The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne by Brian Moore Read Free Book Online

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