, my God!’ she wailed, shielding her face with her arm. ‘O, merciful God!’ She ran away from him, stumbling, her head down: to get away, away anywhere from his face, his harsh voice, his hate. Running, weeping, she reached the street corner and the gate of the church. The people were now going in to eleven o’clock Mass. Hide! Hide! She joined the crowd, mopping her face with her handkerchief. She dabbed Holy Water on her brow and went blundering to a side aisle, to the great mass of kneeling people, hiding herself among them, getting away from him.
‘Introibo ad altare Dei!’ cried the priest.
‘Addeum quilaetificat juventutummeum,’ the altar boys mumbled.
Where is he, he wouldn’t come in after that, he wouldn’t dare to face me after the way he spoke. O, the horror in the street, me shouting like a servant girl and him bellowing like a soldier, his voice, his face, cruel, enjoying the hurt, how could he do this, how could he, so hurtful, has he no kindness, no mercy in him, telling that story about a letter, going to Dublin, a fairy tale, a pure invention, it rolled off his tongue as deceitful as a bad confession, I should have asked him to see it, proof, I had a right to, yes, because it wasn’t true, else why did this happen now, after he was so nice, no, it was the drinking, the stories that horrid sister of his told about me, she’s the one who’s responsible, she did it, and me too, I made a fool of myself, I should have been polite and firm, giving myself away like that, shouting and weeping and I rushed at him, accusing him, they say that puts a man off, you could see he was embarrassed, that’s why he went down the side street, so’s people couldn’t see us, yes, I put him off, a pushing woman, it hurt him to say those things, he still called me Judy, even then, Judy, you can see he’s still fond of me, he’s sorry now, sorry, he was hurtful though, the cruel way he said it, ‘at your age,’ what does he know about my age, yes, and he said, ‘are you crazy in the head,’ crazy, O, aunt dear, no, no, it couldn’t be, O, my God, help me, save me.
She began to pray, her eyes on the altar, her mind far from the sacrifice. The Our Fathers and Hail Marys stumbled through her mind, repeating themselves until they were meaningless, as hurried and without devotion as the mumbled responses of the altar boys. They died half-said as she slowly retraced the agony from its beginning, from the humiliating moment she had run out of the house after him. The walk, the things said, the cruel way he said them. They could not be washed away by repetition, those cruel words. Unlike prayers, they could not be dulled by restatement. They were the negation of prayer, the antithesis of hope.
She did not hear the sermon. She only wondered if he were in the church, sitting cruelly in the house of God after destroying her faith. When the Mass was over she sat until everyone else had left. Let him leave first, hide from him. He had said those things, they could never be unsaid. And he was the last one, James Madden, the last one ever.
People were already taking their places for the twelve o’clock Mass. She must leave. Impossible to go back to Camden Street now. He’d tell the whole thing to his horrid sister and then in no time at all, others would know about it, that Friel woman and that sleekit birdy Lenehan. They would all have a good laugh over how she had made an utter fool of herself. No, I can’t go back now among them, among enemies. Thank God I have some real friends left, the O’Neills — and it’s Sunday. I’ll go somewhere and have a small bite to eat and afterwards I’ll go for a walk until three.
At a quarter to three, Shaun O’Neill looked out of the drawing-room window and saw Miss Hearne coming up the avenue.
‘Daddy,’ he said. ‘J. H. sighted on the horizon. Prepare to abandon ship.’
His father nodded, picked up his newspaper and made for the door.
‘I’ll be in the study if you want me,’ he said to his wife.
‘Una and Kathleen. It’s your turn to stay,’ Moira O’Neill said. ‘And I don’t want any arguments about it.’
‘But I have to prepare my stuff for tomorrow’s lecture,’ Una said.
‘No. When you went to the dance last night, you told me you’d stay in today. I want you here. After all, poor Judy Hearne looks forward to seeing you. It’s the big event in her week, the poor soul, and I’m not going to have her snubbed by you children.’
‘Anyway, I’m off,’ Shaun said. ‘I’ve done my sentence.’
‘Go on then. But I don’t want any more jokes about this,’ Mrs O’Neill said sternly. ‘Kevin, you stay here.’
‘O holy smoke!’ Kevin wailed.
‘That’s enough. And Kathleen, I want you to stay too. After tea, you can all go off if you like. But someone must see Miss Hearne to the bus.’
‘There she is,’ Shaun said as the bell shrilled below in the hall.
Una, Kathleen and Kevin pulled long faces.
‘Where did I ever get such a selfish bunch of children?’ Mrs O’Neill asked the ceiling. ‘Not an ounce of Christian charity in them. Poor Judy, she loves every one of you. And to think you couldn’t show her a little Christian kindness.’
‘It’s Miss Hearne, Mam,’ said the maid.
‘All right, show her up Ellen.’
They waited. Young Kevin kicked at the rug. Shaun had already disappeared.
Someone rapped gently on the drawing-room door.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s only me,’ Miss Hearne said, coming into the room with a sad attempt at a smile.
‘Hello, Judy dear.’
‘Moira.’ They embraced, making the mock kiss of women, careful not to disarrange each other’s hair. Una, Kathleen and Kevin came forward to shake hands.
‘Sit down, Judy dear. Una, move those books off the chair.’
‘Thank you. And how are all my little nephews and nieces?’
This was her little joke: she liked to think of them as young relatives. But they turned indifferent faces towards her, their eyes cold, rejecting the hint of kinship.
‘O, we’re all right,’ Una said. ‘And how’s Baby Rice?’
‘Don’t talk to me about that horrid thing. Although, now that I’m settled in, I can see where the trouble lies. It’s his mother. O, Moira dear, Una darling, you don’t know what a horrible woman she is.’
Mrs O’Neill looked at Una: they both knew Judy Hearne’s familiar pattern. Landladies always started out by being very nice, the nicest people possible, but after the first disagreement, they began the slow transition to deep-dyed villainy. With this new one, Mrs O’Neill thought, she’s skipped the preliminary stages.
‘O,’ she said. ‘Why is that?’
‘Well, Moira dear, she’s terribly common for one thing. Not that I’m a snob, Moira, you know me better than that. But she’s the nosiest woman I ever set eyes on. Do you know she’s killed with curiosity to know what I’m doing all the time. And malicious, well, you wouldn’t believe the things she says about me.’
‘Malicious?’ Una said. The thought of anyone finding subject for malicious gossip in the doings of poor old Judy Hearne. . . .
‘Well . . .’ Miss Hearne looked significantly in the direction of Kevin and Kathleen. ‘Not in front of the children.’
Una preened herself, smiled triumphantly at her younger sister. Seventeen had its few rewards.
‘Kevin and Kathy, would you like to go off upstairs and play?’ Mrs O’Neill said.
‘Wow!’ young Kevin cried, jumping up. ‘Race you to the landing,’ he called to Kathleen. And they fled out of the drawing-room, banging the door behind them. Una watched them go, a little downcast.
‘Such obedient children,’ Miss Hearne said. ‘Well, as I was saying, this Mrs Rice is the sort of person you could take into court and sue, the things she says.’
‘What things?
’
‘Well, this is in the strictest confidence, mind you, but last week she as much as accused me of being a bad woman.’
Una found this impossible to take seriously. She howled with laughter. ‘A what?’
‘A bad woman,’ Miss Hearne said firmly.
‘O Judy, you’re exaggerating.’
‘No, Moira, it’s the truth. You see, she has a brother living with her, an American, who’s back in Ireland on a visit and is thinking of settling down. A Mr Madden. A very nice man, at least he seemed to be. Well-behaved, an older man, you know. And he seemed very interested in me. He was always pestering me to go out with him, to go to the pictures or a walk or something.’
Una’s eyes were circles of disbelief. Mrs O’Neill chuckled. ‘O Judy,’ she said. ‘Is it a flirtation you’re having?’
‘Not at all. It’s just that he — well, you know I have a lot of time on my hands now, the piano lessons have dropped off a bit as a matter of fact. And the embroidery classes not being renewed at the Technical School, as I told you last week. So, just to be polite, I went out with him a couple of times.’
‘To the pictures?’
‘Well — yes. And he took me to dinner one night at the Plaza. A very nice man, purely friendly, you know, and I was very interested to hear what he had to say about America. He’s a Donegal man originally, from your mother’s part of the country, Moira.’
‘O, there’s lots of Maddens in Donegal,’ Mrs O’Neill said. ‘And what happened then, Judy?’
‘Well, one night last week we came home from the pictures and there she was, waiting for us like a policeman. She asked us in for a cup of tea. I saw nothing odd about it at the time, but as soon as my back was turned — she sent me into the scullery to wet the tea, mind you I offered to do it — well, when I came back into the room, he — Mr Madden — was gone. After some row, I didn’t hear what it was.’
‘And then what?’ Una asked. Holy Moses, could you imagine old Judy Hearne in a romance?
‘Well, she just said she didn’t want any misunderstandings and that she was running a respectable house and so forth, and that her brother didn’t have much to do with himself and that was a pity. I’ve never been so insulted in my life, you could see what she was hinting at, I just told her who did she think she was talking to? I declare I nearly gave her notice right on the spot. Of course, you could see she was jealous of the brother, worried about fortune hunters or something.’
‘Why? Is he well off?’
‘Well, I haven’t the faintest idea. As if it was any concern of mine whether Mr Madden is well off. I think he’s quite comfortable, but that’s by the by. The important thing is this woman, the cheek of her. Can you imagine, as much as telling me to my face that I was carrying on with him?’
Despite herself, Moira O’Neill was seized with a fit of the giggles.
‘O, it’s not funny, Moira dear, I can tell you it was humiliating. Humiliating. I made up my mind today that I’ll not stay another week in that house.’
‘And was that all there was to it?’ Una asked.
Miss Hearne hesitated. I said too much, boasting again, I should have held my tongue. I’m making a fool of myself. ‘Yes, that’s the whole story. Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?’
Mrs O’Neill frowned. ‘Now look here, Judy,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I feel the time has come for us to talk frankly, as old friends. These digs are cheap and well situated, and you said yourself you were quite comfortable. I think you’d be foolish to move again over a little tiff like that.’
She doesn’t understand, Miss Hearne thought, how can she, when she doesn’t know the whole story? When I never can tell her the truth. Like the time I left Cromwell Road, it wasn’t the row about cleaning the room, it was the other, the night I burned the mattress when I fell asleep with the bottle beside me.
‘Well, I feel I have to move,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be happy there.’
‘Now, Judy, be sensible. This is about the sixth move you’ve made in the last three years. No digs are perfect. And you’ve been complaining that moving is expensive. Now, why don’t you stay where you are. You can always ignore things like these.’
‘What’s this Madden like?’ Una said. ‘Is he a real dyed-in-the-wool Yank?’
‘O, he’s all right, I suppose. Anyway, he’s going off to Dublin soon. The trouble with him is he believes everything his sister tells him.’
‘Don’t tell me you had a row with him too.’
‘No — not a row exactly. But ever since then he’s been cool. And this morning, this very morning, I had to ask him what was the matter and he mumbled something about going to Dublin, a lie obviously. I wouldn’t be surprised the sister put him up to running away like that. Because before that he was all over me, you know.’
She looked at them, the grey-haired matron and the young girl. And why shouldn’t I, they don’t take me seriously, those two, laughing like that. She leaned forward: ‘As a matter of fact, he proposed to me,’ she said.
‘He proposed to you?’
‘He did. Of course, I didn’t take him seriously for a moment. After all, I told him, I hardly know you.’
‘What did he do in America?’ Una asked.
‘O, he was in the hotel business in New York. I believe he had quite a big hotel there.’
‘Well, Judy, for heaven’s sakes, he sounds quite a catch.’
‘O, mind you, I thought about it for a minute. After all, men don’t grow on trees. But I just didn’t feel we were suited to each other.’
‘And how did he take it when you said no?’
‘Well — men are so funny — he didn’t say a word. Of course, it might be that, that’s driving him off to Dublin.’
Mrs O’Neill and her daughter exchanged glances. They’re interested in me now, all right. With a tale like this. This is the way it should have been. Telling it, reversing the events to fit a more dignified pattern, she was uneasily conscious of the obligations of the lie. Told once, it must be retold until, in the blurring of time, it became reality, the official version, carefully remembered.
‘Well, Judy dear, I still think you’d be foolish to leave,’ Mrs O’Neill said. ‘Although I can quite understand that it was embarrassing for you. But if he goes away, it will all blow over. Who knows, she’ll be grateful to you, the sister, for turning him down. You two might even become the best of friends.’
‘O, it’s impossible. Friends with that fat thing! I’d be hard up for friends indeed.’
And you are hard up, Mrs O’Neill thought. Something about this rigmarole doesn’t make sense. And there was something fishy about the tale you told the last time you changed your digs. God knows, all landladies couldn’t be as black as you paint them. Ah, poor Judy, there’s no use arguing with you, you have a touch of your Aunt D’Arcy there. Stubborn as a mule.
‘Let’s have some tea,’ she said. ‘Una, go and call your father.’
Friends with the likes of Mrs Rice, Miss Hearne said to herself. O, Moira doesn’t understand things at all. How could I be friends with that fat thing and how could something, a serious thing — a love affair — just blow over like that? O, Moira wouldn’t know, sitting here in the middle of her chickens like some contented hen. And Una, just a child, what does she know about men and women? They don’t understand, they never will, they’ve never been me.
Professor O’Neill entered, his monocle flashing opaque against the light. ‘Hello there, Judy. And how are you?’
‘Hello, Owen, I’m well thanks. And how are you?’ Owen, such a distinguished-looking man, he went straight up to Madden, looked him square in the eye: ‘I’ll have you know, Sir, Miss Hearne is a very dear friend of mine, how dare you talk to her in that tone of voice? Many a man would have given anything to marry her. And an angel, she devoted her whole life to her sick aunt.’ Ah, Owen, Owen, and to think that a woman like Moira got you. Moira, she doesn’t understand, how could she, common herself,
I don’t like you, Moira, never did, and God knows I’d love to tell you straight out.
‘Sherry?’ Moira said.
‘Thank you, Moira dear.’ She drank it down in one swallow, to still the hatred that was starting inside her. I need it, I’m upset, I’ve had a very upsetting day.
Mrs O’Neill watched this. She lifted the decanter again. Have another, Judy. It will warm you up. There’s quite a nip in the air today.’
Miss Hearne agreed. She noticed the way I drank it, Moira, she doesn’t miss much, it’s the countrywoman in her. I must go slow on this one, I must make it last. She looked down at the pale sherry in the glass and saw that it shook like a tiny sea. She tightened her grip, pressing her fingers against the rim of the glass. But her hand still trembled. She drank it down in two swallows.
The second drink helped. No sooner had she swallowed it than she felt it send delicate fumes to her head, flushing her cheeks, easing the tension. One more drink would bring the good feeling. But meantime she must wait; she must let it do its work. She refused sandwiches and biscuits; they would spoil the effect of it. But when Moira ritually offered the decanter, expecting the familiar refusal, Miss Hearne smiled and held out her glass: ‘Yes, I think I will. It’s awfully good sherry, so light and dry.’
The room was bright and cosy, the children were grouped around the fire. Professor and Mrs O’Neill sat in their armchairs on opposite sides of the grate, befitting parts of the family picture. Miss Hearne leaned back on the cushions of the sofa, her eyes misty as she watched the changing pictures made by the flames. A happy family, how lucky they were. In the bosom of my family, O, if it were really true.
She asked young Kevin what he was doing at school and did not listen to his answer. Instead, she ran her fingers through Kathleen’s curls. Ugly little Kathy, she likes me still.
And she drank the third sherry. It was pleasant, harmless, and goodness knows, she could have another, it tasted so mild.