The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (12 page)

‘Are all the restaurants like this, then? Big places with modern stuff on the walls?’

‘That and better.’ He seemed delighted with the question. He watched as the coffee was served, poured some, tasted it and held the cup up. ‘See this? There’s the trouble, right there. This coffee stinks.’

‘Yes, I suppose it’s better in the States. Of course, the people here are tea drinkers.’

‘Listen.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’m going to tell you something. You see this coffee? It’s no good. Okay. Ever eat a hamburger here, or a hot dog? Sure you did. What they call a hamburger. But that’s not a real hamburger, with mustard and relish, teal franks, you don’t see them either, and the places that serve them-terrible! Y’know, in New York, on the corner of any street you can get a good hamburger, a good quick lunch. Like at Nedicks. Ever try to get a quick lunch in this town? You can’t do it, can you?’

‘I suppose not. But the people here don’t eat hamburgers.’ He smiled and put his big hand on her sleeve. Then he began to talk, his voice urgent, nasal, the voice of the salesman. As he spoke, she heard America, eager America, where men talk business as others talk love.

‘Right, Judy. You’re absolutely right. Irishmen don’t eat hamburgers, but who does? Americans do. Now, this is how I see it. Every year there’s thousands of Americans come over to Ireland. Tourists. And they all go to Dublin and when they’re in Dublin, they all walk on O’Connell Street. They want to see the sights. And to see the sights, they need time. They get homesick for some good American food, a quick lunch same as they get at home. Now, that’s where we come in, you and me, Judy. We can give them what they want.’

But she heard nothing except Judy, Judy. Where did he find out her name was Judy and say it, Judy, like that, as if he had always known her? If he would say it again. Judy.

‘That’s my idea,’ he said. ‘And it’s a moneymaker. What Dublin needs is a good American eating-place, right in the

centre of town.’

‘A restaurant? But you’d need a lot of money.’

‘I have money. All I need’s a partner, a person who believes

in the future of this thing, same as me. I need a partner with equal capital. If I get that, I can’t lose.’

‘It would be a cheap restaurant, wouldn’t it? That’s not a

very nice job, running a place like that.’ (Samson in chains, Madden in a cheap coffee shop. No, no, he must be persuaded against it.)

He shook his head. ‘Wait a minute, Judy, you got the wrong

idea. I’m not going to do it myself, I hire a chef and counter help. I just supervise. Think of the tourist business I’d get. And the publicity, word of mouth, people going back to the States, they say, “Hey, I found a real American coffee shop right in the middle of Dublin.” Get it?’

‘Well, it sounds like an awfully good idea. Especially if you acted as manager.’

‘Suppose, just suppose, I came to you with a proposition

like that. With the costs all worked out. What would you say?’

‘Well-it’s not for me to say. I mean, I’m not a business man. But I should think if I were, I’d probably say yes.’

He looked at her. ‘You’re not convinced. Then suppose I

told you that I’ll match any capital you put into it. What would you say then?’

‘Well, I’m sure that would be convincing. Any business man

would know you were sincere, in that case.’

‘Would you say yes?’

‘O, I think I would. Yes, I’m sure you’ll find a partner when

the time comes. It’s a very good idea.’

‘Great I’ He leaned forward again and ran his big hand down

her back. ‘You’re a smart woman,’ he said. ‘You and me

understand each other.’

‘O, Mr Madden I’ Her face scarlet as her dress, she hastily

pulled away.

‘Jim. My friends call me Jim.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t be so

formal. I like you, Judy, you’ve got a good head on you.’

‘Well, thank you.’ She felt her hands shaking. ‘Thank you -

Jim. Well, it’s getting late. Shall we leave?’

But he did not seem to hear. ‘You know, a man has to have

something to work for. Like a home and kids. That’s what I

miss now, my kid.’

She nodded, his boldness forgotten, a look of pained tenderness on her plain narrow face. ‘Yes.’

‘Judy, I came home, I’ll tell you straight out, because my

kid doesn’t need me any more. I could have gone on working, but what was the use? What was the use? Now, if I got this business going in Dublin, me and a good partner, I’d have a reason to stay here. I’d be busy, see? That’s what counts. Keep busy.’

‘Yes,’ she said. If it would keep him here, a restaurant, why

not? ‘Yes, I’m sure you will, Jim. You’ll get a partner. You won’t have any trouble. I know. And I think it’s an awfully good idea.’

‘Okay.’ He signalled the waitress. ‘I’ll look into it, Judy.

I’ll check the costs and give you a full report. Okay?’ He paid the bill, over-tipped the girl, she noticed. ‘Ikeady?’ he said, and they went out through the brightly lit lobby, past the waiting queues, out into the night wind which rushed like a thief along the streets. She looked up at the technical school where bright windows glared insonmiac in the darkness. Mr Heron and the embroidery class. No need to worry about that any more. He did not speak and she, filled

with a strange happiness, felt no need that he should. And so they walked slowly down Wellington Place and reached the designated centre of the city, the staring white ugliness of City Hall.

There, under the great dome of the building, ringed around by forgotten memorials, bordered by the garrison neatness of a Garden of remembrance, everything that was Belfast came into focus. The newsvendors calling out the great events of the world in flat, uninterested Ulster voices; the drab facades of the buildings grouped around the Square, proclaiming the virtues of trade, hard dealing and Presbyterian righteousness. The order, the neatness, the floodlit cenotaph, a white respectable phallus planted in sinkilg Irish bog. The Protestant dearth of gaiety, the Protestant surfeit of order, the dour Ulster burghers walking proudly among these monuments to their mediocrity.

Box-like double-decker buses nosed into the Square, picking up patient queues of people, whirling them off” quietly to the outer edges of the city. Like trained soldiers, Mr Madden and Miss Hearne marched to a queue and took their places behind a scuffed, furtive man who trailed a dejected greyhound on a leash. The greyhound nosed Miss Hearne’s skirt, then turned away, moving his tiny padded feet in discomfort at the cold.

Standing there in the designated centre of the city, Miss Hearne waited, not to go home on the bus, but to go off, off to something better, something that might lead to something wonderful. She stood waiting for a word, waiting for him to tell that he needed her, that he wanted her.

He did not speak and yes, she knew, who knew better? It was hard to be forward, hard to find the words. She smiled: no matter, he would ask her soon. He was lonely, he had said he was lonely and he wanted her to share his life. It had been said, she felt, although it had not been put into words. That would come later.

And then the bus came rushing up and he helped her aboard. The conductor jangled the bell and they were off, off to the last stop, the pleasant memories of the evening, the night filled with hopes and plans.

But as he opened the door of the house in Camden Street,

her pleasant thoughts were stopped by a light which flashed bright in the hall. Mrs Henry Rice stood in her curtained doorway, her hand on the switch, her sleeves rolled up, leaving her great white arms bare.

‘Well, hello I’ she cried. ‘Did you enjoy the pictures?’

Mr Madden mumbled an affirmative. Miss Hearne smiled

politely.

‘Well, come on inside,’ Mrs Henry Rice said. ‘I’ve just

finished washing Bernie’s hair and I’m going to make a cup

of tea.’

Miss Hearne would have preferred to go directly to her

room. But Mr Madden waited, leaving the derision up to her. And since Mrs Henry Rice was his sister, it dida’t seem right to refuse. They took off their raincoats and went in.

Night gave a special flavour to Mrs Henry Rice’s nest. The

coloured lampshades glowed orange, blue and green and flames yawned noisily up the chimney. Already a state of nightly undress was evident. A pillow had been laid on a sofa and a blanket was folded beside it. In the centre of the room, kneeling on a rug, was Bernard, stripped to his bulging middle, his head immersed in a towel. A big enamel basin of soapy water stood beside him on the floor.

‘Wait, now, Bernie boy,’ Mrs Henry Rice said. She sat

down on an armchair beside Bernard and towelled his hidden features and hair. Miss Hearne, her dark eyes fluttering with embarrassment, looked steadfastly at a stag in a forest in a frame on the wall.

The naked mound of Bernard’s back rose up and the towel

was lifted. Mrs Henry Rice shook out the blanket and wrapped it around him as he squatted on his hunkers and beamed at the guests.

‘Mama thought you would like a cup of tea, after being out

in the cold,’ he said to Mr Madden. ‘But I told her you

wouldn’t. I know you’d rather have coffee.’

‘Thanks,’ Mr Madden said. ‘We had coffee downtown.’

‘Did you go to the pictures, Uncle James? What picture did

you see?’

‘Bend over, baby. Let your hair dry at the fire.’

‘O, we saw Samson and Delilah, an American film,’ Miss

Hearne said. ‘Very good too.’

‘That’s nice. Did you like it, Uncle James?’

Mr Madden seemed amused by Bernard’s politeness. He

laughed. ‘You wouldn’t like it. It’s made in America. And

you don’t like anything from America, do you, Bernie?’

‘That’s not true,’ Bernard said, but his face got red as he

bent towards the fire.

The sight of his naked back had a most unpleasant effect on

Miss Hearne, but she just couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off it. So when a singing kettle whistled in the scullery, she

started up to ask if there was something she could do.

‘If you’d just wet the tea, there’s a dear, while I tidy up this

mess,’ Mrs Henry Rice said. ‘The tea is in the canister beside

the teapot and the cups are all set out in here.’

Miss Hearne fled into the outer darkness of the scullery. The

idea, she said to herself, a big grown man, half-naked like that

in the middle of the room, I didn’t know where to look.

She found the tea, poured, measured, and filled the pot.

Then, wrapping a pot-holder around it, she went to the scullery

door and knocked for permission to come back into the nest,

saying to herself she hoped that fatty would have his shirt on by now.

But they did not hear her. The sound of angry, quarrelsome

voices rose from the room.

‘It is my business, Jim. You’d think it was your house, not

mine, the way you talk.’

And the sound of Bernard’s voice, shushing. Then Mr

Madden: ‘What I do’s my business, May. If I want to take

somebody out, that’s no skin off your teeth. I’m sick of this.

I’m going to bed.’

What could that be? She heard a door slam. She came timidly

out of the scullery. ‘It’s only me,’ she called. ‘Tea’s ready.’

‘Yes, dear. Come on in,’ Mrs Henry Rice said.

Bernard had not put on his shirt. He sat wrapped loosely in

the blanket. And Mr Madden had gone.

‘Yes, he went to bed,’ Bernard said, watching her with

amusement. ‘He didn’t want any tea. He said to say good

night.’

‘O?’

‘And who was in the picture?’ Mrs Henry Rice asked, talcing the teapot out of her hands and putting it on a little hob beside the fire.

‘Victor Mature, I think his name is,’ Miss Hearne said. He might at least have waited until she came back.

‘I like him, Victor Mature. A fine big man. Now, come here, Bernie, and let me feel if your hair is dry. The tea will be wet in a minute.’

Bernard let the blanket fall completely, revealing obese, almost feminine breasts. ‘Uncle james likes the movies. He goes three or four times a week.’

‘Well, Jim hasn’t much to do with himself these days,’ Mrs Henry Rice commented. ‘It’s a terrible thing for an active man to stop work like that. I think he’d have been far better off to have stayed in the States and not come back here where there’s nothing for him.’

Nice loyalty between a brother and sister, Miss Hearne decided. Discussing him in that disparaging way in front of a stranger. For, after all, I am a stranger. To her, at least.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I understand Mr Madden is considering going into business over here.’

‘Business?’ Mrs Henry Rice said. ‘It’s the first I heard of it.’

But Bernard said: ‘Well, he might at that. There’s lots of things he could do.’

‘What, for instance?’ Mrs Henry Rice wanted to know.

‘Well, he has some money, Mama. He could start a small business.’

‘Is it the pub, you mean? And wouldn’t he be his own best customer, if he did? You know, Miss Hearne, he’d be far better off, Jim, if he was to put his money into a house. A guest house, for instance. I’ve told him many a time I might run it for him. Ah, poor Jim, never had a head for business.’

‘O, is that so?’ Miss Hearne said, with an edge to her voice. ‘I should have thought quite differently. Indeed, he impresses me as having a very good financial sense, your brother.’

‘Jim, is it? Opening the doors of taxis, that’s more in his

line.’

‘What’s that?’ Miss Hearne said, and her heart gave a jump. ‘O, excuse me,’ Mrs Henry Rice said. ‘I shouldn’t be boring you with family troubles. It’s just that Jim annoys me, really he does, the way he wastes his time.’

‘Now, mother,’ Bernard whispered. ‘Miss Hearne wouldn’t be interested.’

‘O, but indeed, I am,’ Miss Hearne assured him, and felt she could have bitten her tongue out as she said it. ‘What did you