The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne
by
Brian Moore


By Brian Moore

An Atlantic Monthly Press Book

Little, Brown and Company- Boston, Toronto

COPYRIGHT, 1955, BRIAN MOORE

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

TO JACQUELINE

CHAPTER 1.

The first thing Miss Judith Hearne unpacked in her new
lodgings was the silver-framed photograph of her aunt. The
place for her aunt, ever since the sad day of the funeral, was on
the mantelpiece of whatever bed-sitting-room Miss Hearne
happened to be living in. And as she put her up now, the
photograph eyes were stern and questioning, sharing Miss
Hearne's own misgivings about the condition of the bedsprings,
the shabbiness of the furniture and the run-down part
of Belfast in which the room was situated.

After she had arranged the photograph so that her dear aunt
could look at her from the exact centre of the mantelpiece,
Miss Hearne unwrapped the white tissue paper which covered
the coloured oleograph of the Sacred Heart. His place was at
the head of the bed, His fingers raised in benediction, His eyes
kindly yet accusing. He was old and the painted halo around
His head was beginning to show little cracks. He had looked
down on Miss Hearne for a long time, almost half her lifetime.

The trouble about hanging the Sacred Heart, Miss Hearne
discovered, was that there was no picture hook in the right
place. She had bought some picture hooks but she had no
hammer. So she laid the Sacred Heart down on the bed and
went to the bay window to see how the room looked from
there.

The street outside was a university bywater, once a good
residential area, which had lately been reduced to the level of
taking in paying guests. Miss Hearne stared at the houses
opposite and thought of her aunt's day when there were only

private families in this street, at least one maid to every house,
and dinner was at night, not at noon. All gone now, all those
people dead and all the houses partitioned off into flats, the
bedrooms cut in two, kitchenettes jammed into linen closets,
linoleum on the floors and 'To Let' cards in the bay windows.
Like this house, she thought. This bed-sitting-room must have
been the master bedroom. Or even a drawing-room. And
look at it now. She turned f'rom the window to the photograph
on the mantelpiece. All changed, she told it, all changed
since your day. And I'm the one who has to put up with it.

But then she shook her head to chase the silly cobwebs from
her mind. She walked across the room, inspecting the surface.
The carpet wasn't bad at all, just a bit worn in the middle part,
and a chair could be put there. The bed could be moved out
an inch from the wall to hide that stain. And there on the bed
was the Sacred Heart, lying face down, waiting to be put up
in His proper place. Nothing for it, Miss Hearne said to herself,
but to go down and ask the new landlady for the loan of a
hammer.

Down she went, down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen
which was used as a sitting-room by Mrs Henry Rice. She
knocked on the curtained door and Mrs Henry Rice drew the
edge of the curtain aside to peek through the glass before she
opened the door. Miss Hearne thought that a little rude, to say
the least.

'Yes, Miss Hearne?'

Beyond the open door Miss Hearne saw a good fire in the
grate and a set of china tea things on a table.

'I wondered if you had a hammer you might lend me. It's
to put up a picture, you know. I'm terribly sorry to be
troubling you like this.'

'No trouble at all,' Mrs Henry Rice said. 'But I have a head
like a sieve, i never can remember where I put things. I'lljust
have to think now. Listen, why don't you come in and sit
down? Maybe you'd like a cup of tea. Ijust wet some tea this
minute.'

Well, that really was a nice gesture to start things off. Very
nice indeed. 'That's very kind of you,' Miss Hearne said. 'But

I hate to put you out like this, really I do. I only wanted to
put my picture up, you see.'

But as she said this she advanced across the threshold. It
was always interesting to see how other people lived and,
goodness knows, a person had to have someone to talk to. Of
course, some landladies could be friendly for their own ends.
Like Mrs Harper when I was on Cromwell road and she
thought I was going to help her in that tobacconist business.
Still, Mrs Henry Rice doesn't look that type. Such a big jolly
person, and very nicely spoken.

The room was not in the best of taste, Miss Hearne saw at
once. But cosy. Lots of little lace doilies on the tables and
lamps with pretty pastel shades. There was a big enamel china
dog on the mantelpiece and a set of crossed flags on the wall.
Papal flags with silver paper letters underneath that said:

EUCHARISTIC CONGRESS DUBLIN. That was in 1932, in the

Phoenix Park, Miss Hearne remembered, and my second
cousin, once removed, sang in the choir at High Mass. Nan
D'Arcy, God rest her soul, a sudden end, pleurisy, the poor
thing. John McCormack was the tenor. A thrilling voice. A
Papal count.

'Sit up close to the fire now. It's perishing cold out,' Mrs
Henry Rice said. A Dublin voice, Miss Hearne thought. But
not quite. She has a touch of the North in her accent.

Miss Hearne saw that there were two wing chairs pushed
close to the fire. She went towards one of them and it turned
around and a man was in it.

He was a horrid-looking fellow. Fat as a pig he was, and his
face was the colour of cottage cheese. His collar was unbuttoned
and his silk tie was spotted with egg stain. His stomach stuck
out like a sagging pillow arid his little thin legs fell away
under it to end in torn felt slippers. He was all bristly blond
jowls, tiny puffy hands and long blond curly hair, like some
monstrous baby swelled to man size.

'This is Bernard, my only boy,' said Mrs Henry Rice. 'This
is Miss Hearne, Bernie. 'remember, I told you about her
coming to stay with us?'

He stared at Miss Hearne with bloodshot eyes, rejecting her

as all males had before him. Then he smiled, showing dirty
yellow teeth.

'Come and sit by the fire, Miss Hearne,' he said. 'Take the
other chair. Mama won't mind.'

Rejected, Miss Hearne sat down, fiddled with her garnet
rings, moved her thin legs together and peered for comfort
at her long, pointed shoes with the little buttons on them,
winking up at her like wise little friendly eyes. Little shoe eyes,
always there.

'Sugar and cream?' Mrs Henry Rice asked, bending over
the tea things.

'Two lumps, please. And just a sopfon of cream,' Miss

Hearne said, smiling her thanks.

'Cup of tea, Bernie?'

'No, thanks, Mama,' the fat man said. His voice was-soft
and compelling and it shocked Miss Hearne that this ugly
pudding should possess it. It reminded her of the time she had
seen Beniamino Gigli, the Italian tenor. A fat, perspiring man
with a horrid face, wiping the perspiration away with a white
handkerchief. And then, when he opened his mouth, you
forgot everything and he became a wonderful angel, thrilling
everyone in the theatre, from the front stalls to the gods.

When Bernard spoke, you wanted to listen.
'Just a little cup, dear?'
'No, Mama.'

'Miss Hearne.' Mrs Henry Rice handed a teacup with the
little silver teaspoon clattering in the saucer. Miss Hearne
steadied the spoon and smiled her thanks.

'And have you lived long in Belfast, did you say?' Mrs
Henry Rice said, poking the fire into a good blaze.

'O, since I was a child, yes,' Miss Hearne said. 'You see,
my aunt lived here, although my parents lived in Ballymena.'

'I see,' said Mrs Henry Rice, who did not see. 'And whereabouts
did your aunt live? Was it on this side of the city?'

'O, yes,' Miss Hearne said. 'It was on the Lisburn Road.
You see, my parents died when I was very young and my
dear aunt, rest her soul, took me to live with her in Belfast.'

'Well, we all have to move around,' Mrs Henry Rice said.

'I was born and raised myself in Donegal, in a little place
called Creeslough. And then, when I was only a bit of a girl,
I was packed off to Dublin to attend a secretarial college. And
lived there with an uncle of mine. And met my late husband
there. And then, Mr Rice, that's my late husband, he was
posted from Dublin to Belfast. And here I am. It just goes to
show you, we all have to run from pillar to post, and you
never know where you'll end up.'

'Indeed, Miss Hearne said. 'But it must have been interesting
for you, living in Dublin for so many years.

'O, Dublin's a grand city, no doubt about it. I've never
been what you might call fond of Belfast. Of course, it's not
the same for you. You'd have lots of friends here. Is your poor
aunt dead long?'

'A few years ago,' Miss Hearne said guardedly.

'And do you have relatives here?' Mrs Henry Rice asked,
offering a plate of Jacob's cream puff biscuits.

'Not close relatives,' Miss Hearne said, fencing her way over
familiar ground. They were all a bit nosey, landladies, it was
to be expected, of course. They had to know what class of
people they were getting, and a good thing too. You couldn't
blame them.

'My aunt came from a very old Belfast family,' she said.
'They've nearly all died out now, but they have a very interesting
history, my aunt's people. For instance, they're all buried
out in Nun's Bush. That's one of the oldest cemeteries in the
country. Full up now. It's closed, you know.'

'Well, that's interesting,' Mrs Henry Rice said, uninterested.

'Have a bikky, Bernie?'

'No thanks, Mama.'

He yawned, patting the opened circle of his mouth with a
puffy hand. Above the yawn his eyes, unblinking, watched
Miss Hearne, bringing the hot blood to her face.

'I do believe I'll just throw off this cardigan, if you don't
mind.'

'I'll hold your cup,' Mrs Henry Rice offered amiably. 'This
room does get a little hot with a good fire going. But Bernie
feels the cold a lot, always has.'

Who does he think he is, no manners, staring like that. Give
him a stiff look myself. But no, no, he's still looking. Upsetting.
Turn to something else. That book, beside him, upside down,
it's ester, verse, yes, English Century Seventeenth. Reading it,
yes, lie has a bookmark in it.

'I see you're interested in poetry, Mr Rice.'

'O, Bernie's a poet. And always studying. He's at the
university.'

'I am not at the university, Mama,' the fat man said. 'I
haven't been at Queen's for five years.'

'Bernie's a little delicate, Miss Hearne. He had to stop
his studies a while back. Anyway, I think the boys work
too hard up there at Queen's. I always say it's better to take
your time. A young fellow like Bernie has lots of time, no
need to rush through life. Take your time and you'll live
longer.'

That fatty must be thirty, if he's a day, Miss Hearne told
herself. Something about him. Not a toper, but something.
O, the cross some mothers have to bear.

And the cross brought back the Sacred Heart, lying on tlie
bed in the room upstairs, waiting for a hammer to nail Him
up. Still, it was nice to sit here in front of a good warm fire
with a cup of tea in your hand. And besides, Mrs Henry Rice
and this horrid fatty would make an interesting tale to tell
when she saw the O'Neills.

For it was important to have things to tell which interested
your friends. And Miss Hearne had always been able to fred
interesting happenings where other people would find only
dullness. It was, she often felt, a gift which was one of the
great rewards of a solitary life. And a necessary gift. Because,
when you were a single girl, you had to find interesting things
to talk about. Other women always had their children and
shopping and running a house to chat about. Besides which,
their husbands often told them interesting stories. But a single
girl was in a different position. People simply didn't want to
hear how she managed things like accommodation and budgets.
She had to fred other subjects and other subjects were mostly
other people. So people she knew, people she had heard of,

people she saw in the street, people she had read about, they
all had to be collected and gone through like a basket of sewing
so that the most interesting bits about them could be picked
out and fitted together to make conversation. And that was
why even a queer fellow like this Bernard Rice was a blessing
in his own way. He was so funny and horrible with his 'Yes,
Mama,' and 'No, Mama,' and his long blond baby hair. He'd
make a tale for the O'Neills at Sunday tea.

So Miss Hearne decided to let the Sacred Heart wait. She
smiled, instead, at Bernard and asked him what he had been

studying at the university.

'Arts,' he said.

'And were you planning to teach? I mean, when your
health...'

'I'm not planning anything,' Bernard said quietly. Am
writing poetry. And I'm living with my mother.' He smiled
at Mrs Henry Rice as he said it. Mrs Henry Rice nodded her
head fondly.

'Bernard's not like some boys,' she said. 'Always wanting
to leave their poor mothers and take up with some woman
and get married far too young. No, Bernard likes his home,
don't you, Bernie?'

'Nobody else knows my ways as well as you, Mama,'
Bernard said softly. He turned to Miss Hearne. 'She's really an angel, Mama is, especially when I don't feel well.'

Miss Hearne couldn't think of anything to say. Something
about him, so insincere. And staring at me like that, what's the
matter with me, is my skirt up? No, of course not. She tugged
her skirt snug about her calves and resolutely turned the
conversation towards a common denominator.

'We're in Saint Finbar's here, I believe. That's Father
Quigley s parish, isn t it?

'Yes, he's the P.P. Isn't he a caution?'

'O, is that so? I heard he was a wonderful man,' Miss Hearne
said. Goodness knows, religion is a comfort, even in conversation.
If we hadn't the priests to talk about, where would we
be half the time?

'He's very outspoken, I mean,' Mrs Henry Rice corrected
herself, 'I'll tell you a story I heard only last week. And it's the
gospel truth.'

Mrs Henry Rice paused and looked sideways at Bernard.
'Last week,' she said, 'Father Quigley was offered a new
Communion rail for the church from a Mrs Brady that used
to keep a bad house. And do you know what he told her?'

'What Mrs Brady would that be?' Miss Hearne said faintly, unsure that she had heard it right. A 'bad house' did she say?
It certainly sounded like it. Well, that sort of place shouldn't be mentioned, let alone mentioned in connection with the
Church. You read about them in books, wicked houses, and
who would think there were such places, right here in Belfast.
She leaned forward, her black eyes nervous, her face open and
eager.
'Well, as I said, she's the one that ran a bad house for men
over on the Old Lodge tkoad,' Mrs lkice said. 'A terrible sort
of woman. So, like all those bad women, she began to get
afraid when she knew her time was coming near, and she
decided to go to confession and mend her ways. The house
was closecl up last year and she's been a daily communicant
ever since. So, a couple of weeks ago - I heard it from one of
the ladies in the altar society - she went to see Father Quigley
and said she wanted to present a new Communion rail to
Stint Finbar's. Wrought iron from Spain, all the finest work.'
Mrs Henry Rice paused to watch Miss Hearne's reaction.
'Well, I never!' Miss Hearne said.

'And do you know what Father Quigley said to her? He
just drew himself up, such a big powerful stern man, you
know what he looks like, and he said, "Look here, my good woman, let me ask you straight out, where did you get the
money?" '

'Good heavens,' Miss Hearne said, thrilling to every word.
'And what did she say to that, the creature?'

'Well, that took her back, no denying. She just fretted and
fussed and finally she said she made the money in her former
business. Her business, if you please. So Father Quigley just
looked clown at her, with that stiff look of his, and said to her,
he said: "Woman," he said, "do you think I'll have the good

people of this parish kneeling down on their bended knees to
receive the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ with their elbows
on the wages of sin and corruption?" That's the very thing he
said.'

'And right too,' Miss Hearne commented. 'That was putting
her in her place. I should think so, indeed.'

Bernard pulled the poker out of the coals and lit a cigarette
against its reddened end. 'Poor Mama,' he said. 'You always
mix a story up. No, no, that wasn't the way of it at all.
You've forgotten what Mrs Brady said, right back to him.'

Mrs Henry Rice gave him a reproachful glance. 'Never
mind, Bernie. I did not forget. But I wouldn't lower myself to
repeat the insolence of a one like that Mrs Brady.'

'But that's the whole point,' Bernard said, pushing the poker
back among the coals. 'Wait till I tell you her answer.' And he
leaned forward towards Miss Hearne, his white, fat face split
in a smile of anti-clerical malice. His voice changed, mimicking
the tones of the bad Mrs Brady.

'She said to him: "Father, where do you think the money
came from that Mary Magdalene used to anoint the feet of
Our Blessed Lord? It didn't come from selling apples," she
said. And that's the real story about Father F. X. Quigley, if
you want to know.'

When he said this, Bernard laughed. His cheeks wobbled
like white pudding.

'What a shocking disrespect for the priest,' Miss Hearne
said. Where did the ointment come from anyway? Sometimes
it made you see that you should read your Douay and know
it better in order to be able to give the lie to rascals like this
fat lump. But for the life of her she couldn't remember where
Mary Magdalene had got the money. What matter, it was an
out-and-out sin to quote Scripture to affront the priest. She
put her teacup down.

'The devil can quote Scripture to suit his purpose,' she said.
'just so,' Mrs Henry Rice agreed. 'But what else could you
expect from the likes of Mrs Brady? No decent woman would
talk to her.'

'Well - when I think of it - that hussy I' Miss Hearne said.

'It's downright blasphemy, that's what it is, saying a thing like
that in connection with Our Blessed Lord. O, my goodness,
that reminds me. My picture. It's of the Sacred Heart and I
always hang it up as soon as I get in a new place. I mustn't
be keeping you. The hammer.'

'The hammer. I forgot all about it,' Mrs Henry Rice said.
'Now, let me think. O, I know.'

She stood up, opened the door and yelled into the hall.
'Mary! May-ree!'

A voice called back. 'Ye-ess I'

'Get the hammer out of the top drawer in the dresser in the
attic,' Mrs Henry Rice bawled. She closed the door and turned
back to Miss Hearne.

'Another cup of tea before you go?'

'O, no, really, it's been lovely. Just perfect, thank you very

much.'

'She's a new girl, you know,' Mrs Henry Rice said, nodding
towards the door. 'I got her from the nuns at the convent. A
good strong country girl. But they need a lot of breaking in,
if you know'w what I mean.'

Miss Hearne, completely at home with this particular conversation,
having heard it in all its combinations from her dear
aunt and from her friends, said that if you got a good one it
was all right, but sometimes you had a lot of trouble with
them.

'You have to be after them all the time,' Mrs Henry Rice
said, moving into the familiar groove of such talk. 'You know,
it's a wonder the nuns don't do more with them before they send them out to take a place. Badly trained, or not trained at
all, is about the height of it.'

'Even when these girls are trained, they're not used to the
city,' Miss Hearne said. 'I know the trouble friends of mine
have had with convent-trained girls, taking up with soldiers
and other rift-raft. Indeed, I often think the nuns are too strict.
The girls behave like children as soon as . . .'

But she did not finish because at that moment there was a
knock on the door and Mary came in. She was a tall, healthy
girl with black irish hair, blue eyes and tirm breasts pushing
6

against the white apron of her maid's uniform. Miss Hearne
looked at her and thought she would do very nicely indeed. If
you were civil to these girls, they often did little odd jobs that
needed doing.

So she smiled at Mary and was introduced by Mrs Henry Rice. The hammer was given into her hands and she fumbled
with it, saying thank you, and that she would return it as soon
as she had finished hanging her picture. Mrs Henry Rice said
there was no hurry and to let them know if she needed anything
else, and then Miss Hearne went back up the two flights
of stairs to her room.

She found a picture hook and began to nail the Sacred Heart
over the head of the bed. And then, thinking back on the
people downstairs, it occurred to her that while Bernard Rice
was interesting in a horrible sort of way, he was also creepy
crawly and the sort of person a woman would have to look
out for. He looked nosey and she felt sure he was the sort of
slyboots who would love prying into other people's affairs.
And saying the worst thing he could about what he found.
Instinctively, she looked at her trunks and saw that they were
locked, just keep them that way, she told herself. I wouldn't put it past him to creep in here some day when I'm out. Still, his mother is certainly friendly, if a little soft where her darling
boy is concerned. And the fire and the tea were nice and
warming.

She stood back and surveyed the Sacred Heart. Prayers, she
must say later. Meanwhile, she drew the curtains and lit the
gas stove. With the electric light on and the gas stove spluttering, warming the white bones of its mantles into a rosy red,
the new bed-sitting-room became much more cheerful. Miss
Hearne felt quite satisfied after her cup of tea and biscuit, so,
after unpacking some more of her things, she laid her flannel
nightgown on the bed and turned the covers down. It had all
gone very well really, and the cab driver had looked quite
happy with the shilling she gave him for carrying the trunks
upstairs. It should have been more, but he hadn't said anything
nasty. And that was the main thing. She was moved in, she
had chatted with the landlady and as a bonus, she had a couple of interesting stories to tell. The one about Father Quigley was not for mixed company, but it was certainly interesting.
She decided to discard Bernard's ending. It just wasn't suitable
and spoiled the whole point. And then there was Mrs Henry
Rice and Bernard himself. They'd be something to talk about.
Maybe some of the young O'Neills knew Bernard if he had
been at Queen's.

Miss Hearne unpacked the little travelling clock xvhich had
come all the way from Paris as a gift to her dear aunt. It was
only seven, too early to go to bed. But she was tired and
tomorrow was Friday, with nothing to do but unpack. Besides,
if she went to sleep soon, she wouldn't need any supper.

She put the clock on the bed-table and switched on the little
bed lamp. Then she undressed and knelt to say her prayers.
Afterwards, she lay between the covers in the strange bed,
watching the shadows of the new room. When the reddened
mantles of the stove had cooled to whiteness and the chill of
the night made goose-pimples on her forearms outside the
covers, she looked over at her dear aunt and then turned her
head to look up at the Sacred Heart. She said good night to
them both, then switched off the bed light and lay, snuggled
in, with only her nose and eyes out of the covers, remembering
that both of them were there in l:hc darkness. They make all
the difference, Miss Hearne thought, no matter what aunt was
like at the end. When they're with me, watching over me, a
new place becomes home.

CHAPTER 2.

Her eyes, opening, saw the ceiling, the frozen light of what
day? Sight, preceding comprehension, mercifully recorded
familiar objects in the strangeness of the whole. Led the blind
mind to memory; to this awakening.

She sat up, her hair falling around her shoulders, feeling a
gelid draught through the flannel stuff of her nightgown. Her
thighs and calves, warmed in the moist snuggle of sheets, were
still lax, weary, asleep. The gilded face of her little travelling
clock said ten past seven. She lay back, pulling the yellow
blankets up to her chin and looked at the room.

A chair, broadbeamed, straightbacked, sat in the alcove by
the bay window, an old pensioner staring out at the street.
Near the bed, a dressing-table, made familiar by her bottle of
cologne, her combs and brushes and her little round box of
rouge. Across the worn carpet was a wardrobe of brown
varnished wood with a long panel mirror set in its door. She
looked in the mirror and saw the end of her bed, the small
commotion of her feet ruffling the smooth tucked blankets.
The wardrobe was ornamented with whorls and loops and on
either side of the door mirror was a circle of light-coloured
wood. The circles seemed to her like eyes, mournful wooden
eyes on either side of the reflecting mirror nose. She looked
away from those eyes to the white marble mantelpiece,
cracked down one support, with its brass fender of Arabic
design. Her Aunt D'Arcy said good day in silver and sepia-toned arrogance from the exact centre of this arrangement,
while beside the gas fire a sagging, green-covered armchair
waited its human burden. The carpet below the mantelpiece
was worn to brown fibre threads. She hurried on, passing over
the small wash-basin, the bed-table with its green lamp, to
reach the reassurance of her two big trunks, blacktopped,
brassbound, ready to travel.

She twisted around and unhooked the heavy wool dressing
gown from the bedpost. Put it on her sholders and slid her

feet out of bed into blue, fleecy slippers. Cold, a cold room.
She went quickly to the gas fire and turned it on, hearing its
startled plop as the match poked it into life. She spread her
underthings to warm; then fled back across the worn carpet to
bed. Fifteen minutes, she said, it will take fifteen minutes to
heat the place at all.

There was no hurry. Friday, a dull day, a day with nothing
at all to do. Although it would be interesting at breakfast to
see what sort of food Mrs Henry Rrice gave and who the
others "were. She lay abed twenty minutes, then washed in
cold water and went shivering to the mean heat of the stove.
She slipped on her underthings under the concealing envelope
of her nightgown, a habit picked up at the Sacred Heart
convent in Armagh and retained, although keeping warm had
long supplanted the original motive of modesty, which occasioned
the fumblings, the exertions and the slowness of the
maneuvre. When she finally pulled the nightgown over her
head, she was fully dressed, except for the dress itself. It was
time for her morning hair-brushing exercise. She set great
store by it: it kept one's hair dark, she said, and if you did not
wash the hair, ever, it kept its sheen and colour. Her hair,
visible proof, was dark brown with a fine thickness and smooth
lustre.

So each morning it was her custom to sit conscientiously at
the mirror, her head bent to one side, tugging the brush along
the thick rope of her hair, counting the strokes, thinking of
nothing except the act of doing the exercise, her head jerking
slightly with each long, strong stroke of the brush.

But this morning, hair brushing actually had to be hurried
because it would never do to be late one's first morning in a
new place. Especially when there were other boarders to meet.
She had said three, Mrs Henry Rice, were they men or women?
Maybe, most likely, men, and what if one were charming?

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?'

'Hotel business. I was in the hotel business right on Times
Square. You've heard of Times Square?'

'O, yes, of course. I've seen it on the newsreels. When the
war was over and it showed all the people cheering. And all
those huge advertisements. O, it must be an exciting place to

live.'

He smiled: 'Times Square. Watch the world go by. The
things I've seen in fifteen years on Broadway. It's an education.
Why, I couldn't even begin to...'

'Well, don't begin then,' Mrs Henry Rrice said. She stood
at the opened door, monumental, stern. 'I'm sorry, Miss
Hearne, but I must let Mary tidy up. Jim would sit here all
day boring the life out of you with his talk about New York.'

'O, but it isn't boring, Mrs Rice. On the contrary, I think
it's most exciting.'

Mr Madden stood up, indignant. He pointed at Miss Hearne.
'This lady is interested in what goes on in the world. Not like
you and Bernie.'

Mrs Rice did not seem to hear. 'There's such a lot of work
to be done. You know what maids are like, Miss Hearne. You
have to be after them all the time. That's why I like to have

the dining-room done by ten.'

' Of course.'

Mr Madden went to the door. 'Glad to have met you, Miss
Hearne. We must have another talk real soon.'

'Yes, indeed we must.' Said with her gayest smile to show
him she liked him.

Then Mrs Henry Rice offered her the Irish News to read
and she took it and went upstairs to her room to finish
unpacking. No need to hurry. Going over her linens, her
packages of letters, and her collection of picture postcards,
laying each thing away carefully in tissue paper, all of it could
take a long time if you did it methodically. A long time.

But when the big trunks were opened and their trays were
laid on the bed, Miss Hearne knelt in silence on the floor,
abstracted, her hands idle, her mind filled with what had

happened that morning. He had been so glad to talk to her.
And he had looked so big and stern and manly, hammering
his fist on the table while he laid down the law to her. A big
handsome man with that strange American voice.

He came into the room, late at night, tired after a day at
work in his hotel. He took off his jacket and hung it up. He
put his dressing-gown on and sat down in his armchair and
she went to him prettily, sat on his knee while he told her how
things had gone that day. And he kissed her. Or, enraged
about some silly thing she had done, he struck out with his
great fist and sent her reeling, the brute. But, contrite afterwards,
he sank to his knees and begged forgiveness.

Judy Hearne, she said, you've got to stop right this minute.
Imagine romancing about every man that comes along.

Her busy hands flew, unpacking the linen sheets, putting
them away in the dresser drawer. But she paused in the centre
of the room. He noticed me. He was attracted. The first in
ages. Well, that's only because i've been keeping myself to
myself too much. Go out and meet new people and you'll see,
she told her mirror face. And the face in the mirror told it
back to her, agreeing.

Why did he come home to Ireland? A visit maybe, to see
his family. But he doesn't seem on very good terms with his
sister. He'll go back to New York, of course, back to his
hotel. Mr and Mrs James Madden, of New York, sailed from
Southampton yesterday in the Queen Mar,. Mr Madden is a
prominent New York hotelicr and his bride is the former
Judith Hearne, only daughter of the late Mr and Mrs Charles
B. Hearne, of Ballymena. The honeymoon? Niagara Falls,
isn't that the place Americans go? Or perhaps Paris, before
we sail.

But the mirror face grew stearn and cross. You hardly know
him, it said. And he's common, really he is, with that ring and
that bright flashy tie. O, no he's not, she said. Don't be
provincial. Americans dress differently, that's all.

A church bell tolled far away and she prayed. The library
book would be due Wednesday, wasn't it? Do you know,
I'm awfully uninformed about America, when I come to

think of it. Outside, the grey morning light held, the rain still
threatened. I could go down to the Carnegie library and read
up on it. Especially New York. And then tomorrow at breakfast, I'd have questions to ask.

Maybe, she said, hurrying towards the wardrobe to pick out
her red raincoat, maybe he'll be in the hall and I'll meet him
and we might walk downtown together. I must hurry because
if he's going out, it should be soon.

But the hall was a dark, damp place with no sign of anyone
in it. Mary had cleared the dining-room, restoring the chairs
to their original anchorage around the table. The curtained
door to Mrs Henry Rice's kitchen was shut and the house was
silent, a house in mid-morning when all the world is out at

world,

She went out, dejected, and walked along Camden Street
with her head full of black thoughts. Why had she bothered
to she made him climb the ladder twice to get her three
books, one a picture book of New York and two books on
America in general. She carried them to one of the slanting
reading tables and sat down, slipping her neutral coloured
glasses from her bag. Then amid the old men and students in
the muted noises induced by 'Silence' signs, she read about
America, Land of the Free, the New Colossus. All very heavy
going, economic tables and business articles. She turned to the
picture book and there was a picture of Times Square, and
(gracious!) the hotels were immense, we times as big as the
Grand Central, the Royal Avenue, or even the Gresham, in
Dublin. O, he couldn't own one of those. And what was his j ob? There were so many jobs in a hotel. Maybe an assistant
manager. Surely in the administration somewhere. Otherwise,
he would have said a cook, or a waiter, or whatever. O
certainly nothing like that.

She read and read because she could feel the little crab of
hunger nipping away at her insides. She tried to forget him,
the expensive little rascal, but he just nipped harder. Finally,
when the clock on the wall said three, she decided that just
this once she'd have to give in to him, despite her resolution.
So she gave the books back and went to a milk bar at Castle
Jtmction and treated herself to a glass of milk and a raspberry
tart. Afterwards, she looked at the shop windows for a while.
But they hadn't changed since last week, so this was dull
sport.

As she was looking in the window at Robb's, a little boy
came running out, dragging his school satchel, his grey wool
stockings down about his heels.

Tommy Mullen! She hurried over to him, forcing him to
stop. His mother was a friend of the Breens, before the Breens
moved to Dublin. Tommy had taken piano lessons last year.
She saw the keyboard, his rather dirty hands, his wandering
inattention, his fits of sulks and rages. No talent. His mother
had stopped the lessons.

'Well, if it isn't little Tommy Mullen. And how are we
getting along?'

'Lo, Miss Hearne,' he said, turning his cold-cheeked little
face away from her kiss.

'Well, and how's my boy? My, we're getting big. Too big
to kiss, I suppose. I'm sure we've forgotten all our piano
lessons now.'

He looked indignant. 'No. I've got a new teacher. A man.
Mr Harrington is his name.'

'O, is that so?' she said bleakly. 'Well, isn't that nice. I hope
you are practising hard, eh, Tommy?'

'Ycs, Miss Hearne.' He looked around, inattentive. 'There's
the bus,' he yelled. ']3ye, bye.' And ran offin the direction of
the Albert Memorial.

A man. Another teacher. She walked down Cornmarket
slowly, feeling the shaking start inside of her. No wonder his
mother was so cool, nodding from the other side of the street
when I saw her. Well, it wasn't because I charged too much,
goodness knows. Could I have said anything that time I

stayed for tea? No, of course not. I never said he had no talent.
O, anyway.

Still, one less pupil, that's what it amounts to. Or two less.
Because she didn't want Tommy to keep on but she said she'd
get in touch with me about the little girl. She won't now.
Harrington, who's he? Well, the nerve of some people. After
all the time I slaved away with that boy. After all the extra
half-hours without any additional charge. I don't know what's
happened to my lucky star these past months. What's happened
to me, anyway? You'd think I had the plague, or something.
That's four pupils gone in the last six months. Only little Meg
Brannon now and goodness knows how long that will last.
As much ear for music as a heathen chinee.

The clock in Cornmarket said four. She walked down Ann
Street with its jumble of cheap shops, its old shawled women
and its loud crying fruit vendors. I wonder will the Technical
School take me on for the embroidery class next term? Mr
Heron said he hoped he would be able. But nobody does
embroidery any more, that's the truth of it. They have to
have enough to make a class. And you can't sell it, ruin your
eyes at piece rates.

She came out near the docks and turned hastily back towards
the centre of the city. The docks were no place for a woman
to be wandering about, in among all those rough pubs and
the Salvation Army. At Castle Junction the clock said half-past
four. Go home. She walked back towards Camden Street. It
began to drizzle but she was thinking about money, so she
paid it no heed.
Her Aunt D'Arcy had never discussed money. A lady does
not discuss her private affairs, she used to say. And the D'Arcys
never had to look where their next penny was coming from.
There had been the house on the Lisburn Road. She had
thought that it xvould fetch quite a bit. And then her aunt had
said that Judy wouldn't have to worry, there would be plenty
until the right nlan came along and even if he didn't. That was
a long time ago, she said that. Ten years. More, thirteen, if
I'm to be honest about it, Miss Hearne thought. First, there
was the mortgage on the house. And then the money we

owed Dan Breen. And the annuity she left me, it was small
then and nobody in the whole length and breadth of Ireland
could live on a hundred pounds a year nowadays.

O, I should have kept up my shorthand and typing, no
matter what. The piano lessons, yes, I tried to make a go of
it. And fair's fair, I was doing quite well until Mrs Strain
spread that story about Edie and me all over town. You might
know, being a Protestant, she wouldn't have one ounce of
Christian charity in her. Bad enough for me, but poor Edie,
lying up there in that home, couldn't raise a hand to help
herself. I should go and see her. But the last time, all those
bars on the windows and the old women in dressing-gowns.
Depressing. Mrs Strain, what. did she know anyway, going
off half-cocked like that? Amanda, her little girl's name. What
a silly name.

No charity, isn't it the truth. People have none. And the
Technical School, you'd think they could keep the embroidery
class going just for old times sake. After all, there might be a
revival of interest. Still, two girls dropped out last term, that
leaves only four, not enough unless they can find new students.

She stopped at Bradbury Place. The rain was quite heavy
now. She went into a shop and bought a quarter-pound of
Kraft cheese and a bag of thick white biscuits. I have enough
cocoa, she said, two cups. An apple, I must buy, to get the
goodness of some fruit.

It was half-past five when she walked up Camden Street,
wet with the rain in her shoes and her hair tossed by the
blustery rainy wind. She let herself in as quietly as possible,
hoping Mrs Henry Rice would think she had come home
later, after having dinner out somewhere. She took her shoes
off as she went up the creaky stairs.

The bed-sitting-room was cold and musty. She lit the gas
fire and the lamps and drew the grey curtains across the bay
window. Her wet raincoat she put over a chair with a part of
the Irish News underneath to catch the drops. Then she took
off her wet stockings and hung her dress up. In her old wool
dressing-gown she felt warmer, more comfprtable. She put
her rings away in the jewel box and set a little kettle of water

on the gas ring. It boiled quickly and she found only enough
cocoa for one cup.

The rain began to patter again oft the windows, growing
heavier, soft persistent Irish rain, coming up Belfast Lough,
caught in the shadow of Cave Hill. It settled on the city, a
night blanket of wetness. Miss Hearne ate her biscuits, cheese
and apple, found her spectacles and opened a library book by
Mazo de la Roche. She toasted her bare toes at the gas fire
and leaned back in the armchair, waiting like a prisoner for
the long night hours.

CHAPTER 3.

Shoes shined, clean white shirt, tie knotted in a neat windsor,
suit pressed, top o' the morning, James Patrick Madden went
in to breakfast. His good humour fled when he saw them.
Didn't even look up, except the new one. Miss Hearne. She
said good morning. He gave her his old doorman smile, a sort
of half wink in it.

'And how are you today?'

'O, I'm very well, thanks.'

Not a sound out of the rest. May, with her face in the
paper. And that Miss Friel, she thinks I'm a lush, or something.
Lenehan, a know-nothing that thinks he knows everything.

His sister poured tea. Tea, Mr Madden considered a beverage
for women in Schraffts. A good cup of coffee now, that would
hit the spot.

'O, Mr Madden!' (She was all worked up about something.)
'I happened to be in the library yesterday and I was
looking at a picture book about New York. It reminded me of
our conversation. About it being such a wonderful city, I mean.'

He smiled at her. Friendly, she is. And educated. Those
rings and that gold wrist watch. They're real. A pity she looks
like that.

'That's nice,' he said. 'Quite a town, eh? You see the

Brooklyn Bridge?'

'O, yes indeed.'

Pleased, Mr Madden smiled again. In the four months he
had been back in Ireland, he had found very few Irish people
who showed any interest in the States. Most of them seemed
to resent comparisons. An intelligent woman like Miss Hearne
was a pleasure to talk to.

'And the George Washington,' he said. 'That's quite a bridge. We got a lot of good bridges in New York. There's
the Triborough...'

'There's a whole lot of bridges in Ireland too, but we're not
for ever talking about them,' Lenehan interjected sourly.

Who asked him? 'Bridges! You call them bridges? Listen
Lenehan, I'm talking about real bridges. Big bridges.'

'Ahh, give over,' Lenehan said. 'Sure, that's all you Yanks
ever think of. Blowing about how big and grand everytki
is in the States. What would be the point of building a b
bridge over the Lagan, or the Liffey? Answer me that no,
And if it's bridges you want, we were building bridges in Ireland before America was ever thought of.'

Why isn't he at work, instead of sticking his nose in where
he's not wanted? But he remembered that it was Saturday a
Lenehan had all the time in the world on Saturdays. No good
talking, he concluded sadly. He'll just ball it up. Better
speak to her later, when we're alone. Maybe ask her out,
something.

'Good morning all,' a soft voice said and they all looked
at the door. Bernard, his dressing-gown trailing, his plum
body in red silk pyjamas. Mrs Henry Rice smiled fondly at
her boy.

'Come and sit down, Bernie. Have a cup of tea.'

'I rang my bell twice and not a sound out of that girl
Bernard said. 'i suppose she was out all night gallivantin
with some soldier or other. I'm starved, lying up there, waitin
for her.'

'Maybe some bacon and egg?' Mrs Henry Rice said
coaxingly.

Miss Friel, Mr Lenehan, Miss Hearne and Mr Maddel
looked up, anger plain as hunger in their faces.

'Bernie's very delicate,' Mrs Rice said to no one in par
ticular. 'The doctor says he has to eat a lot to keep his strength up.'

Bernard sat down and seemed to think about food. Then
gleefully watching the boarders, he gave his order. 'Two eggs:
Mama, four rashers of bacon. And Mary might fry sour
bread to go with it.'

Mrs Henry Rice, submissive, jingled the little bell. Marry,
came to the door and was given her orders. The boarder
exchanged glances, united in their hatred. Miss Friel, with the
air of a woman storming the barricades, picked up a piece of
toast, buttered it, then re-buttered it so that the wedge of
butter was almost as thick as the toast itself. There, she seemed
to say. If it's a fight you want, I just dare you to say a word.

Mrs Henry Rice ignored the butter waste. Her eyes were on
her darling as he sipped his tea.

'Well now,' Bernard said pleasantly. 'What were we talking
about when I interrupted? The wonders of America, was it?'

Mr Madden bit angrily into a hard piece of toast. Ham and
eggs for him. Nothing for me, her brother.

Miss Hearne, watching him, saw that he was angry. And
no wonder. Really, it was a bit thick, feeding up that fat
good-for-nothing while the boarders, not to mention her own
brother, went without. Still, it was better to pass these things
over. Bad temper, bad blood, as Aunt D'Arcy used to say.

'Yes, we were talking about America,' Miss Hearne told
Bernard. 'About how wonderful it must be.'
'And what's wrong with Ireland?' Mr Lenehan wanted to

know.

'O, I suppose when all's said and done, there's no place like
Ireland,' Miss Hearne agreed. 'I know. Most of my friends
have travelled on the Continent and you should hear some of
the things they say. Backward, why you wouldn't believe how
backward the Italians are, for instance.'

Mr Madden coughed. 'Pardon me, Miss Hearne, but there's
nothing backward about the States. Why, the States is a
hundred years ahead of Europe in most things. And ahead of
Ireland too. Why, Ireland is backward, backward as hell.' He
stopped in confusion. 'If you know what I mean,' he finished
lamely.

'America sells refrigerators for culture,' Bernard said. 'They
come to Europe when they need ideas.'

'Culture! What do you mean, culture? Why, we've got the
finest museums in the world, right in New York City. Grand
opera at the Met, a dozen plays on Broadway, the finest
movies in the world. Anything you want, New York's got it.'
'Now James--' Mrs Henry RAce said. 'No need to shout.'
Mr Madden smiled an angry smile. 'What have you got
here in the way of entertainment?' he asked Bernard. 'A few

movies - British movies. And a few old 'B' pictures. No clubs,
and a couple of plays that wouldn't last a night anywhere else.
What have you got, eh?'

'That's not the point,' Bernard said. 'I'm not talking about

Belfast.'

'And what are you talking about then? What do you know,
a kid of your age that never was further than Dublin?'

Bernard grinned at Lenehan. 'The atom bomb, Mr Lenehan.
That's the American contribution to Western civilisation. Am
I right?'

'Damn right,' Lenehan said. 'And they didn't even discover
that. Sure, it was the Europeans who worked out their sums
for them. They got the theory right and then they let the
Yanks build it.'

'And who else could of built it?' Mr Madden shouted.
'Who else had to build it?' Bernard said. 'Sure, they'd never
have beaten the Japs without it. And now they want to ruin
Europe while they try it out on the Russians. Culture, he

says.

'And doesn't somebody have to stand up to the Prussians?'
Miss Hearne said indignantly. 'Godless atheists, that's what
they are. They're worse than Hitler, far worse.'

'No worse than the Protestants and Freemasons that are
running this city,' Mrs Henry Rice cried. 'Hitler was no
worse than the British.'

Mr Madden brought his fist down hard on the table,
upsetting his teacup. 'Okay! Okay! Tell me the Russkies arc
nice guys. But don't ask us to help you when the commies
come running up this street, yelling, "throw out your
women!"'

The very thought of it gave Miss Hearne the shudders.
'Quite right, Mr Madden. The Pope himself has denounced
them. It's a holy crusade is needed, and America will be in
the van.'

'In what van?' Mr Madden wanted to know. 'America will
be out front, that's what.' He glared at Bernard, who had
started to giggle. 'We didn't ask to get in any of Europe's
wars, did we? We didn't ask to come over and win them for

you. But brother, you hollered loud enough for us to come
running when the chips were down.'

'You're in Ireland, remember that, Uncle James,' Bernard
said in his soft, compelling voice. 'Ireland stays neutral in
anybody else's troubles. So don't belabour me about intervention.
What are you anyway, an American or an Irishman?
When you came home from the States, you hadn't a good
word to say for the place. But let anyone else say a word
against it and you're up like a tiger.'

'That's what I'd like to know,' Lenehan said, cocking his
birdy head sideways. 'That's just what I'd like to know. If it
was so blooming terrific in America, why did you ever come
home? And why is all the Yanks flocking over here every
summer and telling us how wonderful Ireland is?'

Mr Madden gasped like a big fish landed on a dock. But he
said nothing. Miss Friel, who had read steadily throughout
the discussion, closed her book and stood up. 'I suppose that
clock is right?'

'Right by the wireless. I set it just when the pips struck
eight,' Mrs Henry Rice said.

'Well, I must run then,' Miss Friel announced to the
company.

The others appeared not to notice her departure. Bernard
received his ample breakfast from the maid and settled in to eat
it. Mr Lenehan slurped his tea, watching Mr Madden over the
rim of his cup. Mr Madden surveyed the scene, then stood up.
He nodded pointedly at Miss Hearne. 'So long now,' he said.

'O, are you off, then?' She smiled up at him to show she
was on his side.

'Well, I guess I've got more to do than sit here listening to a
couple of Irish minute men.'

Lenehan put down his teacup with a clatter. 'Is it me you're
referring to? And what's a minute man, if I might ask?'
'Bunch of guys around New York hand out leaflets. Irish-American
patriots, they call themselves. Screwballs.'

Lenehan pecked his head forward like a rooster in attack.
'What d'you mean, Irish?' he said thickly. 'Are you implying
that...?'

Mr Madden chuckled. 'We get all kinds of screwballs in
New York. Now, take these guys, they're just like the people
in Belfast. No matter what the argument is, they always drag
Ireland in. Always handing out leaflets against the British.
Why, nobody in New York, or anywhere else, gives a good
ghaddam-pardon me, ladies-what happens to the Six
Counties.'

'Is that a fact?' Lenehan shouted. 'Well, the British give a damn, for one. And...'

'There's the whole wide world to worry about. So why
bother about Ireland?' Mr Madden said. 'The Irish, I'll to
you the trouble with the Irish. They're hicks.'

'Look who's talking. You were a hick once yourself.'
'Hicks,' Mr Madden repeated, smiling happily. 'They think
everybody is interested in their troubles. Why, nobody cares
nobody. A little island you could drop inside of Texas an
never see, who cares? Why, the rest of the world never heard
of it.'

'Is that a fact?' Lenehan shouted. 'And you call yourself a
Irishman. An Orangeman, more likely. Well, I'll have yo
know, my fine Yank, that there's more famous men eve
came out of Ireland than ever came out of America. And I'
have you know that there's plenty of better Irishmen in
States than you, thanks be to God. And furthermore...'

Mr Madden's drink-red face was beaming now. 'Yeah?' he
said. 'That's what you think.' And he turned his back on the
shouting clerk. He walked slowly out of the room, dragging,.
his left leg a little.

Outside in the hall he burst out laughing. I got him. The
slow burn he was getting up when I told him about
minute men. Both of them, never saw anything but their
backyard. Miss Hearne saw my point. An educated woman

He climbed the stairs to his room. Bernard, the fat slob.
couldn't insult him. That - ah, forget it. Forget it. Don't le
him get you down.

His fedora went down over his right eye. From the wardrobe
he picked his fall coat, imported mohair, light tan, the
coat he bought to come home in. So's I'd look good. And who

cares? In this town, nobody'd know the difference. He slammed
the front door as he went out.

But walking into the city, his anger disappeared like bubbles
from water turned off the boil. Instead, the heavy depression
of idleness set in. Walking alone, he remembered New York,
remembered that at ten-thirty in the morning New York
would be humming with the business of making millions,
making reputations, making all the buildings, all the merchandise,
all the shows, all the wisecracks possible. While he
walked in a dull city where men made money the way
charwomen wash floors, dully, alone, at a slow methodical Rice . In Belfast Lough, the shipyards were filled with the
clang and hammer of construction, but no sound was heard
in the streets. At the docks, ships unloaded and loaded cargoes,
but they were small ships, hidden from sight behind small
sheds. In Smithfield market, vendors lounged at their stalls
and buyers picked aimlessly at faded merchandise. In the city's
shops housewives counted pennies against purchase. In the
city's banks, no great IBM machines clattered. Instead, clerkly
men wrote small sums in long black ledgers.

Mid-morning. James Patrick Madden walked into town,
favouring his bad leg, home, back home in a land where all
dreams were calculable and only the football pools offered
outrageous fortune. A returned Yank who hadn't made his
pile, a forgotten face in the great field of Times Square, an
Irishman, self-exiled from the damp hills and barren rocky
places of his native Donegal. No lucky break, now or ever.
Nothing to do.

Before the accident he had worked twenty-nine years in
New York and at no time had more than three hundred dollars
to his name. On the credit side, he had educated his motherless
daughter, sent her to a convent, seen that she never wanted.
On the credit side, America had always found him jobs: subway
cleaner, ticket taker in a stadium, counter help in a
cafeteria, janitor, hall porter, club bouncer, and, last and best,
hotel doorman. A good job, with good tips.

There had been other comforts. Drink to warm and cheer,
the odd fast buck, joyfully spent, the blowhard talk, passed

hopefully among the boys. Companionship in a land of lonely
joiners. And being Irish, you could wear it like a badge in
New York City. Religion, a comfort for the next world, not
this. And good to know you were on the winning team.

And then there was the dream. The dream of all Donegal
men when they first came across the water. The dream that
some day the pile will be made, the little piece of land back
home will be bought and the last years spent there in peace
and comfort. A dream soon forgotten by most. Making good
means buying goods. Goods attach, they master dreams and
change them. The piece of land in County Donegal becomes a two-tone convertible. The little farm that Uncle Sean might
let go changes to a little place in Queen's. Making your pile
means making your peace with the great new land. But the
dream still has its uses. And its addicts. It serves for the others,
for the men under the el on a December night, for the hundreds
of thousands of Irish who never had a gimmick, a good connection,
a htmdred dollar bill, or a piece of a business. For
them, for Madden, the dream was there for warming over
with beer or bourbon. The little place went Hollywood in the
mind. The fields grew green, the cottage was always milk
white, the technicoloured corn was for ever stooked, ready for
harvest.

The harvest never came. But it had come for him, for
James Patrick Madden, a lucky sonofabitch. It had come out
of nowhere on a City bus, making a quick getaway in traffic
against a changing light. It had come with sudden pain, then
vomit and oblivion in a careening, screaming ambulance
headed through all lights for Bellevue. It had come fast in an
out-of-court settlement. Ten thousand dollars in his fist and
a chance to make the hom.ecoming dream come true.

And so, James Patrick Madden, home, reached the centre of
the city and stood there undecided. Behind him, Donegall
Place and the formal pomposity of City Hall; before him,
Royal Avenue, Fifth Avenue of the city, a jumble of large
buildings, small to his eye. The centre, where he stood, Castle
Junction, to him a streetcar re-routing stop, an insignificance,
an insult to senses attuned to immensity.

He boarded an Antrim Road bus, escaping his disappointment,
and sat up top on the double-deck, thinking of Fifth, of
the parades, of the clear brilliant fall weather, the hot reek
of summer, the crisp delightful nip of winter. But saw the
grimy half-tones of this ugly town, saw the inevitable rain
obscure the window-pane, felt the steamy sodden warmth
rise from the clothes of his fellow passengers.

His destination was Bellevue, a municipal park under the
shadow of Cave Hill. The park, formal, unlovely, its amusements
a mere glimmer of Palisades or Coney Island, had
already disappointed him. But he liked the long ride and the view of the iough. From the observation point you could see
ships sail out to the Irish sea, watch the soft hills melt under
approaching rainclouds. For Madden, it was as though, standing
there, he stood at the gateway to all the things he had left
behind, all the things he had ever done. It was a link \vith his
other world.

But that morning the link was broken. The rain wept itself
into a lashing rage and the lawns, the cards, the approaches to
the park were deserted. He got off the bus, huddled under a
shelter, and, after fifteen minutes, caught the next bus back.
It was twelve-thirty when he reacled Royal Avenue again.
Time for a bite of lunch.

He had set himself an allowance of a pound a day, plenty,
if he watched the drink. But when the bus deposited him at
Castle Junction, he turned towards a public house and went
in the door of the saloon bar, stiff-legged and eager. The
drink had always been a trouble. And now, with so many long
days to fill and with the unsurety of his plans, it was the only
thing that brightened his homecoming.

Behind the bar John Grogan bid him good day. Mr Madden
ordered a Bass Number One and a ham sandwich. John Grogan
served it, wiped his hands on a white towel and went down to
the end of the bar to check his stock. Mr Madden bit into the
sandwich, eased his fedora to the back of his head, and thought
of a trip to Dublin. He ate the rest of the sandwich and
dismissed the trip as too expensive. Besides, who did he
know in Dublin, and what would he do there? With this

prospect disappearing, he reviewed, rejected, turned painful
corners, came back to old faded dreams, touched them lightly,
abandoned them.

He was alone in the bar excepting two men who sat in a
booth at the back, talking business over pints of Guinness.
Alone, and he couldn't help thinking.

On the credit side there was the fact that a pound a day was
less than three dollars and three dollars would not be enough
in New York City. Cheaper to live in Ireland. And May
hadn't asked him for any rent yet. And Ireland was where
you wanted to be, he told himself bitterly. Away from that
Hunky bastard with his snide cracks and his bigshot ways.

That Hunky. Steve Broda, real estate salesman, Newark,
New Jersey; owner of a cream Buick convertible with whitewall
tyres; owner of a twenty-five-thousand-dollar ranch style
bungalow home; husband of Sheila Madden, only child of
James Patrick Madden, of the Bronx. Sheila, long of leg,
blonde of hair and one hundred per cent America. Not a sign
of the Irish in her. Sheila, a tiny squalling red-face when the
nurse gave her into her father's arms, November, 1922, two
weeks after Annie died.

Steve and Sheila, second generation, hating their forbears.
Old Man Broda, with his funny talk. He was on to them
though. He saw it before I did. That sonofabitch, laying her
before they were married, a nice thing for a convent girl. And
me, Mr Madden remembered, me he called a dumb Irish mick.
Ashamed of me, him that couldn't keep his trousers zipped
until he took her to the priest. And he made her as bad.
Ashamed of me, me that brought her up, that educated her,
that never left himself a nickel as long as she needed it. A
doorman, he said I should have done better- ahh-have a
drink.

'Another Bass.'

The time of the accident. Me laid off, it was only natural
she'd ask me to come and live with them. But he didn't want
that, the Hunky, too good for me he was. And then when the
compensation came through, you'd think he got it for me,
you'd think I was spending his money, instead of my own.

Whyn't you go back to Ireland, Dad? He put her up to saying
that. You've always wanted to, Dad. Steve will help, I'm sure
he will. He'll help, all right. Anything to get rid of me.

Hell, I got dough. I can get on a boat and go anywhere.
Sailing up the Battery. Statue of Liberty. Hello. I'd park my
bags and hightail it over to Mooney's, under the el. See their
faces when I walk in. Bad from the ould sod. And how was
it, Jimmy boy? How was it? Back from the ould sod. And
you can keep it, brother. Argument. That'd make an argument.
Culkin crying in his beer about Croke Park in 9. I'd
give it to him. Horseshit, I'd say. You never had it so good,
Dan. We never knew when we were well off.

The door of the saloon banged open and a man came in,
green pork-pie hat, trench coat, white chamois gloves. His
shoes were old brogues, beautifully shined. His moustache was
straw-coloured, his nose was long and his eyes were large and
watering. He looked uncommonly like an ageing parrot.

'Goddammit, it's cold!' he called out. 'John, set me up a
glass of port, like a good man. First today. And bow's our
American friend today? What's the word from New York?'

'I'm fine and dandy, Major, fine and dandy,' Mr Madden
said, giving his old doorman smile, his big tip wink. 'But that
rain's a helluva note. Wouldn't you say that's a helluva note?'

The major peeled his gloves off and sat down on a high
stool beside Madden. His hands were delicate, yellowed by
tobacco, and permanently shaking. He drew the glass of port
towards him carefully and lifted it fast to toss back in his
throat.

'Godblessus and saveus, but that warms all the way,' he
said. 'Now, John, I'll trouble you for a ,piece of that meat pie
and another glass of this excellent port.

John Grogan put a slice of pie on a plate, put a knife and
fork beside it, poured another glass of port. Then he wiped
his hands on a towel and stood with his buttocks resting
against the back of the bar. He folded his arms, a quiet man,
a watchful man.

Major Gerald Mahaffy-Hyde ate the pie, every last crumb
of it. He drank half of his second glass of port. Then he saw

John Grogan waiting, a quiet, watchful man. He took a ten
shilling note from his handsome wallet and paid. The wallet
contained only ten shillings. He put the wallet away, slid the
change into his trousers pocket and turned to Mr Madden.

'You know,' he said reflectively, 'there's no country in the
world where the cost of living is going up the way it is here.
And it's these damn socialist influences over in Britain. That's
what did the damage. Never mind whether our fellows are in,
or those labour cranks, the result is the same. The harm's been
done. Soak the rich and all that. And dammit, a man like
myself, retired on a pension, he's the victim, do you see? These
damn socialists have no use for us. They're out to ruin us,
that's their game.'

Mr Madden cradled his Bass. 'Socialistic, eh? Back home in
the States we had that trouble.'

'Most interesting,' the major said, nodding his parrot head.
'Of course, you fellows over there didn't stand any nonsense.
Quite right too. Harm's been done here. Sometimes it makes

me wonder whether a fellow wouldn't be better tO find himself
some island to retire to. Like the West Indies. Cheap, lots

of servants, sunshine and damn good rum.'

A bare-breasted native girl shyly dropped her sarong. Tuan
Madden patted her smooth rump, raised a rum punch to his
lips. 'M'mm, something in that, Major. I never thought of it
that way. Not like Ireland, cold and rain all the time. You
know, a guy could go out there, set up a little business, something
the natives don't have, maybe a curio shop for the
tourists. A little capital, you could have yourself a time.'

'Get away from it all,' the major said with relish. 'Let them
have their century of the common man in Ireland if they want
it. People like myself, people who helped to keep the country
running when these socialist fellows were hanging around the
street corners of Britain, we're the ones they're out to get.'

Apolitical, Mr Madden dismissed all this. 'Get yourself set
up, maybe a little store, get some local help to work for you,
sort of supervise, eh?'

'O, I've been out in those waters,' Major MahaffyHyde
said, looking speculatively at his empty, port glass. 'Jamaica,

Bermuda, Haiti, Cuba. Some wonderful spots. I remember in
Haiti, it's a nigger republic, you know, some of the white men
there lived like kings. Great whacking big houses, villas,
mansions, a dozen servants. Pretty little mulattoes. Hot
blooded little things, the tropics, the sun does it. Fondle a few
round bottoms!'

'Great big white mansions,' Mr Madden chortled. 'Brother I'
His eyes saw past the oak panelled bar to a distant shore.

'Niggers run the place,' the major said. 'But there's no race
hatred. Everybody speaks French.'

Mr Madden saw Harlem, remembered an ugly incident on
Lennox Avenue. P,.azors. Ugh! 'I don't like jigs. New York's full of them.'

The major looked longingly at the empty glass in his hand.
'This is different, old man. Some beautiful little brown wenches
in these places. Get yourselfa maid and all the damn comforts
of home for about three pounds a month.' He tried a gambit.
'Care for another?'

'Dark meat, eh?' Mr Madden chuckled. 'No, no, this one's
on me-John- two more.'

'Why, there are red-headed natives all over those islands,'
the major said. 'In Jamaica, blacks, name of Murphy. The
Irish planted their seed there, all right. Olden days, pirates,
deserters. Some wonderful stories. And their descendants.
Imagine having a brown nubile little Murphy on your knee.'
His parrot lips curved wickedly. 'We Irish conquered by
peaceful penetration,' he chuckled.

Mr Madden slapped him on the back. 'I bet you did your
bit yourself, Major, when you were with the British Army,
eh, Major?'

'By God, I did, James. By God, I did!'

John Grogan quietly placed a glass of port and a bottle of
Bass on the bar. He wiped his hands on a towel and went back
to his books. Major Mahaffy-Hyde sighted the port glass,
grasped it in his shaking, delicate hand and leaned back, a good
mercenary, giving value in talk. Encouraging Madden to
dream, helping him towards drunkenness, towards the open
confessional of drinking talk.

'By God, I think you're right, James. A fellow like you, an
American, he'd kalow a lot of tricks. Why, you fellows are
natural salesmen. Dammit, if Americans could sell refrigerators
to the bloody Eskimos, they could sell anything to those
niggers. Yes, James, I can see you taking your ease in your
own villa with a couple of comely bed-warmers by your
side.'

'You got a point, Major. You got a point. Now, take
the business end. Take soft drinks. Now, if I could get a
concession...'

Shortly after four, John Grogan ceded his place at the bar
to Kevin O'Kane. Before leaving, he respectfully approached
Mr Madden and asked him if he xvould mind settling up now.
Mr Madden stopped talking. Major Mahaffy-Hyde excused
himself and went to the toilet. Mr Madden paid the reckoning.
Major Mahaffy-Hyde returned to find Mr Madden sitting
with the dejected air of a man who knows he is half drunk and
has been caught for all the rounds. The major felt in his pocket
and threw some silver on the bar.
'One for the road, now,' he said. 'My treat. Let's drink to
the new king of the islands.'

'Mine's a double,' Mr Madden said roughly. Sonofabitch
never paid for a drink. Yankee walking free drink concession,
that's how he figures me.

He remembered Creeslough. How often he'd thought of it
in the years when he rode the subway trains, when he stared
across Times Square on rainy afternoons. How he had seen
it in memory, transformed, a vision of peace and a slow
peaceful way of living. And the reality, when he went back.
The long bleak street and the warm cosiness of LafFerty's pub.
Free pints of porter, boys. Madden, did you say your name
was? Well, is that a fact? A son of old DintT Madden, of the
Glen. Well, do you tell me now? Well, thank you very much, I will have another, Mr Madden. And what is it like in the
States these days? Do you tell me so? All of them, country
boys and men with their tongues hanging out, waiting for
him to buy another. Spilling his guts out to them, talking
about the old days and them, Donegal men, listening to the Yank, waiting for him to stand another round. And when he
stopped buying, they began to talk about corn and crops, and
pigs and the fair day. All a million miles away from what he
knew. He had no place there.

And now, in Belfast, the same game. Your own fault, Mr
Madden told Mr Madden drunk. After this one, get the hell

OUt.

The double whiskey was served. He drank it in anger. Then
got unsteadily off his stool and said good afternoon to the
barman.

'I'll walk along with you, James,' the major said, putting

on his white chamois gloves.
'I got a date.'
'Oh-hob! A lady fair?'

'Yeah.' Trapped by the falsehood, he elaborated. 'A Miss
Hearne. A business proposition. We might go in a deal
together. I got something lined up.'

'Well, that's interesting. I didn't know you were going to
set up shop here.'

'Ahh, I got a couple of deals cooking,' Mr Madden said
hurriedly, shutting off the talk. 'Be seeing you.'

He went unsteadily to the door, pushed it open, met the
wet face of the afternoon. Rain. What a country!

He walked out into Royal Avenue, crowded now with
people going home from work. His fedora rode the back of
his head, his drinker's face was wet with rain drizzle. Can't go
home like this. Loaded.

A honking post office van honked at him and the driver
roared a local insult: 'The tap of yer head's chocolate I'

'Get the hell outa my way,' Mr Madden roared, stumbling
in the gutter beside the van.

A black uniformed policeman took his elbow. 'Get back on
the pavement. The light's against you.'

Mr Madden was sobered by the sight of the arm that held
his arm. 'Okay.'

Watch it, he counselled his drunken self. Watch it. You're
loaded, he could take you in.

He nodded to the policeman and the policeman let go his

arm. He walked off.crookedly, watched by the policeman. A
movie. Sleep it off. He saw a movie house. Paid, went inside,
sprawled out in a back row and slept. Snored. Somebody
complained. An usher's flashlight found his face, woke

him

He watched the movie for a while, slept again and opened

his eyes when the lights went on at the change of programme.
His watch said nine. He went out, ate in a cheap caf and
walked back to Camden street. Another wasted day. The hell
with it.

Sober now, he opened the front door quietly and looked
down the hall to see if the light was on in his sister's ground
floor nest. All was dark. Painstakingly (only be an argument
if she smelled it off me again) he went up the stairs, past Miss
Friel's door, past Miss Hearne's, and turned towards the flight
that led to the third floor and his room.

There was a noise up there, a whispering. He waited again.
May? With Bernie maybe. No. He tested each step when he
moved again. The light in Bernard's room was out. Lenehan's
door was ajar and the noise of Lenehan's snores could be
heard in the landing. Mr Madden went past this door to his
own and turned the handle.

Behind him, he heard a loud sudden giggle. He swung
around, open-mouthed, in the rage of a man caught ill a
foolish action.

'O, no,' he heard. 'No, no.

A woman's voice, soft, worried, sensual. It came from the
half flight of stairs that led to the attic. Jesus, it's the maid. I
wonder what...?

He went up. The light was on under her door. Giggles, a
creak of bedsprings, a whispering. He waited, an old hotel
doorman, waited.

'0, Bernie, Bernie don't.'

Mr Madden wrenched the door open.

'What's goin' on here?'

Mary, transformed by nudity, sat on the edge of the narrow
broken-down bed. She wore only coarse black lisle stockings
and a pair of faded blue knickers.

And Bernard. Mother naked. Mr Madden came inside and
closed the door. So that's it. And her only a kid. But what a
kid. What a build.

Bernard found his red silk dressing-gown, dragged it around

him like a wrestler preparing to leave the ring.

'Want something?'

Mr Madden's face bled red with anger. 'What do you mean,
want something? What the hell do you think this is, a whorehouse?
A kid of her age, I should...'

'Go back to your room,' Bernard said venomously. 'At
once. It's none of your business.'

'None of my business?' Madden watched as the girl pulled
a blanket offthe bed, wrapping it around the white nakedness
of her body. Only a kid, but...

Chris, what'm I thinking? (Briefly, the picture of Sheila and
that Hunky swam before his eyes. It's guys like him that - and
young girls like her) 'What the hell you mean, my business?
Whose business is it? What would your mother say, h?
What's your mother goin' to say?'

Mary began to weep, black curls tumbling over her face.

'Never mind my mother. What are you, a Peeping Tom,
or something?'

With an effort Madden took his eyes offthe girl. 'So it's me
is in the wrong, eh? Well, we'll see about that. What about y ou? What about her? What would her father say, dirty little
oor, a nice thing for a Catholic home.'

Righteous indignation filled him, flooding his brain with
the near-ecstasy of power. The day's futile drinking, the loneliness,
the frustrations, all swam away and left this glorious rage
in their stead. No respect. Sheila, listen to your father! Laughing
at me- taking her pants down behind my back, that
Hunky. And her. As bad. Listen to your father. I'll show...
I'm your father! Old brawler, old underdog authoritarian, he
moved towards the terrified girl. 'And you - get your clothes
on. Tramp, hoot in a decent house.'

His fingers tore the blanket away from her body. Master of
the room, he smacked, open-handed, leaving red marks on
her thighs.

'Dirty little hoor!' He grabbed her, fondled her in rage,
sprawled her across the bed.

'0, mister, please mister. Don't mister.'

'Leave her alone I'

'Dirty little hoor I' Standing over her, he flailed her buttocks.
Sheila, the woodshed, should of paddled you sooner. I'll teach
you, teach you.

'Leave her alone! thv IaR aLOr I'

Bewildered, he allowed Bernard to pull him away. He
keeled over on his crippled foot, his breathing harsh and painful.
Weak, giddy, he watched ever widening circles explode
before his eyes.

It cleared. He saw Bernard's face. 'Come on,' he said. 'Get

back in your room.'
'You too.'
'Okay.'

They went out together, leaving the girl whimpering on
the bed. Stood in the darkness of the corridor in the exhaustion

follows passion.

tha, it should tell May. I should tell your mother. A kid like

that, you could be arrested. I could fix you, all right.'

'Fix who? You went mad in there. Stark mad. You'd have

raped her if...'

'I'd of what?'

Bernard put a pudgy finger to his lips. 'Shh! Keep your
voice down. You'll waken the whole house. I could make it
sound bad against you too. And Mary would back me up. It
would be two against one, remember that.'

'You're crazy...' But what happcned? Wearily, Madden
tried to remember. Saw her. Only a kid. Like Sheila. I paddled
her. Lost my head. That's all. That's art.

'You screwed her, not me,' he said angrily. 'Don't forget
that.'

'All right. But you pulled the blanket offher.'

Did I? What's the matter with me? What a shit I am. Lost
my head. The drink, my trouble. But him, he's as bad. Worse.
Did it sober. 'All right, forget it,' he said. 'Let's go to bed.'

In uneasy alliance they descended the stairs.

CHAPTER 4.

Sunday was the great day of the week. To begin with, there
was Mass, early Mass with Holy Communion, or a late Mass
where you were likely to see a lot of people. The special thing
about Sunday Mass was that for once everyone was doing the
same thing. Age, income, station in life, it made no difference:
you all went to Mass, said the same prayers and listened to the
same sermons. Miss Hearne put loneliness aside on a Sunday
morning.

And on Sunday afternoons there was the visit to the
O'Neills, the big event of the week. It began with a long tram
ride to their house which gave you plenty of time to rehearse
the things you could tell them, interesting things that would
make them smile and be glad you had come. And then there
was the house itself, big and full of children, all shapes and
sizes, and to think you had known even the big ones since they
were so high. It was as though you were a sort of unoffidal
aunt. Almost.

On her first Sunday morning in Camden Street, Miss Hearne
decided to go to eleven o'clock Mass. After all, Saint Finbar's
was now her new parish and it would be nice to see the other
parishioners. She would wear her very best. Besides, some of
the boarders might be going to eleven. Mr Madden, perhaps.

But when Mr Madden came down to breakfast, she saw
that he looked ill, or (because she knew the dreadful signs of it)
as if he had been drinking. Still, he said good morning to her
very pleasantly. Although it was embarrassing the way he said
it. Because all the others were there and Mr Madden did not
speak to any of them.

Bernard said good morning to his uncle, unusually polite,
Miss Hearne thought. But Mr Madden gave Bernard a very
odd glance. As for Mr Lenehan, you could see he was still
angry about what Mr Madden had said yesterday.

But thank heavens Mrs Henry Rice carried the conversation
with a complaint about how, when she came home from

eight o'clock Mass, she found that Mary had run off" to nine
o'clock and left her with the breakfast to make.

'And with kippers to fry,' Mrs Henry Rice said, passing
a kippered herring and a slice of fried bread along to
Miss Hearne. 'It wouldn't be any other morning she'd take
it into her head to go to early Mass. No, she has to do it on
Sunday and me left here with the biggest breakfast of the
week.'

Miss Hearne agreed that you couldn't be after the maids
nowadays, they had it far too much their own way.

Miss Friel closed her book. 'It's a good thing the girl is
attentive to her religious duties. It's when they start missing
Mass and Holy Communion that you should be worried.
That's when they're up half the night with boys.'

'No fear of Mary getting mixed up with boys,' Mrs Hcnry
Rice said. 'Sure, she's only a child, just out of school.'

'This is a nice piece of kipper,' Mr Madden said. 'Nice to
have a change. I mean, instead of toast and tea.'

Nobody could say ailything to that, agree or disagree,
without insulting Mrs Henry It.ice to her face. So nobody
said anything. The meal continued in silence, Mr Madden
being the first to stop eating. He wiped his lips like an actor
finishing a stage meal and put his napkin down in great
satisfaction.

'Do you have the time, by any chance, Miss Hearne?'

She blushed. Of course the little wristlet watch was not
working, only there for show, and she hadn't the faintest.

'O, I'm sorry, but my watch must have stopped. I forgot to
wind it.'

'I think the clock's right,' Bernard said. 'It's twenty to
eleven.'

Miss Hearne put down her napkin. 'Goodness, I must hurry.
I'll miss the eleven o'clock if I don't get a move on.'

'I'm going to eleven o'clock Mass myself,' Mr Madden said.
'Mind if I walk along with you?'

'O, not at all. I'll be very glad of the company.'

Mrs Henry Rice looked at Bernard. 'Are you going to
eleven, Bernie?'

I'll go to twelve,' Bernard said, and the way he said it, Miss
Hearne knew he had no intention of going at all. No wonder
he talked like an atheist.

She and Mr Madden went upstairs to get their coats and
hats. They met in the hall a few minutes later and he opened
the front door for her, offering his arm as they went down the
steps. She did not take it. It seemed]ust a little bit forward, the
way he did it.

She was thinking of things to say as they went down
Camden Street. Then she saw his dragging walk and all words
left her. He has a bad leg, why did I never notice it? His walk,
dragging his left leg, and that shoe is specially built. OmyGod,
he's a crippled.

At the corner of the street they came face to face with the
reddish Gothic facade of Queen's University. He looked up at it.

'That Bernie. A college education, well they certainly didn't
teach him much.'

'He is a little queer,' she said tentatively.

'Queer? He's no queer, believe me. He's just a no good
mama's boy, never did a day's work in his life. Don't let that
poetry stuff fool you. That's just a gimmick, so's he can say
he's working. No, he's got a cinch. Why should he work
when May keeps him?'

He looked sideways at Miss Hearne. 'You been to college?
You seem like an educated woman,'

'No, I'm afraid the Sacred Heart convent in Armagh is as
far as I went,' Miss Hearne said pridefully, because, after all,
the Sacred Heart convent was the best in Ireland. The best
families sent their girls there. Would he know that, being an
American? 'It's considered the best convent, though,' she
added.

'I never went to college. Had to get out and hustle for
myself. I made out too, did fine.'

I wonder if he's rich? Out walking on a Sunday morning
with a strange man, what would Aunt D'Arcy have said?
Still, he looks quite prosperous and respectable. That limp,
you would hardly notice it. After all, I never noticed it before.

All Americans have money, they say. I wonder what he did
in the hotel, would it be rude to ask him?

'And did you go into the hotel business right away, when

you arrived in America?'

'No.'

They walked in silence for a while. 'Always had my own
car,' Mr Madden told the wind. 'Always had my ovn car,
even in the depression.'

She didn't know quite what to reply to this, but something
had to be said. 'People earn a lot of money in America, don't
they?'

'Some people. But it's a young man's country. They got no
use for you when they figure you're over the hill. Y'see, I
always had it in mind to come back to ireland when I was
older. Maybe marry again and settle down.'

Miss Hearne felt something turn over in her breast. 'And
did your poor wife pass on long ago?'

'The year we went over. She's dead goin' on thirty years.
It was the crossing that killed her, the boats were different in
those days. Had the baby about a week after we landed. Sheila,
my girl.'

'O, so you have a family then.'

'Well, just the one. She's married now. I was living with
her and the husband before I come home. I figured I was in
the way, lying up around the house after my accident. This
leg, y'see. So I told them I'm goin' back to Ireland, kids, I
said. Back home.'

He's lonely, thinking of his old age like that. But how odd
that he would discuss his private affairs without really knowing
her at all. It was like something in a story, people meeting,
struck by a common rapport, a spark of kinship or love.

Although that was silly and she was being daydreamy again.
'I'm sure your daughter must miss you, all the same.'
'Some chance. Kids nowadays don't care.'

They crossed the street as the light flashed green. He took
her arm as they stepped off the pavement. She did not reject
his aid.

'0, children of the present generation are awfully

thoughtless. Even here in Ireland. Friends of mine, the O'Neills...'

'Same thing here,' he interrupted. 'Come back to settle
down anti you can't even get respect from the likes of Bernie.'
'So you're planning to stay here?'

'Maybe. I got a couple of deals cooking. I might go to the
West Indies, I hear there's a lot of possibilities there. Depends.
Or I might go into business in Dublin. If I had a partner.'

I wonder if he sold? Over fifty certainly. Maybe younger.
But big, well-preserved, a man full of life and vigour. Did he
retire, I wonder, or was it the accident to his leg? They don't
retire early in the hotel trade, remember Mr Bunting that was
the manager of the Arcady hotel in Dublin, seventy, if he was
a day.

'Did you have a lot of running about to do in your job? In
hotel work, I mean? It must have been a terrible strain.'

'No, it was okay.' He did not elaborate. He did not speak
again until they reached the church and then only to ask if she
preferred to sit up at the front. They made the Sign of the
Cross together and his fingers brushed against hers in the
Holy Water font. Then they walked up the aisle and he stood'
aside to let her pass into the pew before him. The seat he had
chosen was directly under the pulpit. Before he knelt down,
Mr Madden took a clean white handkerchief out of his trousers
pocket and spread it on the dusty board to protect the knees of
his trousers. He found his large brown rosary, wrapped it
around liis knuckles, and placed himself in an attitude of prayer.

But he did not pray. He thought: I wonder would she tell
it in confession? When May said she ran offto early Mass this
morning, maybe it was to tell the priest on both of us, he
could 'phone back to the house and raise hell, a child, May said,
christ, some child, I should aave left her alone, none of my
business. Pulled the blanket off her, he said. Ah, the priest
couldn't do a thing like that, secrets of the confessional. And
she's a scared kid, little roundheels, couldn't have much
religion, just ran out because she was scared to face me at
breakfast. Ah, don't worry, you're okay, here in church with
Miss Hearne, a free woman, a lady, a pleasure to talk to her it

is. But if she knew about me, Miss Hearne, if she knew about
last night- ahh, I'm no good, drinking like that, pulling at
that kid, but she was old enough though, what a build. Christ
- I mean, Blessed Jesus Christ - why did I think that right in
the church, an impure and filthy thought right in God's house.
O my God i am heartily sorry that I have offended Thee and
because Thou are so good, I will not sin again. Not a mortal
sin, no, I never, only tried to break it up, teach her a lesson,
didn't do a thing. Act of contrition, that's absolution, couldn't
go to confession today anyway. Sunday, no confessions heard, if I die tonight, be in the state of grace. Say a rosary now, show
my good intentions. Forget all that dirty thoughts stuff.

This was religion. Religion was begging God's pardon on a
morning like this one when the drink had made your mouth
dry and the thing that happened last night with the serving
girl was painful to think about. It was making your Easter
duty once a year, going to Mass on Sunday morning. Peligion
was insurance. It meant you got security afterwards. It meant
you could always turn over a new leaf. just as long as you got
an act of perfect contrition said before your last end, you'd be
all set. Mr Madden rarely thought of Purgatory, of penance.
Confession and resultant absolution were the pillars of his
faith. He found it comforting to start out as often as possible
with a clean slate, a new and promising future.

Miss Hearne, seeing him begin to pray, took out her Missal
and set a little marker at the Gospel of the day. She was not,
she sometimes chided herself, a particularly religious person.
She had never been able to take much interest in the Children
of Mary, the Foreign Missions, the decoration of altars or any
of the other good causes in which married and single ladies
devote themselves to God and His Blessed Mother. No, she
had followed her Aunt D'Arcy's lead in that. Church affairs,
her aunt once said, tend to put one in contact with all sorts of
people whom one would prefer not to know socially. Prayer
and a rigorous attention to one's religious duties will contribute
far more towards one's personal salvation than the bickering
that goes on about church bazaars. Miss Hearne had her lifelong
devotion to the Sacred Heart. He was her guide and

comforter. And her terrible judge. She halt a special saint, to
whom she addressed her novenas: Anne, mother of Mary. She
used to have a special confessor, old Father Farrelly, Rest in
Peace. She had never missed Sunday Mass in her life, except
from real illness. She had made the Nine Fridays every year
for as long as she could remember. She went to evening devotions
regularly and never a day since her First Communion
had she missed saying her prayers.

Religion was there: it was not something you thought
about, and if, occasionally, you had a small doubt about something
in the way church affairs were carried on, or something
that seemed wrong or silly, well, that was the Devil at work
and God's ways were not our ways. You could pray for
guidance. She had always prayed for guidance, for help, for
her good intentions. Her prayers would be answered. God is
good.

As she knelt there, beginning her prayers, the organ ground
out a faltering start and the choir started up discordantly in
the gallery. Then the voices caught up with the music, lifted
above it and the priest appeared, shuffling across in front of
the altar, peering over the covered chalice so that he would
not trip on the carpet. Two small altar boys scuttled after
him, settling themselves on the altar steps with the ease and
nonchalance of little boot-blacks on the steps of some great
temple.

The Mass began. The choir sat down noisily in the gallery
as the priest mumbled the opening prayers. Miss Hearne looked
at him, the celebrant of the Mass, Father Quigley, he must be.
She kept her eyes on him tintil he turned, a tall mart with the
hollow cheeks and white face of an inquisitor. His hair was
still strong and black but it had'made its own tonsure, leaving
a little saucer of white baldness at the back. His hands, she
noticed, were long, with long spatulate fingers, gesturing
spiritual hands.

Then the organ groaned again and the choir stood up and
sang. The crowd of worshippers immediately set off a tictac
burst of coughing which rose in one part of the church, moved
on, died, then started up afresh in an entirely different place.

The latecomers jostled, whispered and shuffled at the back of
the church, and the singing of the choir was all but drowned
in the resultant noise and confusion.

But Miss Hearne knelt upright, her heart singing a Te Deum, a full chant which admitted no distraction. For here she was in
church, after all these years, with a good man kneeling beside
her, not the youngest or the handsomest surely, but a man
who had not forgotten her in the moment of meeting, a man
who had kept his faith and said his beads and had not been
turned away from God's love by bitterness or evil or any
sinful temptation.

She gave thanks then to the Sacred Heart that He had sent
her the trials and tribulations of her last lodgings that she
might move to Camden Street and meet Mr Madden and
walk with him to Mass, and from him hear the secret things
of his life. And she went up unto the altar of her Lord, her
Lord who rejoiced in her youth. She sang His praises and she
asked her soul why it was sad and why did it trouble her. I
believe in God, said the Missal, and she believed and praised
Him again for He was her salvation and her light.

'Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti!' cried the priest and she confessed
to Almighty God, to the Blessed Mary, ever Virgin,
Blessed Michael the Archangel, Blessed John the Baptist, the
Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and to all the saints and to
you father, that she had grievously sinned in thought, word
and deed. It was her fault, her fault, her most grievous fault.
Thus, the Kyrie and Gloria passed in alternate praise and blame
as the priest moved towards tlie first Gospel. The congregation
groaned and shuffled to its feet and the Gospel was read. Then
in the noise of the people kneeling again, the priest rushed
ahead to the OfFertory and turned around to become not the
living speech of the Missal but Father Francis Xavier Quigley,
tall, ascetic, hollow white, pointing an accusing finger at his
parishioners.

'Quiet!' he shouted. 'And let me tell those people who just
came in at the back of the Church that they're late for Mass,
that they've not fulfilled their obligation and that they should
be ashamed of themselves. They'd better leave now because

they'll have to come back to twelve o'clock Mass to fulfil
their duty.'

Then whirled, with a swinging lurch of vestments, back to
the altar. The congregation practised silence. But Mr Madden
turned his head towards Miss Hearne and winked. No laughing
matter, Miss Hearne thought. Father Quigley seemed like
a terribly stern man.

The priest offered the chalice and she read her Missal, thinking
of Father Quigley and of this tall man from across the
water who knelt beside her. Both big men, both stern men,
both men who were not afraid of anything. She shut her
Missal and offered up a special prayer to the Sacred Heart,
asking Him if this could be the answer to all her novenas and
good intentions: if this man who knelt beside her might not
be the one the Sacred Heart had chosen Himself to help her
in her moments of pain and suffering, to uphold her and help
her uphold the right, to comfort her and act as a good influence
in her struggle with her special weakness. And at the sacred
moment of the Consecration, she touched her breast three
times and asked the Sacred Heart for a sign, a sign that would
reveal to her whether He in His infinite patience and mercy
had answered her prayers.

Before the last Gospel the congregation sat up on the seats
and Father Quigley picked up the book of announcements
and made his way across in front of the altar. A tiny altar boy
ran ahead to open the gate and the parish priest went slowly
across the aisle to the pulpit, leafing through the lists of the
dead. As he mounted the pulpit steps, he was hidden from
the congregation and the whispering started again. But then
he emerged at the top like a watchman and the heads lifted,
the sounds died to silence. A the back of the church, the
ushers, moving quietly from long practice, passed the brass
collection plates among their number.

Father Quigley laid the announcement book on the edge of
the pulpit and sighted the clock underneath the organ loft.
It began to rain outside and the stained glass windows grew
dark, darkening the whole church as though it were evening
and the sun had sunk out of sight. In this gloom, this sombre

6t

preliminary lighting, the priest's white arid gold vestments
shone brightly out of the murk above his congregation. He
lifted his long white hand and made the Sign of the Cross.
Then he began:

'I had in mind to say a few words about the Gospel of today,
which you have all read, or at least the good people have read,
the ones that bring their Missals and prayer-books to Mass of a
Sunday morning and try to follow the Holy Sacrifice. But
I'm not going to talk about the Gospel, because this Gospel
doesn't deal with the subject which has to be settled in this
Church today, before this kind of hooliganism goes any
further.'

He paused, stared hollow-cheeked at the crowded gallery.
Then pointed a long spatulate finger at the people sitting
above.

'You know what I mean, you people up there,' he shouted
in hard flat Ulster tones. 'You that's jiggling your feet and
rubbing the backs of your heads along the fresh paint that was
put on the walls. I mean the disrespect to the Holy Tabernacle
and the Blessed Body of Our Lord here in it. I mean coming
in late for Holy Mass. I mean inattention, young boys giggling
with young girls, I mean running out at the Last Gospel before
the Mass is over, I mean dirtying up the seats with big bloothers
of boots, I mean the shocking attitude of people in this parish
that won't give half an hour to God of a Sunday morning but
that can give the whole week to the devil without the slightest
discomfort. I mean the young people, and a few of the older
ones too, some of them that should know better but don't
because ignorance and cheekiness is sometlfing that they pride
in and the House of God is just a place daey want to get in and
out of as fast as possible and without any more respect for it
than if it was a picture house, aye, not half as much, for you
can see those same people of a Saturday night, or any night
they have a couple of shillings in their pockets, you can see
them lining up two deep outside a picture house. But I'll ask
you one thing now, and. I want you to examine your consdence
and tell me if it isn't true. Have you ever seen tile young men
of this parish queuing up to get into a sodality meeting?Or have you ever seen the girls and women of this parish lining
up to get into the Children of Mary devotions? You have not,
and I'll tell any man he's a liar if he says he has. Because I
haven't and I'm not at cinemas or dog tracks or dance halls
during the week, I'm here, that's where I am, here in the
Church, with a few good souls listening to me and the benches
empty, the sodalities, .just a few good men stuck in the front
benches and the House of God empty, aye, empty.

'But the dog tracks aren't empty, are they now? Celtic Park
or Dunmore Park on the nights the dogs run, they're not
empty. Oh-ho no! No, no, the trams are full of young men
and old men, and the buses too, and those that don't have the p rice of the tram after the races are over are thick as flies on
e pavement. And the taxis are kept running full blast too.

Aye, there are dogs in those taxis, dogs sitting up like human
beings while human beings walk. And there are men in those
taxis too. Men with bags of money on their knees and bookmakers'
boards stuck on top of the taxis on the luggage racks.
Aye, dogs ride home in taxis while Irishmen of this parish
walk home without a penny piece in their pockets after giving
it all away without a murmur. But let me ask for the money
tomorrow for a new coat of paint for those walls that the
young people of this parish seem to take a delight in dirtying
up, and see the story I get. O Father, times has been very hard.
Ah, yes, very hard. But not too hard to give that week's wages
to the dogs. No, never that hard. And not too hard for the
young bits of girls nowadays to have plenty of money for
powder and paint and silk stockings and chewing gum and
cigarettes and all kinds of clothes which you wouldn't see on
a certain kind of woman in the old days. And not too hard to
slap down a couple of shillings any night in the week to go
into the cinema and look at a lot of people who've a moral
disgrace to the whole wide world gallivanting half naked in
glorious technicolour. No, no, there's always plenty of money
for that.'

He paused, breathing heavily. Looking up at him, Miss
Hearne saw his nostrils flare like a horse that has run a race.
Such a powerful speaker, she thought, so very direct. Not the

old style of priest at all, doesn't mince words, does he?
the young people, well, I think he's right, goodness knows=
those young girls I saw at...

'Plenty of money!' Father Quigley roared. 'Plenty of money i
Plenty of time! Plenty of time! Yes, the people of this parisk
have both of those things. Time and money. But they don't
have it for their church! They don't even have an hour of a
Sunday to get down on their bended knees before Our Blessed
Lord and ask for forgiveness for the rotten things they did
during the week. They've got time for sin, time for naked
dancing girls in the cinema, time to get drunk, time to ftll the
publicans' pockets and drink the pubs dry, time to run halfway
across the town and stand in the rain watching a bunch of
dogs race around a track, time to go to see the football matches,
time to spend hours making up their football pools, time to
spend in beauty parlours, time to go to foreign dances instead
of ceilidhes, time to dance the tango and the foxtrot and the
.jitterbugging, time to read trashy books and indecent magazines,
time to do any blessed thing you could care to mention.
Except one.

'They - don't - have - time - for - God.'

He leaned forward, grabbing the edge of the pulpit as
though he were going to .jump over it.

'Well,' he said quietly. 'I .just want to tell those people one
thing. One thing. If you don't have time for God, God will
have no time for you.

'And speaking of time, your time will come before the
judgment seat of Heaven. Don't you worry about that. And
then it won't matter a brass farthing whether you were a
dandy at the football pools, whether you know every film
star by name from Charlie Chaplin to Donald Duck, whether
you can reel off the name of every dog that ever won a race
at Dunmore or Celtic Park.

'There'lt be no time for that. No time at all.

'No, good people, there'll be no time for all that. But there'll be time enough to fred out how you attended to your
religious duties, there'll be time enough to find out what kind
of life you led, there'll be time enouTh to make a reckoning of

how many hours you spent on your bended knees praying to
our Blessed Lord for forgiveness of your sins.'

He paused and looked through the gloom at the clock. Miss
Hearne fixed with attention, heard a faint, unmistakable sound
beside her. Mr Madden was asleep. O, the mortification of it.
She nudged him, trying to make it seem accidental, and he
opened one eye, then dosed it.

'Aye, there'll be a change of temper then,' Father Quigley
roared above her. 'And those young people standing here in
this church, standing there like a bunch of hooligans at the
back, waiting their chance to run out at the Last Gospel, what
will God say to them on that terrible day? What will He say?
Will it be, "Come, ye blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom
prepared for you?" Will it be that now? Do you think
it's likely? Or will it be, "Depart from Me, ye cursed, into
everlasting fire that was prepared for the devil and his angels?" Will it be that now? Will it be that?

'Not if/can help it, it won't be. Not in this parish. Beginning
next Sunday, I'm going to order the ushers to close the doors
at the Offertory and not open them until Mass is over. If
anybody is sick or has some good reason, he or she will be let
out. Otherwise, not. Because Mass is the whole Mass and not
a football match with people running in and out of the church
as if it was a cinema.'

He paused and stared at the congregation. Then he made
the Sign of the Cross.

'In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy
Ghost, amen. Your prayers are requested for the souls of the
following who died last week or whose anniversaries occur
about this time: John Cullen, Thomas McCabe, Ellen Higgins,
Hugh Gormley, Patrick Kennedy, Mary...'

As Father Quigley droned through the list of names, the
collectors silently took up their stations, brass plates in hand.
Assistant collectors licked their pencils and folded their notebooks
open. Miss Hearne saw Mr Madden take half a crown
from his pocket. She felt in her purse, found the sixpence she
had put aside for this moment.

After mumbled prayers for the dead, die collectors speedily went to work, moving down the aisles with practised ease.
The priest stood at one side of the altar, immobile, with his
back to the congregation, until a little bell discreetly signalled
the completion of the collection. Then he began in rapid Latin
and the Mass moved towards a close.

'Are Missa Est,' Father Quigley cried loudly, and the congregation
collected prayer-books, slipped on gloves, nudged
purses and umbrellas in preparation for the closing prayers.
Outside, the rain clouds scudded past like big ships sailing out
ofharbour. A morning sunlight filled the church. A heavenly
sunlight, Miss Hearne thought, as it blinded and bathed her
with its shining light. It faded then and she bent her head to
her pew and gave thanks. Was it the light of God? Was it the
answer to her prayers, was it the Sacred Heart giving her a
sign, now that the sacred mystery of the Mass was over and
there was rime to answer the prayers of individuals? It had
shone down on her, on him, blessing them with its light. O
Lord, she prayed, let it be, make it be, give him strength to see
Your ways, let him be my guide, let him help me conquer my
weakness, my wickedness.

She prayed, feeling pure, exalted, but closer to fear than
exultation as the Mass ended and her prayers and exhortations
dwindled before the reality of the people filing down the aisle
into the world outside and the contradictions and unsureties of
the streets. It was as though she had said her say, used all her
arguments before a great and all-powerful judge and now the
defence rested, the arguments were over and the decision
would be announced in a dead anti-climax by some unknown
secular juryman in the streets, away from the House of God
and the surety of prayer and good intention.

And, as they left the church together, she thought of the
pure chance of it all, how it had happened so suddenly, after
nothing at all had happened for so many years: how it was
pure chance that he had happened to ask her to walk to Mass
with him and that they had talked together in private, so to
speak. For if he had asked her to walk with him to anywhere
else but Mass, she would have had to refuse him on so short
an acquaintance.

They stood together on the street corner and surveyed the
dead Ulster Sunday. The shops were shut, the city had set its
dour Presbyterian face in an attitude of Sabbath righteousness.
There was no place to go, nothing to do.

'What did you think of the sermon?' she said.

'It was okay, I guess. But what's wrong with the movies? I
don't get it.'

'O, Father Quigley's quite a strict man, I hear. But a very
honest speaker. You feel the sincerity leaping out of him, even
though he's not the most cultured man when it comes to
giving a sermon. But he's got a great presence, hasn't he?'

'He looks sick to me. I knew a priest in New York like that.
He had TB.'

'Most of the American priests are of Irish origin, aren't
they?'

'Around New York, maybe. There's all kinds.'

'The faith is very strong in America, isn't it?'

'Not like here. But we have some good priests. I knew

Father Duffy. Used to see him often.'

'O?' She looked puzzled.

'Father Duffy. Padre of the Sixty-Ninth in World War One.
They put up a statue of him, right in Times Square. I used to
look at it and think about him. I never figured why, but it
used to remind me of Ireland, that statue.' He smiled. 'I used
to say we both worked Times Square, Father Duffy and me.
But he's been there longer. The statue, I mean.

She watched him as he walked on, saw his face smile, saw
it turn cold and serious. What could he be thinking of? He
seemed to be trying to remember something, perhaps an
engagement, perhaps an excuse to leave her. For eventually,
they all made some excuse. But when they reached the
end of the street, he turned and took off his broad-brimmed
hat.

'I guess you've got a lot of things to do,' he said. 'You
going back to the house?'

'O, yes. But I go to see my friends, the O'Neills, every
Sunday afternoon. He's a professor at the university, you
know. A very clever man. I used to know him when we were

children. And now he's married with a lovely family of his own.'
Why did I say that, she thought, why? But it was her old
fault, the old boasts, the shields against pity, agaivot being
forced to say that nobody wanted to see you that particular

day. The old mistake. Now he would go away.

'That so?' His face showed disappointment.

She tried to undo it: to let him know that life was not all
gay friends.

'It's so nice to have someone to visit occasionally when one
lives alone.'

It was a forward thing to say, but she had to come out with
it some time: besides, it was the truth, although nobody liked
to admit being lonely. How many times before had she turned
men away by her habit of boasting, of pretending that she
had a good time all the time and needed no one. Looking at
him, tall, no longer young, with his rough-red face and his
built-up shoe, she knew that he would be easily turned away,
that he had not stayed so long alone without something of herself in him. And maybe, although it was a thing you could
hardly bear to think about, like death or your last judgment,
maybe he would be the last one ever and he would walk away
now and it would only be a question of waiting for it all to
end and hoping for better things in the next world. But that
was silly, it was never too late. And so she waited, pretending
not to see him lift his hand to say good bye, waited for something,
for some little chance to keep him.

'Not much to do in this town, that's a fact,' he said. He
scuffed his feet on the edge of the gutter. 'I find the time long
too. Not like New York.' Then, as if he had suddenly thought
of it: 'Do you like the movies?'

'You mean the pictures? O, yes.'

'Doing anything tomorrow night?'

It was so vulgar, the way he put it, just like an invitation to
a serving girl. But I mustn't think like that any more, she told
herself. Nobody cares about manners nowadays. Times have
changed, you know they have.

'Well, no,' she said, smiling. 'I don't believe I am.'

'Okay, let's take in a show then. About seven, would that
be all right?'

'Lovely. And thank you very much.'

'Fine.' He raised his big hat. 'I got a date uptown,' he said.
'So long now.'

He hurried offacross the street as though he were afraid she
would change her mind and tell him so.

It was, she realised, the way she herself/eft others, after a
successful theft of their time, after a promise, so terribly
wanted, a promise that she could come again.

CHAPTER 5.

The fire was banked high and glowing in the handsome grate,
the flowered chintz furniture covers had been freshly washed,
and the silver, the brass, the mahogany, were polished and

gleaming. Copies of The Observer, the Sunday Times and the Sunday Independent lay on the sofa and there were cigarettes in
two silver boxes. The warm, well-used feel of the drawing
room, and the relaxed air of its occupants made the driving
rain on tile window-panes an additional comfort as though
emphasising that nothing in this dull provincial city could
rival the pleasure of home on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Shaun O'Neill lifted his head from a book and glanced at
the ornate, painted clock on the mantelpiece.

'Five minutes,' he said. 'Or maybe ten. Let's say ten minutes at most before the advent of the Great Bore.'

His mother shook her head: 'How often do I have to tell
you not to talk like that? You'll be old soon enough yourself
and glad of somebody to chat with.'

Una, his sister, rolled her magazine into a baton and struck
at him. He ducked, catching her wrist, and they began to wrestle.

'Now, stop that, you'll break something,' Mrs O'Neill said.
Una freed herself and stood up with her back to the fire, a
tall dark girl, wearing a smart grey wool dress.

'What's a word for danger in eight letters?' Professor O'Neill
asked. He sat in his favourite armchair to the right of the fire
with a newspaper crossword puzzle on his lap, a big man with
a harsh, handsome face, a shiny bald head and a tortoiseshell
rimmed monocle set staring in his right eye. The monocle,
attached to his coat lapel by a black silk ribbon which hooked
over one of his large pointed ears, gave him a look of
Mephistopheles in modern dress. He ignored the children's
horseplay. His voice and manner were mild.

'Jeopardy,' Kevin said, without looking up from his copy
of Picture Post. He moved his small rump in its short trousers,
rubbing his woollen-socked ankles together. 'Is that it?' he
asked his father.

'Doesn't go. At least, it doesn't fit with some of the across

words.

'Where's Kathleen?' Mrs O'Neill looked around the room,
a small plump woman with grey hair and large brown eyes
which missed nothing in her particular circle. 'I thought Kathy
was here. Is she studying, does anyone know?'

'Can I have one of those sweets, Mam?' Shaun asked,
pointing to a box of chocolates on top of a bookcase.

'You cannot. You've just eaten enough lunch for two.'

'Yes, but I'm going out. I told Rory Lacey that I'd go over
some physics with him.'

'O, so we're going out now, are we? I thought you said
you were staying in. You didn't do a single stroke of work all
week-end and now everything has to be done when I want
you to spend a little time with poor Judy Hearne.'

'Talk of the devil,' Una said. 'Is that the door-bell?'
They all looked up, listening.

'It's only me. Shaun cried, in a high-pitched feminine voice.
Una and Kevin echoed it.

'It's only me! It's only me I'

Professor O'Neill stood up hurriedly, gathering the Sunday
Times, his pipe, matches and tobacco pouch. 'I'll be in my
study if you want me.'

Shaun bounced up from the sofa, big boned, adolescent.
'I'll come with you, Daddy.'

'You'll stay here, sir,' Professor O'Neill said. 'Stay for half
an hour at least, to help your mother.' He looked at his son
and raised his hand against an unspoken protest. 'Now, that's
enough. No nonsense.'

The O'Neills' maid was coming upstairs as the professor
left the drawing-room. 'It's Miss Hearne, sir,'

'Well, just wait until I get into the study, Ellen. Then show
her up to the drawing-room.'

Below, in the darkness of the hall, Miss Hearne was taking
off her wet raincoat. She handed it to Ellen when the maid
returned.

'Thank you,, Ellen. Just hang this somewhere. I'll find my
own way up.

She climbed the stairs slowly, giving young Kevin time to
escape to the chilly solitude of the attic and his chemistry set.
Just like his father, she thought, seeing his small legs scuttle
around the curve of the banisters, two flights above her.
Always running off to work on something or other. Dear
Owen, the child takes after him.

The drawing-room door was ajar. I wonder how many of
them are in? Una and Shaun, and perhaps little Kathleen. And
Moira herself, half asleep already. She knocked lightly on the
drawing-room door.

'It's only me I' she called.

There was a sound of movement inside and then Moira

O'Neill came forward, her arms outstretched in welcome.
'Judy dear. And how are you?'

Behind her, standing by the sofa giggling about something,
were Shaun and Una, brother and sister, with their mother's
gay dark eyes. Miss Hearne smiled at them; her little nephew
and niece, she liked to think.

'Hello, Miss Hearne,' Shaun said.

Una burst into another peal of laughter.

'Una!' Mrs O'Neill took Miss Hearne's arm. 'I don't know
what's the matter with them, Judy. They've been laughing
themselves sick all afternoon.'

'O, the young in heart,' Miss Hearne said, smiling. She
went towards the fire - such a lovely room, warm and
pleasant- and sat down in the chair vacated by Professor
O'Neill.

'My goodness, I was almost drenched coming over here.
What a day! And how are you, Una dear? What's the news
with you?'

'Same as ever, Miss Hearne. Exams, exams.' Una sat down
on the sofa and looked out the window. 'I wonder will it
clear up?'

Mrs O'Neill returned to her chair beside the fire and picked
up a bundle of knitting. 'And what's the news with you, Judy?'

'Well, you know I've moved into my new digs.'

'O, yes, of course. And what are they like?'

She forgot it, she forgot it completely. As if I would forget
something as important as moving, if it was her who was
doing it! 'Well, Moira, it's over in Camden Street. I told you
about it last week.'

'Camden Street. I know it,' Una said. 'Near the university.'
'It used to be one of the best parts of the city. I remember
my dear aunt used to visit a family there - well, let me think
what the name was. Wait - it will come in a minute. Anyway,
it was a very good neighbourhood in the old days.'

She saw Shaun smile when she mentioned her dear aunt.
The younger generation are so cynical, she thought. Not well
brought up, what Mr Madden said was quite right. Mr
Madden, I wonder should I mention him?

'This place is run by a woman called Rice. A Mrs Henry R ice, a widow. Did you ever hear tell of her?'

Moira O'Neill paused momentarily in her knitting. 'No, I
don't think so.'

'Neither did I. Anyway, she has the funniest son you ever saw.
Bernard, his name is, and he's the oddest-looking creature alive.'

Una snapped her fingers. 'Wait a minute. Bernard Rice.
Has he long blond hair, in sort of ringlets? A fat fellow?'

'The very man,' Miss Hearne cried. I'm sure it's the same
one.' And as she leaned forward to tell more, Una turned to
Shaun and said:

'He used to be at Queen's, before my time.'

'That's right, Queen's, he said so himself,' Miss Hearne
agreed eagerly.

'Wait till I tell you,' Una said to her brother. 'He's the
original mammy's boy. His mother used to haunt the lecture
halls, waiting to give him a feed, a sandwich or a thermos of
hot soup. She used to plague him. He was supposed to be very
bright, though. Honours English, I think.'

'And what's the long hair in honour of?' Shaun said.

'She wouldn't let him cut it. She calls him, "My baby". Isn't
that right, Miss Hearne?'

'Well,' Miss Hearne said. 'You seem to know a lot more
about him than I do.'

'Sure, he was famous around Queen's. Baby Rice, they
called him. He was a big poet and talker. He was behind that
crowd that got out the poet magazine. You remember,
Shaun, the mimeographed one.

'I never heard of him,' Shaun said. 'It's a wonder I didn't,
seeing he was such a famous card.'

His sister patted him playfully on the head. 'You're too
young.

'O, it seems like yesterday that I remember you both as
babies in your little woolly suits,' Miss Hearne cried, trying to
catch some of that brotherly and sisterly warmth. 'I remember
Shaun saying to your mother here, and the two of you standing
there and he said: "I don't like Miss Hearne wiv'at hat I" '

But they turned glowering faces at her, rejecting the often
heard story. Children don't like to be reminded of their baby
days. O, I know that. Why did I put my foot in it?

Shaun got up off the rug and looked at the clock. 'Holy
smoke! It's past three. I told lory Lacey I'd be over at his
house at three.'

His mother looked at him, her eyes cold to the falsehood.
'It's still raining,' she said. 'You could 'phone him up and tell
him you can t come.

'It's not far, Mare. I can take a tram. I should be back before

Eve.'

'You'll have to excuse me too, Miss Hearne, but I've got to do

some studying,' Una said. 'The exam is in less than a month.'
'Of course, Una dear. I don't even dare to think about the
work you have to do nowadays. It's not like our time, is it,
Moira? Why, when I was at the Sacred Heart in Armagh we ncver had such a thing as an examination from one end of the
year to another. Of course, girls didn't learn Latin in those days. We seem to have managed to do without it.'

'Not many people can afford to educate their girls to be ladies of leisure nowadays,' Una said shortly.

'O, I know that. Nobody knows it better. I often wish I'd
been given a more practical training myself. Still, I don't see
what help Latin is to a girl who's preparing for life.'

When she said this, Una and Shaun giggled and she

remembered-if only I could remember it sooner-that she had
said it often before. I mustn't repeat the same things, she
thought, I simply must try not to.

'Well, I won't keep you from your lessons, Una dear,' she
said. 'And good bye, Shaun. Cover yourself up well if you go
out. It's awfully cold, besides being wet.'

Two good byes and they were gone, running out together,
bacUy brought up children. And she was alone in the big
bright room, with Moira O'Neill already nodding in the
chair opposite. I wonder should I mention about meeting Mr
Madden? No, better not. Moira O'Neill is the last one to tell
about meeting a nlan who might be thought a little common.
Remember how she never said a word, years ago, when
everyone thought she was common.

And, as she watched Moira O'Neill, Miss Hearne's mind
moved in a familiar spiral from present to past, made a journey
which had become increasingly frequent since her dear aunt
died. It was so much easier to go back now; going forward
was so frightening.

In that journey she saw Moira as she had first seen her:
young, charming, common, an upstart who came from
nowhere to claim the prize. A scheming hussy they called her
then, an unknown girl born on a farm in Fermanagh and
educated by her uncle, a parish priest in some small place. A
student in one of Owen O'Neill's classes and he twice her age
at the time. But she had carried him off', a well-connected man,
a professor and the son of a well-known lawyer with money
on Ms mother's side. Miss Hearne remembered her Aunt
D'Arcy's comment at the time: that Moira was no more in
love with Owen than with the man in the moon; that she had
tricked and gulled and provoked him into marriage. She
remembered too, Owen's mother, old Mrs O'Neill, a stiffold
lady if ever there was one and the way she had snubbed Moira
when she heard of the engagement. And I hadn't a good word
to say for her myself, Miss Hearne thought, remembering all
the gossip that ran against the new bride. It wasn't kind of me.
But I'll give her her due, Moira, she put up with a lot of cold looks at the time. Those Thursday At blomes and all his

relatives nodding their heads. She .just sailed through them,
and you never knew what she was thinking. And you'd never
know now. She's deep. But she's the type to remember. So
I'd better hold my tongue about Mr Madden. She'd find the
commonness in him, quick enough, seeing she had it in herself.

She pulled her chair closer to the fire and put on her extra
cardigan. She always felt too hot or too cold and she carried
an extra cardigan, just in case. Mira went on knitting and
asked about the new digs, and how they were. And Miss
Hearne told about Mrs Henry Rice and how poor the breakfasts
were, only tea and toast, but kippers on Sunday. And
about Mr Lenehan and Miss Friel. And that there was an
American there too. A Mr Madden.

She stopped then and looked at Moira, waiting for a question.
But Moira's head was going jump, jump, and her chin,
was resting on her bosom. Dozing again!

Miss Hearne watched Vioira until there was a snore. Then
she picked up a paper and read it for a while. But there was
nothing much interesting in the Observer. All book reviews,
and dispatches from foreign countries and long political articles.
Dull, dull, but she read it, for soon tea would come.

It came at four. Ellen knocked on the door and wheeled the
tea wagon in, the cups on the top shelf, the cakes and biscuits
on the second and the sherry, jams and cheese on the bottom.

'O, my goodness, I was dozing again,' Moira O'Neill said,
waking up. 'Put it over there, Ellen, and go and ask the master
if he wants some tea. Excuse me, Judy dear, I must have been
asleep for ages. You should have wakened me.'

'No, no, you must be tired with all those children around
you,' Miss Hearne said politely. 'I thought you deserved forty
winks. I was just reading the Observer. Such an interesting
paper.

'Ellen - call Miss Kathleen and Miss Una. Those poor girls
are at their books night and day,' Moira said, smiling at Miss
Hearne.

'But they'll be a credit to you, I'm sure. They've got their
father's brains.'
Professor Owen O'Neill, monocle gleaming against the

flames of the fire, came in, thrusting his curved pipe in his
pocket.

'Hello, Judy.'

'Hello, Owen, still working away?'

And Kathleen, ugly little Kathy, Miss Hearne's favourite,
came sidling into the room, coming up to shake hands properly,
her freckled face set in a smile. Miss Hearne remembered the
days with her dear aunt. O, she reminds me of me.

Una came too, the handsome one, joking with her father
about some book he had recommended. They're all such great
readers, Miss Hearne thought, it's a pity they don't like the
same books as I do.

Then the sherry, golden, the colour of warmth, and a
biscuit to nibble with it. The first sip was delicious, steadying,
making you want a big swallow. But it had to last.

The others took tea. Cakes and cheeses were passed around
and in the confusion of movement and talk, Miss Hearne lifted
her glass stealthily and let the golden liquid flow down her
throat, feeling the shudder of pleasure as it went down, warming
her all the way. Then she accepted cake and began to eat.
Ladylike, but she ate a lot. Sunday tea at the O'Neills meant
that you didn't have to bother with supper. And with the
good breakfast she had eaten that morning, it was a day with
no money spent. Maybe a glass of milk, though, before she
went to bed.

'Another sherry?'

'Well, really, I shouldn't. But it's so good.'

She drank a second glass quickly and young Una lifted the
decanter. 'Let me fill your glass up, Miss Hearne.'

'No, thank you, I couldn't really. Two is my absolute limit.'
There. She d done it ag, am, saying something she always
said. She saw the small cruel smile on Una's face - like the day
I came into the room and she and Shaun were saying over and
over, imitating me, 'Your mother will bear me out on that,
won't you?' Over and over and it's what I always say - well,
I won't say two is my absolute limit ever again. Anyway, a
child like her, what does she know about life? Or life's
problems.

Miss Hearne stared mistily at the empty sherry glass. Or
this, the temptation she puts in my way. What does she know
about people, a young girl of her age? Mr Madden. James
Madden, of New York. Mr and Mrs James Madden of Belfast
and New York. The former Judith Hearne, only daughter of
O, I must stop that at once.

And Miss Hearne smiled, an inward smile which lit her
black nervous eyes. She pulled off her extra cardigan. 'My
goodness, it's warm now,' she said, looking at ugly little
Kathleen. 'Isn't it, Kathy dear?'

After the tea things had been cleared away, Professor O'Neill
and his daughters again retired to their rooms and books.
Moira O'Neill began to look around her as though she had
lost something and was trying to think where she had put it.
She wants to get the dinner on, Miss Hearne decided, it's time
to go. Although it would have been so nice to stay in the
warmth, in the brightness of the room, among the family. Yet
the children still say 'Miss Hearne'. Funny, you'd think they
could say 'Judy' when they know I like it. Judy. Like the old days on the Lisburn Road. Little Judy.

She felt the tears come into her eyes. That's the sherry
affecting me. O, I mustn't be sloppy. Look at something
quick.

She looked down at her long pointed shoes. It was always
comforting to look at them when tears threatened. The little
buttons on them, winking up at her like wise little friendly
eyes. Little shoe eyes, always there.

Later, as she stood in the hall, putting on her raincoat, Moira
opened the door and announced that the rain had stopped. And
then, at the end of the avenue, hurrying, came Shaun, his hair
sticking up like a fuzz of wet feathers on his head. He looked
surprised to see her standing on the steps, as though she were
waiting for him.

'Well, Shaun, what luck,' his mother said. 'Just in time to
see Miss Hearne to her bus stop.'

'O, please don't bother. I'm perfectly all right."

'Not at all,' he said politely. 'Just wait a second till I leave
these books in the hall. I'll be with you in a jiffy.'

They set off together, she bizarre and faltering in her crimson
raincoat and her waxeIx flowered red hat; he embarrassed and
uneasy, trying to find a subject of conversation. At the end of
the avenue they stood under the harsh orange glare of the

street light, urging the coming of the bus with hopeful remarks.
'Is that one?'
'No.'

'I thought it was.'

'I did too.'

'They never come when you want them, do they?'
'Maybe that's one now?'

They made little half turns, turning back towards each other,
nervous, awkward, hoping for it to end. This is the way with
men, she thought, always like this. They don't seem to want
to be alone with me, it's as if they're trying to get away. O, I
know he's only a boy and I remember him as a baby I knit
little woollen bootees for, but he's a man, a man like all the
others. And he wants to get rid of me, to run offand do whatever
men do when there aren't women around to hold them
down. All like this, afraid to pair with me. Except James
Madden? No, he wasn't, just a little bit at the end of Mass,
maybe, shuffling his feet. But then he asked me to go out. He
asked me out. He wanted to stay, he was afraid I'd run away.
James Madden, a man's man. She looked at Shaun's young
unfinished face. A boy, a baby boy.

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.

'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

mean, opening the doors of taxis?'

'I meant he'

'Now, mother,' Bernard spoke hurriedly. 'Uncle James
wasn't always a commissionaire. He had lots of jobs over
there. And he did very well considering everything. Had his
own car and gave his daughter a good education. It's not
every man can say as much.'

'A lot of good that does me,' Mrs Henry Rice said. 'I don't
see much of it. Never as much as offered me a day's rent all
the time he's here.'

'Mother I' Bernard looked upset, more credit to him, Miss
Hearne thought. But what was that, opening the doors of
taxis? A commissionaire, did he say? A doorman? O, no!

'I'm sorry,' Mrs Henry Rice said. 'I suppose Jim has his
good points after all. But I must say he doesn't spread himself,
not on his family, anyway. Only on outsiders.'

'Are you referring to me?' Miss Hearne said, her dark

shifting eyes suddenly lit with anger.

'Of course not.'

'O, yes, you are. Did you ask me in here to insult me, I'd
like to know?'

'Now, now, don't get-all excited,' Mrs Henry Rice said,
holding out fat white arms in supplication. 'I didn't mean
anything of the sort. In fact, it never even occurred to me.
Outsiders, no, I meant some of those fellows he spends his
time with, buying them drinks, the bunch of good-for
nothings. Like that Major Mahaffey-Hyde that he's taken up
with, a worthless streel of a fellow and not even a Catholic.'

'I see. Well now, if you'll excuse me, Mrs Rice, I'm going
to bed.'

'Won't you have a cup of tea? It's ready now and I'd be
mortified if you took offence where none was intended. Really
I would.'

'That's quite all right,' Miss Hearne said, standing up. 'We'll
lust say nothing more about it. Good night.'

She gave the door a tiny bit of a slam when she went out.
The immortal cheek of some people! You'd think I'd asked
him to take me out and spend money on me. O, the nerve of
her. The vulgar lump, with her precious Bernie sitting up
there half-naked and him a grown man. O, I'll give her notice,
really I will. The cheek of her!

But the anger had brought on that awful shaking so that
she could hardly get her key out of her bag to open the door
of the bed-sitting-room. A commissionaire, Bernard had said.
A doorman.

As she fumbled with the key, a female voice whispered from
the stairs above:

'Is that you, Bernie?'

Miss Hearne looked up and there was Mary, the maid,
tearful and nervous, standing at the head of the stairs. Bernie,
indeed, the child was pretty familiar with him, wasn't she?

'Mary, I wonder if you would help me with this lock? I
can't see it in the dark here.'

'O, yes, 'm.' And Mary. came down, took the key and opened
the door. She drew Miss Hearne's curtains, lit the gas stove
and asked if there was anything else.

'N no, good night. And thank you,' Miss Hearne said,
closing the door on her. Funny, her being up and waiting for
Bernard like that. But goodness knows, she had troubles
enough of her own without worrying about servant girls.

She sat down on the bed to unpin her hat. Her eyes went to
the mantelpiece and there was her dear aunt, looking down at
her, stern, reminding her of her behaviour.

A nice thing, Judy, her aunt said. I don't know what's come
over you. You'll be no better than a serving girl yourself if
you get mixed up with that man. A doorman. Imagine!

Common as dirt. And that awful sister of his, vulgar woman,
insulting you to your face.

'She didn't,' Miss Hearne told the picture. 'She didn't insult
me. And how do you know if she's telling the truth? He might
not have been a doorman anyway. That might just have been
talk. He's nice and he's polite. He is.'

She looked away from her aunt's accusing stare, remembering
that her aunt was hard to please, and a little selfish too, if
the truth were known. You wanted me all to yourself, she
told the picture, just as long as I was there to read you Sir
Walter Scott every evening and make your Bengers' Milk at
bedtime, you didn't care what happened. You never let me
meet anyone and you tried to put everyone off me. And
Marius McKeown, the only young man who did come calling,
do you remember what you said about him? O, yes, he wasn't
good enough because his people owned a pub and sold drink
after hours and had been prosecuted for it. And Marius that
afterwards bought one of the biggest golf hotels in the country
with the money he came into. O, he wasn't good enough for
you, nobody's good enough for you, nobody ever was and
nobody ever will be. And it's all your fault that I am where I
am today, being insulted by some fat old landlady and living
in furnished rooms.

She got up then and went to the mantelpiece. She turned
the photograph towards the wall. Then she looked at the black passe-partout back of the photograph. There, she said, I'll do
what I want without your interfering.

Judy, he had called her. Judy, and tonight he had said that
he needed someone to do things for. Tonight he had come as
close as anything to telling her he wanted her for his wife.
Only it had been on such a short notice. If they had known
each other longer he would surely have spoken. Judy, the way
he said it, with his American drawl. Judy.

But then before her, making the shaking start in her hands,
came the faces of Bernard and his mother. Bernard, with his
fat white tummy, his face uneasy, trying to talk nicely about
his uncle, and his mother, sitting on her chair like a huge
cream puff, her manner contemptuous, insinuating things about her own brother. 'All he was fit for was opening the
doors of taxis.' James Madden, dressed up in the ridiculous
uniform of the doorman at the cinema, bowing as he helped a
lady and gentleman in evening clothes into a long black
limousine. James Madden in revolving doors, with halfa dozen
suitcases tucked under his arms, James Madden saluting, as a
taxi full of guests drew up outside the great hotel. A doorman,
a lackey, a servant. Common, common as mud.

Contrite, she looked at the mantelpiece, at the photograph
turned to the wall. You're right, she told her dear aunt, right,
you could never introduce him to a man like Owen O'Neill.
Or to Dan Breen, who had his own firm of solicitors and was
a Master of the Hunt once. No, he might do all right for
America but he wouldn't do for here. I'll just have to drop
him, or drop out of things if I ever get mixed up with him.
But drop out of what things? she said, nobody cares any more.
And Dan Breen, since he moved to Dublin, never a word out
of him or his family. Not a line. And that little Una O'Neill
making mock of me every Sunday. Who cares what I do any
more? Drop out of what, indeed? James Madden may be
common, but he's a man, a good Catholic and he has enough
money to live decently now with all those common jobs
behind him.

Yes, and what's wrong with that? she asked the hidden face
behind the photograph. What in the world is wrong marrying
a decent man like that? And if we went to America who
would know the difference what he is? One man's the same
as another over there, rags to riches, the whole lot of them.
There's not a single thing wrong with James Madden that a
good woman couldn't change. And he's no fool, he can be
taught to change his ways.

She lay back on the bed and the tears were in her eyes and
her whole body was shaking. She mustn't think of it, because
if she started wanting it, she'd have to have it and feel awful
afterwards and be sick for days. No, no, she told herself, and
looked up to the Sacred Heart for strength. He looked down,
wise and stern and kindly, His fingers raised in warning. No,
He said, you must not do it. It would be a mortal sin.
'O, You're right, You're right, I mustn't,' she said aloud,
burying her face in the bedclothes, crushing and twisting up
her best rose pastel dress. 'No, no, and besides, he isn't worth
it.' James Madden, with a horrid white cap like the soft drink
advertisement, and a white apron, tossing pancakes at the
ceiling and she on her knees in a charwoman's apron washing
the floor. Over the counter the sign said, 'Jim's Car6'. No, no,
no, no, she cried, pushing her face deep in the pillow and then
she began to cough and the cough tore at her. I must have
something to stop it, something to stop it, to cut the phlegm.
I must. Just a little one, it won't be more, I promise Thee, O
Sacred Heart.

She slithered off the bed, twisting her stocking, putting a
ladder all the way up to the knee. She scrabbled in the bureau
drawer for the keys to the trunk and took them out with a
hand that shook so the keys rattled. She unlocked it and found
one bottle, wrapped in cheap brown paper. Then, apologetically,
she clambered up on the bed and turned the Sacred
Heart towards the wall. He looked at her, stern now, warning
that this might be her last chance ever and that He might
beconle the Stern Judge before morning came, summoning
her to that terrible final accounting. No awakening to see
James Madden, to walk ever in the city, to ever see him again.
Tonight I may cast you down, He said. My Patience will not
last for ever.

But the rage had started inside her, the pleasant urgency to
open it, to fill a glass and sip it slowly, to feel it do its own
wonderful work. So she turned the Sacred Heart to the wall,
scarcely hearing the terrible warning He gave her.

Then she scrambled off the bed, shaking, took a glass from
the trunk and scrabbled with her long fingers at the seal,
breaking a fingernail, pulling nervously until the seal crumbled
on the floor and the cork lay upended on top of the bedside
table. She took off her clothes quickly, wise in the habits of it,
because sometimes you forgot, later. She pulled on her nightdress
and dressing-gown, sat quietly by the fire, shaking a
little still, but with the rage, the desire of it. Then, while the
bottle of cheap whiskey beat a clattering dribbling tattoo on

the edge of the tumbler, she poured two long fingers and
leaned back. The 5Tellow liquid rolled slowly in the glass,
opulent, oily, the key to contentment. She swallowed it,
feeling it warm the pit of her stomach, slowly spreading
through her body, steadying her hands, filling her with its
secret power. Warmed, relaxed, her own and only mistress,
she reached for and poured a tumbler full of drink.

CHAPTER 8.

BERNARD stopped outside Miss Hearne's door and knelt
down. He put his eye to the keyhole and saw her. In her
dressing-gown. He listened for the sound of voices. Nothing.

Behind him, someone whispered:

'Bernie?'

Mary, half dressed, looking over the banister.

'Is he in there?' Bernard whispered, pointing to Miss
Hearne's door.

'No. He went in his own room - Bernie, I want to see you.'
'Go back to bed. I haven't got time.'
'But Bernie, you promised.'

'Go to bed. I've got to see him. It's important.'

Dejected, she waited as he went up and crossed to Madden's
room. 'Go on,' he whispered. 'Get up to bed.'

He watched as she went slowly up to the attic. Satisfied, he

knocked quietly on his uncle's door.
'Who is it?' The . Bernard.'

Madden opened the door. He wore long white underwear,

shirt and shoes.

'What?'

'Can I come in for a minute?'

Madden turned his back on Bernard and walked slowly to
the bed. He sat down on it, his back propped up by pillows.
He grasped his left thigh with both hands and swung his
crippled leg up on the bed. Bernard came inside and closed
the door.

'I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to explain about
tonight.'

'What?'

'I mean mother saying those things about you taking Miss
Hearne out. I hope you don't think I had anything to do
with it.'

Madden did not answer.

'Honestly, Uncle James, it was as much of a surprise to me
as to you.

'Relax,' Madden said. 'Sit down. I'm not going to squeal on
you, if that's what you mean.'

'No, no, I just wanted to let you know my position.'
Madden pointed to a pack of Camels on the bedside table.
'Have a good cigarette and give me one too.' He enjoyed
making Bernard wait on him. He took his time about lighting
the cigarette, letting Bernard hold the match until it had almost
burned his fingers.

'What's wrong with May, anyway? What's the matter with
her?'

'Well, it's the rent, Uncle James. She thinks you should pay

her something for the room.'

'Her own brother?'

'Well, you know what Mama's like. Between ourselves, she
thinks you're better off than you've told her. And she thinks

Miss Hearne has set her cap for you.'

'I don't get it.'

Bernard sighed. 'She thinks Miss Hearne wants to marry

yOllo

'Ah, she's crazy.'

'I know. But she's always getting ideas like that. Honestly,
I can't move hand or foot, but she thinks I'm planning to leave
her. Every time I try to do something on my own, she stops

me.

'Hah! You never wanted to.'

Bernard shrugged.

'Want to ask you somethin',' Madden said. 'You think she's
got dough?' He pointed his thumb at the floor, like a loman

senator calling for death.
'Who, Mama?' 'Judy Hearne.'

'I don't imagine so. Why?'

'You don't imagine so. Jesus Murphy, you and May are
two of a kind. Where d'you think she got all them jewels?
She's a real lady, Miss Hearne, a free woman. And smart too,
she's interested in what goes on in the world. She's not like

you and May and the other jerks in this house. She's got class.
And dough. And what's more, she's the kind of woman if she
likes you, there's nothing she wouldn't do for you.'

Bernard's face was showing signs of weary irritation. But
he still played diplomat. 'Think so? Well, you might be right.'

'I am right. I'll tell you something. Tonight, when we were
out, I was explaining an idea I got. You know what she said?
You've got yourselfa partner. Her very words. I'd put money
into that, she said. Smart business woman, though, wanted to
know the details, costs, overhead, capital. Okay, I said, I'll
give you a report. What do you think of that?'

Bernard made a mock salute. 'Congratulations. Does the
deal include marriage?'

'Lay off! Who said anything about marriage?'

'No one. I only thought...'

'Well, don't. I'm not marrying anybody, get that straight.
What do you think I am? This is a business deal, purely
business. Hell, I haven't made any passes at her, there's nothing
like that between us. That's why I was mad at your mother.
There's nothing between us, not a thing. And you can tell
your mother I said so.'

Bernard stood up. 'All right, I understand. Good luck to

you.

Madden swung his bad leg off the bed and began to pull his
shirt over his head. Watching him, Bernard stuck his tongue
out. 'Good night, Uncle James.'

'Good night,' Madden said from the folds of his shirt. 'Close
the door when you go out.'

When Bernard had gone, Madden took offhis long underwear
and put on pyjama pants. Then he heard whispering in
the corridor. He put on a bright blue robe and jerked his door
open.

Bernard fled down the stairs. Mary scuttled barefoot up to
the attic. Madden saw that she was wearing her shabby grey
tweed overcoat over a short pink slip. He stared her out of
sight. Short slip, white creamy legs, O Christ, a pleasure it
would be.

He closed the door: forget it, only leads to trouble. What

kind of guy are you, anyhow, at your age, you should be
ashamed. Lie down, forget it. Now, that restaurant deal.
Might go up to Dublin for a couple of days, look the place
over, make a few inquiries. After tonight, I got a backer.
After tonight, I can get going again, make a new start. Business.
And May-- ah, May, what does she know about business,
sticking her nose into my private affairs.

He carefully removed his left shoe and got into bed. He
put the light off'. But in the darkness, images came.

Young -- Christ, is there a Mann Act in Ireland? She's just
a kid, scared of me since it happened, can't look me in the
eye. That morning I went out for a crap and she was on the
stairs. Up her legs, all the way. Ahh, I'm rotten - why can't i stop it? A country kid, if they knew back in her home town,
they'd tan the arse off her. No, she wouldn't talk. But if they
found out, her father, some big country bastard breathing
murder. Forget it, can't you?

Still- she'd be nice. Scared of me. Nice, I haven't had a
piece since... Don't get it, that's why I'm all worked up. A
guy like me, used to it regular, needs it, keeps you healthy,
at my age that's important. That counts. Ah, forget it, get to
sleep.

But the images came. Flashing, fading, coming close, dose.
Breasts, thighs, bellies. Moving, asking - give it to me.

And her overcoat on the floor, the slip torn down off her
back. Yes.

Christ, he groaned. Let it be. Let it be.

But nobody would know, no harm. Nobody would know. She won't tell.

just this once. Just...

He stood up, hot, excited, his legs trembling. Listened to
his heart beat out a loud dead march. With a shoe horn, he
adjusted his specially built shoe. He put his other foot in a
slipper, wrapped his blue robe about him and went to the
door. Quiet and dark. He went out.

Snores from Lenehan's room. Then up the half flight of
stairs to the attic. Easy does it. My heart, for christs-sakes, you
can hear it. No light in her room.

He opened the door gently, closed it behind him. Moved
towards the bed. She was awake.

'Who's that? Is that you, Bernie?'

He said nothing, found the edge of the bed and sat on it,

jangling the worn and twisted bedsprings.

'O, Mr Madden, is that you...?'

'Quiet,' he whispered, his voice trembly and hoarse. 'You'll
wake the mistress.'

'O, mister, don't. Mister please!'

He searched for her in the bed now, his hands feeling her

face, her breasts, like a boy playing blindman's buff.
'Quiet now, quiet and there'll be no trouble.'
'Don't mister. I'll yell mister...'

'Easy there. Be nice. It will only take a minute, honey. Be
nice, be nice, easy - easy.' Patiently he fumbled with the neck
of her nightdress.

And she was quiet. Her body shrank away from him, her
fretful hands gave him the pitiable resistance his ageing senses
needed. He fumbled patiently but all coherence was gone. He
had found her; in the darkness he tore and shook her like a
dog at meat.

'Easy, easy. Be nice, be nice, just a minute, a minute.'

He heard himself moaning, heard her muted terrified pleading.
The bedsprings whirred and jangled in the darkness like
an old-fashioned clock readying the stroke of one.

In a surprisingly short, a surprisingly timeless moment, he
lay sweating, seeking memory by her side.

It came back, as memory will, coupled with fear. 'It's okay
now,' he whispered. 'Okay. You be nice to me, I won't tell t hhe mistress. Okay? Okay?'

She was weeping. She did not, would not answer. He rolled
stiffly off the bed, wrapped his blue robe right around him,
found the draw-strings of his pyjama pants.

'Nothing,' he muttered. 'Nothing happened. Just a little
fun, eh Mary? Just a little fun. Now, you be nice, be nice.'

He heard her turn to the wall. Ah, what the hell! He left
the room as carefully as he had entered. Dragged downstairs
to his own bed.

CHAPTER 9.

AT HALF-PAST TEN on the following morning there was a

knock on Miss Hearne's door. Miss Hearne woke from a thick,
confused doze and called: 'Who's there?'

'It's me, Miss. Mary. I've come to clean the room.'
'Never mind. I'll do it myself. Leave me alone.'

She screamed this out in an arrogant manner, slurring the
vowels in such a way that her voice sounded altogether
different. But Mary, preoccupied with her own troubles, was
in no mood to worry about other people. It had been like a
bad dream, what happened, but her torn nightdress told her it
could not be dreamed away. And she was afraid to face him again, now or ever, the dirty ould slabber. She couldn't even
tell Bernie what had happened because Bernie would want to
know why she didn't let a yell out of her. An' ruin myself, she
answered the question, easier to let him feel away for a bit, an ould gaum like him, it was all over in a minute an' besides, if
my da ever found out, he'd kill me an' if I yelled, Mrs Rice
would come an' then I'd be sent home. The dirty ould slabber,
he knew I coulcha't tell on him. I'll lock the door tonight, so I
will, an' if he comes back, I'll throw the chairs about an' wake
the whole house.

'Go away,' Miss Hearne repeated. 'Go away.'

Ah, for all you have to worry, y' ould cod, Mary thought,
looking at the closed door. She bent down, picked up her
broom and pail, and went into Miss Friel's room, wich was
empty.

Wakened, Miss Hearne looked dully at the gas fire. The
room was hot and very dry. The bottle beside her was empty
and a second bottle, almost full, stood beside it. She had no
idea of the time. The curtains were still drawn and the lights
were burning. She turned the stove off, pulled the curtains and
let the daylight in. Then, feeling light-headed, but full of light
spirits and power, she poured herself another drink.

A drink would put things right. Drink was not to help

forget, but to help remember, to clarify and arrange untidy
and unpleasant facts into a perfect pattern of reasonableness
and beauty. Alcoholic, she did not drink to put aside the
dangers and disappointments of the moment. She drank to
be able to see these trials more philosophically, to examine
them more fully, fortified by the stimulant of unreason.

Thus, she did not shirk consideration of the fact that she
had sat up all night in a chair, that she might have made a lot
of noise, that everyone might know her secret. She was drunk,
so she found these possibilities amusing but unlikely. She did
not forget her unpleasant conversation with Mrs Henry Rice.
She remembered it with relish and her mind triumphantly
altered the facts to a more bold, more heroic pattern.

What if he is a doorman? Yes, I put her in her place, the
fat hussy. Don't you dare insult me, I said, don't you realise
you're merely a common lodging-house keeper? Don't apologise,
my good woman. You're forgiven.

Forgiving, she sat down in her chair, tumbler in hand, and
turned to her aunt for confirmation. But her dear aunt was
turned towards the wall. Poor aunt turned to the wall like a
naughty little girl. O, she wouldn't have liked that at all.

All right, I'm coming, she told her aunt condescendingly,
lurching to her feet again. I'll set you right, aunt dear, but you must promise not to be nasty again. Promise now! She turned
the picture over and was set into minor convulsions by the
outraged look on her aunt's frowning face. Smile, she said, and the
photograph smiled weakly. That's better, aunt dear. That
frown- we've had too much of it.

The frown was familiar. Remember, Judy said, when I came back from convent? In nineteen thirty-one and I wanted
to go to the Swiss finishing school? Ah, you frowned then,
better stay here in the good home provided for you, you said,
and we'll see what we will see.

So she stayed. Where else was there for her to go? Aunt
D'Arcy was very musical and there were musical evenings at
home with dear old Herr Rauh and little Evaline de Courcy
as soloists. And the hours of daily piano practice, a pity, Aunt
D'Arcy said, that Judy has so little talent for anything; with

this depression in industry, eligible young men are hard to
find, and the few there are want a dot and if there's no money,
then they want a great beauty, a beautiful woman can improve
a man's chances, especially if she comes from a good family.
A pity, her aunt said, that Clodagh, Judy's mother, married a
bit unwisely in that respect. Family, she meant, but of course
it's not your poor dead father's fault that he was born a Hearne.
And then, speaking of great beauties, you'll never have a
quarter the looks of your poor mother. No, you take after
the Hearnes, more's the pity. And they were nothing to write
home about. Plain.

A plain girl with no dot has little choice but to reconcile
herself to God's will, so Judy began to study shorthand and
typing with Edie Marrinan, a convent classmate, a jolly chum
and a plain girl herself. Edie got a civil service job out of it,
passing the exam and settling down with a nice salary. But
Aunt D'Arcy frowned on the idea, they're bigoted in the
civil service, she said, if anything goes wrong, they'll blame
the Catholic. Still, fair's fair, and Aunt D'Arcy was a great
one for fairness and when Judy had worked and reworked the
Pitman's shorthand book until the binding came apart and
was letter perfect in typing, her aunt 'phoned up Dan Breen,
the solicitor, and a friend of the family, and asked him if he
would have a vacancy for her niece.

He didn't, but he sent her to old Mr Donegan, another
Catholic solicitor, and for three months Judy worked in his
office, typing law documents and taking letters. Three months
to the day, until her aunt came down with a stroke and Judy
would have been downright ungrateful if she didn't give up
her job and look after her aunt until things got better.

The stroke passed, but Aunt D'Arcy never moved out of
the house again. She set up a system of bells in every room in
the house, with strings running out of every door and up the
sides of the stairs, all going to the front bedroom and joined
at the head of the sickbed, so that Aunt D'Arcy, a huge old
woman now, with a yellow face, a hawk nose and masses of
white hair tumbled about her shoulders, could ring at all hours
of the day and night for attention. And ring she did, driving

them distracted, especially old Bridie, the housekeeper, who
had a heart attack and died of it, at five o'clock one morning,
running downstairs when the bells went off. And after Bridie's
funeral, Aunt D'Arcy frowned and said, goodness knows, she
couldn't be expected to break in a new girl, with herself bedridden,
it was the least Judy could do to stay at home and see
her through the few days left to her. So Judy stayed. It was
lonely, nobody paid social calls any more. A few old friends
came, talked in whispers to Judy in the hall, and left with the
exaggerated quietness of people who have visited a house ofsorrow.

When the second war started, Judy was twenty-seven. She
made up her mind to study hard at the shorthand again and if
she got a job, to use the money to get a good nurse for her
aunt. And study it she did, despite the fact that her aunt, as
though she sensed she was being deserted, rang her bells all
day and every time she woke at night. But Judy worked the
shorthand up until she was letter perfect and one day she went
downtown with a newspaper advertisement in her handbag
and came back with a job at three pounds a week in a big new
contracting firm. That evening, she went up to the nuns at the
convent and asked them to hunt high and low for a good
woman to look after her aunt. God answered her prayers over
the week-end and by Monday morning, the woman, a Mrs
Creely, was settled in and running the big house like clockwork.
When she heard the news, Aunt D'Arcy said not one word
to her niece for three whole weeks. Then she began to complain about the way Mrs Creely was ruining her treasures and
er house. But Judy put her foot down, once and for all, and
she went offto work every day, taking down letters and typing
them out on a big new typewriter. And she hurried home in
the evenings to give poor Mrs Creely a rest.

In 1941, the air raids came. The night the first big raid
started, her poor aunt refused to go down to the cellar. It took
Mrs Creely, Judy and an air-raid warden to get her out of
bed, with her screaming and shouting and talking to people
Judy knew were dead years ago.

She never came out of that stage. Dr 13owe, who came the
next day, took Judy into the hall afterwards and said: 'Miss
Hearne, your aunt's mind has been affected by her illness and
she will need a lot of nursing. She isn't a responsible person
any more.' In all fairness, Judy felt obliged to tell Mrs Creely
and Mrs Creely said she was sorry, but Miss Hearne had better
look for another woman, because she was giving her notice.

Miss Hearne never found another woman. Some weeks later
the construction company sent her a letter with the money
owing to her and told her her place had been filled. There
were no maids to be had at that time, all the country girls had
factory jobs, and Miss Hearne settled down to look after her
aunt on her own.

It got worse. Her aunt gave her no peace. She rambled in
her talk, she shouted at the top of her voice, she pulled and
pushed at her niece and, when she was angry, she sometimes
threw the chamber-pot at her. But she was big and strong and
she ate everything that was put in front of her, and when Dr
Bowe looked at her he said she might live to be a hundred.
Then, one day, he came with another doctor and they talked
things over with Miss Hearne. They advised her to commit
her aunt to a private home, a private asylum really, because
she was so hard to handle and too much for Miss Hearne to
look after alone. Miss Hearne had to admit she didn't know
if they could afford it, her aunt had always been very secretive
about money matters, all she knew was that Dan Brcen, the
solicitor, handled her aunt's affairs and sent a housekeeping
cheque once a month. Dr t3owe said he would try to arrange
something, there was always Purtysburn, the asylum, and the
care was very good there. Then he and the other doctor went
in to see Aunt D'Arcy. They came out after half an hour and
said they were satisfied and would sign the papers. Miss Hearne
would have to sign too, and it would be as well if she could
find another relative to sign consent.
After the doctors had gone, Miss Hearne wept. She thought
of the poor soul lying in the front-room, not knowing what
was being done to her. Will she know, she wondered, will she
ever know, even when they come and take her and put her in

that place? But it was all for the best, her aunt would need
special care, Dr Bowe had said that.

She dried her eyes and smoothed back her hair, for the sick
woman had suddenly set all the bells jingling.

She went in. Her aunt's bed was near the window in what
had once been the drawing-room. The furniture, tallboys,
sideboard, stuffed armchairs, antimacassars, knick-knacks, none
of it had been moved out. A gas fire burned in the grate, Her
aunt was sitting on the edge of the bed, big and sagging in her
soiled nightgown, and Miss Hearne saw with horror that the
poor thing was trying to put her stocking on.

'What are you doing, aunt dear? You must get back into
bed at once, you'll catch your death of cold.'

But her aunt continued to dress herself, putting on her
slippers, looking around the room for her clothes, which were
in a cupboard upstairs.

'You've hidden them, you've hidden them,' she mumbled.
'Ah, I can't get away at all, plotting behind my back, telling
the doctors I'm mad, O, yes, yes, I know it all, Judy. I'm not
daft, even though you're trying to have me shut up.'

Miss Hearne knelt down beside the bed and caught the sick
searching hands. 'Please, aunt dear, please get back into bed.
Whatever gave you that idea.

'Taken out of my house by guards, yes, and locked away in
a madhouse like a criminal. How would you like that, Judy?'

She wrenched her hands away from her niece and flung
herself, huge, despondent, across the bed. Her white hair hid

her face, her fat old shoulders shook with weeping.

'Now, aunt, whatever gave you...'

'Ah, never mind lying to me, Judy, I hate a liar. It's a judgment
on me, Judy, me that took you in, an orphan child that
nobody wanted.'

She turned, raising her bloated, tear-ruined face from the
pillow. 'Yes, a judgment, for God help me, I didn't want to
see you put away in an institution and now to think that you,
of all people, would lock me away like that, me that sheltered
you and gave you a home and your parents dead in their
graves.

Miss Hearne bent over the sick woman and put her arms
around her shoulders. She pressed her face close to her aunt's
cheek and began to sob, harsh noisy weeping that shook her
body and tore at her breath. 'You're not going anywhere,
aunt dear, I'm sorry, I won't let them take you. I won't, I

won't, I won't.'

The sick woman's hands, maniacal in their strength, twisted
her niece around. Her yellow hawk face came close. 'Promise
me now?' she said in a desperate monotone.

'O, I promise, honestly, I do. I promise, I promise.'

The strong arms crushed her, sweeping her into the Folds of
soiled nightgown. She wept, wept with her head on her aunt's
breast, wept until there were no more tears. When she lifted
herself up, the sick woman's eyes were closed and there was a
faint smile on the tired, yellow face. She tiptoed out and when
Dr Bowe called next day, she said she had changed her mind
and that she wouldn't hear of it.

She had given her word: she did not go back on it. Her aunt
lived five years after that promise, fighting and raving her way
through every ghastly day, until one Sunday morning in 1947,
Judy found her sitting straight up in bed, eyes open, her
bloated hawk face fixed in its habitual frown of reproof as life
suddenly deserted her.

After the funeral, there was very little money. Dan Breen,
who settled everything, told Miss Hearne that her aunt had
lived the last seven years of her life off a dwindling capital.
Miss Hearne was left with an annuity of one hundred pounds
a year. She was thirty-six and looked older. She had very few
friends. The O'Neills, Moira in particular, had been very kind,
asking her to come and see them, and there was Edie Marrinan,
her old chum, and the Breens. She enrolled in a secretarial
college and took a furnished room. She found it impossible
to get back her former speed in shorthand, it was more tiring
nowadays, but after a few months she began to apply for jobs
as a typist. She was told they wanted young girls. And living
in Belfast on a hundred pounds a year was impossible. She
would have to think of something else.

Father Farrelly, her old parish priest, spoke to one of his

parishioners, a Mr Heron, and she was engaged to teach
embroidery at the O'Connell Technical School. But she still
could not make ends meet. Then one day she met little
Evaline de Courcy, who used to sing at her aunt's musicales
long ago. Evaline said she was not well, and would Miss
Hearne like to take some pupils for beginner's exercises. And
so Miss Hearne went to Evaline's house every day to practice
on her piano and soon she had three pupils of her own.
Beginners, not much joy to it, but it helped. Evaline died the
following year and there was a legacy of five more pupils as a
result.

It was about this time that the bronchitis which had plagued
Miss Hearne for some years began to get bad. She had an
awful bout of it one evening when she was visiting her friend
Edie Marrinan, and Edie insisted that she take a few glasses of
tonic wine to soothe the cough. Miss Hearne had often noticed
that Edie drank quite a lot of tonic wine. In fact, she always
seemed to have some ailment or other that needed a glass to
soothe it. Although she seemed a big, healthy girl, full of high
spirits, not the sort that needed building up.

'Come on, Judy, down with that, Edie said, pouring half a
tumbler full of the wine. And Miss Hearne drank it down. The
coughing stopped.

'Put another away for good measure,' Edie said. 'There's
nothing like it in the whole wide world when you're feeling
rotten.'

The second glass really soothed the attack, and Miss Hearne
was persuaded to a third. And then the two of them sat there,
finishing the bottle, chatting about old convent days and the
funny goings on in Edie's branch of the civil service. Edie
could tell a story, she really had the gift and when put to it,
she would act it out, how this one walked, how that one
talked, and the look on the face of the other one. She really
was a caution. Miss Hearne had quite a fit of the giggles
listening to her.

And the next time she had trouble with her bronchitis, she
bought a big bottle of the tonic, drank it alone, and felt
wonderfully well on it. It warmed her, it made sad things

seem funny, and if you were feeling down at the mouth, or a
little lonely, there was nothing like it for cheering you up. She
said as much to Edie Marrinan afterwards, and Edie laughed
and said, it's good, but whiskey's the best ....

She and Edie drank several glasses of whiskey one night in
Edie's digs. The next day Miss Hearne felt awful. She 'phoned
Edie and told her and Edie laughed and said the only thing
that will cure you, Judy, is a hair of the dog that bit you. Edie
came over that same night with a Baby Power in her bag and
Judy had to admit that it did wonders.

After that, she used to buy cheap whiskey in a shop in
North Street where they were very discreet. Gin was cheaper and it didn't smell, but it hadn't the bite of the whiskey that
was good for her bronchitis. And sometimes, when she needed
it badly over a week-end, she would take the long tram ride
out to Ballymacarret and buy it in a place that Edie showed
her. There as nothing like it; medicin-ally, of course, to make
you feel better. And goodness knows, Miss Hearne often
thought, I need something to cheer me up.

For as the years wore on, there was not much to be cheerful
about, old friends dying off, young men a thing of the past,
and even Edie Marrinan, poor Edie, ill in a nursing home run
by the nuns at Earnscliffe. And all the things Miss Hearne
used to dream about in those lonely years with her poor dear
aunt: Mr Right, a Paris honeymoon, things better not thought
of now, all these things were dipping farther away each year a
girl was single. So she cheered herself up as best she could and
if she overdid it, it was a private matter between herself and her
confessor, old Father Farrelly, and he was understanding, he
liked a drink himself, right up to the end, in 1952, when he had
a stroke one Friday night before devotions. But after him there
were harsh young confessors, young men who didn't really
understand the circumstances. So Miss Hearne made a novena,
after she lost three of her pupils because that Mrs Strain said
she smelled of it one day when she met her in the street. She
stopped drinking then, didn't touch a drop. She bought two
bottles and kept them in her trunk, a temptation which nightly
it gave her comfort to resist. Truth to tell, she used to say to

herself, I cannot afford even one bottle a month now, with
things going as badly as they are and so little money about.
The economies will help me struggle through.

So, no matter how down in the dumps she felt, no matter
how the attacks of bronchitis racked her, no matter how much
the mysterious shaking started whenever she was upset, she
did not let a drop of liquor cross her lips. She prayed, and
despite the fact that her prayers were not answered, she persevered.
When she changed her digs and met Mr Madden, she
felt a sense of victory, a partial fulfilment, a blessing of God
upon her for her sacrifices. Not a drop for six months. Six long
months. And now, staring at the stearn frown of her aunt, she
realised this: that she had sinned again, that she had not only
touched it, but had really gone at it Like a madwoman, like
somebody possessed.

'Tut, tut, tut,' she said drunkenly reproving, wagging her
finger at the little shoe-eyes which stared at her from across
the room. The little shoe-eyes winked back, friendly, sharing
the silliness of it all.

For this was what it did to be cheered up: nothing seemed
bad, nothing at all, not even sitting here all night in her
dressing-gown in front of the fire, nor even Mrs Henry Rice
and her insinuations, not even the fact that James Madden, ah -
James Madden might not have been all he was supposed to be
in America. It didn't matter, everything could be solved. She
sipped her whiskey, feeling the oily yellow liquid burn her
throat, warming her all the way. Yes, it didn't matter, one
single little bit. It was all unimportant. Unimportant. Everything
would be all right. James Madden would ask her and
she would say yes. And then she would show him how to
behave. New York, the picture-postcard city, they would go
off to it together, sailing away.

'Sailing, sailing over the ocean waves,' she sang, smiling as
she remembered Mr McSorley, the big fat basso who used to
sing that song although he knew her dear aunt didn't like it.

'You didn't like it,' she said to her aunt's photograph. 'I
wonder why? It was a jolly song, tight of course, but a sort of
sea chanty. I liked it.'

Then she saw her aunt's frown. 'Smile,' she commanded.
'Just this once: smile.'

And the photograph, converted by the delightful logic of
intoxication, smiled. Miss Hearne smiled back, and poured
herself another drink.

Smiled the photograph, smiled her dear aunt, the picture
smiled, yes, it smiled when she told it to smile, it was cheerful,
cheerful, not a worry, smiled the photograph, smiled the...
sleepy-smiled the...

Slept.

CHAPTER 10.

She was on the floor. OmyGod, where? Where? My room.

She raised herself on an elbow, staring in panic at the shalcing

door. Och, och, och, it cried.

'Yes,' she said. 'Yes. Who is it?'

'Mrs Rice. Are you sick? Are you all right?'

'Yes.' O, that cracked-sounding voice. She clearedher throat.

'Yes, I'm perfectly all right, thank you. I was sleeping.'

'Are you sure?' the door said. 'Would you like me to get

you something? May I come in?'

'No, no, I'm all right. I just want to sleep.'

'Well, let me know if you want anything,' the door said. It

waited.

She waited.

Silence.

Then the footsteps going down the stairs. She dropped her

face back on the worn carpet. The trembLing started in her
arms and spread upwards to her shoulders and face. What did
I...? When did it start? How long have i been lying here?

Through the window she saw the night sky silhouette the

houses across the street. Her little travelling clock screamed

confirmation: eight-fifteen.

And this morning, last night, all afternoon, where and what

did I do?

Events unrolled themselves then, like a reel of film spinning

backwards in flickering confusion. Mrs Rice, yes, and then
this morning, the maid came, last night I drank, I was upset,
yes, Mrs Rice and what she said. James Madden a doorman.

But what had happened in the lost time, the dead time of

drinking? What awful thing? The anxiety of not knowing
began, set her trembLing, brought sharp needle pains to her
forehead: sweat trickled like tears along her cheeks. She stood
up, looked at the spilled glass, the empty bottle, the other
bottle kicked in a corner (I must have made a noise when I

did that) the drink stain on the floor, the rumpled bed, the
stale room.

There was none left. She looked at her trunk, but she knew
it was hopeless. Both bottles were empty. She must manage
the trembling, the nausea, the awful hours of conscience, without
any help at all. For the moment, don't think, must get the
place tidy.

In her dressing-gown, her hair rumpled and falling about
her shoulders, she began shakily to set things to rights. The
bottles she wrapped in old newspaper and hid in a dresser
drawer. The stain in the floor would not come out. She
abandoned it and then, cramming her parched mouth with
sweet nauseating cachous, she began the frightening task of
dressing.

It took ages. Badly rouged, over-powdered, her hair done
up in a bun, she sat down in her chair at last, and let the shaking
take its course. The fears came. How much noise, did I talk to
myself the way I did in Cromwell Road, did I go out of the
room or let anyone in? Or was it all quiet, sitting in my chair,
oversleeping, medicinal drink to help me sleep?

She was so weary, so worn with the ravages of her sin. But
God was weary too. He had suffered through her carelessness,
her sinfulness. She knelt beside the bed and made an act of
contrition.

'O, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee
and I detest nay sins above every other evil because they displease
Thee my God Who are so deserving of all my love
and I firmly purpose - by the help of Thy Holy grace - never
more to offend Thee - and to amend my life.'

But this seemed too impersonal. She looked up at the Sacred
Heart for guidance and saw with shame that He was turned
towards the wall. She stood on the bed and turned Him around
to face her. His eyes, as always when the sin was committed,
were hurt and reproving.

'I am sorry, I am terribly sorry and I promise Thee that it
will never happen again.'

But He did not believe her. His eyes said as much: she half
expected Him to shake His head and turn His sad face away.

And who could blame Him? Why should He believe me
when I'm such a backslider, such a weak, useless, hopeless
sinner?

Useless and hopeless, she straightened the bed, lit the bedside
lamp and went to the mantelpiece to stare at the photograph
of her dear aunt. A good thing God took you away, she
thought, a mercy. For if you could only see me now, how
could you have borne the shame of it?

Penitence gave strength. The open admission of error helped

to drive it out. Still trembling, but with new confidence, she
lit her gas fire. She warmed her hands for some minutes, then
went to the wardrobe and put on her old green tweed coat
and a dark red hat. She turned the stove and lights out and
locked the door. She felt light-headed and terribly weak, it
was the want of food, she was sure. If she hurried, the teashop
at Bradbury Place would still be open. A cup of tea and
a sandwich would do wonders.

But there was to be no slipping out. When she reached the

hallway, the curtained door opened to reveal Mrs Henry Rice,
fat and curious, her bland eyes showing nothing of what went
on behind them. She stepped close to Miss Hearne, took her
arm and put her face very near. At that moment, Miss Hearne
blessed her foresight in eating so many of the nauseating
scented cachous.

'Feeling better now?'

'O, yes, thanks.'

'Catch a chill or something? You certainly slept a long time.'
'Well, I wasn't feeling up to the mark.' (Woman to woman,
I must find a bond.) 'O dear,' she said, holding her handbag
tight against her stomach to stop the trembling. 'We women
have to put up with a lot. Men are so lucky.'

Mrs Henry Rice raised her eyebrows. 'You feel sick with it?

Some do. I used to get awful headaches myself, every thirty

three days, regular as clockwork.'

'I know,' Miss Hearne said. 'Headaches are even worse than

being sick. Still, I do feel rotten.'

But her lie had not taken. Mrs Henry Rice had opened

a trap for her victim. She closed it now, with a smile of

full-bloated malice. 'Well, it seems to affect you pretty

merrily. Why, you were singing away all afternoon.'

' No - I mean

'Yes, singing and talking away to yourself as happy as a
lark. It's a wonder nobody complained, you were louder than
the wireless.'

'I- I used to sing a lot. I was- practising. I give music
lessons, you know. I'm awfully sorry, I didn't realise I was
disturbing anyone. I- I suppose the walls are thinner than I
expected.'

'The walls in this house are not thin, they're old walls, very
thick, as a matter of fact. You'd have to shout at the top of
your voice to be heard.'

'Well, a person singing - you know the singing voice carries.
The tones penetrate. I'm awfully sorry if I disturbed you.'

'O, singing's loud, I know that. Why, there was a drunk man
in the street last week, you could hear him a mile away. It's
terrible the noise a drunk man makes.'

She knows. The bad, black-hearted slimy voice of her. O, I
could kill her. 'Well, I must hurry on out now, Mrs Rice, if
you don't mind. I have an engagement.'

'It's a pity you weren't up and about sooner. My brother
was asking for you, but he's gone downtown now.

'O, indeed? Well, I must be on my way. Good night, Mrs

Rice.'

'Good night, Miss Hearne. And- Miss Hearne?'

Yes?

'You will be careful, won't you? About singing. I wouldn't
like people to get the wrong impression.'

'What do you mean, the wrong impression?'

'Well, people are funny. Even Jim, my brother, he got the
wrong idea about it. Why he said to me this afternoon that it
sounded as if you were having a party in your room. I said no,

that was silly, you were just singing to yourself.' 'Good night, Mrs Rice.'
'Good night.'

The night air helped. It tasted clean and fresh and she
breathed deeply as she walked, trying to stop the trembling

which had now become a sort of shivering as the cold crept
into her bones. She felt nauseated. Singing, talking to herself,
awful, it was awful. And in front of other people. In front of him, what could he think of her? He had waited to see her,
his horrid sister had rubbed that in, the sly one.

The Bon-Bon teashop was still open, thank heavens. She
picked a table near the radiator. A slow, shuffling waitress took
her order and served a pot of tea and an egg sandwich. With
her eyes on the slightly soiled tablecloth, Miss Hearne forced
herself to get the food down. She drank the tea and when the pot of tea was empty, she asked for more hot water. But the waitress h ad seen her before and knew that she never tipped. The
kitchen was closed, she said, she was sorry, but the teashop
closed in five minutes, at nine o'clock.

She paid and went out. The thought of going back to her
room was hateful. It was too late to go anywhere else, the
pictures, for instance, and besides, even the pictures couldn't
stop the shaking. There was only one other place to go, and perhaps
an hour there, an hour of quiet prayer, would give her
strength to resist the temptation that was coming fast upon her.

It was shameful, shameful. Singing like a crazy woman,
lying on the floor of her room, drunken, dirty, sinning, while
God in His Heaven looked down at her. And then being
forced to humiliate herself in front of a person like Mrs Rice,
telling that lie about monthlies and being caught in it. Could
anybody blame her if she despised me? I deserve it. I'm rotten,
rotten, just a useless woman, all alone.

But there in front of her was Saint Finbar's, its Gothic spire
uplifted like two praying hands, a grey religious place, the
house of God in the peace of night. She went in, dipping her
hand in the dirty Holy Water font, making the Sign of the
Cross as she pushed open the door leading from the vestibule
to the nave.

The church was dark: here and there, a small lamp or a
cluster of candles burned in lonely devotion before a picture,
beneath an altar. The church was empty: cleared of its stock of
rituals, invocations, prayers, a deserted spiritual warehouse

waiting new consignments. One old woman kept watch for
the community, sitting in the darkness with her back to a
radiator. Was she praying as she watched the altar, or had she
come in to keep warm?

This quiet, this gloom, this immense repose, soothed Miss
Hearne as she Stood in the deep shadows at the back of the
church. She walked up the highway of the centre aisle, past
the side aisles tormented by the Stations of the Cross, up to the
great golden and white sweep of the main altar. She genuflected,
and sat down in the front bench, feeling faint, weary,
but at peace.

O Sacred Heart forgive me, she prayed, her eyes on the
small golden door of the tabernacle. God sat behind that door,
God in the form af bread by the sacrifice of the Mass, God sat
alone behind that door in His empty church. Deserted God,
she thought, You "wait alone each night while men forget You.

The tabernacle glowed red-old from the small light of the
hanging sacristy lamp She rmlembered that when the lamp is
lit, God is in the tabernacle. When it is put out on Good
Friday, He is absent.

The sacristy lamp winked In the shadows the old woman
stood up, genuflected, and "turned her back on God. Miss
Hearne watched the tabernacle, heard the dragging footsteps,
the muffled slap of the swinging door, as the old woman went
out into the streets. Alone in the immensity of His house, she
gazed at the unseer, Presence behind the little golden door.
Alone with her God, she knelt down and begged Him.

O Sacred Heart, please, I need Your strength, Your help.
Why should life be so hard for me, why am I alone, why did
I yield to the temptation of drink, why, why has it all happened
like this? O Sacred Heart, lighten my cross, You know it was
hard, aunt dying after all those years of caring for her and You,
only You, know the things I wanted, the home, children to
raise up to honour and reverence You. O Sweet Jesus, You
have shared my suffering, You know that I love You, please dear Lord, give me a sign, give me strength.

Tears wet her eyes. She raised her head. But the tabernacle
was silent. Behind the door, God watched. He gave no sign.

And around her the statues, unlit and unlovely, stared coldly
across the church, unhearing, uncaring. Our Lady, her eyes
and hands uplifted in her own private prayer; Saint Patrick, a

aunt old man in a green chasuble and a golden mitre, his right
and gripping a staff, unmindful of the snakes which coiled
around its base; Saint Joseph, his meek eyes downcast, a good
grey-beard few people prayed to. Plaster saints, no entreaty
could move them. Alone, rejected, Miss Hearne looked again
at the tabernacle, behind whose tiny door bread made into
the Body of God lay hidden. The Holy of Holies.

Behind the altar an old sacristan appeared, a minor mummer
on God's stage. Perfunctorily, he paused, genuflected in front
of the tabernacle, then mounted the altar steps. His old eyes
sought the tabernacle, dismissed it and he went wearily around
the back of the altar. She heard him fumble with a switch and
the lights in the side aisles went out. Then he came around the
front again, walked down the steps and opened the little gate
at the Communion rail. He did not genuflect but walked
straight down the main aisle.

'Closing now, closing,' he said in an angry voice as he
passed her bench.

But she sat stiffly, terrified by the thing she had felt. For
when the lights went out, it seemed as though the tabernacle
were empty, a little golden house, set in the middle of a huge
mantelpiece. It was as though the old sacristan, keeper of
secrets, knew he had no need to genuflect again. The lights
were out, the people had gone home, the church was closing.
In the tabernacle there was no God. Only round wafers of
unleavened bread. She had prayed to bread. The great ceremonial
of the Mass, the singing, the incense, the benedictions,
what if it was show, all useless show? What if it meant nothing,
nothing?

O God, God forgive me! she cried, falling on her knees.
Forgive me, O Sacred Heart, for the terrible doubt the devil
put in my head. O my guardian angel, shield me, protect me.
Forgive me, O God, for I have sinned. I have blasphemed.

The footsteps returned. 'You'll have to leave now, missis,' the old sacristan said. His soutane was unbuttoned, showing a

dirty brown pullover underneath. She looked into his old
discoloured eyes, searching for secrets. But saw only that he
was fired, that he wanted to close the church, that he wanted
her to go.

She sat up then and watched as the old man banged the
Communion gate shut, all pretence at devotion gone, as he
went to close the side door without bending a knee to his
immortal God.

She stood up, bowed her head to the tabernacle, genuflected
and went quickly down the aisle to the door. She made the
Sign of the Cross in dirty Holy Water (if it is only ordinary
water and the priest is wrong...?) and went out of the church,
hearing the swinging door slap shut.

Outside the church gates, people passed. People busy with
the immediate things of life. People making a living, bringing
up children, planning, talking, sharing each other. Alone, Miss
Hearne looked back at the church, an unhaunted house of God,
an empty place, stripped of the singing, the ritual, stripped of
men; men who brought it to sudden glorious life.

Empty. And above her, the night sky, curved and vast. An
empty sky, nothing beyond it but the stars, the planets, with
the earth spinning among them. Surely some great design
kept it all moving, some Presence made it meaningful. But
what if the godless were right, what if it all started back ions
ago with fish crawling out of the sea to become men and
women? What if not Adam and Eve, but apes, great monkeys,
were our ancestors? In that world, what place had a God who
cared for suffering?

She began to walk. Supposing, just supposing, her heart
cried, supposing nobody has listened to me in all these years
of prayers. Nobody at all up above me, watching over me.
Then nothing is sinful. There is no sin. And I have been
cheated, the crimson nights in that terrible book from Paris,
the sin, permissible then. Nobody above. Nobody to care.
Whiteness hers, he seized, revelled in. Virile he, his dark
flashing eyes, they lifted beakers of wine and quaffed them,
losing themselves in the intoxication of love, homage to
Bacchus, lusts of the flesh. That handsome boy bathing that

day at Greystones, standing up in his tight bathing trunks, his
bump of virility sticking out, he would enfold me, he would
run gracefully with me up the strand to the dunes. No sin in it.
It would be passion, sublime freedom. And my breasts bare,
that day in Doctor Bowe's surgery, his assistant, McNamara
his name, me lying on the examination couch, my arms hanging
over the edge, and he came close, yes, close, his stethoscope
cold on my chest, he bent over and against the back of my
hand his trousers pressed, I felt it, his thing, swelling there soft,
he didn't notice, an accident, but behind the material it was
there, soft, swelling, the hot flushes I had, daren't move my
hand for fear he'd notice, felt it against the back of my hand,
soft, hard, warm, supposing he had noticed, it swelled, all
caution gone, he had turned, the rough beast, tearing his
clothes off, black hair all over him, lusting after my whiteness,
yes, I could too, give myself, gipsy girl, hair about my
shoulders, my breasts bare, rolling on the greensward, Romany
marriage, blood mixing blood, while he, his male blackness
enfolds me. It would be nature, not sin. For remember the
night old John Healy said to aunt that if he weren't a Catholic
and did not believe, then what would there be to prevent him
living as a profligate, cheating his neighbours, owning slaves,
living like a great Roman in the golden days of Ikome. R.ome,
Samson and Delilah, his great powerful half-naked body in
the picture. What would prevent him, what indeed? No hell,
no purgatory, no responsibility to God. If all the priests were
wrong and you died and slept into nothingness, what point,
then, in all of that? The community, it can go hang, what did the
community ever do for me that I should help my fellow man?

No god. But the Protestants would fiever be saved and still
they went on making laws stopping people from doing sinful
things, canting about sin and corruption. And if we Catholics
were wrong too? she thought. Then we'd be no better offthan
godless Russia, free love, no morals, rape in the streets, men
killing, strangling, defiling women like the sex maniacs in
the News of the World. Who'd stop them? What use in courts
if there was no moral code, no bible to swear on? A woman
like me, defenceless against the beast in tnen, what would I

do? No, no, there has to be a god and if there was no god,
men would make one. Idols, like that great idol, in the picture,
the Temple of Dagon, Victor Mature pulled it down, a god
of clay. And those people back in ancient times, superstitious
they were, afraid of the sun, of snakes, of things of clay. Omens
and portents. And us? The golden door, the circle of bread in
the monstrance. What if...? O forgive me Sacred Heart, the
devil's thoughts, forgive me. But - tearing at my dress, ripping
it away, his toga thrown aside, his huge hands feel me, press
me close, his body, muscled, hard. And drunken, that wonderful
cheerfulness, gay laughter, quaffing the wine, forgetfulness.
Sweet oblivion. O Thou. A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and
Thou beside me in the wilderness. Paradise enow.

A car, headlights like yellow angry eyes, brakes screeching

in rage. She stumbled, drew back, fell. Strong hands lifted her.
'Are you all right, Miss? You nearly got kilt.'

And a man's head from the car window. 'The lights were
against her. She just walked out, not looking. Get herself
killed.'

Then the noise of engines backing up, moving again. The
passers-by stared, resumed their progress. The man who had

lifted her, touched his hat. 'Sure you're all right? Are you ill?'
'No, no, thank you. Thank you very much.'

Nearly killed, not looking. I was nearly killed. Called to
meet my Maker. And in mortal sin, sinful evil thoughts, sins
of intent. Denying God.

She stood there shaking, saying an act of contrition. Struck
down in the midst of my sinfulness, O Sacred Heart, forgive
me. You gave a sign, a warning. Your patience will not last
for ever. O dear Jesus, the drink, the sin that led to another
sin. Hallucinations I had, and shaking like this. O my God, I
am heartily sorry. I thank Thee.

Her eyes sought the night sky and she gave thanks. Then
she crossed carefully when the lights showed green and continued
home to Camden Street. She said a whole rosary on
the way. A rosary in honour of the Sacred Heart. He had
warned: repent. Once again He had been merciful, He had
shown the way.

CHAPTER 11.

NEXT morning, when Miss Hearne appeared for breakfast,
her earthly penance began. All eyes watched her as she came
in and sat down.

Mr Lenehan opened the attack. 'Feeling better now, Miss

Hearne?'

'O, yes, thank you.'

'Well, that's good news now. I'm sure we're all glad to hear

that.' He smiled deceitfully at the others. 'It's a terrible thing,

sickness in a house.'

Miss Friel shut her book with a snap. 'Some people have no

consideration at all,' she said loudly. 'No consideration at all.

Sickness indeed! Singing and carrying on at all hours.'

Mrs Henry rice poured tea. 'Now, it won't happen again,

I'm sure.'

'Disgraceful, I call it,' Miss Friel said. 'A nice thing for a

Catholic house.'

Miss Hearne, her face burning, hardly listened to these

words. She was watching Mr Madden. But he only opened

his mouth to put toast in it.

'I like a bit of a song myself,' Mr Lenehan said, grinning at

Miss Hearne. 'You have a fine voice there. A fine carrying voice.'

Mary came in with fresh toast and put it in front of Miss

Hearne. She fumbled with the toast-rack and one of the slices
fell beside Mr Madden's cup. Miss Hearne saw Mr Madden
look at the girl and the girl blushed red. He kept on looking,
all the time the girl was in the room. Anything, so's he won't
have to look at me, Miss Hearne thought. O, I don't blame
him. He's shocked, and no wonder.

But there was no time to think about it: Miss Friel still

wanted satisfaction. 'I can hardly keep my eyes open,' she told
the table. I'm dead tired, so I am, after yesterday. Singing and
carrying on, you could hear it all over the house. It's all very
well for the rest of you, but I have to keep my wits about me,
teaching.'

'O, we all make noises, now and then,' Mrs Henry Rice
said. 'I know I often disturb Bernie at his work when I put
the vacuum cleaner on.'

'Vacuum cleaner? I wouldn't mind that. But caterwauling,
no, it would drive you mad,' Miss Friel said, glaring down the
table at Miss Hearne.

O, the mortification of it. But she couldn't let that pass.
'Is it me you're referring to?' she asked Miss Friel.
'And who else?'

'And is it any business of yours what I do, I'd like to know?'
'It's a matter of common comfort to the people who are
living in this house. Singing and shouting away half the
blessed night, and yesterday afternoon, I was correcting exercises,
I could hardly hear my ears. I hammered away on your,
wall, but not a bit of heed you paid. You'd think you were...

(O, no, not that! Not said out in public!) 'I'm very sorry,'
Miss Hearne, said, cutting her short. 'I promise you it won't
occur again. She looked at Mr Madden. 'I must apologise to
all of you. I didn't realise the singing voice carried so much.'

But Mr Madden kept his head down. He looks upset, poor
man, she thought, how embarrassing it must be for him.

see, Miss Friel said, standing up. Well, I should hope not
indeed.' Her victory won, she tucked her book under her arm
and marched out of the room.

'Ah, never mind her,' Mr Lenehan chuckled, nodding
towards the door. 'Sure, there's nobody doesn't have a bit of
a jig now and then. Except for the likes of her, never had a
night's fun in her life.'

'Mr Lenehan!' Mrs Henry Rice was stern. 'I'll thank you
not to discuss people when they're hardly out of the room!'

'No offence meant. I was only sympathising.' He winked at
Miss Hearne.

Keep your winks to yourself, you counter jumper. Shameful,
O shameful, being discussed like that, by such people, no tact,
no manners. At least he had the sense to say nothing. Gentle
man. One of nature's gentlemen.

Miss Hearne drank her tea and forced a piece of sickening
buttered toast into her mouth. Her stomach rejected it. Sick

bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it. O, not here, I
couldn't be sick in front of him. Lie down, a good lie down
and some broth tonight, and not another drop of liquor, not

another drop ever. Go, I must. At once.

'I think I'll go to my room.'

'Not feeling well?' Mr Lenehan inquired.

The sick bile rose again. She shut her lips tightly and

nodded. Mr Lenehan smiled. 'A good rest is the best cure.'

I could kill him, the cheeky thing, as if it was any of his

business. O, that shaking. Stop it. Stop it!

She ran upstairs to her room and reached the washbasin

just in time. Afterwards, she felt purged and weak.

She took off her dress and lay down on the bed. Nothing

matters, she said. Nothing. I must sleep and get well. Can't
talk to him in this condition. I must look dreadful. O, I feel
sick. The sickness.

But sleep came quickly and she lay in light nameless dreams

all through the forenoon. It grew very cold in the room and
she woke to pull the blankets over her. She slept on dreamlessly
into the afternoon, making no sound, hidden in the
cocoon of unconsciousness. To sleep and never wake. Wake
to face him.

Someone outside?

'Miss Hearne.'

She started up. 'Who is it?'

'There's a Mrs Brannon on the 'phone.'

'Mrs Brannon?' O Sacred Heart, the lesson, little Meg,

today, Thursday it is I

'Did you tell her I'm not well?'

'She wants to speak to you,' the door cried, with the soft

compelling voice of Bernard.

'Just a minute.'

My dress, where? O Mother Mary, my heart, the pain of it.

O, what'll I say, what can I say? Sick, yes, unwell, O Sacred
Heart help me. O Mother Mary, my good intention, help me
now. I will not sin again.

Bernard, wearing a black turtleneck sweater, dirty flannels

and slippers, was waiting on the landing outside. He followed

her downstairs to the hall where the 'phone dangled like an
evil fruit from its cord. Her hand shook as she put the black

earpiece against her tousled hair.

'Hello?'

'Is that you, Miss Hearne?' Mrs Brannon's voice, twisted
and harsh, leaped out of the little black cylinder. Mrs Brannon
behind it, big, mean, opinionated.

'Yes, Miss Hearne speaking.' She looked back along the hall.
Bernard, horrid fatty, was listening, sucking at a cigarette.

'Well, I'd like to know what's the meaning of this? Today's
your lesson with my Meg, you know that. And the poor child
sitting there at the piano this last hour, waiting for you.'

'O, Mrs Brannon, I'm terribly sorry. But I was ill. I've been
in bed all day.'

'That's no excuse,' the crackly mean voice roared out of the
earpiece. 'You might have 'phoned, it's the least you could
have done. Not leaving the child waiting hour after hour like
that, no consideration at all. I like people to keep their appointments.
If you can't do that, I'll just have to get someone else.'

'O, Mrs Brannon, I'm sorry, really I am, I'll come over
right away, I'll be there in half an hour.'

'So you're not sick. Not sick, that's a fine thing. I never
heard the like. No, Miss Hearne, that won't do. That won't
do at all. I'm sorry, I'll just have to get someone else. I never
heard of such a thing.'

'But Mrs Brannon, I am sick. I mean that I'd come anyway.
It skipped my mind, really, or I'd have 'phoned of course.'

'Well, it didn't skip Meg's. I won't have a teacher who
forgets her pupils. Good day, Miss Hearne. You can send me a
bill for the last two lessons.'

'Mrs Brannon, really, I don't think...'

'Click!' said the little black earpiece.

'Bad news?' It was Bernard, fat, sucking his cigarette,

coming towards her.

'No. No.'

'Are you a teacher or something? I heard you mention
going over. And the lady told me her little girl was waiting
for you.'

'I teach piano,' Miss Hearne said, trying to walk round him

and get back to her room.

'I'm very fond of music myself. I have some good records

and a record player, if you'd ever like to listen to them.'

'That's very kind of you, I'm sure. Now, I really must get

out of this draughty hall. If you'll excuse me...'

'Horowitz, Schnabel, Gieseking, I've got a lot of'good piano.

Some lovely stuff..' He leaned over the rail of the banister,

watching her go up. 'Lost a pupil?' he asked.

O, the brute! Listening in on every word, the sneaky thing.

'I said did you lose a pupil?' He had raised his voice to a

shout. She turned and looked down the stairs.

I'm not deaf, thank you, Mr Rice. The answer is yes.

Although I don't see that it's any business of yours.'

'I didn't mean to be nosey. I just know some people who

want a piano teacher for their little girl, that's all. Maybe

you'd be interested.'

'Perhaps we can discuss it some other time.'

'As you wish.' He went off down the hall, whistling.

Whee-whe-whee-who... piano, pianissimo. I wonder now,
a tidbit for little old New York upstairs? Yes, uncle dear, a
piano teacher, a failed piano teacher at that. Heard her myself
on the 'phone, not half an hour ago, terrified because somebody'd cancelled a lesson. How'd he take that, eh? What the
hell do you know, roaring it out, but it's true, I'd say, I will say, and he'll know it. And talking of the lady's special
peculiarities, uncle dear, has it ever occurred to you that the
evidence presented in the past twenty-four hours leads indisputably
to a certain conclusion? Item: two empty whiskey
bottles in her room. Item: loud solitary songs. Item: generally
hung-over appearance at the breakfast table this morning. Yes,
uncle, the verdict is that the lady, to put it crudely, is a boozer.
Watch his meat-face rage, nonna my business, in Hollywood
tough-talk out of the side of his mouth. Ah, I know him, the
sod, he'll bluster and bluff out with another mad scheme, he'll
be off to Connemara to drain the bogs of Ireland for uranium,

handing out the big talk, but I'll stop that, watch the fear when
I point out, all reasonableness, mind you, that hell hath no
fury like a spinster scorned. And that she's been- led up the
garden shall we say- by one James Madden and that he'd
better watch his step now for she'll be after him, thirsting for
holy union. That should shift him.

But wait. Think about it. Messire Niccolo. Is this the way
to proceed? There's the affair of the serving girl, m'lud. And
if he talks? No, in it himself, up to his neck, don't worry. Yes,
proceed as planned. And why not? If I tell him now that she
is what she is, a piano teacher, a woman of straw, not a penny,
then the business designs will stop, his interest will abate. He'll
avoid her. And then? A word in the other direction, a hint to
the lady that all is not lost. She pursues, he flees, he cannot flee
and continue to live here. An intolerable situation. Demands
decisive action. Petreat. Pack. Bag and baggage. Out. Bye
bye blacksheep. Yes, worry him. Handle it diplomatically.
Iron hand in velvet. Yes. Do it now. He's in.

Whee-whe-whee-who... whistling once more, Bernard
turned, climbed the stairs to his uncle's room.

CHAPTER 12.

The male must pursue. Miss Hearne believed this. If Mr
Madden did not seek her company, she would be abandoned.
The woman's place was to resist advances, to grant the favour
of her company, to yield little by little.

But on the following day Mr Madden again preserved a

total silence at the breakfast table. She tried to make him talk.
He would not. Their cosy chats might never have been. He
confined himself to the business of eating and drinking, and
as soon as he had finished, he put on his hat and coat and went
out. He was out all day. She waited for him, but the night
came and sleep came and still he had not returned.

On the third day of Mr Madden's silent retreat, she sought

him out. Accidentally, as it were. But she pursued him. At
breakfast he made her feel positively foolish when she drew
him into conversation. Afterwards, she went to her room, put
on her hat and coat, and sat down on the old straightbacked
chair, facing the bay window. She allowed nothing to distract
her: a moment's inattention could mean another day of
unhappiness. At eleven, she saw him come out on the front
steps beneath her, dressed for the street. She jumped up and
hurried down the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her. He
was walking down the street. She ran after him.

'O, good morning, Mr Madden,' she called. 'Lovely day

for a walk, isn't it?'

'Yeah,' Mr Madden said, looking at the sky. She fell in

beside him.

'Are you going downtown?'

'I've got some business,' he said.

'O. Mind if I walk with you? I've been thinking a lot about

you, you know.'

Mr Madden stared straight ahead. She tried again. 'I mean,

I've missed our little talks, you - you seem to have been very

silent these last few days.'

Um.'

'I was wondering, I mean, I wonder is anything wrong?
You - ah, you haven't had bad news or anything?'

'Hey,' Mr Madden said. 'There's my bus. I got to get it.
I'll see you later. I got to run now.' And run he did, limping
on his game leg, jumping on the back platform of the bus as it
pulled away from the kerb. He waved good bye. Then was
lost in traffic.

Avoiding me, O, it's shameful of him, running away like
that, as if I had the plague or something. You hurt me, James
Madden, if you knew how much, you'd come back on your
bended knees to apologise. Clutching her handbag to her
stomach, she stared down tlie road. Ran from me. When I
ran after him. Humiliated myself for him. He rejected. He
turned away. But my own fault, yes, I'm the only one to
blame, no I'm not, that horrid sister of his, telling him heaven
knows what awful tale. Rejected, she looked at her long
pointed shoes with the little shoe-eyes winking up at her.
Little shoe-eyes, always there. But the magic didn't work.
The shoe-eyes were just buttons, just shoe buttons.

O, she said, a woman in love can't afford to be proud. He
must be made to see, he must be made to come back. And I
must do it myself, no matter how silly it looks. Tomorrow is
Sunday, we first walked together on a Sunday. Tomorrow
he must go to Mass and I will go with him, I will have it out,
yes, I'll come right out with it, no matter how much it hurts,
ask him to explain himself. Because anything, anything is
better than sitting here alone at night, not knowing. And what
will I say? Subtle, yes, lead up to it gently, find out his intentions.
O, maybe he would say it himself, not have to be asked,
gentle, tender with me again. And he will, he will, he's just
put off by the things his horrid sister said against me. I'll
explain, the first time it ever happened, I'll say, and it was
because of you, you made me unhappy. Show him, I will, he
is responsible for it all, come right out with it, I was upset for
you, I only fell into it because you made me unhappy. And
now you are cold, tell me why, I have a right to know.

She did not go to confession, although it was Saturday.
Although drunkenness was a mortal sin. No, after tomorrow,

after the Sunday talk, it could all be told to this new priest,
Father Quigley, why it had happened. And maybe she might
ask for advice on marriage. As her confessor, her new one in
her new parish, he must be consulted, he would have advice
to give.

The next morning she was up at six. She dressed carefully

and sat by the window until nine. But he did not go out. So
she went down to breakfast. The others were there, even
Bernard, but he was not. She couldn't eat a thing, she was so
nervous. At a quarter to ten, he appeared and she dawdled
with her cup of tea until he had finished eating. He did not
speak to her. He lit a cigarette and stood up to leave. She went
after him into the hall and saw him put on his coat.

'Are you going to eleven, by any chance, Mr Madden?'

'Well,' he he'sitated. 'I might do that and I might go to

twelve.'

'Anyway, you're going out?'

'Yeah.'

'Well, I'd like to walk along with you. As a matter of fact,

I'd like to have a word with you.'

'Well - sure.'

They walked side by side down the street. 'I think I'll go to

eleven,' he said. 'Have you been yet?'

'No. I'll go to eleven too. We can go together, if you've no

objections.'

'That's fine.'

They turned out of Camden Street, passing the university.
'You seem to have been very busy lately, Mr Madden.'
'I had some business to attend to.'

Well, really. If he thinks he's going to put me off`like that,

he's got another think coming. Out with it, out with it, and

shame him.

'I - you'll think it forward of me - but I had the impression

you were avoiding me.' Her face coloured scarlet as the words

came out.

'Where did you get that idea? I was busy, that's all. I'm

going to Dublin on business.'

'O?'

'That restaurant project. A friend of mine is coming back
to Ireland for a holiday. I want to discuss it with him.'

'I see. And when are you planning to run off to Dublin,
may I ask?'

'Well - uh, I haven't decided yet. Soon. My friend will be
here soon. I got a letter from him yesterday.'

'You might have told me. After all, I'm interested in what
you do.'

'Well, uh, I got two letters. I mean, I got a letter a while
ago and then another one yesterday. It isn't sure though, when
he's coming.'

'But I don't see what two letters have to do with it. You
made up your mind to go to Dublin and you didn't even have
the decency to tell me.

He stopped walking and stared at her. 'What's it to you?' he
said harshly. 'That's my personal business. If I want to go to
Dublin, or New York, or anywhere, that's my business. I
might even go to New York. I tell you it's not sure yet.'

'New York? But you said you were going to stay here.

Why, you told me yourself- why only last week you said...'
'Last week was different.'
'I don't see how.'

He began to walk again at a terrible Rice. She had to run to
keep up with him. 'Last week I thought I had a partner for
that restaurant deal,' he said, his head down, his rough-red
face angry. 'This week, I find you've been stringing me along.'

The? But Mr Madden-Jim-I don't understand. If you
mean what happened, your sister told you I drink, I mean, it's
not true.'

'Never mind that. I hear you're a piano teacher, is that
right?'

'I don't see what that has to do with it.'

'It's got everything to do with it. I need a partner for this
hamburg joint I got in mind. I thought you were on the level.
Well - are you? If you've got a couple of thousand pounds we
can talk business.' He stopped walking, took her roughly by
the arm. 'Well, how about it? You want to be partners
with me?'

'But - but that's impossible. I haven't got any money. I...'
He let go of her arm. 'See what I mean? I thought not.
Phoney, same as everybody else in this town. Okay, I'm going
to Dublin, see what I can do. And if it doesn't work, I'm
going back to the States. I never should of come here.'

'But I thought you were going to stay in Ireland. I thought
that was why you retired from business over there.'

'Ireland!' He stared at the rain-threatening sky. 'Who'd
stay in Ireland, unless he had to? Tell me that?'

She was silent. As though by common consent, they began
to walk again.

'I don't understand why you thought that I- I mean, i
thought you were interested in me, Jim. As a woman, I mean.
I don't think you've behaved very well.'

'Well, what d'you mean well? What I do's my business.'
'Your business? And what about me, Mr Madden? What
am I to think? You took me out, you might say you confided
in me, you gave me certain ideas, you led me on to think all
sorts of things and then you just ignore me. I have to humble
myself to run after you and then you have the nerve to tell
me you were only courting me because you thought I might
put some money in your silly restaurant.'

They had reached Saint Finbar's. The people were coming
out from the ten o'clock Mass, meeting the people who were
waiting to go in for the eleven o'clock. He looked at the
crowd and then looked at her.

'Come on with me,' he said. 'I want to talk to you. In
private.'

He walked past the church, down a side street. She followed,
her face mottled with blushes, her whole body quivering with
indignation and shame. In the side street, he stopped and
looked back at the crowds.

'Now, listen, Judy. You've got this all wrong. I took you
out - sure. You had nobody else around. I liked you, I thought
you were a fine woman. I thought you and me were interested
in the same things. But I didn't make any passes, did I? I didn't
give you any ideas. Let's get that straight.'

'It's that horrid sister of yours,' she cried, her voice shrill

with fear. 'She turned you against me. She told lies about me'
	'May? May's got nothing to do with this. Besides, I didn't

	need May to tell me you were drunk, that day. I've got ears.'

	'O, but you mustn't believe it. It was because of you. She

	upset me with what she said, I couldn't bear it, I had a drink,

	medicinal, purely medicinal. I took it to soothe my nerves.'

	'Well, that's your business. I didn't ask you your business,

did I?'

	'I know what's wrong,' she screamed, clutching at his sleeve,

	standing out in the street with the tears blinding her. 'You

	think I'm a drunkard, you do, that's why you're going away,

	that's why you've been so cold. The other thing is only an

	excuse. But it's not true, Jim, it's not true, I hardly ever touch

	it, that's why it affected me, I'd make you a good wife, Jim,

	really I would. I'd be a help to you, I don't care what you

	were, I don't care, I don't care.'

	Carefully, he lifted her hands offhis sleeve. 'Who said any
	thing
about getting married? Did I? I never even considered it.

	Listen, Judy, get a hold of yourself. I like you, I thought of

	you as a good friend. That's all, that's all. Marry? Are you crazy

	in the head, or something? Marry! At my age. At yours. What

	is this?'

	'O, my God!' she wailed, shielding her face with her arm.

	'O, merciful God!' She ran away from him, stumbling, her

	head down: to get away, away anywhere from his face, his

	harsh voice, his hate. 1kunning, weeping, she reached the

	street corner and the gate of the church. The people were now

	going in to eleven o'clock Mass. Hide! Hide! She joined the

	crowd, mopping her face with her handkerchief. She dabbed

	Holy Water on her brow. and went blundering to a side aisle,

	to the great mass of kneeling people, hiding herself among

	them, getting away from him.

	'introibo ad altare Dei!' cried the priest.

	'Addeum
	quilaetificat juventutummeum,' the altar boys

	mumbled.

Where is he, he wouldn't come in after that, he wouldn't
dare to face me after the way he spoke. O, the horror in the

street, me shouting like a servant girl and him bellowing like
a soldier, his voice, his face, cruel, enjoying the hurt, how
could he do this, how could he, so hurtful, has he no kindness,
no mercy in him, telling that story about a letter, going to
Dublin, a fairy tale, a pure invention, it rolled off his tongue
as deceitful as a bad confession, I should have asked him to see
it, proof, I had a right to, yes, because it wasn't true, else why
did this happen now, after he was so nice, no, it was the
drinking, the stories that horrid sister of his told about me,
she's the one who's responsible, she did it, and me too, I made
a fool of myself, i should have been polite and firm, giving
myself away like that, shouting and weeping and I rushed at
him, accusing him, they say that puts a man off, you could see
he was embarrassed, that's why he went down the side street,
so's people couldn't see us, yes, I put him off, a pushing
woman, it hurt him to say those things, he still called me Judy,
even then, Judy, you can see he's still fond of me, he's sorry
now, sorry, he was hurtful though, the cruel way he said it, 'at
your age,' what does he know about my age, yes, and he said,
are you crazy in the head,' crazy, O, aunt dear, no, no, it
couldn't be, O, my God, help me, save me.

She began to pray, her eyes on the altar, her mind far from the
sacrifice. The Our Fathers and Hail Marys stumbled through
her mind, repeating themselves until they were meaningless,
as hurried and without devotion as the mumbled responses of
the altar boys. They died half-said as she slowly retraced the
agony from its beginning, from the humiliating moment she
had run out of the house after him. The walk, the things said,
the cruel way he said them. They could not be washed away
by repetition, those cruel words. Unlike prayers, they could
not be dulled by restatement. They were the negation of
prayer, the antithesis of hope.

She did not hear the sermon. She only wondered if he were
in the church, sitting cruelly in the house of God after destroying her faith. When the Mass was over she sat until everyone
else had left. Let him leave first, hide from him. He had said
those things, they could never be unsaid. And he was the last
one, James Madden, the last one ever.

People were already taking their places for the twelve o'clock
Mass. She must leave. Impossible to go back to Camden Street
now. He'd tell the whole thing to his horrid sister and then in
no time at all, others would know about it, that Friel woman
and that sleekit birdy Lenehan. They would all have a good
laugh over how she had made an utter fool of herself. No, I
can't go back now among them, among enemies. Thank God
I have some real friends left, the O'Neills- and it's Sunday.
I'll go somewhere and have a small bite to eat and afterwards
I'll go for a walk until three.

At a quarter to three, Shaun O'Neill looked out of the drawing
room window and saw Miss Hearne coming up the avenue.

'Daddy,' he said. 'j. H. sighted on the horizon. Prepare to
abandon ship.'

His father nodded, picked up his newspaper and made for
the door.

'I'll be in the study if you want me,' he said to his wife.

'Una and Kathleen. It's your turn to stay,' Moira O'Neill
said. 'And I don't want any arguments about it.'

'But I have to prepare my stufffor tomorrow's lecture,' Una
said.

'No. When you went to the dance last night, you told me
you'd stay in today. I want you here. After all, poor Judy
Hearne looks forward to seeing you. It's the big event in her
week, the poor soul, and I'm not going to have her snubbed
by you children.'

'Anyway, I'm off,' Shaun said. 'I've done my sentence.'

'Go on then. But I don't want any more jokes about this,'

Mrs O'Neill said sternly. 'Kevin, you stay here.'

'O holy smoke!' Kevin wailed.

'That's enough. And Kathleen, I want you to stay too. After
tea, you can all go offifyou like. But someone must see Miss
Hearne to the bus.'

'There she is,' Shaun said as the bell shrilled below in the hall.
Una, Kathleen and Kevin pulled long faces.

'Where did I ever get such a selfish bunch of children?'

Mrs. O'Neill asked the ceiling. 'Not an ounce of Christian charity
in them. Poor Judy, she loves every one of you. And to think

you couldn't show her a little Christian kindness.'
'It's Miss Hearne, Mam,' said the maid.
'All right, show her up Ellen.'

They waited. Young Kevin kicked at the rug. Shaun had
already disappeared.

Someone rapped gently on the drawing-room door.
'Yes.'

'It's only me,' Miss Hearne said, coming into the room with

a sad attempt at a smile.

'Hello, Judy dear.'

'Moira.' They embraced, making the mock kiss of women,
careful not to disarrange each other's hair. Una, Kathleen and
Kevin came forward to shake hands.

'Sit down, Judy dear. Una, move those books off the chair.'
'Thank you. And how are all my little nephews and nieces?'
This was her little joke" she liked to think of them as young
relatives. But they turned indifferent faces towards her, their
eyes cold, rcjecting the hint of kinship.

'O, we're all right,' Una said. 'And how's Baby Rice?'
'Don't talk to me about that horrid thing. Although, now
that I'm settled in, I can see where the trouble lies. It's his
mother. O, Moira dear, Una darling, you don't know what a
horrible woman she is.'

Mrs O'Neill looked at Una: they both knew Judy Hearne's
familiar pattern. Landladies always started out by being very
nice, the nicest people possible, but after the first disagreement,
they began the slow transition to deep-dyed villainy. With
this new one, Mrs O'Neill thought, she's skipped the preliminary
stages.

'O,' she said. 'Why is that?'

'Well, Moira dear, she's terribly common for one thing.
Not that I'm a snob, Moira, you know me better than that.
But she's the nosiest woman I ever set eyes on. Do you know
she's killed with curiosity to know what I'm doing all the
time. And malicious, well, you wouldn't believe the things
she says about me.'

'Malicious?' Una said. The thought of anyone finding
subject for malicious gossip in the doings of poor old Judy
Hearne ....

'Well...' Miss Hearne looked significantly in the direction
of Kevin and Kathleen. 'Not in front of the children.'

Una preened herself, smiled triumphantly at her younger
sister. Seventeen had its few rewards.

'Kevin and Kathy, would you like to go off upstairs and
play?' Mrs O'Neill said.

'Wow I' young Kevin cried, jumping up. 'Rkace you to the
landing,' he called to Kathleen. And they fled out of the
drawing-room, banging the door behind them. Una watched
them go, a little downcast.

'Such obedient children,' Miss Hearne said. 'Well, as I was
saying, this Mrs Rice is the sort of person you could take into

court and sue, the things she says.'

'What things?'

'Well, this is in the strictest confidence, mind you, but last
week she as much as accused me of being a bad woman.'

Una found this impossible to take seriously. She howled
with laughter. 'A what?'

'A bad woman,' Miss Hearne said firmly.

'O Judy, you're exaggerating.'
'No, Moira, it's the truth. You see, she has a brother living
with her, an American, who's back in Ireland on a visit and is
thinking of settling down. A Mr Madden. A very nice man,
at least he seemed to be. Well-behaved, an older man, you
know. And he seemed very interested in me. He was always
pestering me to go out with him, to go to the pictures or a walk or something.'

Una's eyes were circles of disbelief. Mrs O'Neill chuckled.
'O Judy,' she said. 'Is it a flirtation you're having?'

'Not at all. It's just that he - well, you know I have a lot of
time on my hands now, the piano lessons have dropped off a
bit as a matter of fact. And the embroidery classes not being
renewed at the Technical School, as I told you last week. So,
just to be polite, I went out with him a couple of times.'

'To the pictures?'

'Well- yes. And he took me to dinner one night at the
Plaza. A very nice man, purely friendly, you know, and I was
very interested to hear what he had to say about America.
He's a Donegal man originally, from your mother's part of
the country, Moira.'

'O, there's lots of Maddens in Donegal,' Mrs O'Neill said.
'And what happened then, Judy?'

'Well, one night last week we came home from the pictures
and there she was, waiting for us like a policeman. She asked
us in for a cup of tea. I saw nothing odd about it at the time,
but as soon as my back was turned- she sent me into the
scullery to wet the tea, mind you I offered to do it- well,
when I came back into the room, he - Mr Madden - was gone.
After some row, I didn't hear what it was.'

'And then what?' Una asked. HolyMoses, could you imagine
old Judy Hearne in a romance?

'Well, she just said she didn't want any misunderstandings
and that she was running a respectable house and so forth, and
that her brother didn't have much to do with himself and that
was a pity. I've never been so insulted in my life, you could
see what she was hinting at, I just told her who did she think she was talking to? I declare I nearly gave her notice right on
the spot. Of course, you could see she was jealous of the

brother, worried about fortune hunters or something.'
'Why? Is he well ofF?'

'Well, I haven't the faintest idea. As if it was any concern
of mine whether Mr Madden is well off. I think he's quite
comfortable, but that's by the by. The important thing is this
woman, the cheek of her. Can you imagine, as much as telling
me to my face that I was carrying on with him?'

Despite herself, Moira O'Neill was seized with a fit of the
giggles.

'O, it's not funny, Moira dear, I can tell you it was humiliating.
Humiliating. I made up my mind today that I'll not
stay another week in that house.'

'And was that all there was to it?' Una asked.

Miss Hearne hesitated. I said too much, boasting again, I
should have held my tongue. I'm making" a fool of myself.

'Yes, that's the whole story. Did you ever hear anything so
ridiculous?'

Mrs O'Neill frowned. 'Now look here, Judy,' she said. 'You
shouldn't jump to conclusions. I feel the time has come for us
to talk frankly, as old friends. These digs are cheap and well
situated, and you said yourself you were quite comfortable. I
think you'd be foolish to move again over a little tiff like
that.'

She doesn't understand, Miss Hearne thought, how can she,
when she doesn't know the whole story? When I never can
tell her the truth. Like the time I left Cromwell road, it
wasn't the row about cleaning the room, it was the other, the
night I burned the mattress when I fell asleep with the bottle
beside me.

'Well, I feel I have to move,' she said. 'I wouldn't be happy
there.'

'Now, Judy, be sensible. This is about the sixth move you've
made in the last three years. No digs are perfect. And you've
been complaining that moving is expensive. Now, why don't
you stay where you are. You can always ignore ttfings like
these.'

'What's this Madden like?' Una said. 'Is he a real dyed--in-- the-wool
Yank?'

'O, he's all right, I suppose. Anyway, he's going off to
Dublin soon. The trouble with him is he believes everything
his sister tells him.'

'Don't tell me you had a row with him too.'

'No - not a row exactly. But ever since then he's been cool.
And this morning, this very morning, I had to ask him what
was the matter and he mumbled something about going to
Dublin, a lie obviously. I wouldn't be surprised the sister put
him up to running away like that. Because before that he was
all over me, you know.'

She looked at them, the grey-haired matron and the young
girl. And why shouldn't I, they don't take me seriously, those
two, laughing like that. She leaned forward: 'As a matter of
fact, he proposed to me,' she said.

'He proposed to you?'

'He did. Of course, I didn't take him seriously for a moment.

After all, I told him, I hardly know you.'

'What did he do in America?' Una asked.

'O, he was in the hotel business in New York. I believe he

had quite a big hotel there.'

'Well, Judy, for heaven's sakes, he sounds quite a catch.'
'O, mind you, I thought about it for a minute. After all,
men don't grow on trees. But Ijust didn't feel we were suited
to each other.'

'And how did he take it when you said no?'

'Well - men are so funny - he didn't say a word. Of course,

it might be that, that's driving him off to Dublin.'

Mrs O'Neill and her daughter exchanged glances. They're

interested in me now, all right. With a tale like this. This is
the way it should have been. Telling it, reversing the events to
fit a more dignified pattern, she was uneasily conscious of the
obligations of the lie. Told once, it must be retold until, in
the blurring of time, it became reality, the original version,
carefully remembered.

'Well, Judy dear, I still think you'd be foolish to leave,' Mrs

O'Neill said. 'Although I can quite understand that it was
embarrassing for you. But if he goes away, it will all blow
over. Who knows, she'll be grateful to you, the sister, for
turning him down. You two might even become the best of
friends.'

'O, it's impossible. Friends with that fat thing! I'd be hard

up for friends indeed.'

And you are hard up, Mrs O'Neill thought. Something

about this rigmarole doesn't make sense. And there was something
fishy about the tale you told the last time you changed
your digs. God knows, all landladies couldn't be as black as
you paint them. Ah, poor Judy, there's no use arguing with
you, you have a touch of your Aunt D'Arcy there. Stubborn
as a mule.

'Let's have some tea,' she said. 'Una, go and call your

father.'

Friends with the likes of Mrs Rice, Miss Hearne said to

herself. O, Moira doesn't understand things at all. How could

I be friends with that fat thing and how could something, a
serious thing- a love affair just blow over like that? O,
Moira wouldn't know, sitting here in the middle of her
chickens like some contented hen. And Una, .just a child,
what does she know about men and women? They don't
understand, they never will, they've never been me.

Professor O'Neill entered, his monocle flashing opaque
against the light. 'Hello there, Judy. And how are you?'

'Hello, Owen, I'm well thanks. And how are you?' Owen,
such a distinguished-looking man, he went straight up to
Madden, looked him square in the eye: 'I'll have you know,
Sir, Miss Hearne is a very dear friend of mine, how dare you
talk to her in that tone of voice? Many a man would have
given anything to marry her. And an angel, she devoted her
whole life to her sick aunt.' Ah, Owen, Owen, and to think
that a woman like Moira got you. Moira, she doesn't understand,
how could she, common herself, I don't like you,
Moira, never did, and God knows I'd love to tell you straight out.

'Sherry?' Moira said.

'Thank you, Moira dear.' She drank it down in one swallow,
to still the hatred that was starting inside her. I need it, I'm
upset, I've had a very upsetting day.

Mrs O'Neill watched this. She lifted the decanter again.

Have another, Judy. It will warm you up. There's quite a nip
in the air today.'

Miss Hearne agreed. She noticed the way I drank it, Moira,
she doesn't miss much, it's the countrywoman in her. I must
go slow on this one, I must make it last. She looked down at
the pale sherry in the glass and saw that it shook like a tiny sea.
She tightened her grip, pressing her fingers against the rim of
the glass. But her hand still trembled. She drank it down in
two swallows.

The second drink helped. No sooner had she swallowed it
than she felt it send delicate fumes to her head, flushing her
cheeks, easing the tension. One more drink would bring the
good feeling. But meantime she must wait; she must let it do
its work. She refused sandwiches and biscuits; they would

spoil the effect of it. But when Moira ritually offered the
decanter, expecting the familiar refusal, Miss Hearne smiled
and held out her glass: 'Yes, I think I will. It's awfully good
sherry, so light and dry.'

The room was bright and cosy, the children were grouped
around the fire. Professor and Mrs O'Neill sat in their armchairs
on opposite sides of the grate, befitting parts of the
family picture. Miss Hearne leaned back on the cushions of
the sofa, her eyes misty as she watched the changing pictures
made by the flames. A happy family, how lucky they were.
In the bosom of my family, O, if it were really true.

She asked young Kevin what he was doing at school and
did not listen to his answer. Instead, she ran her fingers
through Kathleen's curls. Ugly little Kathy, she likes me still.

And she drank the third sherry. It was pleasant, harmless,
and goodness knows, she could have another, it tasted so

'A cup of tea, Judy?'

'No, I couldn't spoil the taste of this delightful sherry.'
'Well- would you take another?'
'D'you know, I think I will.'

Mrs O'Neill poured a fourth sherry. I always knew she

liked a little drop, but this is going to make her tipsy, she
thought. The poor soul, I suppose she's upset about what
happened. What really happened? Well, I suppose we'll never

know.

'Why don't you play something for us, Judy?' she asked as

she saw Miss Hearne greedily swallow down half of the new

glass.

'I couldn't. O, no, you don't want to hear me. Besides, I

haven't any music with me.'

Una smiled at her. 'O, please Miss Hearne. Play some

Chopin.'

'Yes, Judy, we haven't heard you play for a long time,'

Professor O'Neill said.

'But I'm out of practice, really I am.'

'Please. Just one piece,' Moira O'Neill said. It would at least

keep her from finishing the bottle of sherry all by herself.

Besides, she liked being asked to play and playing might take
her out of herself a little.

So Miss Hearne stood up and Una cleared the brictbrac
and books offthe top of the upright piano which stood against
the wall. She opened the top of the piano and Miss Hearne sat
down on the stool. The O'Neill children smiled to each other,
anticipating the show which their brother Shaun had often
mimicked for their entertainment. Then, as though she in turn
were mimicking Shaun's burlesque of her playing, Miss Hearne
furtively slipped on her glasses, struck a few chords and began
to play, firmly, ferociously sounding the first bars of Chopin's Polonaise. The brass candlesticks on the piano did a frightening
jig accompaniment as she bent forward, her eyes intent, her
ringed hands jerking up and down the keyboard as though
controlled by puppet strings.

When the piece was finished they all applauded. She turned
around, smiled and made a little bow from the piano seat. As
she straightened up, her glasses fell off. Una retrieved them
and handed them back, waiting for her to return to the sofa.
But Miss Hearne swivelled the stool around again and poised
to play.

'Chopin,' she said. 'The immortal Chopin.' And her fingers
struck a great chord on the keys. Off she went, rippling through
a prelude, her face intent, forgetting all in the rise and fall of
the music. But the chords faltered, fumbled, and the notes
stumbled into silence.

'O, I wish I had my music,' she said sadly. 'I'm becoming
terribly forgetful. I used to know that piece as well as anything.
O, dear.'

A little embarrassed, the O'Neills waited. 'Well, never
mind, Judy,' Mrs O'Neill said. 'You'll play it the next time
you come. Now sit by the fire here, I'm sure you're tired after
the playing.'

'Ah, Chopin,' Miss Hearne said, her shifting black eyes sad
and misty. 'And that woman, Georges Sand, what sort of a
woman can she have been at all, Owen?'

'Well, I haven't read her books,' Professor O'Neill said.
'She's on the Index, I believe.'

'And no wonder. Could I trouble you for another glass of
that delightful sherry, Una? Thank you, dear. Ah, no wonder,
Owen, that she's on the Index. A vulgar person who dressed
like a man and smoked cigars. I don't know how Chopin put
up with her.'

'A-hem!' Professor O'Neill said. He did not consider such
matters fit subjects for discussion in front of the children.

'And he a Catholic at that,' Miss Hearne said. 'Living with
a woman who smoked cigars. Still, he was a great artist,
Chopin, wasn't he, Owen? And we must allow great leeway
for the artistic temperament.

'Being an artist does not absolve a man from his religious
duties, Judy,' Professor O'Neill said firmly. 'And besides, I
don't think we should discuss it.'

'O.' Miss Hearne looked at young Kevin and Kathleen. 'O,
excuse me, I don't know what I was thinking of.' She raised
her glass and drank the fifth sherry. Something was happening,
she could feel it. Maybe I'm just a teeny bit tight. O, no, I
mustn't be tight here, of all places.

She stood up, spilling her handbag out of her lap. 'I must
be going now. I've just remembered that I've got an awful
lot of things to do this evening. You know what it's like,
Moira, washing, and little sewing jobs, you put them aside...'

'You dropped your bag, Miss Hearne,' young Kevin said,
handing it to her.

'It's early,' Mrs O'Neill said politely. 'Stay a while.'

'No, I really must go now.' Miss Hearne straightened her
hat with the coloured flowers on the band. 'I really must.

'Kevin, get your coat and take Miss Hearne to her bus.'
They all stood up then, like people getting on their feet
after a family rosary. She said good byes and went downstairs
with Mrs O'Neill and Kevin, and Kevin took her arm as she
walked along the avenue to the bus stop. (Afterwards, he told
his mother that Miss Hearne was very jolly and talked all the
way. When she got in the bus, she turned and blew him a kiss.
'Gosh, it was awful, everybody was watching us,' Kevin said.
'Why are women so sloppy?')

After she blew her good bye kiss, Miss Hearne watched

young Kevin run back up the avenue. What a lovely family,
what lovely friends to have. He might be her own little boy,
running offlike that after saying good bye to his mummy. Her
own little boy. Not now. Not ever. Saddened, she went up
the aisle of the bus. She sat down, paid the conductor, and
stared at the neck of the man in front of her. A fat neck, with
hairy pimples. People were so horrid sometimes. She looked
down at her shoes, little shoe-eyes, always there.

The bus stopped and two young people, dressed in their
Sunday best, got in and sat near the driver. Miss Hearne
noticed that they were holding hands. Newly-weds? The girl's
clothes, in such terrible taste. Magenta, with that blue scarf,
O dear.
The young couple saw her look. Like Siamese twins, they
turned their heads and stared back at her. They had pale sweaty
faces, fed on cheap pastries, bags of sweets, tea and bread and
jam. Their light-blue eyes were vacant, unblinking as children's.
They stared at her without interest, as though they were too
tired to look anywhere else.

Do I look tiddly, or something, what's the matter with them
anyway, is my hat on crooked, I wish they'd stop, they're
making me nervous again, and after I was feeling better too;
O, look at them, what's the matter with them? Why are they
so rude?

The young man said something out of the corner of his
mouth. The girl snickered and nudged him with her elbow. But their eyes, those vacant blue eyes, never wavered. They
watched Miss Hearne.

Well, you'd think I was something in a cage, what can be the matter with me? O, I'm trembling, honestly I am, they're
upsetting me, I need something medicinal, something to settle
me. And there's nothing in my room. Sunday too, none of the
public houses open, only that place in Ballymacarret, against
the law too, so far away.

But the shaking would not stop. The good feeling of the
sherry was going fast and it had been an awful day, a day to
end all. Nobody could blame me, she thought, not even Moira
O'Neill, she was pouring them as fast as she could, a great

shock, I'm not over it yet, I need something medicinal to
steady me. In moderation, it will help me sleep.

So at City Hall, she changed buses and began the long ride
out to Ballymacarret. This time, the bus was almost empty as
it rushed through the gritty gloom of evening, down grey
drab streets, fringed by row upon row of mean little working
class houses, brick red, stone grey, each and every one the
same. At each window, beveen flaying lace curtains, a
coloured vase, a set of crossed Union Jacks, or a figurine of a
little girl holding her skirts up to wade, sat like little altars,
turned towards the street for the edification of the neighbours.

She got off at the usual place, a stop near a factory. She
walked along a street of tiny houses, tiny gimcrack shops, all
of it stage-lit by the harsh orange glare of new street lamps.
Dispirited children played hopscotch in the gutter and a
starveling cat walked delicately around a pile of refuse. Milk
bottles adorned the doorsteps in preparation for Monday
morning. Inside, the tiny, smelly upstairs bedrooms, lamps
were already lit.

Alone, tired, trembling, she reached the public house on
the corner.

F. P. MCAVINEY. Licensed to sell wines and spirits.

It was closed. The blinds were drawn but slivers of light
shone through the curlicues on the Victorian plate-glass windows.
The heavy door was padlocked. But in the cobbled
entry behind the pub, men stood and talked in whispers.
Under the street lamp, a Woodbine dangling from his lips,
a shabby youth stood sentry. He wore a cheap brown suit with
padded shoulders and his tie was a mass of stained, multicoloured
triangles. When Miss Hearne stopped outside the
pub, his eyes moved in his narrow, pasty face. He watched.

Three men came out of the entry, hiding bottles under their
coats. A door opened behind them, emitted a clamour of
laughter and talk, then closed into blackness. The men became
quiet when they reached the street. They looked up and down,
worried working men, then made off home in a hurry. The
pasty-faced boy rubbed his shoulder-blades against the lamp
post. He flicked the butt of his cigarette against the brick wall,

watched the sparks fall in the dusk. Then his eyes found Miss
Hearne. He waited.

Miss Hearne went to the head of the entry and stood there,
undecided. What a dark place, you could- anything could
happen to you down there. Last time there was a little boy
who did the errand. But it was in the daytime then. Still, I
must have it, I've come so far.

She opened her bag and felt the pound notes inside. Maybe
if a nice respectable man came out I could ask him, tell him it
was for a sick person, he would understand. But go down that
black entry, no. Men down there.

The pallid youth detached himself from the lamp-post. His
ferret eyes blinked. Then he made up his mind. He grinned
at Miss Hearne.

'Luckin' for sompin, missis?'

'Well, eh, yes, I was wondering, I mean, I have a friend
who's sick.'

He put out a hand that hadn't seen a tap for days. 'Is it gin,
missis? Wiskey, porther or stout?'

'Well, how much is it? Say whiskey?'

'Three poun'.'

'O, but a cheap one would do. Three pounds, why that's

exorbitant. Gin, how much is gin?'

'Three poun'.'

'O, but look, what do you take me for? The best whiskey is
only about two pounds. Two pounds two and six. And my

goodness, gin couldn't be more than thirty-five shillings.'
'Okay. I kin get ye wiskey for two poun' five.'
'Well, that's still a lot.'

He paid no attention. He looked up and down the street
and smiled. 'The peelers,' he said. 'They might be here anny
time. Then wat?'

Shakily Miss Hearne took two pound notes and a ten shilling
note out of her purse. 'Would you mind getting me the
whiskey then? And it had better be Jameson at that price,
young man.

His dirty hand closed on the money. 'Fix yew up in a
minnut,' he said and ran down the entry. The door flashed

open for a moment. Miss Hearne, abandoned, looked up and
down the mean street. Those street lights are so bright. What
if the police did come?

The door banged again and the boy was back. He took a

bottle wrapped in brown paper from under his coat.
'Put it away quick. I kin get]ail for this,' he said.
'What kind is it?'

'John Jameson. Hurry up, missis.'

'Well, thank you,' she said, putting the bottle in her bag.

The neck stuck out. 'It's for a sick friend, you see.'

'Okay now. Bye bye.' And he walked back to the lamppost.

'Wait,' Miss Hearne called. 'The change. You owe me about

seven shillings. Or at least five.'

But the boy laughed. 'Yer head's cut,' he cried scornfully.

'G'wan home. The peelers'll catch yew.'

It was no use. She turned away, shaking more than ever.

O, the terrible little gutry, the little gouger! At the bus stop
she carefully unrolled the brown paper. The label on the bottle
said 'Dunrovin's Best Old Scotch.' She had never heard of it.

CHAPTER 13.

When she reached Camden Street, Miss Hearne remembered
that the neck of the bottle was sticking out of her bag. She
removed the bottle and hid it under her coat. It was early,
nine o'clock, and there was always the chance of meeting
somebody on the stairs. But as she walked down the street,
she saw that the house was dark. And when she let herself in,
nobody seemed to be at home, not even Miss Friel. So much
the better. She hurried to her own room, unlocked the door
and put on the lights. Then she locked the door from the
inside. Trembling, she put the bottle on the bedside table,
drew the curtains and made her preparations. She undressed,
put on her robe, lit the gas fire and drew a.jug of water from
the wash-basin tap. Then the seal on the terribly expensive
bottle was broken and she poured the first drink. It made her
cough, cheap nasty stuff, the kind of whiskey a person would
pay thirty-five shillings the bottle. But it was whiskey; it was
good to get it. She poured a second one, half a tumbler, and
put some water in it. Drink this slowly; let it do its work.

But she had forgotten to ... O, such a nuisance. She put
down the glass, unlocked the door and tiptoed along the
corridor to the lavatory. As she went in, she heard footsteps,
soft footsteps. She waited until the footsteps had gone; then
tiptoed back to the half-opened door of her room.

O, it was good to get back in the heat again. She closed and
locked the door.

'Good evening, Miss Hearne.'

Miss Hearne pulled the lapels of her dressing-gown tight. A
lightness took her in the head, making her sway. She turned
around.

'What are you doing here? How dare you?'

'Please I' Bernard said. He stood with his back to the mantelpiece,
looking quite unlike himself in a dark-blue suit, a clean
shirt and a black knitted tie. His long blond hair was carefully
combed and his shoes were black and shiny.

'I saw your door open, so I looked in. No harm in that, is
there?'

He wouldn't dare, she thought. But they say that effrontery
is a mark of such men. She went back to the door and
unlocked it.

'.I was going out to a dance,' he said. 'But I decided to stay
in and have a chat with you instead. There's something we
should discuss.'

'Mr Rice, really, I was going to bed. Some other time,
perhaps. If it's that pupil for piano lessons, we can talk about
it in the morning.'

'No, it's not that.' He drew out her armchair. 'Sit down,
won't you? It's something rather private.'

What does he mean, he couldn't want to attack me, I'll

scream . . .

'I'll only stay a few minutes, Miss Hearne. Surely you can

spare me a few minutes?'

'Well...'

'What about a drink? I see you have some Scotch.'
He didn't miss that, did he, the sneaky thing.
'All right if I use this tooth-mug?'

She nodded and sat down in the armchair, her nervous dark
eyes shifting from him to the door.

Bernard replenished her glass and filled his own. Then he
pulled the old straight-backed chair up to the fire and sat down
opposite her. 'I'm going to be frank,' he said. 'I'm going to

put my cards on the table. I want to talk about Uncle James.'
'I - I don't understand.'

'Uncle James is disturbing my work. He's made Mama
upset and he's made life miserable for you. I've been watching

you at breakfast. It shows.'

'What do you mean?'

He held up a fat hand for silence. 'You know very well
what I mean. Now, take me, for instance. I don't mind telling
you that I consider my work the only important thing in this
affair. I'm writing a great poem. A great poem and it may take
years to finish. And in the meantime, I'm forced to live here
and let Mama support me. Which is as it should be.'

'O?'

He refilled his glass, and handed her the bottle. He looks a
bit mad, she thought, I've noticed that he has a queer look
about him. If he- I could scream. Somebody would hear,
somebody. I need another drink. To steady me.

'People don't understand,' he said. 'But you should, you're
a woman of some discernment. I need peace to work and
Uncle James has destroyed all that. You see, Mama has changed
since he came. She thinks he's got a lot of money and she
wants to get it. She's greedy, poor Mama, not that I blame
her, of course. There are no financial rewards in writing great
poetry, you know.'

'I suppose you could always get a job. I'm sure most poets
have to work.'

'No, no, you don't understand. This work I'm doing, it's
an epic poem, a great epic. This is just the first phase of it. It
may take five years. Why should I prostitute my talent?'

He jumped up from his chair and began to walk about the
room. 'Why?' he said. 'Why shouldn't my mother invest in
immortality? After all, that's what mothers are for.'

What a funny duck he is, half crazy, the artistic type, I
suppose. She handed him the bottle and he poured two drinks.
Why, I'm not afraid of him at all, he's harmless, just a funny
duck.

'No water, thanks,' she said.

Bernard clasped his hands behind his back and struck a
Napoleonic attitude, head thrust forward. 'I'm forced to be
ruthless,' he said. 'I can't let my work suffer from this situation.
It's only right that Mama should support me. But now
she's supporting Uncle James too, and that's not good for her
morale. And he's got money, he doesn't need to be kept. Now,

that's where you come in.'

The?'

'You want him. Why don't you take him away from here?'
'How dare you! What on earth ...'

'He loves you. He loves you, do you understand? He wants
you and he thinks he's not good enough for you. Did you
know that?'

'But - but that's ridiculous. Why, only today he told me he
said some very harsh things, he hasn't the slightest intention
of marrying me, I can tell you that.'

'That's Mama's fault. She's been putting in the black word
against you. Like that drinking business.'

'Well- O, I know she's your mother and so forth, but really!'

Bernard nodded. 'Yes, Mama's a bitch, poor dear. Do you
know what she told Uncle James about you? You'll not
believe this, but she actually told him that you said he wasn't

good enough for you. That you'd had enough of him!'
'But I didn't. I wouldn't dream...'

'I know. But Mama said you did, and he believed her. He's
a very proud man, you know. That's why he was cruel to
you today. His pride was hurt.'

'But it couldn't be that. Why, I made myself perfectly clear. I - well, anyway, it isn't that at all. He's going to Dublin to
do some business. That's why he was rude.'

'What business? There's no business, believe me. The only
place he wants to go is the States and he can't think of a good
excuse to go back after boasting to all his friends over there
that he was coming to Ireland to settle down. But if he got
married, that would be another thing. He could go back then.
To show his wife America, so to speak.'

'It's true,' she said. 'He wants to go back.'

'Of course he wants to go back. With you. He told me.
After all, I'm his nearest male kin. But that was in confidence,
you mustn't say I said it.'

'No, no.' She held out her empty glass. What if it could be
true? It would explain so much, his cruelty, all a fraud, you
could see he was hurt the way he spoke, maybe, maybe...

Bernard tilted the neck of the bottle into her tumbler. 'And
he's not a bad catch financially,' he said. 'That's another
consideration.'

'But even if he wanted to marry me - which is not the
case - even if he did, your mother has poisoned him against

'If you want him,' Bernard said. 'You'll have to go after

hint. You'll have to fight for him. And you will. Because you

want him, you want him badly.'

'How dare you!' she cried drunkenly. 'How dare you.

Want him indeed, whatever gave you that idea?'

'I've watched you these last weeks. You're in love with him.

But you allowed Mama to walk roughshod over you. Didn't

you?'

'Well, she certainly had no business...'

'That's right. She had not. Now, what are you going to do

about it?'

'Well, I - there's nothing more to do.'

'You won't catch a man by sitting in your room sopping up

whiskey, Miss Hearne. No, I'll tell you what you're going to

do. You're going to tell him you love him. That you want to

marry him. You're going to keep on telling him, no matter

what he says. Because at first he won't listen 	'

	'But I couldn't. I wouldn't dream...'

'Yes, you could. And you will. Ask him, ask him, don't take
no for an answer. He'll balk, he'll fuss, but he'll do it. Because
he wants to. And you've got to.'

	'But it's unhcard of- I couldn't bring myself...'

	'You must,' Bernard said quietly. 'You need him badly.'

	'How dare you!'

'It's either that or drink yourself into a madhouse. And you
know it.'

	'Get out!' she screamed. 'Get out this instant!'

'I'm sorry, Miss Hearne, I didn't mean to upset you. Keep
your voice down, there's a good girl. You don't want Mama

to come up and find you half seas over again, now do you?'
'No,' she sobbed. 'No, no.'

'Or Uncle James. If he found you like this, he might believe
Mama's stories. And that would be terrible, wouldn't it?'

'O, dear God,' Miss Hearne sobbed, holding her face in her
hands. 'Leave me alone, leave me alone. Please'

'Don't get hysterical, Miss Hearne, I'm trying to help you.
Let's be sensible. You and I are going to hook him, if you do
what I tell you.'

	She stopped crying then and sat up straight in her chair.

'What do you mean, hook him? Have you no morals? Have
you no shame at all? And me, I'm as bad as you, listening to
you, you horrid sneaky thing, poking your nose into other
people's affairs.'

'Come off it,' Bernard said blithely, picking up the bottle.
'Put that bottle down! Taking what doesn't belong to you,
have you no manners? A boy like you, what were you taught
at school, where's your religion, you good-for-nothing little
sneak, plotting the way you do?'

He laughed. 'Religion is it? And what has religion ever done
for you, may I ask? Do you think Godacher, lonely, drinking yourself crazy
in a furnished room. Do you want to thank God for that?'

'So you're an atheist!' she cried. 'A rotten atheist. No
wonder you think the way you do.'
His fat face suffused with blood, his long blond hair, falling
over one eye, he leaned forward and caught her by the elbows.
'I think, Miss -

to bear in order to store up merit in the next. Don't you know
your Catechism at all?'

'Is that your answer?' He looked at the picture on the wall.
'You and your Sacred Heart. What the hell good has it done
you? It's only an idealised picture of a minor prophet. It won't
work miracles. You've got to make your own miracles in this
world. Now, listen to me. I can help you, if you'll forget this
nonsense and do what I say. You want a man. You can have
Uncle James. But don't bore me with this nonsense, with
these silly scruples. Your God is only a picture on the wall.
He doesn't give a damn about you.

'Stop it!' Miss Hearne screamed. 'Stop it, taking the Holy
Name in vain. Get out of here this instant!'

'Shh!' Bernard said. 'You're waking the whole house. Sit
down and keep quiet. I'm sorry I lost my temper. I'm sorry.'

'I will not sit down, she cried. 'You rotten atheist. She
struck at him. 'Get out of here, get out of here.'

But he had moved aside and her flailing arm met no
resistance. She blundered against the bedside table, spilling the
remains of the whiskey bottle on to the floor.

'Look what you we done! she screamed. You've made me
spill it!'

His fat white hand caught her throat. He pressed her close
as a lover. 'Shut up,' he whispered. 'Shut up, for God's sake.
You'll wake everybody up.'

Caught in his flabby grasp, she fought to get free. Her fists
beat against his face, his chest. He swayed back, catching his
heel on the worn fibre threads of the carpet. He fell and she
fell with him, close to the fire. Something hurt her head. But
she became warm, sleepily warm, as her mind slipped into
unconsciousness.

When she opened her eyes, she heard Mrs Henry Rice's voice,
saw Mrs Henry Rice's feet in carpet slippers, a few inches
from her face.

'A nice thing in a respectable house,' Mrs Henry Rice said.

'I just came in to see what was wrong and she was lying
there. She must have hit her head,' Bernard said.

'It's a wonder she didn't kill herself. O, come on in, Jim,

I want you to have a look at your dear friend, Miss Hearne.'

'Accident?'

'Accident, my eye! Drunk as a lord and screaming all over

the house. Well, it's my own fault, I should have asked for
references. Out she goes, bag and baggage, first thing in the
morning. Would you look at the cut of her, Jim!'

'Put her on the bed,' Madden's voice said. 'She might have

hurt herself. You can't leave her lying there.'

Then hands, Madden's hands, slipped under her shoulders.

Other hands lifted her feet. She kept her eyes shut, her mind
shut as they lifted her on the bed. The shame of it, the shame.
I must say something. Something.

But her arms would not obey when she tried to sit up. She

fell back.

'Thanks be to God, Miss Friel is still out, or I'd have lost

two boarders instead of one. I never saw such a sight.'

Somebody was bending over her. A man. Him? She opened

her eyes a tittle and saw Bernard, his fat face near, his eyes

worried.

'Go away,' she cried. 'You rotten atheist, go away!' She

managed to sit up, her hair about her shoulders, her dressing

gown loose. 'Filthy little liar,' she cried.

Mrs Henry Rice, menacing, bent over the bed. Her great

white arms reached out to seize Miss Hearne by the shoulders.
She began to shake her. 'Sober up!' she shouted. 'Sober up.
Have you no shame, carrying on like that?'

'Easy there, May,' Madden said. 'Let her be. Let her be.'

But Mrs Henry Rice continued to shake until Miss Hearne

jerked up and down like a rag doll.

'Leave her alone,' Madden said, louder now. 'She's loaded,

she doesn't know what she's saying.'

Released, Miss Hearne turned her head, weeping, and

pointed straight at Madden.

'You I' she cried. 'And I thought you were a man. A man

who could do his own asking, not a man that would send a
rotten fat atheist around to talk for him. You're as bad as the
rest of them.'

'What did she mean by that?'

'Never mind her. Never mind, she's offher rocker,' Bernard
said.

'just a minute, just a minute! What d'you mean by that,
Judy? Judy?'

Miss Hearne fell back on the pillows, her hand over her

eyes. 'You know what I mean,' she whispered. 'You know.'
'What?'

'He said you want to marry me. Tonight, he said it. He said
you were afraid to ask.' She looked up at him, her face a ruin
of tears. 'Why?' she cried. 'Why?'

But Madden had grabbed hold of his nephew. 'Leave me
alone, Uncle James, leave me alone.'

'What's this? What the hell's going on? What you up to,
you creepin' jesus?'

'Leave me go, leave me go. It's nothing. Nothing.'

'Leave my Bernie alone this minute. Leave him alone, you
big bully.'

'Please, Uncle James, you're breaking my arm!'

'Don't lilt him. Don't, Jim, don't!'

'You sonofabitch, I got your number. Trying to get rid of
me, eh? Telling her lies so's she'll chase me, eh?'

'No no.'

'I'm going, don't you worry. But I got a few things to say
before I do.'

'No!' Bernard shrieked again. 'You were in it too, remember!' 'Sleeping with the kid upstairs, your darlin' boy, that's
what's worrying him. Shacking up every night with M, ary.
Look at him, May, look at him, if you don't believe me.

'Don't listen to him, Mama, he's telling lies. It was him, it
was him that did it.'

Mrs Henry Rice sat down on the armchair and keened back
and forth. 'No, no,' she moaned. 'You wouldn't do that,
Bernie. You wouldn't do that to your poor mother.'

'He would and he did,' Madden shouted. 'And then sneaking
in here, trying to ruin me with that poor woman.'

'Don't listen to him, Mama. Mama, please! He nearly tore
Mary to pieces himself. Ask her, ask her, she'll tell you.'

	'I don't want to hear it,' Mrs Rrice shrieked. 'I don't want

to hear it, that child's only sixteen, O my God, the police
could have you up, Bernie- Bernie, why did you do that to me?'

	'Sixteen?' Madden said.

	'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.

Plock! Light filled the dark box as he slid the wooden door

aside. Framed by the grille, she saw his hollow-cheeked face,
his head resting on one hand, the purple and white of the stole
around his neck. He leaned forward, listening, not looking
at her.

'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.'
'How long since last confession?'
'Three weeks, Father.'

Father Quigley (Aha!) had waited. After all, if it was a real

sinner, come back after a year, maybe, that would be different.
But you might know it, his mind raged, one of these old
bodies that takes an hour to tell you nothing. 'What do you
mean, three weeks, my good woman, don't you know this
confession period is for the children? For the children. The
grown-ups' confession is at six and eight. Not now. Now,
what's the meaning of this, coming here with the children, with the children?'

'O, Father, I'm sorry, Father, but I had to come now. I have

to make a general confession, Father.'

Blessus and saveus, Father Frands Xavier Quigley said to
himself. A general confession, no less. And I promised to see
Father Feeny for golf at half-past one. Well, you never know,
maybe she's in trouble, this poor soul.

'A general confession, my child, is there something that's
bothering you? Something in particular? Some sin in particular?
Is that it?'

'O Father, yes Father.'

'All right, my child, tell me about that sin.'

'O father- it's drinking.'

	'I see. Drinkng to excess, is it? How many times?' (I

	wouldn't have taken her for that.)

	'O Father, yesterday. And last week, I lost all control.'

	'I see. And have you done this many times before?'

	'No, Father. Well - yes -. sometimes. You see, Father, I had

	a lot of things I was unhappy about Father, and that started it.'

	'I see. You know, that's a very bad habit, drinking to excess,

	drunkenness, that is, it leads to all sorts of sins.'

	'Yes, Father.'

	'Yes, it leads to other sins. Do you understand that, my

	child?'

	'O yes, Father. Father I...'

	'Now, any other sins, my child?'

	'Yes, Father. I doubted my faith, Father. I need your advice

	because I had moments of doubt, Father.'

	Father Quigley raised his head. His face was in profile and

	it seemed as though he were listening to some distant sound.

	'And what doubts were those, my child?' he asked in a quiet

	voice.
	""

	'Well, Father, I doubted that God was in the tabernacle. I

	doubted if He cared about me.'

	'I see. And did you have this doubt for long, my child?'
	'o, no, Father. It passed almost immediately. But it occurs

	to me now and then, this thought, although I try to stop it.'

	'And did you pray to Our Lord for guidance, my child?

	You should pray for guidance, pray to our Holy Mother and

	to the Sacred Heart if ever such a thing should happen again.

	Everyone has moments of doubt, my child, everyone, even
		..

	the holy saints. But you must pray for faith. You will do that

	now, won't you?'

	O, yes, Father. But Father why? I mean, why should I be

	losing my faith like this? Why do I doubt?Why doesn't the

	Sacred Heart answer my prayers? Why?'

	(These single women, I'm sure she's single, they'd talk your

	head off, every blessed one of them.) 'Well, my child, God's

	ways aren't our ways. You should ask for guidance, pray every

	day to our Blessed Mother to help you. Will you do that now?'

	'O, yes, Father. Father...'

'Now, any other sins, my child? Anything else?'
'Father, I want to ask your advice about another matter.'
'Yes?'

'Father, i've nobody to advise me. You see, Father, I live
alone, I've lived alone since my aunt died. Father Farrelly
used to be my regular confessor, before I moved to this parish.
He's gone now, Father, I'm alone a great deal and I often feel
a bit depressed, that's how I started to take a drop to cheer me
up. And recently, I was nearly engaged to a man, but it- it
hasn't worked out very well. And, of course, Father, when
you're my age, that's a worry. I've got no relatives at all, just
friends and - mind you, I'm not saying this man would have
been quite suitable, I don't think so, as a matter of fact - but
anyway, as I was saying, I'm all alone and I'm afraid because
I don't feel well sometimes and a drink seems to help me. I
know it's sinful, and I know I should pray more, and...'

But she stopped speaking. She had seen his face. A weary
face, his cheek resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes shut.
He's not listening, her mind cried. Not listening!

He began to speak: 'Now, my child, we all have burdens
put upon us in this life, crosses we have to bear, trials and
tribulations we should offer up to Our Lord. And prayer is a
great thing, my child, a great thing. We should never be
lonely because we always have God to talk to. And our
guardian angel to watch over us. And we have a mother, our
Heavenly Mother, to help us and intercede for us. Yes, we
have a Holy Family, each and every one of us. All we need to
do is pray. Pray, my child, ask God's aid in fighting these
temptations.'

'Yes, Father.' (O, he doesn't understand, he doesn't.)

'Now, I want you to say five Our Fathers and five Hail
Marys as penance for your sins.'

And then his voice, mumbling the Latin, giving the sacred
words of absolution, the words in which, acting as God's
medium, he washed the soul white as purest snow. His fingers
raised in the sign of forgiveness. The confession was over.

'God bless you now, my child. And say a prayer for me.'
The slide shot shut. The box was black. Plock! The slide on

the other side shot open and a boy's voice mumbled: 'Blessme
Father for Ihave sinned.'

And she was alone in the darkness. Shriven, her sins washed

away.

She opened the door and walked down the side aisle to
kneel at the back of the church. Her penance said, she started
a rosary to Our Lady. Perhaps through prayer, hard prayer,
she could conquer her fears, her troubles. If what Father
Quigley said was true, she had a family. The Holy Family.
They would help her.

But as she said the second mystery, she stopped and gazed
at the faraway altar. What good, if even God's anointed priest
did not understand? He did not listen, he cut me off, nicely, of
course, but he cut me off. And the rude way he told me I
shouldn't be having my confession heard at this time. Instead
of showing some understanding. We all have burdens, he
said. As if he didn't want to hear them, don't bother me with
your troubles. An ignorant man. God's anointed, with God's
guidance, he should have known it was important, perhaps the most important confession of my life. But he didn't see
that. And if he didn't see, why didn't You tell him, O Sacred
Heart, why didn't You guide him, help him to help me?
Why?

The tabernacle door was covered with a white curtain. It
was screened, it gave no answer. She looked at the confessional
and saw the last child leave. Then Father Quigley stepped out
of his retreat. He looked up and down the church, took offhis
stole, and hurried towards the sacristy. He genuflected on the
run as he crossed the altar. As if he's late, she thought. Late
for an appointment.

Kneeling in the silence of the church, she remembered the
night she had knelt alone and saw the old sacristan make his
hurried genuflection. The Priest of God and the Keeper of
God's Secrets, both passed God's temple as though they were
unbelievers, performing a perfunctory obeisance, a matter of
habit. As though they both knew there was no need to bow,
as though the tabernacle were empty.

Was it? Was there nothing to pray to? Was the confession

she had just made a form, something you went through to
ease your conscience? If it was, then how easy to explain all
the miseries, the follies, all the useless novenas, the prayers that
never got an answer. And if it was true, then all the priests,
all the bishops, all the cardinals are wrong. Deluded men,
believing that they are being helped by a God who is not
there. An unhelpful God. Why does He make men suff'er?
Bernard had said. Why should my sins hurt Him?

She saw the Pope, Christ's Vicar on Earth, tall, white-robed,
his fingers extended in blessing. Surely he, a saint of God,
would have helped her. But what if he could not? What if
there was no God? What if he, the general of the great army
of the church, knew there was none? How could the Pope, the
bishops, the priests, tell the people? For they had always
believed in a merciful Jesus. They could not be disillusioned.
It would be too cruel.

The priest had no reverence in his genuflection. And the
Pope? Supposing the Pope did not kalow for sure, supposing
the Pope did not really know if there was a God, or if...

Bread, only bread in the tabernacle. I am losing my faith.
O merciful God do not leave me, do not abandon me, hear
me; O Sacred Heart, hear my prayer. Give me faith, Sweet
Jesus, give me strength, give me Thy Eternal Love.

And if it is only bread? O my God, protect me. O Holy
Mary, intercede for me.

Mary, hands raised, a painted statue.
And if it is only bread?
If no one hears?
No one.

No one. The church, an empty shell, nobody to hear, no

reason to pray, only statues listen. Statues cannot hear.
And if I am alone?

If I am alone it does not matter what life I lead. It does not
matter. And if I die I am a dead thing. I have no eternal life.
No one will remember me, no one will weep for me. No one
will reward the good I have done, no one will punish the sins
I have committed.

No one.

If it is only bread.

o Merciful God, save me. o Mother Mary, protect me. o

saints and angels, intercede for me. o Sweet Jesus, save me.

O Blessed Virgin, protect me.
Tower of Ivory,
House of Gold,

Ark of the Covenant,

Gate of Heaven.

And there, behind that gate, behind the tabernacle door?
Gate of...
Only bread.

She stood up, staring at the tabernacle. She stepped out of

her bench. She did not genuflect. She turned away from the
altar and walked slowly out of the church. Her hand, from
the habit of a lifetime, found the Holy Water font, dipped two
fingers in it. But she did not make the Sign of the Cross.

Show me a sign, she said.

CHAPTER 15.

MR. MICK MALLOY, cashier at the Ulster and Connaught
Bank, draped his grey sports jacket neatly on a hanger and
put on his black shantung work coat. He unlocked the door
of his small cage and whistled a few bars from Offenbach's Tales of Hoffmann as he went in. Discreetly, because old McStay
hated that. Lunch at the Bodega, an occasion, it had put him
in fine fettle. With two half-uns of whiskey and a glass of beer
afterwards with the roast beef. By God, Mr Malloy said to
himself, and all because of a horse I never saw and never will.
Flammarion, my beauty, I must watch for you the next time

yoH're out.

John Harbinson, the messenger, was opening the doors to

the public and removing the lunch card. Mr Malloy set his
little cage in order. I wonder now, he said to himself, I wonder would there be a bit of golf going this week-end? He rubbed
the bald spot on the back of his head speculatively. There
might, there might indeed, if the weather held up at all.

Mr Mick Malloy, tall young secret gambler with devil-may

care eyes and a long humorous nose, became Mr Malloy, tall
cashier with a dignified face, a gentlemanly bank clerk, a nice

sort of fellow. He smiled politely at the funny-looking duck.

'Yes, Madam?'

By the holy, thought Mr Malloy (the rake), that one
wouldn't be an occasion of sin for any man. And indeed she
was a sight. On the wrong side of forty with a face as plain as
a plank, and all dressed up, if you please, in a red raincoat, a
red hat with a couple of terrible-looking old wax flowers in
it. And two, it's the mortal truth, two red rings on the one
hand.

No mint of money there, thought Mr Malloy, the cashier.

'I'd like to draw some money,' said the red coat.

Mr Malloy took her book and checked it with his ledger.
'And how much would you be wanting, Madam?'
'Fifty pounds.'
The lot, damn near. 58 pounds 6s 2d. Minus, equals £8 6s 2d.
Clerkly, Mr Malloy rechecked, Book compared. Approved.
Signature on cheque. Rubber stamp. 'And how would you
like it, Madam?'

'O, five-pound notes and one-pound notes.'

'Fives and singles.' Mr Malloy remembered happily the
pleasant pay-off he himself had received down Union Lane
just after the bank closed for lunch, two quid each way,
Flammarion, there yew arc, mister, the dirty bookie's clerk
said, sliding no less than sixteen quid across the counter,
remembering his own good fortune, Mr Malloy paid out the
money cheerfully.

She took it and her hands were trembling. Would that be a
disease, is it Parkinson's they call it? Mr Malloy (student of
mankind) wondered. She has the look of a sick person, he
decided, watching her count it.

Right you are. Book back. Entries made. Check. Recheck.

'Thank you,' she said, taking the book and the money,
sweeping them into her big old purse.

'Thank you, Madam. Good day to you.'

Not a single good-looking, let alone smashing, girl has
walked into this bank all week, Mr Mick Malloy (philosophic
philanderer) thought, watching the funny-looking duck walk

away.

Ah, well! Lucky at cards. Or rather, horses. My bonny
Flammarion.

Next customer!

Mister William Creegan, wine and spirit merchant, came out
from the back arid caught young Kelly reading a magazine. Mo,ieland, it said in bright blue letters across the top.

'Is that what I'm paying you for?' Mister William Creegan
said.

No sir.

'If I catch you at it again, you can take your cards and go.'

'Yessir.' Young Kelly skittered away to the other end of the
shop, making believe he had some bottles to put up for an

order. Mister William Creegan consulted the gold half-hunter
watch his own father had worn. Ten to three. He had to buy
an ironing board. Later. He put the watch back in his vest
pocket and arranged the gold chain across his middle.

Jing, jing, ring! the bell cried. Mister William Creegan
looked over at Kelly. Never mind, his grey eyes said, I'll take
it meself.

A bit old for that sort of get-up, he thought as he cracked
his solemn jaw into a smile. A red coat and she must be about
the age of my Agnes.

'Good afternoon,' he said. 'And what would you be
wanting?'

'Two bottles of John Jameson, please. And a bottle of gin.
Gordon's, I think.'

A lady by the sound of her. He looked at the trembling
hands. Ah, dear, my fine lady, I know your trouble.

'Mis-xrl Kelly!' Proprietor William Creegan called. 'Two
Jameson and a Gordon's.'

'Would that be to be sent now?' he asked solicitously. For

she'll never have the strength to lift it herself.

'O, dear.'

'It's a bit of a weight to carry,' William Creegan, wine
merchant, said. He knew his wine, his spirits.

'Well, perhaps I could take one with me and you could send
the others.'

Pencil. Order pad. All attention, he looked up.
'And what's the address, please?'
'Well...'

Ah, I know your trouble. No priest knows better. A man
gets to be a mind-reader in the business of selling spirits.

'Now, I could give you a shopping bag, if you like,' he
said. 'It mightn't be so heavy after all.'

She smiled at him. She looks as if she'd been crying, God
knows the troubles people have. And the trouble they bring
on themselves. He looked at her left hand. No riaag. Have I
seen her before?

'Good afternoon, miss,' young Kelly said, putting the two

Jamesons and the Gordon's down on the counter.

O, he knows her, does he? A regular customer, I wonder.
Well, thought Proprietor Creegan, she buys the very best.

'That'll be five pounds, eighteen shillings and ninepence,'
he said.

She opened her old purse and pulled a clutter of notes out of
it. William Creegan, wine and spirit merchant, looked at the
white fives, the green ones.

'I'll put it in a bag with a handle on it,' young Kelly said.
'Then you'll be able to manage.'

Mister William Creegan made change. 'Do you know her?'
he said out of the side of his mouth.

'Sure. But she must have come into money,' young Kelly
whispered. 'Most of the time it's fifteen bob tonic wine. One
bottle only.'

Mister William Creegan slid the cash drawer shut and
turned gravely.

'Five, eighteen and nine.' He paid three coppers into her

trembling hand. 'That's five nineteen. And a shilling is six.'
'Thank you.'

'And here's your parcel. Can you manage it, do you think?'

She took the bag, lowered it to the floor and lifted it again.
'O, yes, it will be all right, thank you.'

'Thank you. Good afternoon now.'

'Let me see now,' the clerk said. 'You're the lady who telephoned
from the station. Yes, here it is. A single room. Would
you mind signing the register?'

He looked at the two bell-boys. They waited the word.
They wore little round caps with PLiz, xtorL across their
brows.

'Number two-one-four,' the clerk said, handing them the
keys.

'Can I take that bag, ma'am?' the bell-boy said, reaching
for the paper bag which the lady held in her arms.

'I, I think my trunks will be quite enough for you,' she said,
smiling weakly. 'They're quite heavy, you know.'

'We can manage the bag as well, ma'am.'

'No, I'll carry it.' And she went shakily to the elevator.
Bottles, the hotel clerk said to himself. Bottles, by the sound
of them, when she picked it up. She has the look of a schoolteacher
on a spree. Well, it takes all kinds. A hotel is your
home. In your home, you are master, unless you offend the
neighbours. Mindful of the precept, he promptly forgot the
matter. He picked up the afternoon post and began the slow
labour of filing it in pigeonholes.

'Thank you, ma'am,' the older bell-boy said, pocketing silver.

'Would you like the window open a little?'

'No. Just draw the curtains.'

'And there's your key, ma'am,' the second bell-boy said.
'Thank you. Good night.'

'Good night. Good night. And thank you.'

They closed the door. The lady went to the wash-basin, took
a glass from it and sat down in an armchair, still wearing her
red hat, her red raincoat.

'How much?' the older bell-boy said to the younger as they
sauntered down the corridor.

'Five bob, would you believe it?'

The too.'

'She doesn't look the type.'

'Ah, sure you never can tell. Some of these ould dolls are
rollin' in it. And to look at her, you wouldn't think she had
tuppence.

'Where?' asked Mr Lenehan.

'To the Plaza Hotel, no less,' Miss Friel told him. 'You
could have knocked me over with a feather when she told
the taxi driver.'

'The Plaza? Did she win the football pools or somethin'?'
'Win nothing! Mrs Rice packed her off, bag and baggage,
today. But the best of it is, she came back this afternoon to get
her things. And would you believe it, she had a shopping bag
full of whiskey bottles under her arm. O, I had the measure of her a long time ago!'

'Off on a toot, eh?'

'Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, the bad article, but I

was passing quite close to her door a few minutes after she
came back and what should I hear but the sound of a bottle
hitting a glass.'

'You've got good ears,' Mr Lenehan said, grinning.

'Do you want to hear the rest of it, or don't you? I'm riot

going to stand here and be insulted.'

'Now, no offence meant. So you heard her guzzlin' it up?'
'Heard her? Two minutes later you could hear her all over
the house, singing away like a flock of parrots. I couldn't do a
stitch of reading, so I put my book down and went to her

door and gave it a rap.'

'That shook her, eh?'

'Well, you should have seen her. She had on a red dress,

bright red, you've never seen the like of it. And a red hat, I
tell you, it was comic. "Are you leaving?" I said. "Yes," she
said, "I'm leaving. I'm sorry if the packing b has inconvenienced
you. Now, I've got things to do,' she said, bold as brass.
"Would you mind?" The cheek of her! Well, I gave her a
look as much as to say, I know what's the matter with you,
my lady, drunken old, cheeky old, thing. And then I just
looked at the bottle. A bottle of whiskey right there on the
table. And a glass half full of it, without benefit of water. I
just looked at it and said, "Well, I hope you'll keep sober until
you re ready to clear out. Because we won't be able to carry
you down the stairs."'

'And what did she say?'

'What could she say? Half an hour later she was out in the

street with Bernie Rice helping her to load her trunks on a
taxi. And the cut of her! Holding this shopping bag full of
booze in her arms as though it was a baby.'

'Wait till Madden hears this,' Mr Lenehan said. 'That'll put

the ould Yank's nose out of joint.'

'Is she gone?'
'Yes, Mama.'

'Did she say anything?'

'No, Mama.'

'And what about him?'

'He's upstairs packing now. He says he's taking the train
tonight for Dublin.'

'He'd better. I'll be glad to see the back of both of them.
And there'll be another at the end of the week. I gave that
girl her notice this afternoon.'

'But Mama, it's not true what he said.'

'Don't you add the sin of telling lies to what you've done
already. I had it out with that child this afternoon, I don't want
to hear another word, O, men are filthy beasts, every blessed
one of them.'

'But Mama, it was him, not me.'

'I know it was him, the girl told me, what do you think
I gave him his marching papers for? To think that a
brother of mine - O, don't say another word, it doesn't bear
thinking of.'

'But Mama, please! Mary will tell you, I did nothing.'

'I didn't ask her. And I'm not going to. I just don't want to
hear it mentioned again. And Bernie, I want you to promise
me one thing.'

'What, Mama?'

'There's confessions tonight over at Saint Finbar's. I want

you to promise me to go. That's not much to ask, now is it?'
'No. I'll go. Mama, I'm sorry about all this.'

'Don't try to get on the soft side of me now. It just goes to
show what I've been saying to you all along, Bernie, if you
paid more attention to your religious duties, these things
wouldn't happen. Because, Bernie, it doesn't matter what you
do in this world, it's the next world that counts. Mass and
Holy Communion would suit you better than trying to get
back on my good side again. Make your peace with Our

Blessed Lord, that's what counts.'

'Yes, Mama.'

'You'll do that now, won't you, Bernie, for my sake? When
I think of all I've gone through in the last week, first that
woman, and then your Uncle James, a scandal, and that slip

of a girl that I treated as well as if she was in her own home.
Nice gratitude, I tell you.'

'I know. But it will be all right now.'

Tll male it all right, so I will. I'll not have the whole town
talking about us. I don't want to hear another word about
this, now or ever, do you hear me, Bernie?'

'Yes, Mama.'

Barman Kevin O'Kane, his red pompadour of hair bright as a
brilliantine advertisement under the light, bent over and drew
a glass of Guinness Double X. He sliced the head even with a
ruler and placed the glass, white on rich black, in front of
Major Mahaffy-Hyde. 'So the Yankee's gone,' he said. 'Well,
he was a good customer, no doubt about it.'

'A grand fellow,' Major Mahaffy-Hyde said, drawing the
glass of stout towards him. 'A grand, open-handed, bighearted
fellow.'

Kevin O'Kane looked along the deserted expanse of
mahogany, wiped himself elbow room, and leaned forward
confidentially: 'I hear tell he's going into business in Dublin,'
he said. 'What do you make of that, major?'

'That'll be the day,' the major said, brushing foam from his
straw-coloured moustache. 'Far be it from me to doubt a
man's word, but I don't put too much faith in that tale. You'd
think the police were after him, he was so glad to get on that
train.'

'Aye, he made up his mind quick enough. Yesterday, there
was no word of leaving.'

The major smiled a wicked parrot smile: 'Or had it made
up for him, Kevin lad. Did you ever think of that now?
Y'know he let slip something this evening that could be a
clue. It could be a clue.'

'Just a minute, major, I'll be right with you'.

Kevin O'Kane went down to the end of the bar, put a
double Johnny Walker Black Label in front of a commercial
traveller, name of Craig, made change, and returned to hear
the clue.

'Remember that woman he was going into business with?
The one that turned out to be poor as a pauper? You remember
that, Kevin?'

'Aye, many's the time he talked about the way she led him
up the garden path.'
'It could be the other way around,' the major said. 'Did you

see his face when he came in tonight?'

'A real thundercloud, major.'

'Eggs-actly! Well, tonight he informs me that she's just

moved into the Plaza Hotel, if you please.'

'Oho!'

'And that's not the best of it, Kevin lad. You see, it's my bet
he was a bit of a scoundrel, the bold James Madden. And it's
my bet he diddled her out of a bit of cash and then threw her
over. And now, when he's getting ready to skip off to Dublin,
he finds out that there's more where that came from. But not
for him. D'you follow me?'

'Aye, I wouldn't put it past him.'

'Eggs-actly! A real Yankee-doodle blather! Too smart for
his own good, do you follow me?'

CHAPTER 16.

IT was a lovely room, the kind of room she never could
afford in her aunt's day, or after. A heavy broadloom carpet,
golden brocade hangings and the finest soft double bed you
could imagine. And central heating, comfy armchairs and no
sound from the corridor. And the dinner, served on a tray,
with heavy silver dish-warmers over each course, was lovely
too. But there was no pleasure from the room and she left the
dinner almost uneaten. What good was it, if there was no one
to show it to, no one to share with?

And it was so expensive. So terribly expensive. The habits
of years, the constant counting of the cost, the careful measuring
of pounds, shillings and pence, wondering if there will be
enough to last the week, these things become part of you; it is
hard to wave them all away in a single day. Each time money
had to be paid out, it had been as hard to give more, to
disregard the cost, as formerly it was to make do on too
tittle. So expensive, and really not worth it. But no, she
would not count it to see how much had gone. That was
not part of the bargain. She would just pull it out of her
purse when it was needed, until every penny was spent. And
then?

Miss Hearne stood up, drink in hand, and went to the
window. She pulled aside the heavy curtains and looked out.
Here, in the best hotel in the middle of Belfast. Me. But Royal
Avenue was asleep, a wet grey belt studded with garish street
lamps. A policeman turned his back against the wind and
huddled in a doorway. A lonely tramcar clattered by, bright
lit, empty, its conductor standing alone on his platform,
fareless and forlorn. Traffic lights flashed red, amber and green
in empty futility. Two late-goers passed below on the pavement,
their voices loud, unreal in argument.

What time at all at all? My clock, she turned, balancing the
drink dangerously on the window-sill, and hurried to her bag.
The little travelling clock her dear aunt had received as a gift

from Paris was on top. Five in the morning! How? Where
did the evening go?

The bottle said: I am almost empty. It stood on the floor,
near the bed, a small black accusing smoke-stack. Empty, it
said, your fault.

No, she said, smiling at the bottle. You're behind the times.
There is, she told the bottle, no earthly reason to feel sorry.
Because there is no heavenly reason to feel guilt. At least,
nobody has shown me that there is. And I'm waiting to be
shown, dear bottle. I'm waiting patiently. It's five o'clock
already.

Too much, the black bottle said. Nearly empty. You are
drunk. You drink too much.

Drunk? And why not, nobody's to mind, nobody minds if
I'm anything. Nobody, not a single soul. I'm free. I'm - falling.

The bed, not mine at all. The hotel. The drink spilled on the
bedspread. I'll have to pay, who cares? Only money as Dan
Breen used to say. Only money. And meanwhile, as long as
I've fallen on this bed, I might as well sleep. My shoes, I should

take off. Off with my shoes. Sleepy shoes.
Sleepy smiling shoes.
Sleep.

And then, later, the clock says it's after nine and the noises
outside on the street, such a noisy place. Royal Avenue. Put
the lights offand draw the curtains. I feel quite rocky.

A drink. That will put me right. Stop this giddy feeling.
There, it's horrible tasting, the first sip.

Right as rain. Well, not really, but it helped. And today is
a gay day, in a fine hotel, money to do whatever takes my
fancy and nobody or nothing to worry about. Except him. Maybe if he heard I've left Camden Street, he might come
after me. Down to the hotel here. No, he won't, he said those
things. Don't worry about him. I have other friends, good
friends, the finest friends any girl could ask for. The O'Neills,
they adore me. And Edie Marrinan. And Sister imelda and
all the other nuns; O, I have no lack of friends. Now, Edie,

for instance, Edie and I used to have rare sport together. Poor
Edie.

She thought of Edie, lying in bed at Earnscliffe Home,
looking old and sick, arthritis it was, poor Edie, in among all
those old people and nuns. Edie that used to be such a gay one,
and now to tell the truth, I hate to go and see her, so depressing
and such a long way out, it takes you fifteen minutes to walk
up to it from the main gate. Or it did. Delightful thought. A
taxi can get you there in no time. And why not? Edie was the
gay soul, why a drink is just the very thing she needs.

Wearing her red raincoat and her red hat, with her cheeks
heavily rouged and with a bottle of Gordon's gin in her big
handbag, Miss Hearne waited in the lobby of the hotel the commissionaire told her he had a taxi. She gave him three
shillings.

The taxi driver was very respectful and he seemed to know
where Earnscliffe was. It was a nice big taxi with little jump
seats folded down so that they acted as foot-rests, and grey
upholstery, very clean and comfortable. Pleasant to have one's
own car and chauffeur like some of the people who lived on
the Malone Road, driving down into the city every morning
to do your shopping, the liveried man waiting to open the
door of the car and help you with your packages.

A grande dame, Miss Judith Hearne of Bellavista, Malone Road, Belfast, relaxed among the soft cushions as her Daimler
purred politely past lesser cars. Musical, she thought of the
musicale she would give that evening. Gieseking had promised
to be present and there would be a small recital. 'Cello and
piano, the Steinway grand in the large alcove of the drawing
room. The butler would announce the guests, yes, they were
all there, the handsome soldier she had admired so much in
the advertisements for The Greys' cigarettes. A diplomat,
French, but with a face like Lord Louis Mountbatten, bowing
over her hand, an old lady who wore a strange sash, Maude
Gonne MacBride, once the most beautiful woman in Ireland,
Judy, how delightful to see you again. And in a corner, dressed properly in evening clothes, affable in the manner of his race,
James Madden, impressed, hardly daring to speak to her.
Gracious, she smiled at him over the Lord Bishop's hand.
Your Excellency, scarlet robes, princely priest. Father Quigley,
the bishop said, O my dear Miss Hearne, I don't seem to recall
his name. Quigley? O, yes, a very good man, no doubt. But
my dear Miss Hearne, I will advise you, I should consider it an
honour. Only my" duty. Princely, the bishop passed, made way
for Moira O'Neill gushing, O Judy dear, what a wonderful
evening! Eyebrows slightly lifted: O, did you enjoy it, Moira
dear? And how are the children? So long since I've seen them,
yes, it was Paris this time, the Due de Guise simply insisted I
stay another week. I've been so terribly rushed. Yes, I must
try to get over some Sunday.

'Is this it, mum?' the driver asked, stopping the car before
a set of heavy iron gates. He sounded the horn.

A man, a weary old pensioner with a bald dirty head and a
stained brown corduroy waistcoat, appeared at the door of
a small gate lodge. He saw the car and opened the gates.
Slowly the driver accelerated and like a royal limousine enter
filg some great demesne, the car squished forward over the
gravel and went whirling up the avenue under the tall trees.
Miss Hearne looked out, saw the sky above her in gulps of
speed. Earnscliffe. Poor Edie!

Earnscliffe Home had been built as a private mansion by a
mercantile family in the spacious days of the turn of the century.
The main building with its Grecian columns on either side of
the door reminded Miss Hearne of the Georgia mansion she
had seen in Gone With The Wind. But the stone was granite
and the symmetry of the house was destroyed by long redbrick
pavilions which stretched like crucified arms on either
side of the main building. The gravel approach was covered
with rotting leaves and the withering trees behind the home
sighed and crackled like old abandoned newspapers.. The windows
were small and dark and those on the ground floor were
equipped with iron bars. The trees, the large sweep of the
grounds and the country quiet of the air, gave Earnscliffe the
look of a deserted house. But the iron bars, the crucifix which

hung over the door, and the smoke from the ugly redbrick
pavilions said that this was an institution, that people lived
here, and that some lived here against their will. Miss Hearne
was always saddened and frightened when she came to this
place.

She rang and waited. Wondered how long she should wait
before ringing again. Time always seemed longer in a place
like this. Better not be impatient. Carefully she clutched her
big bag, holding the neck of the bottle inside the cloth. Then
there was a sound. It was a sound of keys and linen and,
although Miss Hearne did not recognise it, of the heavy black
rosary beads, large as liquorice lozenges, knotted around the
waist of the nun who opened the door.

She revealed herself slowly as the door swung back; first,
her hand, old, clean and withered; then the black stuff of her
habit, and finally, her face, framed by the black veil with
crimped white linen edging, her cheeks scrubbed clean and
reddened to an apple brightness by years of vigorous ablutions
with hard cheap soap. A lay sister labouring for ever at humble
tasks.

'Yes?'

'I'd like to see Miss Marrinan.'

'But it's not visiting time.'

'O? But couldn't you make an excet]tion? I'm a very dear
friend of hers, and I've come specially.

The old face shook from side to side like the trees outside.
She had her orders. No. No use to appeal. Orders of the Order.
No exceptions. No.

'But this is ridiculous,' Miss Hearne cried. 'Let me talk to
Reverend Mother then.'

'What is it, Sister?' A softer voice, behind the door.

'O, Sister, a lady.' The old lady nun opened the door wider
in the face of superior authority. Her head bobbed respectfully.

The other nun wore white. White from head to foot, a
nursing sister. Starched white robes, broken in the middle by
a thick black leather belt with big beads dangling from it.
Brass Christ on black wood crucifix agonised against her
bosom.

'Yes?'

'Good morning, Sister. I wanted to see Miss Marrinan, on a

personal matter. I've come here by taxi, a long way. Couldn't

you make an exception, Sister.

The nursing sister's pale blue eyes catalogued the red raincoat,
the rouge, the distracted manner. Still, she seemed
respectable, if odd. And the taxi there. Hmm!

'All right,' she said. 'But you mustn't make a habit of this,

you know. We have to keep to our visiting hours, otherwise

'd

we'd never get any work done. Marrinan, you wanted. Yes,

on the second floor. Turn to your right when you go up.'

The old lay sister opened the door wide and Miss Hearne
stepped into a clean, unornamented hall-way, smelling of
Jeyes Fluid, floor polish, the perfumes of an institution. The
white-robed nun nodded and turned on her heel. Alone, Miss
Hearne crossed the hall, hearing her footsteps echo on the
mosaic of yellow and white tiles. She reached the staircase.
Ah, these nuns here, they weren't like the Sacred Heart nuns
at all. What was it old John Harvey once said: the Sisters of
Mercy have no charity, and the Sisters of Charity have no
mercy. And it was true.

A senile woman passed on the stairs, not looking at her, her

old eyes on the ground. Watching her step. It puts me off,
Miss Hearne thought, this place. All those old women, poor
old creatures, nobody to care about them, nobody.

At the top of the first flight of stairs she reached a ward.
Some of the women were lying in the ugly white institution
beds, reading or knitting. Most of them, wearing grey institution
dressing-gowns, were clustered around the stove in the
centre of the room. Their hair was bundled up on top of their
heads. They wore no powder, no make-up at all. Women
together, living where they were seen only by other women,
they felt no need for beauty. And old, most of them, they had
reached an age where illness is all engrossing and comfort the
only standard, the only desire. They sat around the stove with
its big black funnel rising to the ceiling and she heard them
whisper, their voices like the sound of mice behind the walls
of an old house.

Giddiness came upon her as she climbed the second flight.
Her heart had a nasty trick of acting up lately, plucking inside
her chest like a bird in a bag. A drink, she said, I need something
to steady me. And Edie? She stopped on the stairs for
breath. Why did I come. she cried mutely. It s depressing,

depressing, and Edie will only be depressing too. Why? Why?
Because she is my friend. And I need a friend.

She went on. When she reached the second floor, she turned
right and walked into a ward. There were about fifteen women
there and they stopped all talk at once. Those in bed dropped
their knitting and the group around the fire turned their heads
to look. Like browsing cows, they stared at the strange animal
in their midst. One of them tittered.

Edie? Miss Hearne's shifting dark eyes sought her friend.
But the women all looked the same.

'Is Miss Marrinan here?' she said, stopping by the stove.
'She's ova' tha',' a toothless old woman said, pointing.
'Thank you.'

The bed nearest the corner. And under the yellow blankets,
someone asleep. Miss Hearne put her handbag carefully on
the bed-table.

'Yes?' the woman on the bed said. Her face was turned to
the wall. She did not move.

'Edie?' Miss Hearne bent over and saw Edie's profile, wan,
lack-lustre, against the pillow. 'It's me, Edie. Judy Hearne.'

Slowly, with infinite care, the sick woman turned over on
her back. The greying widow's peak of her hair was wet with
perspiration. 'Judy. Nice of you to come and see an old wreck

like me. O, it's killing me, this pain.'

'The arthritis?'

The sick woman nodded. Miss Hearne sat down by the
bedside. Jolly Edie Marrinan, always a plain girl, but such fun.
Such a hearty, good-natured soul, you knew she'd never get
married, but that was because men were so foolish, for she
was a wonderful cook and she adored children. A jolly cousin
to all the other Marrinans, and she had a big circle of girl
friends too, girls who worked and girls like me, Miss Hearne
thought, who lived at home with relatives. And now: a sick

pained woman, crippled by the disease. Bent over double,
they said, when she stood up.

'O, Edie,' she said. 'And I thought of you this morning the
minute I woke up. Early and all, I decided to come over and
have a little chat, we could cheer each other up. I brought a
little "tonic", just a secret, the two of us, I thought it would be
cheerful.'

The sick woman smiled. Her twisted hand stiffly caught at
Miss Hearne's sleeve.

'You brought something?'

'A little gin,' Miss Hearne whispered. 'I thought it would be
best. They wouldn't smell it.'

'Good, good,' Edie said. She pulled Miss Hearne closer. 'Be
careful. They're watching. Don't look now.'

But Miss Hearne peeked. The dressing-gowns had moved
into a wider circle around the stove, the better to observe.
There was conversation, but their eyes and minds were not
on it.

'Take the glass,' the sick woman said. 'Put it in the glass and
give it to me.

But this is not right, Miss Hearne screamed silently. This is
like giving drugs to a sick person. Poor Edie, why shouldn't
she enjoy herself? O these silly rules that nuns invent. They
think everybody should live the way they do. But the rest of
the world didn't take the veil, don't they know that?

She put the water-glass on top of her bag. Then, without
taking the bottle out of the bag, she uncorked it and bent its
mouth towards the glass.

'More, more,' the sick woman said.

'But you want me to put some water in it?'

'No.'

Miss Hearne, acutely aware of the inquisitive dressing
gowns, held out the half-filled glass to Edie.

'My hands. I can't hold things any more. just lift me

up.

Skilfully, remembering her dear aunt and the stroke, Miss
Hearne lifted the sick woman, slipping her arm under the
head and neck. She held the glass to Edie's lips. Edie coughed
and choked at the first sip, but then she sucked at the gin like
a man after a day's work in the hot fields.

'Was that good?' Miss Hearne asked, letting her friend rest
back gently on the pillows. The sick woman closed her eyes.
'Ah, you're an angel, Judy, a perfect angel. I'm so glad you
came, I was wondering if you'd ever be back. It seems so long

here.'

'But it was only last month, Edie.'

'They all stop coming, sooner or later. Who wants to come

all the way out here to see a creature like me?'

'O, now, Edie!'

'My own brother, Eamon, yes, my own brother, he hasn't
been here for two months. Too busy, he says. Judy dear,
you'll never know how lonely it is here.'

'O, now, Edie, you mustn't say that. Why, you've got heaps
of friends. You were the most popular girl in Belfast, really
you were. And you still are, don't you worry. People are
always asking about you.'

The sick woman moved her stiff neck like a tortoise.
'Popular, my eye. When you're sick, you're popular with
nobody. You'll see, Judy, you'll see. And when you're sick
and alone in the world the way I am, everybody'd be glad to
see you dead.'

O, why did I come here? Miss Hearne asked herself. Poor
Edie. She took the glass from the table and filled it up as if
the gin was water. 'I'm going to have a nip to keep you
company,' she whispered.

It burned, it burned like fire. But she drank it all down.
'O Edie,' she said. 'I miss you, really I do. When I think of the
good times we used to have together, you and I, in your old
digs on Cedar Avenue. And what fun we had, laughing and
joking about all the things that happened, the little funny
things that used to happen in your office. Do you ever see any
of the people you used to work with, Mr Henry, or Mr
Flannery, or any of the girls?'

'Would you have a sup more gin?' the sick woman said. 'It
does wonders for the pain.'

'Yes, dear, just a moment now.' Miss Hearne pulled the

neck of the bottle out of her bag and tilted it into the

glass.

'Nurse!' an old woman called in the background. 'Sista!

Sista!'

'What is it?' A nun, white robed, with flashing steel
spectacles, appeared at the ward door.

'Them two women is drinkin',' the old woman cried. 'Them

two. That one over there wi' the red coat.'

'O, you dirty sneak. Wait till I get you,' Edie Marrinan

cried. Perspiration ran like rain down her face. 'You see, Judy,
you see what I have to put up with? Dirty old hags, fdthy,
back-biting old sneaks.'

'Now, what's this, Miss Marrinan?' the nun said, coming up the ward with a swish ofstiffwhite skirts. 'What's this I hear?

'Nothing, Sister, nothing,' Edie Marrinan said, turning carefully
towards the wall. 'My pains are bad, Sister, leave me

alone.'

'How did you get in here?' the nun said, turning angrily to

Miss Hearne.

'By the front door. With permission. I never heard of such

a thing,' Miss Hearne said. 'You'd think I was a thief or
something.'

'Well, you'll have to leave now,' the nun said suspiciously.
'Goodness me, Sister, you'd think I was a criminal, the way

you talk to me. I was just visiting my friend.'

She stood up, clutching her big handbag with a tottering
attempt at dignity. But the bottle had not been corked. Under
the nun's shocked stare, she looked down and saw the gin
seep through the bag and fall in splashing wetness on the
floor.

'Well!' the nun said, her pale face flushing. 'Did you ever?

Do you know this woman is sick? Do you know the seriousness
of coming in here and feeding her that vile stuff, whatever
it is, without a doctor's permission? O, you should be ashamed
of yourself, really it's scandalous. I don't know who let you
in but I'll report this to Reverend Mother immediately.'

The grey dressing-gowns, joyful at this break in the dull

daily routine, had clustered around the nun.

'Luk at her, luk at her wi' her red coat,' a woman said in
broad Belfast accent. 'That 'un's a bad woman, Sista.'

'I beg your pardon,' Miss Hearne said icily. O, my God, I
must get away.

'Edie,' she said. 'Good bye, Edie.'

But the sick woman stared at the wall.

'Out you go this minute,' the nun cried in anger, taking
Miss Hearne by the arm. 'Outside at once. I've a good mind
to call a policeman.'

And she marched Miss Hearne down the ward, followed by
the slippered clop-clop of the grey dressing-gowns.

'A booza, a booza,' a woman chanted. 'She must be on the
wine, Sista.'

'Out with you,' the nun cried, giving Miss Hearne a rude
push at the head of the stairs. 'Out with you, this minute.'

O, the mortal shame of it. And the cheek of that nun, pushing
at me as if I was a fallen woman or something. With giddy
drunken dignity, Miss Hearne descended the stairs. A kind act,
a corporal work of mercy, visiting the sick, and look what
happened. You got treated as if you were trying to kill poor
Edie, instead of cheering her up. And Edie, she might at least
have stuck up for me. Turning away like that as if it was my
fault she's sick.

By convent telepathy, the old lay sister who guarded the
door seemed to know the whole sorry story. 'Humph!' she
snorted as Miss Hearne approached. 'There you are. Ah, I
knew Sister was foolish to let you in. No visitors. No visitors!
It's the rule.'

But there was the taxi, consoling in its size, waiting, the
meter ticking. The taxi driver courteously opened the door
and helped her in. I'm leaving in style anyway, she thought, I
hope they're watching.

The driver got in the front seat and started the motor.
'Where to, please?' he said as the car crunched off down the

avenue.

Where?

O, I'm in trouble, in awful trouble. And nobody to help me.
Where? I've got to talk to somebody, some friend, someone

who can advise me, the faith, I've lost my faith, I've burned
my boats and it will happen soon, it will happen. Now, if
You're there, she screamed wordlessly. Now show me. Anything,
a bolt of lightning, strike me down, anyding. But don't
leave me, don't leave me alone.
'I didn't hear you, mum,' the driver said. 'Where did you
say?'

'O, anywhere. The Plaza. Take me back there.'

And what will I do there? That room, the mess I made last
night, the maid will have been in by now. And tiffs. She
looked down and felt her legs wet under her wet skirt. The
bottle, I must throw away. Wasted. No, not the Plaza. Lonely
there. Somebody I must tell. Who?

Moira. Moira always liked me. She always tries to be my
friend.

'Wait,' she said to the driver as the car passed the little gate
lodge and moved into the traffic on the road outside. 'I've
changed my mind. Take me to twenty Melrose Avenue.'

CHAPTER 17.

'IT's Miss Hearne, ma'am,' Ellen said, coming back into the

kitchen.

Mrs O'Neill closed the oven door and gently adjusted the

gas. 'Now what on earth brings her here?' she said, untying
her apron. 'And the children will be home for lunch in half an
hour.' She handed the apron to Ellen and went out of the
kitchen, along the dark back corridor to the hall, where Miss
Hearne waited, her red hat askew, her big bag clutched to her
stomach.

'Judy dear. And how are you?'

'Moira.' Miss Hearne pecked at Mrs O'Neill's cheek. 'I

know you must be busy, but I had to have a talk with you.'

Well, I swear she reeks like a booze factory, Mrs O'Neill

said to herself. Could it be possible? Squiffy. Better not let the

children see her.

'I'd ask you to come up to the drawing-room, Judy, but

the fire's not lit. Let's go in here.' She opened the dining-room

door. 'There's a stove in here and it's nice and warm.'

'We'll be alone?' Miss Hearne asked, looking around her in
a frightened way. She sat down on one of the dining-room
chairs and put her bag at her feet. Mrs O'Neill saw the neck
of the gin bottle sticking out of the bag. Somehow, it was like
seeing Miss Hearne with her clothes undone. She did not dare
look at her caller.

Miss Hearne did not notice her gaffe. She stared moodily at

Mrs O'Neill's arms, bare to the elbow and with traces of flour

on the skin.

'You were cooking,' she said. 'I interrupted you.'

'O, not at all,' Mrs O'Neill lied. 'Ellen can finish it as well

as if I was there. It was all done, anyway.'

'I went to see Edie Marrinan this morning. Poor thing, she

hardly knew me.'

'Yes, poor Edie. I must go out and see her some day soon.

It's such a long way out.' Surely she didn't 'come here to talk

about Edie Marrinan? Of course, if she's as tight as she looks,
there's no telling. The poor soul, it's that disappointment about
the Yankee, the one she mentioned last Sunday. You have to
feel sorry for her.

'I wanted to get some advice from Edie, do you see?' Miss
Hearne said. 'But she was too sick.'

'O, that's too bad, Judy. Was it something special?'

Miss Hearne put her head down on the table and began to
sob. Her red hat rolled off. Mrs O'Neill, embarrassed, picked
it up. 'What is it, Judy dear?'

But Miss Hearne did not raise her head. She covered her
face with her elbows and her shoulders shook with sobbing. 'I
have come to you,' she cried. 'You, of all people. And I never
liked you, Moira, that's the truth, I never liked you.'

In vino veritas, Mrs O'Neill said to herself. But then, for
some reason which she could not understand, she too felt as
though she must cry. For after all, she thought, drunk or not,
it must cost her something to say that to me. Because now she
can never pretend again.

'Well, Judy, I suppose you had your reasons. What can i
do for you?'

Miss Hearne lifted her teary face from the shelter of her
elbows. Her rouge was smudged into two blurred scars across
the paleness of her cheeks.

'Moira. I've lost my faith. And I've left Camden Street and
I'm living in the Plaza Hotel and everything's finished, Moira,
everything.'

'But why, Judy, why?'

'What am I doing with my life? I ask you,' Miss Hearne
cried loudly, leaning across the table and catching hold of
Moira's bare arm. 'A single girl with no kin, what am I doing?
O Moira, you always were the lucky one, a husband and
children around you, you'll never know what it's like to be me.'

'Judy dear, I know it must be hard at times. But just a little
bit quieter, please Judy! The children.'

'But I have to say it, I have to tell somebody and you've
always been kind to me, inviting me over here on Sundays,
you'll never know what it meant to me, Moira, to come here

and sit with a family and feel that I belonged here, that I was
welcome. Do you know what I mean, Moira, do you know
what I mean?'

Only you didn't belong, you poor thing, Mrs O'Neill
thought sadly. 'Yes, Judy, I think I know.'

'And then, just a few weeks ago, I might have got married.
Do you know how long I've waited to be married, Moira?
Do you know how many long years, every one of them twelve
long months? Well, I'll tell you, it's twenty odd years, Moira,
if you count from the time I was twenty. O, I know I didn't
think about it all that time - when my aunt was ill, I gave up
thinking about it for a while. But a woman never gives up,
Moira, does she? Even when she's like me and knows it's
impossible, she never gives up. There's always Mr Right,
Moira, only he changes as the years go by. At first he's tall,
dark and handsome, a young man, Moira, and then you're
not so young and he's middle-aged, but still tall and handsome.
And then there's moments when lie's anybody, anybody who
might be eligible. O, I've looked at all sorts of men, men I
didn't even like. But that's not the end, that's not the worst
of it.'

Her fingernails dug into the flesh of Moira's arm. She
leaned forward, across the table, her dark nervous eyes fdled
with confessional zeal.

'No, no, I'm going to tell you the whole thing, Moira, the
whole thing. Because I have to tell it to somebody, somebody
must listen. That's not the worst when he's just anybody who
might be eligible. You might as well forget about eligible
men. Because you're too late, you've missed your market.
Then you're up for any offers. Marked down goods. You're
up for auction, a country auction, where the auctioneer stands
up and says what am I bid? A'nd he starts at a high price,
saying what he'd like best. No offers. Then second best. No
offers. Third? No offers. What am I bid, Moira? arid somebody
comes along, laughable, and you take him. If you carl
get him. Because it's either that or back on the shelf for you.
Back to your furnished room and your prayers. Arid your
hopes.'

Mrs O'Neill began to weep. 'O Judy,' she said. 'Don't.'
'Your hopes,' Miss Hearne repeated, her dark eyes clouded
and strange. 'Only you've got no hopes left, Moira. Then
you're like me. You've got daydreams instead and you want
to bold on to them. And you can't. So you take a drink to
help them along, to cheer you up. And anybody, Moira, who
so much as gives you a kind word is a prince. A prince. Even
if he's old and ugly and common as mud. Even if the best he
can say for himself is that he was a hotel doorman in New
York. Would you believe that now, would you believe it?'
The American. The one she was talking about. A doorman.
O, the poor soul!

'That would be bad enough, wouldn't it?' Miss Hearne
cried. 'Bad enough, yes, you'd be ashamed of yourself. And
rightly so. But there's worse yet. What if that doorman

turned you down? TURNED YOU DOWN!'

Miss Hearne stopped, open-mouthed, her face quivering.
'Have you got a drink, Moira?' she said. 'I need a drink.'

Mrs O'Neill got up from the table and went over to the sideboard.
She unlocked the liquor cabinet and took out a bottle
of whiskey. (Afterwards, she said she just knew instinctively
it was whiskey was wanted, although, if she had stopped to
think of it, she said, she would have realised that the poor soul
didn't need another drink, seeing she had far too many in her
already.) She took a glass from another shelf and poured a tot
of whiskey into it. This she placed in front of Miss Hearne and
sat down beside her. Not a word had been spoken.

Miss Hearne put the whiskey to her lips and drank it down
neat. She put the glass back on the table and they sat there,
side by side, in silence. At last Miss Hearne shook her head.

'That's what I've come to, Moira. Turned down by a doorman.
And what's more, I didn't want to be turned down. I'd
take him yet.'

Mrs O'Neill patted her arm. There seemed nothing to say.
'Nobody wants me, Moira. I'm too old. And I'm too ugly.
Yes, he was the last one and now I'm left on the shelf.'

'Now Judy,' Mrs O'Neill said. 'There are other things in
life besides that. You have lots of friends, you know.'

'But I don't. I don't.'

'Judy, that's not so. And besides, just because life is hard at
present, there's no need to think it will always be hard. Now,
why don't you let me see you home and then you have a nice
lie down for a while. You'll feel better about all this tomorrow.
Remember, God has given us all heavy crosses to bear.'

'God!' Miss Hearne said bitterly. 'What does He care? Is
there a God at all, I've been asking myself, because if there is,
why does He never answer our prayers? Why does He allow
all these things to happen? Why?'

'O, you're not yourself, Judy,' Mrs O'Neill said, shocked.

'You don't realy mean that.'

'I do. I do.'

'Now, Judy, why don't you let me take you home?
Tomorrow, when you feel better, you can go and talk things
over with your confessor.'

'He won't listen to me,' Miss Hearne said, beginning to cry
again.

'Now, that's nonsense, Judy. Of course, he will. Have you
talked to him already?'
'He didn't pay any attention!'

'Well, perhaps he didn't understand how seriously you felt.
Go and see him again. Or you can go and see an Order priest.
They're very understanding.'

'Mama?' A voice said at the door. Mrs O'Neill hastily stood

up, blocking Miss Hearne from the newcomer.
'What is it?' she said crossly. 'I'm busy.'
'Hello, Miss Hearne,' the little girl said.

'Hello, Kathy. My own Kathleen,' Miss Hearne cried, getting
up from her chair. She advanced, falteringly, her arms wide in

welcome.

'Judy[' Mrs O'Neill detained her. 'Run along, Kathy, I'm too busy to talk to you now.'

She hurried the little girl out of the room. But the child
had seen Miss Hearne advancing in a parody of affection, her
outstretched arms trembling like a pilgrim's.

And Miss Hearne saw the fright in the child's face. And the
way Mrs O'Neill came between them. She turned, clutching

the dining-room table and searching Mrs O'Neill's face for
the truth, seeing herself, a child, hurried on along the street
when a drunk man passed. Not in front of the children. What
have I done? she thought, allowing Mrs O'Neill to seat her in
a chair. Coming here like this, in this condition, telling her all
those secrets, telling her what I think of her.

And it came to her then that in all the years she had known
the O'Neills, they had never really known her. In all the
thousands of conversations with Moira, she had never so much
as hinted at the things she had told today, openly, irrevocably.
All the years of polite chatter, all the small Christmas presents
exchanged, all the little courtesies accepted, the wine, the cakes,
the tea, all of these things had been swept away for ever by
this one small encounter. The child at the door; the mother
hurrying to shelter it from these signs of an adult grief, an
adult failing; the drink poured not in hospitality but to supply
a shameful need; the confession of feeling, the admission that
she disliked Moira, nullifying scores of Sunday afternoons of
polite inquiry, hundreds of false pleasant welcomes; all of
these things came to her mind now with brutal clarity. The
choice of the dining-room as a place to talk had not been for
the purpose stated: it had been to hide her from the children,
to keep her shameful condition from their eyes. And Moira's
kind words were only to calm her down, to shut off this
shocking flow of unwanted confidence. In Moira's eyes I am
drunk, that is all she sees, a drunk person, nobody takes them

seriously. Lie down and you'll feel better. Nobody listens.
I am drunk.

I must get out.

She bent to the floor to pick up her bag and saw the
shameful neck of the bottle sticking out of it. O! Her red hat
rolled offher head again and settled on the carpet. Mrs O'Neill
picked it up.

'I must go now,' Miss Hearne said, scrabbling to hide the
bottle inside her bag. 'I'm sorry, Moira, I must have been an
awful nuisance to you. With your lunch ready and everything.
I must go at once.

'That's perfectly all right,' Mrs O'Neill said, handing her

the red hat. 'I think I'd better take you home in a taxi. just
wait a minute while I get my hat and coat.'

'No, no. I'm going alone. No, you mustn't come.'

'It's no trouble, Judy. I'd feel happier if I went with you.
Then you can have a good nap and you'll feel better.'

The red hat would not fit somehow. Mrs O'Neill straightened
it. 'There, that's better. I'll get a taxi.'

'I have a taxi. It's outside now. And I'm going alone.'

'A taxi? Waiting all this time?'

'Yes. Good bye, Moira.' She did not kiss her. I couldn't. Not
after what I said.

But Mrs O'Neill impulsively put her arms around Miss
Hearne and kissed her on the cheek. 'O Judy,' she said. 'Take
care of yourself.'

'I'm sorry, Moira.' The tears, uncontrollable, began again
in her eyes.

'Nothing to be sorry about.' But Mrs O'Neill looked
cautiously into the hall before she showed her out. They clasped hands again.

'Sure you'll be all right?'
'Yes. Good bye dear.'
'Good bye.'

Moira watched as she walked to the waiting cab.
Watching me, mustn't stumble. Mustn't stu...

'Here you are, mum.' The taxi driver steadied her. 'That's
right.'

He helped her in and shut the door. It was beginning to
rain. Through the blurred pane of glass she saw Moira wave,

standing at the door of her house.
'Where to now, mum?'
Where?

CHAPTER 18.

Reverend Francis Xavier Quigley was taking his ease in
front of a roaring fire in the back parlour of his presbytery,
his black boots propped up on the fender, a copy of the Tablet rising and falling gently on his lap. Nearby, on his cluttered
desk, the monthly report on the School Building Fund waited
his scrutiny as did the returns from the Black Baby Society.
But Father Quigley's eyes were closed. It was the slack time
of day, half-past one. Two whole hours of peace before his
afternoon calls.
'There's a woman to see you, Father,' said Mrs Connolly.

Father Quigley opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
'What?'

'She come in a taxi,' Mrs Connolly offered.

'Is it somebody sick?'

'She kept the taxi-man waiting, Father.'

Father Quigley closed his eyes.

'To tell the truth, Father, I think she has a drop taken.'
'Well, find out what she wants.'

'I told her to come back later, Father, but she didn't heed
me. She wouldn't let on what she wanted, Father.'

Father Quigley swung his feet front the fender to the floor.
The Tablet fell beside the grate.

'She's in the front parlour, Father,' Mrs Connolly said, her
mission accomplished.

Father Quigley pulled the ends of his black clerical waistcoat
down over his hard narrow stomach. His hollow-cheeked
face flushed by the fire, he left the cosy warmth and strode
down the dark presbytery hall. The taxi driver, waiting by the
front door, did not salute him. Father Quigley gave him a

sharp look and went into the parlour.

'Good afternoon.'

The woman looked at him out of staring dark eyes that
were swollen from weeping. Her red hat was awry, her red
raincoat unbuttoned down the front. She came forward,

through the maze of worn Victorian furniture, and fell on

her knees at his feet, clutching his trouser legs.

'O Father, Father, help me,' she sobbed.

Father Quigley disengaged her clutching hands from his

shanks and surreptitiously hoisted his trousers. Then he bent

"down and dragged the woman to her feet.

'Now, now,' he said. 'Control yourself. What's the matter?'

But, as he said it, he smelled the drink off her. Stotious, she

is, stotious drunk.

'0 Father...'

Father Quigley guided her to a chair. 'Sit down,' he ordered.

He sat down opposite her. 'Have you been drinking?'

'Yes, Father.'

'And you mean to say you've come here to see me, drunk?'
'I'm sorry, Father. But Father, I had to. I need your help.'
'What kind of help?'

'You know I' the woman said.

Father Quigley shook his head in irritation. 'How can I

know, if you haven t told me?

'But I told you in confession.'

'My good woman, I hear a lot of confessions. And I don't

know who's making them. You should know better than that.'

'Father,' the woman said, beginning to weep. 'Father, I'm

all alone. I need somebody.'

She bent over. Her red hat fell off, rolled on the floor.

Father Quigley picked it up.

'I need a sign,' the woman said. 'I need a sign from God.'

'You need to sober up, that's what you need.'

'But Father, I'm not - not drunk, now. Honestly. Father, I

can't believe any more. I can't pray. He won't listen. Maybe
it's the devil tempting me as you said, Father, but I just don't
feel that God is there any more. Nobody is listening. All my

life I've believed, I've waited - Father, listen to me!'

'I'm listening,' Father Quigley said grimly.

'Father, why is it? You're a priest. Are you sure He's there?

Are you really sure?'

'Now, get a hold of yourself,' Father Quigley said.

'You're not sure, are you? Then how can I be sure? Father,

if there isn't any other life, then what has happened to me? I've
wasted my life.'

'Now, what nonsense is this, woman? It's the drink talking
in you. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, drinking like that,
making a public spectacle of yourself, a well-brought-up
woman like you?'

But the woman did not seem to hear. She sobbed, making
short panting noises, like a tired dog. 'Do you understand?'
she said. 'Do you understand?'

Shepherd, he looked at his sheep. What ails her? Father, he
did not comprehend what his child was saying. Priest, he
could not communicate with his parishioner. 'No,' Father

Quigley said. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Then nobody does. Nobody will,' the woman cried.
'Now, you listen to me,' Father Quigley began. 'Go home
and sober up and examine your conscience while you're at it.
You can't think straight in this condition. And tomorrow
evening I'll be hearing confessions from six to eight. Come
and see me then, and we'll have a talk. Are you from this
parish? What's your name?'

'Hearne, Father. Judith Hearne.'

'All right, now, Miss Hearne. You have a taxi waiting I
believe?'

'Father, I've got to get this settled. Father, can you tell

me...

'Now, Miss Hearne, I want you to promise me that you'll

go straight home. Where do you live?'

'I have no home.'

'Well, where are you living at present?'

She did not answer.

Father Quigley got up and went to the door. He beckoned
to the taxi driver in the hall. 'Do you know where this lady
lives?'

'I picked her up at the Plaza Hotel, Sir.'

'I see.' He went back into the parlour and closed the door.
The taxi-man was a Protestant. Nice thing for him to see.
'Now, where do you live, Miss Hearne? We've got to get you
home.'

'I'm at the Plaza.'

Humph! That's funny. 'Now look, Miss Hearne, will you

promise me one thing on your word of honour? Promise not
to touch another drop of drink until you've been to see me
again. Will you do that for me now?'

She stopped crying. 'But why, Father, why? What's the

good of word of honour? What's the good of anything, unless
it's more than bread. More than bread, do you understand,
Father?'

'Miss Hearne, that's a terrible thing for a Catholic woman

to say to her priest. That's a terrible sin, talking that way about
the Blessed Sacrament. That's what you're talking about,

isn't it?'

'Yes.'
'You should be heartily ashamed of yourself, then. Coming

in here drunk at this time of day and talking that way about
Our Blessed Lord. O, what a terrible thing to let drink take
hold of you like that, you should be down on your bended
knees, praying for forgiveness. A terrible, terrible thing!
Shocking! Now, you go straight home and say a mouthful
of prayers. And not another drop of drink, mind, not another
drop. You should be grateful that God hasn't punished you
worse, mortal sin on your soul and you not in a fit condition
to receive absolution. I never heard the like I' He paused for
breath, his eyes lit with anger.

'And is that all you have to tell me?' she said sadly.

'What do you mean- I...'

But she had picked up her bag and was preparing to leave.

'Now, just a minute. I want you to come back and see me.

You'll do that now?'

But she was out in the hall and it was very awkward in front

of the Protestant taxi driver.

'You'll take this lady back to her hotel,' he said to the man.

'And I'd be obliged if you'd make sure she's staying there
before you leave her. If not, well, bring her back here and

we'll try to fred out more about her.'

'All right, sir.'

She had opened the front door. Father Quigley hurried

forward and caught her by the arm. 'Now, Miss Hearne,
remember what I told you. Come back and see me when
you're feeling better. Tomorrow. Just give me a ring and I'll
arrange to see you.'

But she paid no attention. Too far gone in drink, Father
Quigley judged. He nodded to the taxi driver and the man
took her arm and walked her to the presbytery gates. She got
into the taxi, leaving Father Quigley standing at the presbytery
door, troubled, sensing his failure. A terrible thing, drink. Or
the change of life, it might be. A bit young for that. Hearne?
I wonder who would know her. At the Plaza Hotel, doesn't
live there at all. Or she might be from out of town. But then,
why pick on me? She might. He thought of his fire and the Tablet. But he did not close the door. He waited.

The taxi driver, who had not yet been paid, carefully placed
Miss Hearne in the back seat of his car and started the engine.
But as the car moved away, it passed the gates of the church.
Miss Hearne rapped on the glass panel behind his head. 'Stop I'

'But the Reverend said to take you back to the hotel,
mum.'

'Stop. I want to go into the church for a minute.'

He stopped. These bloody Papishes, you never knew what

they were up to. 'It's a long time on the meter,' he warned.
'You'll be paid. Just wait here.'

She left her bag on the seat and got out of the car. Faltering,
her red hat awry on her head, she walked through the gates
and into the quiet darkness of the vestibule.

He didn't understand, he could only say the silly, ordinary
things you would expect him to say. Words, all he had was
words. Supposing he knew that there was nothing in the
tabernacle - ah then, what could he say? And perhaps he did
know, he was so angry at my asking, he ran outside into the
hall once to compose himself. Was he afraid? Afraid, because
he knew?

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 head-dress 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.'

Dr Bowe stared absent nindedly at the small hairy mole on
Sister Mary Paul's temple. Cancer, that? She should have it
looked at. 'I was their family doctor years ago,' he said. 'She's
had a very hard life, spent years looking after a bedridden
aunt. The aunt was a bit senile, she should have been committed
really, but Miss Hearne wouldn't hear of it.'

'You don't think there's anything hereditary there?'

'No, no, nothing of the sort. Still, in view of the family
history, and the fact that she's got no relatives to go to, I'd
like to keep her here a while.'

'Well, don't worry, Doctor, we'll keep her cheerful. And
she'll stay here until I hear from you. Will you tell Professor
O'Neill, by the way?'

I'll give him a ring.'

'Much better. But she still needs cheering up.'

These words were spoken in a whisper by Sister Mary
Annunciata who showed Moira O'Neill into number ten. As
soon as she had delivered herself of this opinion, the nun threw
the door wide open and sailed in ahead of Mrs O'Neill on a
wave of hospital cheeriness.

'Well, now, Miss Hearne, and what do you think I've got
for you? A visitor. Mrs O'Neill has come to see you.'

She sucked herself backwards then on the same wave and
closed the door, all cheeriness and smiles.

Mrs O'Neill wondered whether she should offer a kiss, or
not. But the poor thing hardly seemed to see her. She sat
down and put a little box of cakes on the bedside table. 'I
brought you these in case you feel a little peckish around tea

time.

'Thank you, Moira. It's very good of you.'

'And how do you feel, Judy? I hear you're doing
splendidly.'

'O, I'm better, much better, thanks. Thanks for sending the
children up to see me.'

'But they wanted to come.' That was the wrong thing to
say, Mrs O'Neill chided herself. 'You'll never lack visitors
while the O'Neills are around,' she amended. 'There's so many

of us.'

The woman in the bed sighed. 'Did you have any luck
finding a room?' she said.

'Not yet, Judy. As a matter of fact, Doctor Bowe 'phoned
up Owen last night and said he thought you should stay here
for another couple of weeks at least. So that you'd be fit as a
fiddle when you came out.'

'But I'm all right. There's nothing the matter with me. I've
put on an awful lot of weight.'

'That's fine, Judy. I hear Father Quigley made a special visit
to see you. An awfully nice man, I talked with him when he

took you to the hospital that day.'

'Yes, he was here.'

'Owen's coming to see you on Sunday. He'd have come
today, bu you know, he's terribly busy with classes and exams

just now.

The sick woman nodded. 'I'm getting up on Sunday,' she
said.

'See? You'll be on your feet in no time. O, you'll put all this
behind you in a month or two.'

'Moira?' the sick woman's hands found the sides of the bed.

She levered herself free of the blankets and sat up.

'Yes, Judy. Can I get you anything?'

'No, no, you've been very good. Very kind - Moira - I'm
sorry.'

'You've said that before, Judy. We've been through all that
before. No need to worry about it, it's forgotten. You weren't
yourself. You were ill.'

The sick woman sighed and leaned back on the pillows.
'Why, I can't wait to have you over again. Sunday doesn't
seem the same without you. I can't tell you how much we're

all looking forward to seeing you at home again.'

The sick woman closed her eyes.

'And not only Sundays,' Mrs O'Neill said hurriedly. 'Why,
any time you feel the need of a little company, you only have
to drop in.'

'You've been very kind. Very kind. You and Owen. I don't
know how to repay you.'

'Well, don't try then. You have lots of good friends, Judy.
Don't forget that.'

Friends. O, how did I deceive myself all these years? A friend
is hurt when you are hateful. No one is Christ. Friends are
human, they resent. You don't resent, Moira. No, you pity
me, you urge me to come again. Come and we will be nice.
We will feel sorry for you. No, I have your charity. I lost
friendship for it. You are paid. You are rid of me.

'Thank you, Moira,' she said.

CHAPTER 20.

She sat at the bare white dressing-table and saw her face
in the mirror. Old, she thought, if I met myself now, I would
say: that is an old woman.

'Good morning, Miss Hearne.' Through the mirror-glass
Nurse Nora Nelligan advanced, rosy red and starchy white,
waving a thermometer like a conductor's baton. 'So today's

the great day. Up and around, eh?'

'Yes.'

Nurse Nora Nelligan pointed the thermometer, slipped it
in her patient's mouth. 'There now.' Took hold of a wrist and
consulted her wrist-watch. 'After this, I'm going to take you
down to the chapel. I want you to get a good seat before the
crowd gets in. Sister's given you permission to go to Mass,
did she tell you?'

With the thermometer in her mouth, she could not reply.
She shook her head. Sunday. Of course. But how can I tell
her? I don't want to, no, never again to look at that door. How
can I say that, how?

Her pulse is up, I suppose it's the excitement, Nurse Nelligan
noted. But she said nothing: never tell a patient. She picked the thermometer out of the sick woman's mouth, shook it,
and put it in ajar of antiseptic. 'Well, are we ready for the big
journey?'

'Nurse, maybe - maybe it's too soon. Maybe I shouldn't...'

'O, nonsense, you'll be quite all right. We'll take good care
of you. Just take my arm now and we'll walk slowly.'

Her face if I say I won't. O, why didn't I think of it, why
didn't I say I was too sick when they came this morning?

'Here we are,' Nurse Nelligan said. 'It wasn't such a big trip,
now was it?'

The chapel was already half filled with patients. Nurse

Nelligan, seeing that she did not make the Sign of the Cross,
dabbed her own fingers back into the Holy, Water and put
some on her patient's brow. 'There you are.

Very slowly the sick woman touched forehead, breast,
points of shoulders, breast.

'That's it,' Nurse Nelligan said. 'Now, I'm going to put
you here, in this back seat, in case you feel faint. But don't
worry. I'll be over there, with the other nurses, and I'll keep
an eye on you. If you get up to leave, I'll come out and take
you back to your room.

The patients were noisy. Old women and young women,
all wearing the same grey dressing-gowns as she herself.
Scuffling feet in carpet slippers or incongruous street shoes.
Whispering and coughing. She looked along the rows of faces
but there was no sign of Edie Marrinan. Too ill to move. I
should have asked about her. Or she could be here somewhere.
We all look the same.

In their high stalls on either side of the sanctuary, nuns knelt,
hands joined in prayer, faces screened by their headdresses.
Prayed.

Believe. They believe. United: there is comfort in being a
nun. One of many. They watch the altar. What would they
say, holy nuns, if I told them I went up there, I struck at that
golden door? In God's house I defied God. And nothing
happened. I am here.

The whispering died. A priest, his vestments green for hope,
came out of the sacristy, peering cautiously over his veiled
chalice. An altar boy followed. The Mass began.

She did not kneel. She saw the priest genuflect, the sole of
his shoe showing beneath the white skirt of the alb. Before
her, row upon row of bent heads moved at variance, like ears
of corn in a cross breeze.

The priest mumbled Latin. Strong and clear came the nuns'
response. All rose for the gospel. She did not rise.

The sacrifice continued. The altar boy picked up the little
bell and rang it. All heads bowed. She felt alone and uncomfortable
among those bowed heads. The priest elevated the Host
for the congregation to adore. Small white circle of bread

rising above his head, then sinking down again. The little bell
rang. Heads raised. About her, noise and coughing.

The bell rang again. Heads bowed. Silence. The chalice,
containing wine, was raised and lowered. The bell.

She was feeling tired. Why, the Mass was very long. If you
did not pray, if you did not take part, then it was very, very
long. If you did not believe, then how many things would
seem different. Everything: lives, hopes, devotions, thoughts.
If you do not believe, you are alone. But I was of Ireland,
among my people, a member of my faith. Now I have no and
if no faith, then no people. No, no, I have not given up. I
cannot. For if I give up this, then I must give up all the rest.
There is no right or wrong in this. I do not feel, I do not know.
Why should I suffer this?

O, Lord, I do not believe, help my unbelief. O, You are
You.

The Mass was over. The priest went to the foot of the altar
and knelt.

'De profutdis clarnavi ad re, Dominum!' he cried.

The nuns joined in, reciting the prayer. Other prayers. And
I have cried out. I am alone. Without prayer.

'... thrust into hell, Satan and with him all the other wicked
spirits who wander through the world seeking the ruin of
souls. Amen.'

The patients began to move out of the pews.
'Are you all right, Miss Hearne?'
'Miss Hearne. Are you feeling ill?'

She shook her head. 'No, I'm all right.'

'I'll help you back to your room then,' said Nurse Neligan.
She dabbed holy water on her patient's brow. The sick woman
made the Sign of the Cross.

'That's our chaplain that said Mass,' Nurse Nelligan said.

'Father Donnelly. He fairly races through it, doesn't he?'

'I thought it long.'

'That's because you're tired. Back to bed for you. That's
enough for one day.'

In bed, in the white stripped room, her mind flickered back,
seizing the moments, the faces, the conversations of the weeks

that had passed. The priest, when he came and talked: he
warned. Sister Mary Annunciata trying to cheer me up, what
could I have said? Atheist, she would have cried, and run off
to pray for me. No, i am no atheist. I do not believe, O Lord,
help my unbelief.

What will become of me?

She lay alone a long time. The Angelus bell tolled. An angel
of the Lord declared - pour forth we beseech Thee - Help me,
do not leave me!

The Angelus bell was silent. There was no noise in the
room. No noise anywhere. In this place: white, stripped, still.

Trembling, she sat up, found the cord beside her bed and
pressed the buzzer. Waited.

Sister Mary Annunciata put her head around the door. 'Yes,
Miss Hearne?'

'Sister, will I be here much longer? Are they going to
discharge me soon?'

'As soon as you're well.'

'And when will that be?'

'O, I don't know. Two or three weeks perhaps.'
'Sister, I wonder would you do something for me?'
'Yes, Miss Hearne.'

'In my trunk over there, there are a couple of pictures. It's
very bare in here. If I'm going to stay a while, I'd like to have
them up.'

Sister came inside and closed the door. She was smiling.
'There,' she said triumphantly. 'You see? Life isn't so bad after
all. I knew you'd cheer up, yes, I knew it. Now, where is this
trunk?'

'In the closet. The keys are in my bag.'

Sister Mary Annunciata wrestled the trunk out of the closet
and unlocked it.

'Under the tray, Sister.'

Sister Mary Annunciata unwrapped tissue paper. 'O, is that
your mother?'

'No, my aunt. Could you put her up on the dressing-table
where I can see her?'

'There we are. And another picture, you said?'

'Yes. That one.'

'O, how nice The Sacred Heart. Where would you like it?'
'Would it be possible, over the bed?'

'Well, we don't like to mark the walls. But I can put it here,
beside your aunt's picture. There. You'll be able to look at it now.

"Thank you.'

Sister Mary Annunciata smiled. 'Yes, you're heaps better,
thanks be to God. And do you know something? There's
chicken for lunch. It'll be along in a little while.'

Alone again, she looked at the opened closet. Her shoes
were there. Long pointed shoes with the little buttons on them,
winking up at her. Little shoe-eyes, always there.

She smiled. The familiar things. How often I've thought
that.

And on the dressing-table, her aunt in sepia tones. Aunt
D'Arcy's picture. More real now than aunt herself. For she is
gone. It is here. It is part of me.

And You. Were You ever? Is this picture the only You?

It is here and You are gone. It is You. No matter what You
are, it still is part of me.

She closed her eyes. Funny about those two. When they're
with me, watching over me, a new place becomes home.