The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (28 page)

She passed the Holy Water font. What use? Only water, dirty water in a cold marble bowl. She entered the church.

It was the quiet time. The church was empty except for two aged housewives who toiled around the side/tisles, offering up

prayers before the pictured agonies of the Stations of the Cross. And one old man in the front bench, sitting as quiet as a piece of furniture, his rosary lax in his hand. Old people. Old people with nothing left to do but pray.

Over the main altar, the sanctuary lamp glowed red. In dark side altars, candles guttered before painted statues. Our Lady,

Saint Joseph, Saint Patrick. Sightless saints.

Slowly she walked up the centre aisle.

O God, I have sinned against You, why have You not punished me? I have renounced You, do You hear me, I have. abandoned You. Because, O Father, You have abandoned me. I needed You, Father, and You turned me away. I prayed to You, Father, and You did not answer. All men turned from me. And You, Father? You too.

The painted Mary smiled from the side altar; blue robed, with white virginal tunic and delicate painted hands uplifted in intercession. O Mary Mother, why did you not intercede for me? Why do you smile now? There is nothing to smile for.

O Sacred Heart, why did You ask this suffering? The reason, tell me, I will bear it. But a reason, not the reasons Your priest has given. They are no reason for this terrible thing.

The red sanctuary lamp swung gently as a draught of cold air blew across the altar. The wind ruffled the little white curtain that screened the tabernacle door. It was very quiet. Only her own footsteps she could hear.

And now? What will become of me, am I to grow old in a room, year by year, until they take me to a poor-house? Am I to be a forgotten old woman, mumbling in a corner in a house run by nuns? What is to become of me, O Lord, alone in this city, with only drink, hateful drink that dulls me, disgraces me, lonely drink that leaves me more lonely, more despised? Why this cross? Give me another, great pain, great illness, anything, but let there be someone, someone to share it. Why do You torture me, alone and silent behind Your little door? Why?

‘I hate You,’ she said, her voice loud and shrill in the silence of the church. And she waited. Now, surely now, in His anointed, consecrated place, a thunderbolt, striking down,

white and terrible from the vaulted roof. And leave a shrivelled nothing on the ground.

She bent her head for the blow. But the only sound was a banging door as a priest entered the church. No sign. The red

sanctuary lamp swung from side to side. No one. Only bread.

But if He still waited, if He stayed His hand?

She walked towards the altar, quickly now, her dark eyes on the little white curtain. One way. One way above all. Let it end now, let it end forever. Let Him strike, terrible in His wrath, a God of Judgment, crumbling the defiler of His temple.

She reached the Communion rail and fumbled with the catch of the gate. She bent over it, her whole body trembling uncontrollably as it suddenly swung free. Open. Her path

only six steps up to the altar, up to the golden door.

O God. O Father. Now.

She did not see the two women start up in fear from their prayers. She did not see the agitation of the old man in the front bench as she slowly climbed the steps. She did not see Father Quigley run down the centre aisle.

She went forward, her head up, her dark eyes wild, waiting the thunderbolt.

Now.

She reached the altar platform and drew the little curtain aside. The small door filled her whole eye, golden, mysterious, terrifying.

Behind it?

Or wafers of bread?

Trembling, she put her trembling hands on the door, scrabbled to find the lock. But the door was rough, encrusted with a motif of crucifixes.

in the darkness of the nave, someone shouted.

Now! Now! She tore at the door. Now, the thunderbolt. But the door would not open. Small, golden, Holy of Holies, it remained shut against her trembling, weeping onslaught.

‘Open. Let me in!’ she screamed.

‘In!’ the church screamed back. ‘in!’

But the door rejected her. It would not open. Blood ran

from her nails. The altar cloth slid sideways along the marble

of the altar table. Candlesticks crashed on the steps.

‘out.’ she screamed. And red light filled her eyes, golden

doors merged, fell away in crumbling segments. He came out, terrible, breathing fire, His face hollow-cheeked, His eyes devouring her. His Mother ran up the altar steps, her painted face still sadly smiling, lifted her as she lay broken on the steps. Saint Joseph knelt gravely on her right.

And He, His fingers uplifted in blessing, bent over her, His

bleeding heart red against His white tunic. Lifted her in His

arms and His face was close to hers.

‘Why did you do this?’ He said.

But she could not see His face. It went warm and sick and

blurred and the red lamps burned again, filling all of her eyes,

carrying her off to darkness, all darkness, all forgetting.

‘Why did she do it?’ one of the kneeling housewives asked

Father Quigley.

And he looked down at the bloodstained hands, the bruised

face and straggling hair of the woman in his arms. He looked,

and then he looked at the locked tabernacle.

‘God knows,’ he said.

CHAPTER 19.

GERRY DICKEY, driver, employed by Hanlon’s Car Service,

Our Own Limousines: Funerals, Weddings, Special Outings, tied the two old-fashioned trunks on his luggage rack. Then he brought the Humber around to the side entrance of the hospital.

After a few minutes, a nurse held the door open and the lady who had hired the car came out. She had another lady with her, and the lady had on a red raincoat with a tear in it. The sick lady walked very slow and she had dark-brown rings around her eyes and a kind of tremble to her whole body when you were close to her. There was a young girl came out after them, a tall bit ofstuffwith black hair and a good figure. Gerry Dickey got out and opened the back door of the car while the two ladies and the girl got in. Then he started the Humber up.

‘And where to now, please?’ he said. ‘Earnsclifre Home,’ the lady that hired him said.

‘Earnscliffe?’ the sick woman said. ‘O Moira dear, I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t.’

‘Now, don’t worry, Judy, it’s all arranged. We have a private room for you and you need convalescent care until you get back on your feet.’

‘But I wouldn’t be happy there,’ the sick one said. ‘Besides, I can’t afford a private room.’

‘Never mind about that. Owen and I will take care of it.

Just you think about getting well, that’s the main thing.’ ‘But I don’t want to stay there.’

‘You won’t have to stay more than a month or two. And after that, Una will help you find a nice room somewhere, won’t you, Una?’

‘Of course. And you’ll be up and about in no time.’

I wouldn’t like to bet a quid on that, Gerry Dickey thought, looking at the sick one through his rear view mirror.

‘O, but Moira, I’d be ashamed to …’

The good-looking one leaned forward at this point and

closed the glass panel which screened Gerry Dickey off” from

his fares. Did she see me looking, I wonder? No, not likely.

‘What about Number Ten?’ asked Night Sister.

‘0, she’s all right,’ said Eileen Herlihy, who was going off”

duty.

Nora Nelligan, who was replacing her, took a chocolate

out of the box left by a patient’s brother that morning. ‘What’s

the matter with that one, anyway?’

‘She had an accident. Nervous breakdown, or something.

Nothing wrong with her that the pledge wouldn’t cure.’

Nora Nelligan put on her white cap. ‘Who’s looking after

her?’

‘She’s Doctor Bowe’s patient. Do you know him? A G.P.?’ Nora Nelligan saw Doctor Bow’s bald head and bulging waistcoat. Married and a family. I have no luck at all. Sure, I get all the old doctors. ‘O him,’ she said.

‘Hurry up now, girls,’ said Night Sister. ‘Number Fourteen

needs her enema.’

‘Good afternoon, Father,’ Sister Mary Paul said. ‘Father

Quigley, is it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘O, from Saint Finbar’s. Of course, I should have known.

And who would you be wanting to see, Father?’

‘You have a Miss Hearne here?’

‘O, indeed we have. She’s in number ten. I’ll take you there,

Father.’

Together they went out of the reception office and along

to the lift.

‘And how is she getting along?’

‘Well enough, Father, all things considered. She’ll be out of

here in a few weeks. But you know, Father-is she one of

your parishioners, by the way?’

He nodded.

‘She’s very depressed,’ Sister Mary Paul said. ‘She wanders a bit, the poor soul. For instance, she’s always telling the nurses that God won’t listen to her. A bit off her head at times. I don’t think she means it, though. Many’s the time

I’ve gone in and seen her lying there praying.’

‘Has she asked to see a priest?’

‘No, Father, she hasn’t. But I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you, Father.’

‘Urn,’ said Father Quigley.

The priest, tall, black clad, took off his black overcoat and his white silk scarf. He laid the scarf on his black hat. He sat down on the hard chair and put his black boots together, side by side. His long spatulate fingers clasped his bony, black clothed knees as he leaned forward and looked at the woman in the bed.

‘And how are you feeling now, Miss Hearne?’

The woman stared vacantly at the foot of her bed. With her right hand she held the grey woollen dressing-gown tight around her throat. ‘I’m all right, Father, thank you.’

‘And you’re happier now, aren’t you, Miss Hearne? You’ve - ah - you’ve put all those black thoughts behind you, haven’t you?’

Her eyes wandered to the ceiling. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Good. I’m very glad to hear that. I’ve offered up special prayers at Mass for that intention. Ah, yes, it’s a wonderful thing, prayer. Think now of the comfort it is to know God is watching over you at a time like this. And you’re in good

hands, the nunss are very kind, is that not so?’

‘Yes.’ She was still looking at the ceiling.

‘That’s right. And you know, Miss Hearne, when we feel lonely and out of sorts, it’s a great consolation to remember that we all belong to one great family. The Holy Family. Ah, many’s the time I think of those who don’t believe in God, how lonely they must be, no friends around them, deliberately turning away from God’s mercy. Yes, it’s good to know God is always with us, is that not so?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Yes, I often think of the unbeliever, the poor blind devil without a friend in this world or the next. Yes, a lonely man, he who turns away from the sight of God. When a prayer, one word of repentance might save him. When the church militant would rise up to aid and guide him. Ah, yes, one little prayer. Little do we know the power of prayer. I’m sure you’re making a special effort to pray hard in these days of rest and repose. Yes, I’m sure you are. Have you been to confession yet?’

She closed her eyes. ‘There’s a priest comes to hear confessions here,’ she said. ‘Twice a week.’

He coughed uncomfortably. ‘I see. Well, if I were you, I’d make an effort to go as soon as you feel up to it. I’d be very

glad to hear your confession now, if you like.’

She did not answer.

He coughed again. ‘Sister tells me you’re making great progress,’ he said. ‘Maybe she’ll let you up to go to Mass this

Sunday. They have a lovely little chapel here, have you seen it?’ ‘No, Father.’

‘O, yes, a lovely little chapel, one of the nicest in the country. Beautiful stained-glass windows, a labour of love it was for the artist who did them. I knew him, De Lancey was his name.’

She put a trembling hand on the coverlet. ‘I’m sorry I fainted in the church,’ she said.

Fainted! Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it. That Mrs O’Neill said she doesn’t remember any of it. just as well. I suppose she’s tired, the poor soul. ‘O, it happens all the time,’ he said. ‘If I had a pound for everyone who fainted in Saint Finbar’s, I could put in a new organ.

Her trembling hand retreated from the counterpane, hid itself under the blankets.

‘Well, I mustn’t tire you now, Miss Hearne. I just wanted to make sure that all those black thoughts have gone. And they

have, haven’t they, thanks be to God?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Good. And you won’t forget to pray hard, will you, Miss Hearne? Don’t forget now. Well, I must say good bye, I have

to run. I’ll try to come back and see you before you leave here.’

‘Thank you, Father.’ Warning: he warned. Obey. And I am alone. Like those unbelievers, no friends I would have. No help. O, no, not that, why must I suffer this? Help me, help me pray.

Sister Mary Paul stood up behind her desk, her beads rustling, her starched headdress slightly awry as she turned her head to

greet the doctor. ‘And how are you today, Dr Bowe?’ ‘Can’t complain. You wanted to see me, Sister?’ ‘Yes, Doctor. You’ve been to see Miss Hearne?’

Dr Bowe adjusted his muffler around his neck. ‘Yes, she’s much better than the last time I examined her. Nothing really wrong now, just undernourishment. And she’s a bit depressed.’

‘O, we noticed that. She’s on special diet. Do you want that continued?’

Dr Bowe felt his chin. ‘She needs building up,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t eating the proper food.’

‘Well, we’ll feed her up, don’t you worry. When do you think she’ll be ready for discharge? You know, Doctor, I have a feeling she’d be happier in a place of her own. She doesn’t take to the life here. She hasn’t talked with any of the other patients since she came.’

‘Friends are paying for the room, is that right?’

‘O, yes, Doctor. Professor O’Neill. There’s been no financial problem.’