The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne by Brian Moore Page A

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