THE LONELY PASSION OF JUDITH HEARNE

by Brian Moore

  Father Quigley shook his head in irritation. ‘How can I know, if you haven’t told me?’

  ‘But I told you in confession.’

  ‘My good woman, I hear a lot of confessions. And I don’t know who’s making them. You should know better than that.’

  ‘Father,’ the woman said, beginning to weep. ‘Father, I’m all alone. I need somebody.’

  She bent over. Her red hat fell off, rolled on the floor. Father Quigley picked it up.

  ‘I need a sign,’ the woman said. ‘I need a sign from God.’

  ‘You need to sober up, that’s what you need.’

  ‘But Father, I’m not — not drunk, now. Honestly. Father, I can’t believe any more. I can’t pray. He won’t listen. Maybe it’s the devil tempting me as you said, Father, but I just don’t feel that God is there any more. Nobody is listening. All my life I’ve believed, I’ve waited — Father, listen to me!’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Father Quigley said grimly.

  ‘Father, why is it? You’re a priest. Are you sure He’s there? Are you really sure?’

  ‘Now, get a hold of yourself,’ Father Quigley said.

  ‘You’re not sure, are you? Then how can I be sure? Father, if there isn’t any other life, then what has happened to me? I’ve wasted my life.’

  ‘Now, what nonsense is this, woman? It’s the drink talking in you. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, drinking like that, making a public spectacle of yourself, a well-brought-up woman like you?’

  But the woman did not seem to hear. She sobbed, making short panting noises, like a tired dog. ‘Do you understand?’ she said. ‘Do you understand?’

  Shepherd, he looked at his sheep. What ails her? Father, he did not comprehend what his child was saying. Priest, he could not communicate with his parishioner. ‘No,’ Father Quigley said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Then nobody does. Nobody will,’ the woman cried.

  ‘Now, you listen to me,’ Father Quigley began. ‘Go home and sober up and examine your conscience while you’re at it. You can’t think straight in this condition. And tomorrow evening I’ll be hearing confessions from six to eight. Come and see me then, and we’ll have a talk. Are you from this parish? What’s your name?’

  ‘Hearne, Father. Judith Hearne.’

  ‘All right, now, Miss Hearne. You have a taxi waiting I believe?’

  ‘Father, I’ve got to get this settled. Father, can you tell me . . .’

  ‘Now, Miss Hearne, I want you to promise me that you’ll go straight home. Where do you live?’

  ‘I have no home.’

  ‘Well, where are you living at present?’

  She did not answer.

  Father Quigley got up and went to the door. He beckoned to the taxi driver in the hall. ‘Do you know where this lady lives?’

  ‘I picked her up at the Plaza Hotel, Sir.’

  ‘I see.’ He went back into the parlour and closed the door. The taxi-man was a Protestant. Nice thing for him to see. ‘Now, where do you live, Miss Hearne? We’ve got to get you home.’

  ‘I’m at the Plaza.’

  Humph! That’s funny. ‘Now look, Miss Hearne, will you promise me one thing on your word of honour? Promise not to touch another drop of drink until you’ve been to see me again. Will you do that for me now?’

  She stopped crying. ‘But why, Father, why? What’s the good of word of honour? What’s the good of anything, unless it’s more than bread. More than bread, do you understand, Father?’

  ‘Miss Hearne, that’s a terrible thing for a Catholic woman to say to her priest. That’s a terrible sin, talking that way about the Blessed Sacrament. That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should be heartily ashamed of yourself, then. Coming in here drunk at this time of day and talking that way about Our Blessed Lord. O, what a terrible thing to let drink take hold of you like that, you should be down on your bended knees, praying for forgiveness. A terrible, terrible thing! Shocking! Now, you go straight home and say a mouthful of prayers. And not another drop of drink, mind, not another drop. You should be grateful that God hasn’t punished you worse, mortal sin on your soul and you not in a fit condition to receive absolution. I never heard the like!’ He paused for breath, his eyes lit with anger.

  ‘And is that all you have to tell me?’ she said sadly.

  ‘What do you mean — I . . .’

  But she had picked up her bag and was preparing to leave.

  ‘Now, just a minute. I want you to come back and see me. You’ll do that now?’

  But she was out in the hall and it was very awkward in front of the Protestant taxi driver.

  ‘You’ll take this lady back to her hotel,’ he said to the man. ‘And I’d be obliged if you’d make sure she’s staying there before you leave her. If not, well, bring her back here and we’ll try to find out more about her.’

  ‘All right, sir.’

  She had opened the front door. Father Quigley hurried forward and caught her by the arm. ‘Now, Miss Hearne, remember what I told you. Come back and see me when you’re feeling better. Tomorrow. Just give me a ring and I’ll arrange to see you.’

  But she paid no attention. Too far gone in drink, Father Quigley judged. He nodded to the taxi driver and the man took her arm and walked her to the presbytery gates. She got into the taxi, leaving Father Quigley standing at the presbytery door, troubled, sensing his failure. A terrible thing, drink. Or the change of life, it might be. A bit young for that. Hearne? I wonder who would know her. At the Plaza Hotel, doesn’t live there at all. Or she might be from out of town. But then, why pick on me? She might. He thought of his fire and the Tablet. But he did not close the door. He waited.

  The taxi driver, who had not yet been paid, carefully placed Miss Hearne in the back seat of his car and started the engine. But as the car moved away, it passed the gates of the church. Miss Hearne rapped on the glass panel behind his head. ‘Stop!’

  ‘But the Reverend said to take you back to the hotel, mum.’

  ‘Stop. I want to go into the church for a minute.’

  He stopped. These bloody Papishes, you never knew what they were up to. ‘It’s a long time on the meter,’ he warned.

  ‘You’ll be paid. Just wait here.’

  She left her bag on the seat and got out of the car. Faltering, her red hat awry on her head, she walked through the gates and into the quiet darkness of the vestibule.

  He didn’t understand, he could only say the silly, ordinary things you would expect him to say. Words, all he had was words. Supposing he knew that there was nothing in the tabernacle — ah then, what could he say? And perhaps he did know, he was so angry at my asking, he ran outside into the hall once to compose himself. Was he afraid? Afraid, because he knew?

  She passed the Holy Water font. What use? Only water, dirty water in a cold marble bowl. She entered the church.

  It was the quiet time. The church was empty except for two aged housewives who toiled around the side aisles, offering up prayers before the pictured agonies of the Stations of the Cross. And one old man in the front bench, sitting as quiet as a piece of furniture, his rosary lax in his hand. Old people. Old people with nothing left to do but pray.

  Over the main altar, the sanctuary lamp glowed red. In dark side altars, candles guttered before painted statues. Our Lady, Saint Joseph, Saint Patrick. Sightless saints.

  Slowly she walked up the centre aisle.

  O God, I have sinned against You, why have You not punished me? I have renounced You, do You hear me, I have, abandoned You. Because, O Father, You have abandoned me. I needed You, Father, and You turned me away. I prayed to You, Father, and You did not answer. All men turned from me. And You, Father? You too.

  The painted Mary smiled from the side altar; blue robed, with white virginal tunic and delicate painted hands uplifted in intercession. O Mary Mother, why did you not intercede for me? Why do you smile now? The
re is nothing to smile for.

  O Sacred Heart, why did You ask this suffering? The reason, tell me, I will bear it. But a reason, not the reasons Your priest has given. They are no reason for this terrible thing.

  The red sanctuary lamp swung gently as a draught of cold air blew across the altar. The wind ruffled the little white curtain that screened the tabernacle door. It was very quiet. Only her own footsteps she could hear.

  And now? What will become of me, am I to grow old in a room, year by year, until they take me to a poor-house? Am I to be a forgotten old woman, mumbling in a corner in a house run by nuns? What is to become of me, O Lord, alone in this city, with only drink, hateful drink that dulls me, disgraces me, lonely drink that leaves me more lonely, more despised? Why this cross? Give me another, great pain, great illness, anything, but let there be someone, someone to share it. Why do You torture me, alone and silent behind Your little door? Why?

  ‘I hate You,’ she said, her voice loud and shrill in the silence of the church. And she waited. Now, surely now, in His anointed, consecrated place, a thunderbolt, striking down, white and terrible from the vaulted roof. And leave a shrivelled nothing on the ground.

  She bent her head for the blow. But the only sound was a banging door as a priest entered the church. No sign. The red sanctuary lamp swung from side to side.

  No one.

  Only bread.

  But if He still waited, if He stayed His hand?

  She walked towards the altar, quickly now, her dark eyes on the little white curtain. One way. One way above all. Let it end now, let it end forever. Let Him strike, terrible in His wrath, a God of Judgment, crumbling the defiler of His temple.

  She reached the Communion rail and fumbled with the catch of the gate. She bent over it, her whole body trembling uncontrollably as it suddenly swung free. Open. Her path only six steps up to the altar, up to the golden door.

  O God. O Father. Now.

  She did not see the two women start up in fear from their prayers. She did not see the agitation of the old man in the front bench as she slowly climbed the steps. She did not see Father Quigley run down the centre aisle.

  She went forward, her head up, her dark eyes wild, waiting the thunderbolt.

  Now.

  She reached the altar platform and drew the little curtain aside. The small door filled her whole eye, golden, mysterious, terrifying.

  Behind it?

  Or wafers of bread?

  Trembling, she put her trembling hands on the door, scrabbled to find the lock. But the door was rough, encrusted with a motif of crucifixes.

  In the darkness of the nave, someone shouted.

  Now! Now! She tore at the door. Now, the thunderbolt. But the door would not open. Small, golden, Holy of Holies, it remained shut against her trembling, weeping onslaught.

  ‘Open. Let me in!’ she screamed.

  ‘In!’ the church screamed back. ‘In!’

  But the door rejected her. It would not open. Blood ran from her nails. The altar cloth slid sideways along the marble of the altar table. Candlesticks crashed on the steps.

  ‘You!’ she screamed. And red light filled her eyes, golden doors merged, fell away in crumbling segments. He came out, terrible, breathing fire, His face hollow-cheeked, His eyes devouring her. His Mother ran up the altar steps, her painted face still sadly smiling, lifted her as she lay broken on the steps. Saint Joseph knelt gravely on her right.

  And He, His fingers uplifted in blessing, bent over her, His bleeding heart red against His white tunic. Lifted her in His arms and His face was close to hers.

  ‘Why did you do this?’ He said.

  But she could not see His face. It went warm and sick and blurred and the red lamps burned again, filling all of her eyes, carrying her off to darkness, all darkness, all forgetting.

  ‘Why did she do it?’ one of the kneeling housewives asked Father Quigley.

  And he looked down at the bloodstained hands, the bruised face and straggling hair of the woman in his arms. He looked, and then he looked at the locked tabernacle.

  ‘God knows,’ he said.

  CHAPTER XIX

  GERRY DICKEY, driver, employed by Hanlon’s Car Service, Our Own Limousines: Funerals, Weddings, Special Outings, tied the two old-fashioned trunks on his luggage rack. Then he brought the Humber around to the side entrance of the hospital.

  After a few minutes, a nurse held the door open and the lady who had hired the car came out. She had another lady with her, and the lady had on a red raincoat with a tear in it. The sick lady walked very slow and she had dark-brown rings around her eyes and a kind of tremble to her whole body when you were close to her. There was a young girl came out after them, a tall bit of stuff with black hair and a good figure. Gerry Dickey got out and opened the back door of the car while the two ladies and the girl got in. Then he started the Humber up.

  ‘And where to now, please?’ he said.

  ‘Earnscliffe Home,’ the lady that hired him said.

  ‘Earnscliffe?’ the sick woman said. ‘O Moira dear, I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t.’

  ‘Now, don’t worry, Judy, it’s all arranged. We have a private room for you and you need convalescent care until you get back on your feet.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t be happy there,’ the sick one said. ‘Besides, I can’t afford a private room.’

  ‘Never mind about that. Owen and I will take care of it. Just you think about getting well, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘But I don’t want to stay there.’

  ‘You won’t have to stay more than a month or two. And after that, Una will help you find a nice room somewhere, won’t you, Una?’

  ‘Of course. And you’ll be up and about in no time.’

  I wouldn’t like to bet a quid on that, Gerry Dickey thought, looking at the sick one through his rear view mirror.

  ‘O, but Moira, I’d be ashamed to . . .’

  The good-looking one leaned forward at this point and closed the glass panel which screened Gerry Dickey off from his fares. Did she see me looking, I wonder? No, not likely.

  ‘What about Number Ten?’ asked Night Sister.

  ‘O, she’s all right,’ said Eileen Herlihy, who was going off duty.

  Nora Nelligan, who was replacing her, took a chocolate out of the box left by a patient’s brother that morning. ‘What’s the matter with that one, anyway?’

  ‘She had an accident. Nervous breakdown, or something. Nothing wrong with her that the pledge wouldn’t cure.’

  Nora Nelligan put on her white cap. ‘Who’s looking after her?’

  ‘She’s Doctor Bowe’s patient. Do you know him? A G.P.?’

  Nora Nelligan saw Doctor Bowe’s bald head and bulging waistcoat. Married and a family. I have no luck at all. Sure, I get all the old doctors. ‘O him,’ she said.

  ‘Hurry up now, girls,’ said Night Sister. ‘Number Fourteen needs her enema.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Father,’ Sister Mary Paul said. ‘Father Quigley, is it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘O, from Saint Finbar’s. Of course, I should have known. And who would you be wanting to see, Father?’

  ‘You have a Miss Hearne here?’

  ‘O, indeed we have. She’s in number ten. I’ll take you there, Father.’

  Together they went out of the reception office and along to the lift.

  ‘And how is she getting along?’

  ‘Well enough, Father, all things considered. She’ll be out of here in a few weeks. But you know, Father — is she one of your parishioners, by the way?’

  He nodded.

  ‘She’s very depressed,’ Sister Mary Paul said. ‘She wanders a bit, the poor soul. For instance, she’s always telling the nurses that God won’t listen to her. A bit off her head at times. I don’t think she means it, though. Many’s the time I’ve gone in and seen her lying there praying.’

  ‘Has she asked to see a priest?’

  ‘No, Father, she hasn’t.
But I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you, Father.’

  ‘Um,’ said Father Quigley.

  The priest, tall, black clad, took off his black overcoat and his white silk scarf. He laid the scarf on his black hat. He sat down on the hard chair and put his black boots together, side by side. His long spatulate fingers clasped his bony, black-clothed knees as he leaned forward and looked at the woman in the bed.

  ‘And how are you feeling now, Miss Hearne?’

  The woman stared vacantly at the foot of her bed. With her right hand she held the grey woollen dressing-gown tight around her throat. ‘I’m all right, Father, thank you.’

  ‘And you’re happier now, aren’t you, Miss Hearne? You’ve — ah — you’ve put all those black thoughts behind you, haven’t you?’

  Her eyes wandered to the ceiling. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Good. I’m very glad to hear that. I’ve offered up special prayers at Mass for that intention. Ah, yes, it’s a wonderful thing, prayer. Think now of the comfort it is to know God is watching over you at a time like this. And you’re in good hands, the nuns are very kind, is that not so?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was still looking at the ceiling.

  ‘That’s right. And you know, Miss Hearne, when we feel lonely and out of sorts, it’s a great consolation to remember that we all belong to one great family. The Holy Family. Ah, many’s the time I think of those who don’t believe in God, how lonely they must be, no friends around them, deliberately turning away from God’s mercy. Yes, it’s good to know God is always with us, is that not so?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Yes, I often think of the unbeliever, the poor blind devil without a friend in this world or the next. Yes, a lonely man, he who turns away from the sight of God. When a prayer, one word of repentance might save him. When the church militant would rise up to aid and guide him. Ah, yes, one little prayer. Little do we know the power of prayer. I’m sure you’re making a special effort to pray hard in these days of rest and repose. Yes, I’m sure you are. Have you been to confession yet?’

  She closed her eyes. ‘There’s a priest comes to hear confessions here,’ she said. ‘Twice a week.’

  He coughed uncomfortably. ‘I see. Well, if I were you, I’d make an effort to go as soon as you feel up to it. I’d be very glad to hear your confession now, if you like.’