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

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