THE LONELY PASSION OF JUDITH HEARNE by Brian Moore

Author:Brian Moore
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781590174203
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2014-03-17T21:44:18.746341+00:00

CHAPTER X

‘Miss Hearne. MISS HEARNE. HELLO THERE? MISS HEARNE?’

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

She raised herself on an elbow, staring in panic at the shaking 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 cleared her 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, just 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.

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