The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne. Brian Moore
Age, income, station in life, it made no difference: you all went to Mass, said the same prayers and listened to the same sermons. Miss Hearne put loneliness aside on a Sunday morning.
And on Sunday afternoons there was the visit to the O’Neills, the big event of the week. It began with a long tram ride to their house which gave you plenty of time to rehearse the things you could tell them, interesting things that would make them smile and be glad you had come. And then there was the house itself, big and full of children, all shapes and sizes, and to think you had known even the big ones since they were so high. It was as though you were a sort of unofficial aunt. Almost.
On her first Sunday morning in Camden Street, Miss Hearne decided to go to eleven o’clock Mass. After all, Saint Finbar’s was now her new parish and it would be nice to see the other parishioners. She would wear her very best. Besides, some of the boarders might be going to eleven. Mr Madden, perhaps.
But when Mr Madden came down to breakfast, she saw that he looked ill, or (because she knew the dreadful signs of it) as if he had been drinking. Still, he said good morning to her very pleasantly. Although it was embarrassing the way he said it. Because all the others were there and Mr Madden did not speak to any of them.
Bernard said good morning to his uncle, unusually polite, Miss Hearne thought. But Mr Madden gave Bernard a very odd glance. As for Mr Lenehan, you could see he was still angry about what Mr Madden had said yesterday.
But thank heavens Mrs Henry Rice carried the conversation with a complaint about how, when she came home from eight o’clock Mass, she found that Mary had run off to nine o’clock and left her with the breakfast to make.
‘And with kippers to fry,’ Mrs Henry Rice said, passing a kippered herring and a slice of fried bread along to Miss Hearne. ‘It wouldn’t be any other morning she’d take it into her head to go to early Mass. No, she has to do it on Sunday and me left here with the biggest breakfast of the week.’
Miss Hearne agreed that you couldn’t be after the maids nowadays, they had it far too much their own way.
Miss Friel closed her book. ‘It’s a good thing the girl is attentive to her religious duties. It’s when they start missing Mass and Holy Communion that you should be worried. That’s when they’re up half the night with boys.’
‘No fear of Mary getting mixed up with boys,’ Mrs Henry Rice said. ‘Sure, she’s only a child, just out of school.’
‘This is a nice piece of kipper,’ Mr Madden said. ‘Nice to have a change. I mean, instead of toast and tea.’
Nobody could say anything to that, agree or disagree, without insulting Mrs Henry Rice to her face. So nobody said anything. The meal continued in silence, Mr Madden being the first to stop eating. He wiped his lips like an actor finishing a stage meal and put his napkin down in great satisfaction.
‘Do you have the time, by any chance, Miss Hearne?’
She blushed. Of course the little wristlet watch was not working, only there for show, and she hadn’t the faintest.
‘O, I’m sorry, but my watch must have stopped. I forgot to wind it.’
‘I think the clock’s right,’ Bernard said. ‘It’s twenty to eleven.’
Miss Hearne put down her napkin. ‘Goodness, I must hurry. I’ll miss the eleven o’clock if I don’t get a move on.’
‘I’m going to eleven o’clock Mass myself,’ Mr Madden said. ‘Mind if I walk along with you?’
‘O, not at all. I’ll be very glad of the company.’
Mrs Henry Rice looked at Bernard. ‘Are you going to eleven, Bernie?’
‘I’ll go to twelve,’ Bernard said, and the way he said it, Miss Hearne knew he had no intention of going at all. No wonder he talked like an atheist.
She and Mr Madden went upstairs to get their coats and hats. They met in the hall a few minutes later and he opened the front door for her, offering his arm as they went down the steps. She did not take it. It seemed just a little bit forward, the way he did it.
She was thinking of things to say as they went down Camden Street. Then she saw his dragging walk and all words left her. He has a bad leg, why did I never notice it? His walk, dragging his left leg, and that shoe is specially built. OmyGod, he’s a cripple!
At the corner of the street they came face to face with the reddish Gothic façade of Queen’s University. He looked up at it.
‘That Bernie. A college education, well they certainly didn’t teach him much.’
‘He is a little queer,’ she said tentatively.
‘Queer? He’s no queer, believe me. He’s just a no good mama’s boy, never did a day’s work in his life. Don’t let that poetry stuff fool you. That’s just a gimmick, so’s he can say he’s working. No, he’s got a cinch. Why should he work when May keeps him?’
He looked sideways at Miss Hearne. ‘You been to college? You seem like an educated woman.’
‘No, I’m afraid the Sacred Heart convent in Armagh is as far as I went,’ Miss Hearne said pridefully, because, after all, the Sacred Heart convent was the best in Ireland. The best families sent their girls there. Would he know that, being an American? ‘It’s considered the best convent, though,’ she added.
‘I never went to college. Had to get out and hustle for myself. I made out too, did fine.’
I wonder if he’s rich? Out walking on a Sunday morning with a strange man, what would Aunt D’Arcy have said? Still, he looks quite prosperous and respectable. That limp, you would hardly notice it. After all, I never noticed it before. All Americans have money, they say. I wonder what he did in the hotel, would it be rude to ask him?
‘And did you go into the hotel business right away, when you arrived in America?’
‘No.’
They walked in silence for a while. ‘Always had my own car,’ Mr Madden told the wind. ‘Always had my own car, even in the depression.’
She didn’t know quite what to reply to this, but something had to be said. ‘People earn a lot of money in America, don’t they?’
‘Some people. But it’s a young man’s country. They got no use for you when they figure you’re over the hill. Y’see, I always had it in mind to come back to Ireland when I was older. Maybe marry again and settle down.’
Miss Hearne felt something turn over in her breast. ‘And did your poor wife pass on long ago?’
‘The year we went over. She’s dead goin’ on thirty years. It was the crossing that killed her, the boats were different in those days. Had the baby about a week after we landed. Sheila, my girl.’
‘O, so you have a family then.’
‘Well, just the one. She’s married now. I was living with her and the husband before I come home. I figured I was in the way, lying up around the house after my accident. This leg, y’see. So I told them I’m goin’ back to Ireland, kids, I said. Back home.’
He’s lonely, thinking of his old age like that. But how odd that he would discuss his private affairs without really knowing her at all. It was like something in a story, people meeting, struck by a common rapport, a spark of kinship or love. Although that was silly and she was being daydreamy again.
‘I’m sure your daughter must miss you, all the same.’
‘Some chance. Kids nowadays don’t care.’
They crossed the street as the light flashed green. He took her arm as they stepped off the pavement. She did not reject his aid.
‘O, children of the present generation are awfully thoughtless. Even here in Ireland. Friends of mine, the O’Neills …’
‘Same