THE LONELY PASSION OF JUDITH HEARNE

by Brian Moore

  ‘A cup of tea, Judy?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t spoil the taste of this delightful sherry.’

  ‘Well — would you take another?’

  ‘D’you know, I think I will.’

  Mrs O’Neill poured a fourth sherry. I always knew she liked a little drop, but this is going to make her tipsy, she thought. The poor soul, I suppose she’s upset about what happened. What really happened? Well, I suppose we’ll never know.

  ‘Why don’t you play something for us, Judy?’ she asked as she saw Miss Hearne greedily swallow down half of the new glass.

  ‘I couldn’t. O, no, you don’t want to hear me. Besides, I haven’t any music with me.’

  Una smiled at her. ‘O, please Miss Hearne. Play some Chopin.’

  ‘Yes, Judy, we haven’t heard you play for a long time,’ Professor O’Neill said.

  ‘But I’m out of practice, really I am.’

  ‘Please. Just one piece,’ Moira O’Neill said. It would at least keep her from finishing the bottle of sherry all by herself. Besides, she liked being asked to play and playing might take her out of herself a little.

  So Miss Hearne stood up and Una cleared the bric-à-brac and books off the top of the upright piano which stood against the wall. She opened the top of the piano and Miss Hearne sat down on the stool. The O’Neill children smiled to each other, anticipating the show which their brother Shaun had often mimicked for their entertainment. Then, as though she in turn were mimicking Shaun’s burlesque of her playing, Miss Hearne furtively slipped on her glasses, struck a few chords and began to play, firmly, ferociously sounding the first bars of Chopin’s Polonaise. The brass candlesticks on the piano did a frightening jig accompaniment as she bent forward, her eyes intent, her ringed hands jerking up and down the keyboard as though controlled by puppet strings.

  When the piece was finished they all applauded. She turned around, smiled and made a little bow from the piano seat. As she straightened up, her glasses fell off. Una retrieved them and handed them back, waiting for her to return to the sofa. But Miss Hearne swivelled the stool around again and poised to play.

  ‘Chopin,’ she said. ‘The immortal Chopin.’ And her fingers struck a great chord on the keys. Off she went, rippling through a prelude, her face intent, forgetting all in the rise and fall of the music. But the chords faltered, fumbled, and the notes stumbled into silence.

  ‘O, I wish I had my music,’ she said sadly. ‘I’m becoming terribly forgetful. I used to know that piece as well as anything. O, dear.’

  A little embarrassed, the O’Neills waited. ‘Well, never mind, Judy,’ Mrs O’Neill said. ‘You’ll play it the next time you come. Now sit by the fire here, I’m sure you’re tired after the playing.’

  ‘Ah, Chopin,’ Miss Hearne said, her shifting black eyes sad and misty. ‘And that woman, Georges Sand, what sort of a woman can she have been at all, Owen?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t read her books,’ Professor O’Neill said. ‘She’s on the Index, I believe.’

  ‘And no wonder. Could I trouble you for another glass of that delightful sherry, Una? Thank you, dear. Ah, no wonder, Owen, that she’s on the Index. A vulgar person who dressed like a man and smoked cigars. I don’t know how Chopin put up with her.’

  ‘A-hem!’ Professor O’Neill said. He did not consider such matters fit subjects for discussion in front of the children.

  ‘And he a Catholic at that,’ Miss Hearne said. ‘Living with a woman who smoked cigars. Still, he was a great artist, Chopin, wasn’t he, Owen? And we must allow great leeway for the artistic temperament.’

  ‘Being an artist does not absolve a man from his religious duties, Judy,’ Professor O’Neill said firmly. ‘And besides, I don’t think we should discuss it.’

  ‘O.’ Miss Hearne looked at young Kevin and Kathleen. ‘O, excuse me, I don’t know what I was thinking of.’ She raised her glass and drank the fifth sherry. Something was happening, she could feel it. Maybe I’m just a teeny bit tight. O, no, I mustn’t be tight here, of all places.

  She stood up, spilling her handbag out of her lap. ‘I must be going now. I’ve just remembered that I’ve got an awful lot of things to do this evening. You know what it’s like, Moira, washing, and little sewing jobs, you put them aside . . .’

  ‘You dropped your bag, Miss Hearne,’ young Kevin said, handing it to her.

  ‘It’s early,’ Mrs O’Neill said politely. ‘Stay a while.’

  ‘No, I really must go now.’ Miss Hearne straightened her hat with the coloured flowers on the band. ‘I really must.’

  ‘Kevin, get your coat and take Miss Hearne to her bus.’

  They all stood up then, like people getting on their feet after a family rosary. She said good byes and went downstairs with Mrs O’Neill and Kevin, and Kevin took her arm as she walked along the avenue to the bus stop. (Afterwards, he told his mother that Miss Hearne was very jolly and talked all the way. When she got in the bus, she turned and blew him a kiss. ‘Gosh, it was awful, everybody was watching us,’ Kevin said. ‘Why are women so sloppy?’)

  After she blew her good bye kiss, Miss Hearne watched young Kevin run back up the avenue. What a lovely family, what lovely friends to have. He might be her own little boy, running off like that after saying good bye to his mummy. Her own little boy. Not now. Not ever. Saddened, she went up the aisle of the bus. She sat down, paid the conductor, and stared at the neck of the man in front of her. A fat neck, with hairy pimples. People were so horrid sometimes. She looked down at her shoes, little shoe-eyes, always there.

  The bus stopped and two young people, dressed in their Sunday best, got in and sat near the driver. Miss Hearne noticed that they were holding hands. Newly-weds? The girl’s clothes, in such terrible taste. Magenta, with that blue scarf, O dear.

  The young couple saw her look. Like Siamese twins, they turned their heads and stared back at her. They had pale sweaty faces, fed on cheap pastries, bags of sweets, tea and bread and jam. Their light-blue eyes were vacant, unblinking as children’s. They stared at her without interest, as though they were too tired to look anywhere else.

  Do I look tiddly, or something, what’s the matter with them anyway, is my hat on crooked, I wish they’d stop, they’re making me nervous again, and after I was feeling better too; O, look at them, what’s the matter with them? Why are they so rude?

  The young man said something out of the corner of his mouth. The girl snickered and nudged him with her elbow. But their eyes, those vacant blue eyes, never wavered. They watched Miss Hearne.

  Well, you’d think I was something in a cage, what can be the matter with me? O, I’m trembling, honestly I am, they’re upsetting me, I need something medicinal, something to settle me. And there’s nothing in my room. Sunday too, none of the public houses open, only that place in Ballymacarret, against the law too, so far away.

  But the shaking would not stop. The good feeling of the sherry was going fast and it had been an awful day, a day to end all. Nobody could blame me, she thought, not even Moira O’Neill, she was pouring them as fast as she could, a great shock, I’m not over it yet, I need something medicinal to steady me. In moderation, it will help me sleep.

  So at City Hall, she changed buses and began the long ride out to Ballymacarret. This time, the bus was almost empty as it rushed through the gritty gloom of evening, down grey drab streets, fringed by row upon row of mean little working-class houses, brick red, stone grey, each and every one the same. At each window, between fraying lace curtains, a coloured vase, a set of crossed Union Jacks, or a figurine of a little girl holding her skirts up to wade, sat like little altars, turned towards the street for the edification of the neighbours.

  She got off at the usual place, a stop near a factory. She walked along a street of tiny houses, tiny gimcrack shops, all of it stage-lit by the harsh orange glare of new street lamps. Dispirited children played hopscotch in the gutter and a starveling cat walked delicately around a pile of refuse. Milk bottles adorned the d
oorsteps in preparation for Monday morning. Inside, the tiny, smelly upstairs bedrooms, lamps were already lit.

  Alone, tired, trembling, she reached the public house on the corner.

  F. P. MCAVINEY. Licensed to sell wines and spirits.

  It was closed. The blinds were drawn but slivers of light shone through the curlicues on the Victorian plate-glass windows. The heavy door was padlocked. But in the cobbled entry behind the pub, men stood and talked in whispers. Under the street lamp, a Woodbine dangling from his lips, a shabby youth stood sentry. He wore a cheap brown suit with padded shoulders and his tie was a mass of stained, multicoloured triangles. When Miss Hearne stopped outside the pub, his eyes moved in his narrow, pasty face. He watched.

  Three men came out of the entry, hiding bottles under their coats. A door opened behind them, emitted a clamour of laughter and talk, then closed into blackness. The men became quiet when they reached the street. They looked up and down, worried working men, then made off home in a hurry. The pasty-faced boy rubbed his shoulder-blades against the lamp post. He flicked the butt of his cigarette against the brick wall, watched the sparks fall in the dusk. Then his eyes found Miss Hearne. He waited.

  Miss Hearne went to the head of the entry and stood there, undecided. What a dark place, you could — anything could happen to you down there. Last time there was a little boy who did the errand. But it was in the daytime then. Still, I must have it, I’ve come so far.

  She opened her bag and felt the pound notes inside. Maybe if a nice respectable man came out I could ask him, tell him it was for a sick person, he would understand. But go down that black entry, no. Men down there.

  The pallid youth detached himself from the lamp-post. His ferret eyes blinked. Then he made up his mind. He grinned at Miss Hearne.

  ‘Luckin’ for sompin, missis?’

  ‘Well, eh, yes, I was wondering, I mean, I have a friend who’s sick.’

  He put out a hand that hadn’t seen a tap for days. ‘Is it gin, missis? Wiskey, porther or stout?’

  ‘Well, how much is it? Say whiskey?’

  ‘Three poun’.’

  ‘O, but a cheap one would do. Three pounds, why that’s exorbitant. Gin, how much is gin?’

  ‘Three poun’.’

  ‘O, but look, what do you take me for? The best whiskey is only about two pounds. Two pounds two and six. And my goodness, gin couldn’t be more than thirty-five shillings.’

  ‘Okay. I kin get ye wiskey for two poun’ five.’

  ‘Well, that’s still a lot.’

  He paid no attention. He looked up and down the street and smiled. ‘The peelers,’ he said. ‘They might be here annytime. Then wat?’

  Shakily Miss Hearne took two pound notes and a ten shilling note out of her purse. ‘Would you mind getting me the whiskey then? And it had better be Jameson at that price, young man.’

  His dirty hand closed on the money. ‘Fix yew up in a minnut,’ he said and ran down the entry. The door flashed open for a moment. Miss Hearne, abandoned, looked up and down the mean street. Those street lights are so bright. What if the police did come?

  The door banged again and the boy was back. He took a bottle wrapped in brown paper from under his coat.

  ‘Put it away quick. I kin get jail for this,’ he said.

  ‘What kind is it?’

  ‘John Jameson. Hurry up, missis.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ she said, putting the bottle in her bag. The neck stuck out. ‘It’s for a sick friend, you see.’

  ‘Okay now. Bye bye.’ And he walked back to the lamppost.

  ‘Wait,’ Miss Hearne called. ‘The change. You owe me about seven shillings. Or at least five.’

  But the boy laughed. ‘Yer head’s cut,’ he cried scornfully. ‘G’wan home. The peelers’ll catch yew.’

  It was no use. She turned away, shaking more than ever. O, the terrible little gutty, the little gouger! At the bus stop she carefully unrolled the brown paper. The label on the bottle said ‘Dunrovin’s Best Old Scotch.’ She had never heard of it.

  CHAPTER XIII

  WHEN she reached Camden Street, Miss Hearne remembered that the neck of the bottle was sticking out of her bag. She removed the bottle and hid it under her coat. It was early, nine o’clock, and there was always the chance of meeting somebody on the stairs. But as she walked down the street, she saw that the house was dark. And when she let herself in, nobody seemed to be at home, not even Miss Friel. So much the better. She hurried to her own room, unlocked the door and put on the lights. Then she locked the door from the inside. Trembling, she put the bottle on the bedside table, drew the curtains and made her preparations. She undressed, put on her robe, lit the gas fire and drew a jug of water from the wash-basin tap. Then the seal on the terribly expensive bottle was broken and she poured the first drink. It made her cough, cheap nasty stuff, the kind of whiskey a person would pay thirty-five shillings the bottle. But it was whiskey; it was good to get it. She poured a second one, half a tumbler, and put some water in it. Drink this slowly; let it do its work.

  But she had forgotten to . . . O, such a nuisance. She put down the glass, unlocked the door and tiptoed along the corridor to the lavatory. As she went in, she heard footsteps, soft footsteps. She waited until the footsteps had gone; then tiptoed back to the half-opened door of her room.

  O, it was good to get back in the heat again. She closed and locked the door.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Hearne.’

  Miss Hearne pulled the lapels of her dressing-gown tight. A lightness took her in the head, making her sway. She turned around.

  ‘What are you doing here? How dare you?’

  ‘Please!’ Bernard said. He stood with his back to the mantelpiece, looking quite unlike himself in a dark-blue suit, a clean shirt and a black knitted tie. His long blond hair was carefully combed and his shoes were black and shiny.

  ‘I saw your door open, so I looked in. No harm in that, is there?’

  He wouldn’t dare, she thought. But they say that effrontery is a mark of such men. She went back to the door and unlocked it.

  ‘I was going out to a dance,’ he said. ‘But I decided to stay in and have a chat with you instead. There’s something we should discuss.’

  ‘Mr Rice, really, I was going to bed. Some other time, perhaps. If it’s that pupil for piano lessons, we can talk about it in the morning.’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’ He drew out her armchair. ‘Sit down, won’t you? It’s something rather private.’

  What does he mean, he couldn’t want to attack me, I’ll scream . . .

  ‘I’ll only stay a few minutes, Miss Hearne. Surely you can spare me a few minutes?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘What about a drink? I see you have some Scotch.’

  He didn’t miss that, did he, the sneaky thing.

  ‘All right if I use this tooth-mug?’

  She nodded and sat down in the armchair, her nervous dark eyes shifting from him to the door.

  Bernard replenished her glass and filled his own. Then he pulled the old straight-backed chair up to the fire and sat down opposite her. ‘I’m going to be frank,’ he said. ‘I’m going to put my cards on the table. I want to talk about Uncle James.’

  ‘I — I don’t understand.’

  ‘Uncle James is disturbing my work. He’s made Mama upset and he’s made life miserable for you. I’ve been watching you at breakfast. It shows.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He held up a fat hand for silence. ‘You know very well what I mean. Now, take me, for instance. I don’t mind telling you that I consider my work the only important thing in this affair. I’m writing a great poem. A great poem and it may take years to finish. And in the meantime, I’m forced to live here and let Mama support me. Which is as it should be.’

  ‘O?’

  He refilled his glass, and handed her the bottle. He looks a bit mad, she thought, I’ve noticed that he has a queer look about him. If he — I could screa
m. Somebody would hear, somebody. I need another drink. To steady me.

  ‘People don’t understand,’ he said. ‘But you should, you’re a woman of some discernment. I need peace to work and Uncle James has destroyed all that. You see, Mama has changed since he came. She thinks he’s got a lot of money and she wants to get it. She’s greedy, poor Mama, not that I blame her, of course. There are no financial rewards in writing great poetry, you know.’

  ‘I suppose you could always get a job. I’m sure most poets have to work.’

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand. This work I’m doing, it’s an epic poem, a great epic. This is just the first phase of it. It may take five years. Why should I prostitute my talent?’

  He jumped up from his chair and began to walk about the room. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t my mother invest in immortality? After all, that’s what mothers are for.’

  What a funny duck he is, half crazy, the artistic type, I suppose. She handed him the bottle and he poured two drinks. Why, I’m not afraid of him at all, he’s harmless. Just a funny duck.

  ‘No water, thanks,’ she said.

  Bernard clasped his hands behind his back and struck a Napoleonic attitude, head thrust forward. ‘I’m forced to be ruthless,’ he said. ‘I can’t let my work suffer from this situation. It’s only right that Mama should support me. But now she’s supporting Uncle James too, and that’s not good for her morale. And he’s got money, he doesn’t need to be kept. Now, that’s where you come in.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You want him. Why don’t you take him away from here?’

  ‘How dare you! What on earth . . .’

  ‘He loves you. He loves you, do you understand? He wants you and he thinks he’s not good enough for you. Did you know that?’

  ‘But — but that’s ridiculous. Why, only today he told me — he said some very harsh things, he hasn’t the slightest intention of marrying me, I can tell you that.’

  ‘That’s Mama’s fault. She’s been putting in the black word against you. Like that drinking business.’