The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (11 page)

Then the bus came rushing over the top of the road, a double-decker, a huge box on wheels, running down over the grey belt of wet road with the little driver sitting up straight against the glass in its flat face. It stopped, squishing its huge tyres and Shaun stepped off the pavement and held her arm as she went up beside the ticket-punching conductor. And he turned to say, as always:

‘Thank you very much, Shaun dear. And be sure to thank your dear mother for me.’ And the bell jangled, the driver started. The bus whirled off, to the last stop, the lonely room, the lonely nright.

CHAPTER 6.

LENEHAN.

Ah, but you want to see the codology that’s goin’ on these days in my digs, yon big streel of a Yank I told you about and that ould blether of a Miss Hearne, the new one that just moved in, I tell you, you never seen the like of it, one ould fraud suck-in’ up to the other and the pair of them canoodling, it would turn your stomach. No, nothing like that, the pair of there’s past it and I don’t think the Yankee Doodle has that in mind at all. And as for her, she never had it nor never will, if you ask me. No, the geg of it is, as I was tellin’ you, it’s one ould fraud matched up against the other. She’s a real Castle Catholic type, very refained, the grand lady with her rings and bangles and her la-di-da. And this ould Yank, he wouldn’t look me in the face after the tellin’ off I give him, a fine Catholic, a bloody Orangeman at heart he is, but anyway, he thinks she has a bit of cash put away, you can see it the way he’s suckin’ up to her and she the same of him. And the best joke of it is, it’s my bet and I’d lay a bottle of Jameson on it, neither one of them has a five-pound note to their name. He took her out to the pictures the other night and yesterday, when I was coming out of Mullen’s after wetting my thirst, who should i see but the pair of them, strollin’ along like young love. I folleyed them just for the crack of it, and you shoulda heard him givin’ of[” steam about the glories of the States, you’d think he was John D. Rockefeller, and her right back at him, as good as she got, about the wonderful times she had with her dear auntie. What age is she? I tell you that one will never see the fair side of forty again. But do you sec the geg of it, this boozy ould Yank, bloody ould lying flag thumper talkin’ a lot of balls about the Yew-tilted States and this ould bag of a single woman, playing the Malone Road lady, and the two of them coddin’ each other on until the day when they find out that nelther one of them has a silver

tanner to their name. D’ye see the geg of it? Irish and Catholic, I tell you the most of the Catholics in this town are bloody little West Britons and, if they’re not that, the pictures has turned them into comic cuts imitations of Yanks. And these two could well be the model, couple of ould farts, with their chat every morning about America, what the hell did America ever do for us, I’d like to know?

MISS FRIEL

Mind you, Meta dear, I’m not one to complain, but if you knew the trouble I have sleeping in those digs of mine, it’s a wonder I can keep my eyes open at all in class, the noisiest crowd of boarders I ever was in with and worse besides. I’m in terror of my life half the time when I go up thdse stairs at night. That American I told you about. A drunkard! Only last week I met him on the stairs when I was going up to bed, half seas over, he was, it was enough to put the heart across you. A big vulgar ill-spoken brute and the smell of whiskey offhim would have killed a cat. It was as much as I could do to get past him on the stairs, he’d give you the shivers. Fifty? He’s nearer sixty, but he doesn’t let that stop him. There’s a woman there in the digs, a decent enough soul, although, God knows, a temptation to no man, and you should see the way that drunken brute butters up to her, he’d butter up to any woman who’d let him. I don’t even let him speak to me, I keep my distance. But this poor woman is flattered by his attention, it’s enough to make you sick, she’s mad if she goes out with a man that drinks like that, how could you trust him? And foul language at table, I had to complain about it, but what can you expect, it runs hand in hand with drink. When I think that most of the publicans here are Catholics, it makes me see red. I tell you, Meta, if you want to see what’s wrong with Ireland, you’ll lust watch the people that come out of public houses. And take that Brenda Kelly that teaches over in Saint Aloysius, she and Patricia Herlihy came out of the training college at the same time, and Pat told m on her word of honour that Brenda Kelly drinks a couple of cocktails every

single night in the week. Well, I ask you. If it’s the likes of that we get to teach our children, can you wonder that they’re emigrating and losing the Faith?

MARY MCCLOSKEY

She could be Join’ a line with the Yank, as Bernie says, but I never seen army signs of it. Bernie says the uncle takes her to the pictures and he took her to tea at the Plaza Hotel the other night, would be the first good feed she ever had if the bits of cheese and the cups of cocoa that I seen in her room are army guide. It might be the dear feed though, she’d Fetter mind her step with that ould Yankee slabber, I could tell her a thing or two, the time he come into my room that night when Bernie was there and grabbed at me, I know what was on his mind and it wasn’t anny good, couldn’t keep his hands to himself. I know what he’s after, he has a bad eye on him, I seen him lookin’ at me since then and that morning I was washing down the stairs with my dress up above my knees and him standin’ below me on the landing, lookin’ up. Never opened his mouth, just walked away, he could have stood there tenminutes if I hadn’t seen him first. Ach, if it wasn’t for the nuns

and the letter the mistress would write my da, I’d look for another place, Bernie or no Bernie. Oney Bernie says he’s goin’ to marry me, sure I’m too young to be married, he knows that, that’s why he says it. But Eily Monaghan got married at home at fifteen, that was because the fella done somethin’. All fellas is the same, they don’t care about you, they just want satisfaction, an it’s a mortal sin I couldn’t tell the priest, O, what’m I goin’ to do, maybe he’ll marry me, it would be all right then, I could tell an get absolution. Maybe he will, them pomes he wrote me, he’s reely a lovely talker. But not good-hearted, that time he give me the five pounds to buy the dress and coat, telliu’ me to say my mother sent it, there’s somethin’ sneaky about him, couldn’t look you straight in the eye, that’s the height of it, all city people is the same, two-faced, he’s feared of havin’ a chile, always askin’ when are you due? Annyway, all the better he’s careful, he’s a good

date, you can eat all the pastries you like when you’re out with him and he’s a lovely dancer. Fat an’ all, he’s a lovely dancer.

MRS HENRY RICE

I tell you, Bernie, it is my business, what my own brother does. Hasn’t he been here nearly four months “and never paid a penny of rent, not even a five-pound note to buy something for myself, and him rolling in it, ten thousand pounds he has, if he has a penny. I tell you he has more money than he lets on, the least he might do is think of his sister, his nearest and dearest relative on this side of the ocean and not some old spinster woman that probably has plenty, a lady of leisure, if you please. Taking her out to the pictures and to dinner, if you please. If you think of all the dinners he’s eaten here and never asked me if I had a mouth on me. No, that’s not the point, I will not get rid of him, he’s my own brother and besides, who would he leave his money to, he’s getting on too, his health isn’t good. His daughter? O, she’s rolling in it, no fear of him leaving it to her, that husband of hers he hates. No, I’m going to put my foot down soon, see if I don’t, I’m going to let her know that the bold Jimmy isn’t the fine gentleman he pretends to be. Sure, how do I know what he takes her out for, if it isn’t because she’s the only person would listen to him and his eternal chat about New York? It’s not the looks of her, he’s not blind, maybe he thinks she has money too. Well, God knows, I can disabuse him of that idea. Either that or she’s a miser, you should have seen her face when we were discussing the board and room and she never eats a decent meal, just snacks that wouldn’t keep a bird alive. O, when I think of it, all the prayers I’ve said and the novenas I’ve offered up that jim would remember us over in America, since he got that money, and he was happy here, he wouldn’t have forgotten us like this if she hadn’t run after him.

BERNARD

Destroyed my thinking, he has, the bastard, that sinister look he’s got, the informer type, a natural conspirator slinking

around the house like a secret policeman. How could anyone possibly do any creative thinking in circumstances like these? .And if he wants what it would seem logical for him to want - O blazes, why should I have to waste my time with this sort of sordid little intrigue when the work is suffering, I haven’t done a tap for weeks. Everything was so peaceful until he showed up and aroused mama’s cupidinous instincts. Cupidinous? Is that a word, no. Cupidity. Libidinous. Libidity. Ruthlessness. Get rid of him. Marry him off to his spinster if that’s what he wants. But does he? Or is it money he’s after, more likely, I’d think. But get rid of him - ruining my life here, the sod, and even Mary, the simple pleasures of the poor, I can’t enjoy any more unless I’m sure he’s out. Sadistic bastard. Ahh-never mind. Messire Machiavelli, I read, Niccolo’s fine Italian hand. How’d it go? “When an evil has sprung up within a state the more certain remedy by far is to temporise with it: for almost invariably he who attempts to crush it”—will what, yes—“will rather increase its force and accelerate the harm apprehended from it. And its present application. Show him honour, regardless of consequence.” The evil will die out, Nicco]o says, or its worst results will be deferred. The old British rule that, divide and conquer, a refinement of it. Niccolo’s fine Italian hand. My fine Irish hand. Messire Riccio. Bernardus, it would be.

CHAPTER 7.

MAMMOTH MISTER VICTOR MATURE, sweat streaming down

his FACE, met and held the lion, bigger now as the close-up

showed its MAMMOTH JAWS, its MAMMOTH FANGS. Fading to

the small (double?) vanquishing the lion, and then, Victor

Mature, life-size again, a handsome Samson, ready to meet

his Delilah.

Ooooh. sighed the one and ninepennies. The screen,

technicoloured bright, sent new wonders into the darkness.

Samson Mature put forth his hand, took the jawbone of an

ass and slew a thousand extras. Courts, princely men, the

pomp of the Philistines, blonde woman Semadar (Ange white flash of his smile. Saw Delilah, the woman who would

destroy him, a beauty, irresistible. Blinded, chained to the

wheel, Samson toiled, robbed of his virility, his great power,

by her woman’s whim. Then, ah, for all women have a soft

spot, she, the temptress, is stricken by her deed. Raging, he ili

seizes her, breaks the the .jitterbugging, time to read trashy books and indecent magazines, time to do a*631,2307,765,2370chains that bind him, goes forth to avenge

.,

himself on his enemies. He loves her still, he will always love her. And she went up unto the Temple of Dagon, her heart fdled with love and longing. Through jeering hordes she leads him to the great columns, playing his secret game. He implores her, Delilah Judith, to leave for her own safety. She speaks to him of eternal love, but does not leave. She watches from the shadows, welcoming death. And Samson spoke with Madden’s voice, unfolding the final stupendous spectacle.

Beside her Mr Madden ate jujubes and thought of California. Bible stuff was okay but there was too much talk in it. That lion though, that was something. He tried to remember a

story someone had told him about Victor Mature. Lived in a tent while he was breaking into the movies. Stuck at it, only xvay to get anywhere. I’m going to ask her tonight. I got it all right in my mind now. After the movie. But now-wait! Samson is getting lfis stuffback. Those chains, tore like paper. And look at that! Thousands of extras. Blinded, led by a woman, Samson walked towards the pillars. The Philistine mob jeered.

Blind, Miss Hearne thought, blind without a friend. How terrible. But she is there, his love, his guide.

Then, the big scene. Madden’s experienced eye knew that this was it. It’s colossal, hundreds of feet up. Strain, strain, he pushes the pillars. Look! Dow1. DOWN. Ker-ump! Millions of bucks it must have cost.

And then the ending. All’s for the best, all’s well. Colour, close-up, Lrs, rAcs. And then the end, The End, coming right out at you, TItr rNl). And the lights go on, everybody blinks.

She slipped her glasses in her purse and turned to him, smiling at Samson, seeing his red face, his bright tie. The lights dimmed again.

The news then, men diving, jumping, horses racing, ‘planes zooming, cars roaring around corners, dividing into sections with all doing all at once. The Items. First: The Queen. A few claps. More. The house applauding, louder and louder. Miss Hearne and Mr Madden sat with their hands in their laps. No handclaps for her, a foreign queen. Let them give back the Six Counties and then we’ll clap. Irish people, a disgrace, applauding like that. But Protestants, what can you expect, Scots Protestants, black-hearted all.

After the news, a cat and mouse comic. Smart-alec mouse escapes. She wonders why Mr Madden laughs. Comics are for children. Next Week We Proudly Present:

‘Care for a coffee?’ he said. ‘Let’s go before the queue gets in.’

Upstairs in the mirrored chrome of the cinema restaurant, a waitress handed them menu cards, waited slackly for their order.

‘Just coffee,’ Miss Hearne said.

He nodded. ‘Coffee. Two.’ And he looked around the big, half-empty room. ‘Up-to-date. reminds me of home.’

It was the fourth time he had taken her out and she knew by now that this sort of remark was a signal that he wanted to talk about America. There had been an evening at the pictures, two weeks ago, the first time. Both of them nervous, and he had eased it by talking of his daughter and the schools in New York. Then, during the walk in the Botanical Gardens, he told her of his exile’s dream to settle down in Donegal. And the night he took her to dinner, he spoke of America, its wealth, its hugeness, its superiority to Ireland in all things material. It was all new talk and she had enjoyed listening. And now, a week later, faced with the prospect of sitting alone with her, he was trying to bring it around to America again. She would have preferred that he talk of himself, of her, of the future. But, nervous of him, she obliged.