The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (22 page)

‘Mama, you don’t believe what he says? Mama darling’

‘Sixteen?’ Madden said. ‘Christ!’

‘Mama, listen, Mama ‘

‘I don’t want to hear about it,’ Mrs Rice cried. ‘I don’t

want to hear it. For the love of God, keep quiet, the pair of you, you’ll have us all ruined, so you will. Away to bed with you, I don’t want to hear any more. And for God’s sake don’t say a word to a single soul, promise me now? Promise? O Merciful Mother, what have I done to deserve this?’

‘Come on,’ Bernard said. i’ll put the lights out. Mama

darling, don’t worry, it’s not true, it’s not true.’

‘What about her?’ Madden said, staring at the bed.

‘Let her lie,’ Mrs Rice cried. ‘Let her lie, she’s asleep. O, it’s

that woman brought bad luck on this house. Away to bed

now, away to bed, both of you.’

‘Mama…’

‘O Jesus, Mary and Joseph, let me alone!’ Mrs Henry Rice

cried.

The lights went out. Madden closed the door. The red glow

from the gas :fire flickered over the walls of the room. The woman on the bed lay quiet, staring at the ceiling. She did not hear the whispering as Mrs Rice, Bernard and Madden finally separated and went to their rooms. After a long time she turned her head and her nervous dark eyes searched for the bottle. It was lying by the grate. Spilled. All spilled.

CHAPTER 14.

Next morning, when Miss Hearne did not come down for breakfast, Mrs Henry Rice went to see her in her room. She found Miss Hearne sitting by the fire, neatly dressed, wearing her hat and coat. The room had been iaied and the bed had been made.

‘Good morning,’ Mrs Rice said, rumbling into the room like a tank with all guns at the ready.

Miss Hearne nodded. She was shivering, although the room was very warm. The effects of the drink, Mrs Rice said to herself, it’s a miracle I never noticed it before.

‘Miss Hearne, I’ll have to ask you to leave. After last night, you understand, there can be no question…’

Miss Hearne nodded again. It’s as though she doesn’t understand what I’m saying, Mrs Rice thought. I wonder could she be a bit off? Some of these single women, the change of life comes early.

I’d prefer to see you go as soon as possible. After what happened, I think it would be better.’

‘I’ll go today,’ Miss Hearne said, without interest.

‘Well, then, I’ll refund the balance of the month from today, if that’s satisfactory. I want to be fair.’

Miss Hearne was looking at the gas fire. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Well…’ Mrs Rice hesitated. ‘If you’re leaving, you’ll have a lot to do. I won’t keep you. You haven’t had any breakfast. Would you like a cup of tea sent up?’

‘No, thank you,’ Miss Hearne said, still staring at the gas fire.

Mrs Henry Rice shut the door with a bang. She might at least have apologised, after what happened last night, I wonder does she remember what was said, about Mary? I hope not. No, she was too far gone in drink. An apology, it’s the least she could do after the way she carried on.

When she heard the door slam, Miss Hearne began to weep. Within a few minutes, her face was wet and her whole body

shook with the sobs. She wept very easily these days, but weeping did not help. It was exhausting though, and after a while, she closed her eyes and fell asleep, sitting in the chair.

She woke up when Mary put her pail down with a clatter on the landing outside. She got out of the chair and locked her door to keep the girl from coming in. Then she sat down again and looked at the gas fire.

If only I could stay in this room for ever. Never have to go out, never have to see anybody at all. Meals? They could leave them on a tray outside. No, better if I were sick, sick with something tragic; cancer or heart, then everybody would be sorry. The priest coming, whispers in the hall, same as aunt, people coming into the sick room, Moira O’Neill with calves’ foot jelly and young Una, no smiles on her face, I would take her hand, my own hand white on the covers, and I would thank her for the grapes she had brought. And Owen O’Neill, asking me what the doctor had said, nodding his head, concerned. Mr Heron might come, making his small jokes about things at the Tech, telling me the class would be waiting for me, whenever I was up and about again. And Sister Imelda and the other nuns, a knitted bed-jacket, all in tissue paper, they’d lay it on the bed and tell me they were saying special prayers. The whole convent offering up a Holy Hour. And then Doctor Bowe sitting by the bed, his gold watch in his hand, his fingers on my pulse. Keep her on a light nourishing diet. Yes, wasting away slowly, everyone sorry. Everyone wanting to help. And her, Mrs Rice, all apologies, I’m tired now, Mrs Rice, would you mind? And him. His man-face weeping at my funeral. His only love. Standing in the rain at Nun’s Bush while the others waited, a small sorrowing group and Father Quigley shovelled the earth. Memento homo, what is it? Fkemember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return. Then close the grave, close it quickly, the two men at my aunt’s funeral, shirts and braces, shovelling the rest of the earth in. Owen O’Neill standing there to give them five shillings apiece for their trouble. The limousines at the gates of the cemetery with young Kevin O’Neill holding the pall-bearers’ hats. Big black limousines waiting, Connelly’s

would do it, five cars and the hearse. And on the way back to Belfast, all saying how sorry, a devoted life really, fime woman, such a tragedy, spent the best years of her life looking after her aunt, yes, a saint really, a saint of heaven. And him, lovelorn, alone in a rented car, everyone wondering who he was and why an American at the funeral? A relative? No, they say he was going to marry her, poor man, you can see he’s terribly upset. In grief, alone, year after year, never getting over it, never forgetting, never forgiving himself for his thoughtlessness.

Death. Beyond earthly cares. And then? Summoned before the judgment seat of heaven. The brilliance, the light, the Presence. Pemember thy last end. Remember the four last things, the missioner said: death, judgment, hell and heaven.

Thy sins. This: the body is the temple of the Holy Ghost. My temple degraded by alcohol. No, I didn’t, not really. But drunkenness, a mortal sin, a sin of commission. O, my God, I am heartily sorry. Too late for that then. Judgment Day. Other sins? Seven, deadly: pride, covetousness, lust. Lust, the sins of the flesh. My sinful dreams, my evil thoughts. Sins of intent. O forgive me. Mortal sin. Anger, gluttony, my sin, drinking. Envy, O, yes, I have committed that sin, yesterday, Moira O’Neill, I envied, I hated her. And how many other women have I envied? Many. Mea culpa, mea culpa. Sloth, the last sin. Sloth, remember, I asked old Father Farrelly about that once, no my child, he said in the darkness of the confession box, I do not think you are guilty of that sin.

Lust, envy, gluttony. Three on which I will be judged. And worst of all - the sin against faith. Pride. I doubted. Only last week in Saint Finbar’s, the greatest sin of all. I denied God, like Peter, the tears wore grooves in Peter’s cheeks. And last night, that horrid Bernard, what does He care about you, he said, and I thought, yes, He does not care. Mortal sin. Cast into outer darkness. Loss of faith, loss of God, the greatest sorrow any human soul can feel, the missioner said. Mea maxima culpa. Perhaps that is why I sit here weeping, not knowing why I weep.

Three mortal sins I have, blackening my soul at this moment.

Lucifer, daring to pit himself against God, to challenge His being. O, it’s no wonder terrible things happen to me, I deserve them and worse, sitting here feeling sorry for myself while I am lost in the sight of God. No, I must put it right. Right with Him. For until then nothing can be right, nothing can succeed.

She turned the gas fire OUt. Hell-flames faded to white corpse bo,les in the dying heat of the mantles. She washed her face with cold water, no rouge now, no pomps of the flesh. In sackcloth they went, the penitents. O, you can understand it. She trembled, she felt ill, vomit rose, but it was a cross she was glad to accept. She went out then, downstairs, welcoming Mrs Henry Rice’s prying peep from behind plucked lace curtains. A rebuke, deserved.

She walked all the way to the church, although she felt it an effort to put one foot in front of the other. No mercy now, she said, no mercy for my sinful flesh. And she prayed as she walked, she talked quietly to God, God above who did not hear, and no wonder, she said, He cannot hear until I take my black rotten soul to be shriven.

God’s confessor, His anointed priest would hear it all, he would give comfort. Father Quigley, I’ll go to, a general confession, the kind I’m going to make should not be said before a young curate. Hollow-cheeked, he came before her, his accusing voice calling his parishioners to repent, to forget the world and its follies, to get down on their bended knees and prepare for their last end. He will be glad, a man of God, seeing the sinner sworn in God’s ways, the erring sheep shorn of her sins. And at Mass, that day when I saw him first, I knew he would take poor Father Farrelly’s place, a real shepherd, and maybe even better than Father Farrelly, more stern. For poor Father Farrelly had known her and her aunt, had had tea there many a time, and goodness knows, he was the easygoing man in confession, nothing seemed to shock him. Too easy, she said, walking down the street that led to Saint Finbar’s. Too easy on me.

Her plan was to fred out the hours of the confessional at the new parish. There were usually confessions at six in the

evening, and she had not thought what she would do until then. But when she went into the vestibule, small children ran past her, swinging on the door handles. She entered the gloom of the church, expecting to find some schoolchildren’s devotions hi session. But instead, there were lines of children, one or two to a bench, forming two fidgeting, inattentive crocodiles on either side of a confessional. She went up the side aisle and read the name on the confession box. Rev. D. Hanratty. C.C.

No. A young priest with a skin the colour of grapefruit and a pompous Maynooth manner. She had heard him preach at Mass a few Sundays back. Young. Not wise in the ways of the world.

Then she saw the other two-tailed crocodile on the far side. Little boys in one line, waiting to go in behind the door marked MEN. And little chittering girls kneeling in the other line to tell their sins under the door marked WOMEN. Their confessor had not yet arrived.

She crossed the altar, genuflecting before the tabernacle, and hurried down the far aisle. The little half-door where the priest sat, was open, the curtain flapped in the wind of her passing. Over the door she saw his name. Rev. F. X. Quigley. Adm. Relieved, she knelt down at the end of the crocodile of little girls. The chittering ceased and the children turned frank, curious eyes on her. A woman, praying. Then, seeing no danger from her, they resumed their whispering, their squirming. All awaited the priest.

Ten minutes later he came out of the sacristy, making a busy genuflection as he passed the altar, his black soutane swirling around his large black boots, the ends of his stole fluttering. His dark eyes glared at the children as he came through the gate and into the body of the church. Warning: be quiet. You are in God’s house. With the possibility of a good clip on the ear to enforce reverence. Or tell your teacher. No nonsense.

Wise in the moods of authority, the children practised silence, leaned their heads against the benches in front of them and feigned prayer. Quickly, Father Quigley strode past the line of boys and reached his half-door. But turned then and

looked along the line of little girls. That woman at the end of the line, didn’t she know these were children’s confessions? Or was she at the ninth station of the cross? Maybe, most likely, yes. Satisfied, he slammed the door shut behind him, pulled the red plush curtain across to hide his upper half and sat his bony buttocks on the horsehair cushion covering the wooden seat.

Penance-giver, he prepared for the penance of listening.

Expiator, he hurried to his task of washing away the twin sinful crocodiles. He shot the little slot open with a plock! on the first quivering boy who waited in the darkness on his knees, his small story rehearsing in his mind. Father Quigley bent his head, rested it or his hand. Rissoles, he thought, they give me the heartburn.

‘Blessme Father forlhavesinned,’ the boy whispered. ‘How long since last confession?’ Father Quigley said, the efficient foreman, setting the belt of sins in motion. Rissoles, he thought, as the boy told of lies. I must ask Father Hanratty if he likes them. We could surely do better than rissoles on a Monday, with a whole roast chicken yesterday, there should be more than Monday rissoles out of it.

Outside the confessional, the children appeared to be engaged

in a form of musical chairs. As each small penitent left the box, the remaining queue moved up one bench nearer. Thus, every few minutes the crocodile reared up, weaving in and out of the benches, and Miss Hearne, a tall vertebra in the crocodile’s tail, was obliged to move in turn. It was distracting and she found little time for sustained prayer. She did, however, manage to say her confiteor and again examine her conscience. And so, head-filled with ejaculations and contrition, she at last found herself in front of the door marked wolvll. The trembling had come back and her sickness was on her again. just nervousness, she said to herself. But she knew it was also the after effects of drink.

A little girl ducked out through the door, ran to a bench,

mumbled her penance and left the church. The queue behind Miss Hearne grew restless. The crocodile waited to rear forward again. A small fist dug in Miss Hearne’s back,

‘It’s your turn, missis.’

Shakily Miss Hearne went in, closed the door behind her

and knelt in the shadowy anonymity of the small cabinet. A cross with an ivory Christ hung above her head. Behind the iron grille with its wooden shutter, she could hear Father Quigley’s grunting i-nterrogation of a small boy. She waited, holding the edge of the grille for comfort. He would help her. He would know what was best. She heard his deep manly voice begin the words of absolution. Soon.