The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (3 page)

Her angular face smiled softly at its glassy image. Her gaze, deceiving, transforming her to her imaginings, changed the contour of her sallow-skinned face, skilfully re-fashioning her long pointed nose on which a small chilly tear had gathered. Her dark eyes, eyes which skittered constantly in imagined

fright, became wide, soft, luminous. Her frame, plain as a cheap clothes-rack, filled now with soft curves, developing a delicate line to the bosom.

She watched the glass, a plain woman, changing all to the delightful illusion of beauty. There was still time: for her ugliness was destined to bloom late, hidden first by the unformed gawkiness of youth, budding to plainness in young womanhood and now flowering to slow maturity in her early forties, it still awaited the subtle garishness which only decay could bring to fruition: a garishness which, when arrived at, would preclude all efforts at the mirror game.

So she played. Woman, she saw her womanish glass image. Pulled her thick hair sideways, framing her imaged face with tresses. Gipsy, she thought fondly, like a gipsy girl on a chocolate box.

But the little dock chittering through the seconds said eight fifteen and O, what silly thoughts she was having. Gipsy indeedt. She rose, sweeping her hair up, the hair. pins in her mouth coming out one by one and up, up to disappear in her crowning glory. There (pat) much better. A little more (pat) so. Good. Now, what to wear? A touch of crimson, my special cachet. But which? Reds are so fickle. Still, red is my colour. Vermilion. Yes. The black dress with the vermilion touch at collar and cuffs. Besides, it hasn’t been crushed by the moving.

She opened the wardrobe, breaking the unity of its imagined face. Her dressing-gown fell like a dismantled tent at her feet as she shrugged her angular body into the tight waist seams of the dress. Then, her garnets and the small ruby on her right hand. She rummaged in the jewel box, deciding that the pink and white cameo would be a little too much. But she wore her watch, the little gold wristlet watch that Aunt D’Arcy had given her on her twenty-first birthday. It didn’t really work well any more. The movement was wearing out. But it was a good watch, and very becoming. And goodness knows, she thought, first impressions are often last impressions, as old Herr Rauh used to say.

Then back to the dressing-table to tidy the strands of hair

which her dress had ruffled. A teeny touch of rouge, well rubbed in, a dab of powder and a good sharp biting of her lips to make the colour come out. There, much better. She smiled fondly at her fondly smiling image, her nervous dark eyes searching the searching glass. Satisfied, she nodded to the nodding, satisfied face. Yes. On to breakfast.

The dining-room of Mrs Henry Rice’s Camden Street residence was furnished with pieces bought by her late husband’s father. A solid mahogany sideboard bulged from one wall, blossoming fruit bowls and empty whiskey decanters on its marble top. The table, a large oval of the same wood, islanded itself in the centre of the room, making passage all’cult on either side. Around the table eight tall chairs rode like ships at anchor. Daylight fought its way down to the room past grey buildings and black backyards, filtering through faded gauze curtains which half hid two narrow windows. Over the sideboard this light discerned a gilt-framed oil painting in which a hunter raised his gun to fire at the misty outline of a stag. Beside the door, like an old blind dog, a grandfather clock wagged away the hours.

Around the table the guests sat in semi-gloom, silent except for the tiny crash of teacups and the tearing of hard toast. Cups and saucers moved up and down the table like items on an assembly belt, entering the little fortress where, ringed around by teapot, hot water jugs, tea cosies, milk jug, sugar bowl, plates, cutlery and a little bell, Mrs Henry Rice dispensed stimulants. Matutinal in a flowered housecoat, her hair sticking out from her head like a forkful of wet hay, she smiled a welcome to Miss Hearne and gestured her to a seat at the opposite end of the room.

‘This is Miss Hearne, our new boarder, everybody. I’ll do the rounds so that you can all get to know her. Now, first, this is Miss Friel. Miss Friel. Miss Hearne.’

Miss Friel bit on her toast and laid the crust reluctantly on her plate. She looked to Miss Hearne and nodded. Light blue dress, grey lisle stockings, short clipped whitish hair, like a fox terrier. A Pioneer Total Abstinence Pin rode her shelving bosom. Hard chapped hands and a red roughness about the

wrists. There was a book in front of her, propped up against the jampot.

‘Mr Lenehan.’

Mr Lenehan rose, his head turned sideways, his thin mouth curving into a sickled smile. His clothes were clerical black and a battery of cheap fountain pens raised their silver and gold nozzles like a row of decorations across his chest. His collar was white, waxy, uncomfortable, imprisoning a dark green tie, loosely knotted around a brass collar stud.

‘Vary pleased to meet you, I’m sure,’ Mr Lenehan intoned.

Miss Hearne nodded, smiled, her eyes going on to the next, the most interesting.

‘And this is my brother James. Mr Madden. Miss Hearne.’ He was a big man. He alone had risen when she entered. He held his linen napkin like a waiter, waiting to seat her. She looked at his well-fed, rough-red face. His smile showed white false teeth. He was neat, but loudly dressed. A yellow tie with white golf balls on it, a suit of some brown silky stuff like shantung. Her brother, Mrs Henry Rice had said, but surely he was an American. Who else but an American would wear

that big bluestone ring on his finger?

‘Glad to know you, Miss Hearne.’

I guessed right. An American for sure, by the sound of him. She smiled, waited for his male movement, the turning away, the rejection. But he winked at her with a merry blue eye and bending down, he drew her chair out from the table. He did not turn away.

They sat down, formally. Mrs Henry Rice asked her preference in matters of sugar and milk. The assembly line was set in motion and from the American’s blue-ringed hand a cup of tea was given into Miss Hearne’s possession. She said her thanks. Mrs Henry Rice smacked the little bell. Jingjingjing it cried.

Mary, young and flustered, put her face around the edge of the door.

‘Yes, ‘m,’

‘Did you bring Mr Bernard up his tray?’

‘Yes, ‘m.’

‘Well, bring some hot toast then, for Miss Hearne. And see if the Irish News is here.’

Miss Hearne stirred genteelly. Miss Friel turned a page in her book and noisily bit off another mouthful of toast. Mr Lenehan took out a silver watch, consulted it, snapped the case shut. He slurped his tea and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

‘I’m late,’ he told the company. Nobody said anything. Miss Hearne, trying to be polite, looked at him in inquiry. He saw his audience. ‘Time and tide wait for no man, alas. Isn’t that a fact, Miss Hearne?’

‘Indeed it is, Mr Lenehan.’

‘Well], vary nice to have met you,’ Mr Lenehan said, pushing his chair back from the table. He looked at the others. ‘So long, all.’

The American waved his hand. Miss Friel did not look up. Mrs Henry Rice nodded absentmindedly.

‘So long,’ Lenehan said again. And hurried out on his match thin legs. Good riddance, Miss Hearne thought, to bad rubbish. Why did I dislike him so much? O, well, maybe he’s not so bad after all. Old before his time. And something about him. Unpleasant.

She looked at the other. Mr Madden. And saw that he was looking at her. Embarrassed, she turned to Mrs Henry Rice.

‘I see a family resemblance. You and your brother. Yes, there’s a family resemblance, all right.’

‘James spent most of his life in the United States,’ Mrs Henry Rice told Miss Hearne. ‘Some see the likeness between us, but it escapes me. Still, I suppose it’s always that way with brothers and sisters.’

Mr Madden seemed pleased to be included in the conversation. ‘May’s younger than me,’ he offered.

‘But the likeness is there,’ Miss Hearne said. ‘O, it’s there, all right. Are you just over for a holiday, Mr Madden?’

Mr Madden carefully buttered a slice of toast and spread it thick with jam. ‘Lived thirty years in the States,’ he said. ‘New

York City. I came back here four months ago.’

‘O! To stay?’

He did not answer. He ate toast. Quickly, she hurried over

her gain, feeling her face grow hot at his silent snub. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit America,’ she said.

He did not look up. She hurried on: ‘I’m sure you must find Belfast dull, after New York. My goodness, after all that excitement. It’s so up-to-date and everything, New York, I mean.

Mr Madden arrested his teacup in mid-air, put it back on his saucer. ‘You can say that again. Greatest city in the world.’ His eyes focused, found her and he smiled as though they had mutually agreed on something which had escaped the others. Her awkwardness was forgotten. For once, she had found the key.

‘What part of Ireland you come from?’ he said.

‘O, I’m from Ballymena originally. But I’ve spent most of my time here in Belfast.’

‘That so?’ He produced a package of cigarettes. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

‘O, no. I don’t smoke myself but smoking never bothers

me.’

‘That’s good.’ He laughed without laughter, watching Miss Hearne.

He wants to talk, she thought, he’s lonely. And she returned his look. Then she helped him, made it easy for him to tell what he wanted to tell: America.

‘O, Belfast’s not like New York, I suppose. You must get lots of snow and sunshine there.’

‘All kinds of weather. I’ve seen it go up to a hundred and ten in the shade, in summer. And in winter, down to ten below zero. I’ve seen it so hot you’d have to change your shirt twice in one morning.’ He stopped, vaguely conscious of indelicacy. But she put him at ease.

‘Well, there must be an awful lot of laundry to do then. It must be exhausting. In summer, I mean.

‘We got air conditioning, and central heating in winter. They never heard of that over here.’

Miss Friel closed her book with a snap and stared at the grandfather clock. She got up and went out without a goodbye. Mrs Henry Rice, informative, drooped, her huge bosom

over the table like a bag of washing. ‘She’s a schoolteacher,’

she said. ‘Public elementary.’

Mary came in with toast and the Irish Neus. Miss Hearne took toast, noticed that there were four shces, no sign of an egg, or anything.

‘Butter?’ Mr Madden offered butter and she saw that he was admiring the little gold wristlet watch on her wrist. She was glad she’d worn it. She looked at Mrs Henry Rice but Mrs Henry Rice had opened the Irish News and was reading births, marriages and deaths.

‘And how do you find Ireland, Mr Madden, now that you’ ve come home?

‘Been a lot of changes.’ He stared at the teacup. ‘It’s different.’

‘So you prefer New York then?’

Mr Madden inhaled. Cigarette smoke spewed from his large nostrils. ‘New York’s a rat race,’ he said. She didn’t know what to answer. Really, what could he mean, a rat race? They certainly had queer expressions, these Yankees.

Mrs Henry Rice put the paper down. ‘You’ll excuse me now, Miss Hearne, but I must go up and say good morning to Bernard. Just ring for Mary if you want more tea.’

As Mrs Henry Rice moved towards the door, Miss Hearne’s nervousness increased. She had been forward, no two ways about it, asking all those questions, leading him on. And now she was to be left alone with him. Alone. The dining-room with its cold morning light, its heavy furniture, its dirty teacups and plates, became quiet as a church. Alone with this lonely stranger, she waited for his fumbled excuses, his departure. For now that the others had gone, it would be as it had always been. He would see her shyness, her stiffless. And it would frighten him, he would remember that he was alone with her. He would listen politely to whatever inanity she would manage to get out and then he would see the hysteria in her eyes, the hateful hot flush in her cheeks. And he would go as all men had gone before him.

And as she waited, with her hands pressed hard against the edge of the table, she felt the blushes start, the hateful redness and fire creep up her neck. She set her features in a stiff, silly smile and scuffed her feet under the table. She turned to him, still smiling, and a mechanical silly voice leaped out of her mouth, shocking her with the forward thing it said:

‘O, you must tell me more about America, Mr Madden. I’d love to go there.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I could talk all day and never finish. What did you have in mind?’

In mind. Something, something had to be said.

‘Well, is it true that the men over there put their wives on a pedestal, so to speak?’

He laughed, a big heavy laugh. He didn’t seem at all put out by her blushes, by her silly voice.

‘Yes, that’s correct, more’s the pity. That’s what’s wrong with the system, if you want to know. Guys beating their brains out to keep their wives in mink. It’s the women’s fault. No good. You should see some of the girls that walk on Broadway or Fifth. All dressed up with a dollar sign for a heart. Walking cash registers. Me, I wouldn’t have nothing to do with them.’

Wouldn’t have nothing, well, he certainly wasn’t very well educated, whatever else he was. So he didn’t get married. ‘O, that’s not like Ireland, Mr Madden. Why, the men are gods here, I honestly do believe.’

‘And right too. Head of the house. That’s the teaching of the Church. What the man says goes. Now, in the States, the women want it both ways. They do no work and they want to be boss as well. And dumb, well, you wouldn’t believe how dumb some of those dames are.’

He was so big, so male as” he said it that she felt the blushes start up again. His big hand thumped the table.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Irishmen certainly wouldn’t stand for that, would they?’

‘Every man’s a sucker for a good shape. I know. In my business, you see some funny things.’

Dangerous waters. Discussing women’s figures, well, who

but an American would have the vulgarity? Change the subject. ‘And what is your business, Mr Madden?’