THE LONELY PASSION OF JUDITH HEARNE

by Brian Moore

  She did not answer.

  He coughed again. ‘Sister tells me you’re making great progress,’ he said. ‘Maybe she’ll let you up to go to Mass this Sunday. They have a lovely little chapel here, have you seen it?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘O, yes, a lovely little chapel, one of the nicest in the country. Beautiful stained-glass windows, a labour of love it was for the artist who did them. I knew him, De Lancey was his name.’

  She put a trembling hand on the coverlet. ‘I’m sorry I fainted in the church,’ she said.

  Fainted! Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it. That Mrs O’Neill said she doesn’t remember any of it. Just as well. I suppose she’s tired, the poor soul. ‘O, it happens all the time,’ he said. ‘If I had a pound for everyone who fainted in Saint Finbar’s, I could put in a new organ.’

  Her trembling hand retreated from the counterpane, hid itself under the blankets.

  ‘Well, I mustn’t tire you now, Miss Hearne. I just wanted to make sure that all those black thoughts have gone. And they have, haven’t they, thanks be to God?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Good. And you won’t forget to pray hard, will you, Miss Hearne? Don’t forget now. Well, I must say good bye, I have to run. I’ll try to come back and see you before you leave here.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ Warning: he warned. Obey. And I am alone. Like those unbelievers, no friends I would have. No help. O, no, not that, why must I suffer this? Help me, help me pray.

  Sister Mary Paul stood up behind her desk, her beads rustling, her starched head-dress slightly awry as she turned her head to greet the doctor. ‘And how are you today, Dr Bowe?’

  ‘Can’t complain. You wanted to see me, Sister?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor. You’ve been to see Miss Hearne?’

  Dr Bowe adjusted his muffler around his neck. ‘Yes, she’s much better than the last time I examined her. Nothing really wrong now, just undernourishment. And she’s a bit depressed.’

  ‘O, we noticed that. She’s on special diet. Do you want that continued?’

  Dr Bowe felt his chin. ‘She needs building up,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t eating the proper food.’

  ‘Well, we’ll feed her up, don’t you worry. When do you think she’ll be ready for discharge? You know, Doctor, I have a feeling she’d be happier in a place of her own. She doesn’t take to the life here. She hasn’t talked with any of the other patients since she came.’

  ‘Friends are paying for the room, is that right?’

  ‘O, yes, Doctor. Professor O’Neill. There’s been no financial problem.’

  Dr Bowe stared absentmindedly at the small hairy mole on Sister Mary Paul’s temple. Cancer, that? She should have it looked at. ‘I was their family doctor years ago,’ he said. ‘She’s had a very hard life, spent years looking after a bedridden aunt. The aunt was a bit senile, she should have been committed really, but Miss Hearne wouldn’t hear of it.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s anything hereditary there?’

  ‘No, no, nothing of the sort. Still, in view of the family history, and the fact that she’s got no relatives to go to, I’d like to keep her here a while.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry, Doctor, we’ll keep her cheerful. And she’ll stay here until I hear from you. Will you tell Professor O’Neill, by the way?’

  ‘I’ll give him a ring.’

  ‘Much better. But she still needs cheering up.’

  These words were spoken in a whisper by Sister Mary Annunciata who showed Moira O’Neill into number ten. As soon as she had delivered herself of this opinion, the nun threw the door wide open and sailed in ahead of Mrs O’Neill on a wave of hospital cheeriness.

  ‘Well, now, Miss Hearne, and what do you think I’ve got for you? A visitor. Mrs O’Neill has come to see you.’

  She sucked herself backwards then on the same wave and closed the door, all cheeriness and smiles.

  Mrs O’Neill wondered whether she should offer a kiss, or not. But the poor thing hardly seemed to see her. She sat down and put a little box of cakes on the bedside table. ‘I brought you these in case you feel a little peckish around tea-time.’

  ‘Thank you, Moira. It’s very good of you.’

  ‘And how do you feel, Judy? I hear you’re doing splendidly.’

  ‘O, I’m better, much better, thanks. Thanks for sending the children up to see me.’

  ‘But they wanted to come.’ That was the wrong thing to say, Mrs O’Neill chided herself. ‘You’ll never lack visitors while the O’Neills are around,’ she amended. ‘There’s so many of us.’

  The woman in the bed sighed. ‘Did you have any luck finding a room?’ she said.

  ‘Not yet, Judy. As a matter of fact, Doctor Bowe ’phoned up Owen last night and said he thought you should stay here for another couple of weeks at least. So that you’d be fit as a fiddle when you came out.’

  ‘But I’m all right. There’s nothing the matter with me. I’ve put on an awful lot of weight.’

  ‘That’s fine, Judy. I hear Father Quigley made a special visit to see you. An awfully nice man, I talked with him when he took you to the hospital that day.’

  ‘Yes, he was here.’

  ‘Owen’s coming to see you on Sunday. He’d have come today, but you know, he’s terribly busy with classes and exams just now.’

  The sick woman nodded. ‘I’m getting up on Sunday,’ she said.

  ‘See? You’ll be on your feet in no time. O, you’ll put all this behind you in a month or two.’

  ‘Moira?’ the sick woman’s hands found the sides of the bed. She levered herself free of the blankets and sat up.

  ‘Yes, Judy. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, no, you’ve been very good. Very kind — Moira — I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve said that before, Judy. We’ve been through all that before. No need to worry about it, it’s forgotten. You weren’t yourself. You were ill.’

  The sick woman sighed and leaned back on the pillows.

  ‘Why, I can’t wait to have you over again. Sunday doesn’t seem the same without you. I can’t tell you how much we’re all looking forward to seeing you at home again.’

  The sick woman closed her eyes.

  ‘And not only Sundays,’ Mrs O’Neill said hurriedly. ‘Why, any time you feel the need of a little company, you only have to drop in.’

  ‘You’ve been very kind. Very kind. You and Owen. I don’t know how to repay you.’

  ‘Well, don’t try then. You have lots of good friends, Judy. Don’t forget that.’

  Friends. O, how did I deceive myself all these years? A friend is hurt when you are hateful. No one is Christ. Friends are human, they resent. You don’t resent, Moira. No, you pity me, you urge me to come again. Come and we will be nice. We will feel sorry for you. No, I have your charity. I lost friendship for it. You are paid. You are rid of me.

  ‘Thank you, Moira,’ she said.

  CHAPTER XX

  SHE SAT at the bare white dressing-table and saw her face in the mirror. Old, she thought, if I met myself now, I would say: that is an old woman.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Hearne.’ Through the mirror-glass Nurse Nora Nelligan advanced, rosy red and starchy white, waving a thermometer like a conductor’s baton. ‘So today’s the great day. Up and around, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Nurse Nora Nelligan pointed the thermometer, slipped it in her patient’s mouth. ‘There now.’ Took hold of a wrist and consulted her wrist-watch. ‘After this, I’m going to take you down to the chapel. I want you to get a good seat before the crowd gets in. Sister’s given you permission to go to Mass, did she tell you?’

  With the thermometer in her mouth, she could not reply. She shook her head. Sunday. Of course. But how can I tell her? I don’t want to, no, never again to look at that door. How can I say that, how?

  Her pulse is up, I suppose it’s the excitement, Nurse Nelligan noted. But she said nothing: never tell a patient. She p
icked the thermometer out of the sick woman’s mouth, shook it, and put it in a jar of antiseptic. ‘Well, are we ready for the big journey?’

  ‘Nurse, maybe — maybe it’s too soon. Maybe I shouldn’t . . .’

  ‘O, nonsense, you’ll be quite all right. We’ll take good care of you. Just take my arm now and we’ll walk slowly.’

  Her face if I say I won’t. O, why didn’t I think of it, why didn’t I say I was too sick when they came this morning?

  ‘Here we are,’ Nurse Nelligan said. ‘It wasn’t such a big trip, now was it?’

  The chapel was already half filled with patients. Nurse Nelligan, seeing that she did not make the Sign of the Cross, dabbed her own fingers back into the Holy Water and put some on her patient’s brow. ‘There you are.’

  Very slowly the sick woman touched forehead, breast, points of shoulders, breast.

  ‘That’s it,’ Nurse Nelligan said. ‘Now, I’m going to put you here, in this back seat, in case you feel faint. But don’t worry. I’ll be over there, with the other nurses, and I’ll keep an eye on you. If you get up to leave, I’ll come out and take you back to your room.’

  The patients were noisy. Old women and young women, all wearing the same grey dressing-gowns as she herself. Scuffling feet in carpet slippers or incongruous street shoes. Whispering and coughing. She looked along the rows of faces but there was no sign of Edie Marrinan. Too ill to move. I should have asked about her. Or she could be here somewhere. We all look the same.

  In their high stalls on either side of the sanctuary, nuns knelt, hands joined in prayer, faces screened by their head-dresses. Prayed.

  Believe. They believe. United: there is comfort in being a nun. One of many. They watch the altar. What would they say, holy nuns, if I told them I went up there, I struck at that golden door? In God’s house I defied God. And nothing happened. I am here.

  The whispering died. A priest, his vestments green for hope, came out of the sacristy, peering cautiously over his veiled chalice. An altar boy followed. The Mass began.

  She did not kneel. She saw the priest genuflect, the sole of his shoe showing beneath the white skirt of the alb. Before her, row upon row of bent heads moved at variance, like ears of corn in a cross breeze.

  The priest mumbled Latin. Strong and clear came the nuns’ response. All rose for the gospel. She did not rise.

  The sacrifice continued. The altar boy picked up the little bell and rang it. All heads bowed. She felt alone and uncomfortable among those bowed heads. The priest elevated the Host for the congregation to adore. Small white circle of bread rising above his head, then sinking down again. The little bell rang. Heads raised. About her, noise and coughing.

  The bell rang again. Heads bowed. Silence. The chalice, containing wine, was raised and lowered. The bell.

  She was feeling tired. Why, the Mass was very long. If you did not pray, if you did not take part, then it was very, very long. If you did not believe, then how many things would seem different. Everything: lives, hopes, devotions, thoughts. If you do not believe, you are alone. But I was of Ireland, among my people, a member of my faith. Now I have no — and if no faith, then no people. No, no, I have not given up. I cannot. For if I give up this, then I must give up all the rest. There is no right or wrong in this. I do not feel, I do not know. Why should I suffer this?

  O, Lord, I do not believe, help my unbelief. O, You — are You —?

  The Mass was over. The priest went to the foot of the altar and knelt.

  ‘De profundis clamavi ad te, Dominum!’ he cried.

  The nuns joined in, reciting the prayer. Other prayers. And I have cried out. I am alone. Without prayer.

  ‘. . . thrust into hell, Satan and with him all the other wicked spirits who wander through the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.’

  The patients began to move out of the pews.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Hearne?’

  ‘Miss Hearne. Are you feeling ill?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I’m all right.’

  ‘I’ll help you back to your room then,’ said Nurse Nelligan. She dabbed holy water on her patient’s brow. The sick woman made the Sign of the Cross.

  ‘That’s our chaplain that said Mass,’ Nurse Nelligan said. ‘Father Donnelly. He fairly races through it, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I thought it long.’

  ‘That’s because you’re tired. Back to bed for you. That’s enough for one day.’

  In bed, in the white stripped room, her mind flickered back, seizing the moments, the faces, the conversations of the weeks that had passed. The priest, when he came and talked: he warned. Sister Mary Annunciata trying to cheer me up, what could I have said? Atheist, she would have cried, and run off to pray for me. No, I am no atheist. I do not believe, O Lord, help my unbelief.

  What will become of me?

  She lay alone a long time. The Angelus bell tolled. An angel of the Lord declared — pour forth we beseech Thee — Help me, do not leave me!

  The Angelus bell was silent. There was no noise in the room. No noise anywhere. In this place: white, stripped, still.

  Trembling, she sat up, found the cord beside her bed and pressed the buzzer. Waited.

  Sister Mary Annunciata put her head around the door. ‘Yes, Miss Hearne?’

  ‘Sister, will I be here much longer? Are they going to discharge me soon?’

  ‘As soon as you’re well.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘O, I don’t know. Two or three weeks perhaps.’

  ‘Sister, I wonder would you do something for me?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Hearne.’

  ‘In my trunk over there, there are a couple of pictures. It’s very bare in here. If I’m going to stay a while, I’d like to have them up.’

  Sister came inside and closed the door. She was smiling. ‘There,’ she said triumphantly. ‘You see? Life isn’t so bad after all. I knew you’d cheer up, yes, I knew it. Now, where is this trunk?’

  ‘In the closet. The keys are in my bag.’

  Sister Mary Annunciata wrestled the trunk out of the closet and unlocked it.

  ‘Under the tray, Sister.’

  Sister Mary Annunciata unwrapped tissue paper. ‘O, is that your mother?’

  ‘No, my aunt. Could you put her up on the dressing-table where I can see her?’

  ‘There we are. And another picture, you said?’

  ‘Yes. That one.’

  ‘O, how nice! The Sacred Heart. Where would you like it?’

  ‘Would it be possible, over the bed?’

  ‘Well, we don’t like to mark the walls. But I can put it here, beside your aunt’s picture. There. You’ll be able to look at it now.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sister Mary Annunciata smiled. ‘Yes, you’re heaps better, thanks be to God. And do you know something? There’s chicken for lunch. It’ll be along in a little while.’

  Alone again, she looked at the opened closet. Her shoes were there. Long pointed shoes with the little buttons on them, winking up at her. Little shoe-eyes, always there.

  She smiled. The familiar things. How often I’ve thought that.

  And on the dressing-table, her aunt in sepia tones. Aunt D’Arcy’s picture. More real now than aunt herself. For she is gone. It is here. It is part of me.

  And You. Were You ever? Is this picture the only You?

  It is here and You are gone. It is You. No matter what You are, it still is part of me.

  She closed her eyes. Funny about those two. When they’re with me, watching over me, a new place becomes home.

  Afterword

  WHERE in the world is there a place for the likes of Judith Hearne, a spinster lady of a certain age? Deftly, in the opening paragraphs of The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne, Brian Moore evokes the world Miss Hearne is attempting to re-create as she moves into her new lodgings. She unpacks the silver-framed photograph of her dead aunt, which shares “Miss Hearne’s own misgivings about the condition
of the bedsprings, the shabbiness of the furniture, and the run-down part of Belfast in which the room was situated.“ Only after she has placed her aunt’s silver-framed image on the mantel does she unwrap her colored oleograph of the Sacred Heart. It will hang on the wall. But she has no hammer. She’ll have to go downstairs to her landlady, who draws “the edge of the curtain aside to peek through the glass before she opened the door. Miss Hearne thought that a little rude, to say the least.“

  How much we learn from this juxtaposition of the genteel and the devout: the silver-framed aunt and the vulgar oleograph (cheap, mass-produced) of the suffering man/God. The uneasy proximity of these two images sets the stage for what will inevitably lead to Judith Hearne’s ruination. The world of her childhood, the world of the silver-framed aunt, is gone. Judith Hearne had been reared for private life; her meager education was meant to prepare her for a good marriage. Only: she was plain. No man had desired her. Her modest skills of needlepoint and piano do not bring in enough to supplement the annuity that has been willed to her from her aunt’s drastically reduced fortune. We are in Belfast in the 1950s, and Miss Hearne is wanted nowhere.

  So we read along, believing we are in the realm of realistic fiction, that Moore’s subject is the press of financial necessity on the sensitive soul. That would certainly be the case if Miss Hearne had in her room only the portrait of her aunt. But there is, as well, the bleeding heart of Christ. An essential part of Miss Hearne’s identity comes from her place as a Catholic, a minority in Protestant Belfast. And so we encounter another kind of language, the language of a particular brand of Irish Catholicism — dramatic, extreme, punitive, sublime.

  But Judith Hearne is not the Belfast version of one of Barbara Pym’s Excellent Women. Not just a distressed gentlewoman. Not even just a distressed Irish Catholic gentlewoman. She is an alcoholic. A scaldingly shamed secret drinker. And so the intact rhetoric of both bourgeois propriety and Irish Catholic devotion is shattered by the incoherent fantastical imagination of the inebriate Miss Hearne.