The Judge's Daughter (10 page)

‘Of course I won’t. But if you think about the life she’s had with that misery of a dad, it’s understandable. Anyway, isn’t it all a bit the other way round? Did
you say Glenys threatened to tell me if Miss Spencer doesn’t try to help their Harry?’

Denis nodded thoughtfully. ‘She’s not right, you know.’

‘Glenys?’

‘Don’t be daft. Mind, thinking about Glenys, you may have something there. No. Helen Spencer. Sometimes, she has a wildness about her. She’s very . . .’

‘Intense?’

‘Yes. Desperate. One minute she wants to tell the world that she loves me, then the next – oh, I don’t know. Anyway, the old man’s home tomorrow, so that’ll cool
her down a bit. And she’ll be going back to her job soon enough. But I find myself half waiting for her to do something peculiar like drinking paint or ripping her hair out. She stares at me.
Her eyes bore right through me – I feel as if she can read my mind.’

‘Only a couple of paragraphs, then, so don’t worry.’ Agnes grinned, then shook her head pensively. ‘So she threatened to tell me herself, then changed her mind. And when
Glenys said she’d tell me, Miss Spencer ran off?’

Denis nodded.

‘Doesn’t know what she wants, does she?’

‘No. I suppose this will sound daft, love, but it’s as if she doesn’t know who she is, who she ought to be, who she wants to be. I remember girls – and boys – very
like her when I was at school: ready to grow up, but still kids. Oh, well. Where’s our Pop?’

‘Sorting out his batteries. He’s putting torch bulbs in all his ceilings. Central heating next, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Shall I walk up and fetch him home?’

‘No. Let me have you all to myself for a few minutes, Denis.’ She kissed him. ‘If we were all like you, we’d do.’

Denis, relieved of the larger burden, still managed to feel a pang of guilt. He remembered the music, the elegance of Helen’s hands, the sadness in her eyes. Perhaps he had encouraged her
on a level that lay just below full consciousness. But he hadn’t done anything wrong and life, as the saying went, had to go on.

Glenys put in a sudden, belated appearance. ‘I knew you’d come,’ Denis said as soon as she stepped into the house. ‘I knew you wouldn’t leave me in a
state.’

Glenys, flustered beyond measure, blurted out the tale. ‘I said I wouldn’t say anything, Agnes, but then I thought on and here I am.’

Agnes grinned. The arrival of her neighbour had not been completely unexpected. ‘He told me,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry – for your Harry’s sake, I’ll
pretend I know nothing, then we’ll see if Miss Spencer will have a word with her dad.’

‘Might as well talk to the fireback,’ muttered Denis before going to make hot cocoa.

Agnes studied her neighbour, the gossip, eyes and ears of the street, she who had always made everyone’s business her own. Glenys had altered. Her face was thinner, there was more silver
in her hair and her skin was lined. This was going to be a good friend.

‘It’s a hard life, all right,’ Glenys was saying now. ‘If he goes to jail, it’ll kill me.’

It wouldn’t kill her. Agnes, having grown up among strong women whose husbands were at war, recognized the steely quality that had kept machines turning and a country fed for six long
years. Glenys would not die if her Harry went to prison; she would do what all females did in such circumstances – she would work and wait. ‘We’ll look after you, Glenys. Remember
that.’

‘Aye, I know you will, lass. Where is he with that cocoa? My throat’s like the bottom of a parrot’s cage.’

Sleep eluded Helen for the whole of the night. When she did drift for a few minutes, she was back in the copse with Glenys and Denis, whose rhyming names were no longer a
source of amusement. Father was in the woods as well, his voice drowning hers, his presence crushing the very air from her lungs. There was another dream too, one she did not care to remember just
yet. It was nasty and she was glad to be free of it. These days, it recurred more often and sleep had ceased to be a hiding place. There was noise in the second dream. And terror . . .

Awake, she stared into blackness and tried to curb her imagination, failing completely to control the circular motion of her thoughts. If people knew how she felt about Denis, Agnes Makepeace
might leave her husband, but would he turn to Helen? If no one found out, might she persuade him to love her in secret? ‘Why did I declare myself?’ she asked the ceiling. ‘What is
happening to me?’ Women in books didn’t go around opening their hearts to all and sundry. Elizabeth Bennet, Jane Eyre – all the great heroines played their cards close to their
hearts, never, ever wearing them on sleeves of transparent silken robes. ‘I am sitting at my own wedding feast with no groom,’ she whispered. ‘Dickensian, over-dramatic and
downright stupid. I should be shot, then I’d be released from everyone’s misery.’

Sleep. She needed rest. Father had a cure for sleeplessness and Helen, desperate for some peace, descended the stairs and entered the sanctum of Judge Zachary Spencer in search of help. Rows of
leather-bound books occupied polished mahogany shelves. His desk and blotter were pristine, no sign of work, no notes, no splashes of ink. The room displayed no character; it was a reflection of
his severity and conservatism. Had he ever owned an imagination, had he suffered at all, had he loved her mother?

She removed a bottle of brandy from a cupboard, hoped he hadn’t measured the contents. Instead of taking one of his sparkling crystal glasses, Helen went into the kitchen and chose a less
ostentatious water tumbler before returning to her room.

The first mouthful made her cough, burning her throat like hot ashes. But the second went down easily and she felt calmer and almost carefree. Denis Makepeace? Why had she worried about a man so
much lower than herself? Her father was a judge in the High Courts, for goodness’ sake. She would find someone else, someone worthy of her attentions. Her body, limp from the effects of
alcohol, began to relax. With the tumbler still in her hand, Helen fell asleep on the chaise. Everything would be all right. All she needed was a good night’s rest.

If she had any nightmares, she did not remember them. Morning found her very well except for a slight headache that disappeared after several cups of tea and a light breakfast. But, when Denis
arrived to do his job, her heart lurched in her chest as soon as she caught sight of him. Brandy was good for sleeplessness, but it did nothing to eradicate the cause of discomfort. It dealt with
symptoms, not with cause. ‘Like aspirin,’ she muttered as she stood at her window. Denis looked handsome in his uniform. Shortly, he would leave to pick up Father from Trinity Street,
and the house would once again be filled by the noise and bluster that always accompanied Judge Zachary Spencer. It was, thought Helen, time for a hair of the dog. A very little would suffice, as
she sought waking peace rather than unconsciousness.

She ascended the stairs and prepared for the return of her only parent. He would dominate the house, would ignore her, would act the part of monarch again.

Brandy made it all much easier to bear.

Lucy looked wonderful in her watered silk wedding dress. She would have looked gorgeous in a potato sack, Agnes thought as she took up her position as matron of honour. The
bride turned just before preparing to leave the porch and enter the church. ‘The old dragon’s here,’ she whispered, ‘with his dragoness. I should have put garlic flowers in
our bouquets. Grab a crucifix and don’t look him in the eye.’

Agnes swallowed. Judge Zachary Spencer had begun his illustrious career in the chambers of Henshaw & Taylor, and he had apparently decided to grace the occasion with his surly presence.
Helen Spencer, his ‘dragoness’, was the last person Agnes wished to see today, but the groom’s side was wall-to-wall lawyers and it couldn’t be helped. George’s father
was head of chambers and he had probably invited all his colleagues. Agnes drew back her shoulders, raised her chin and walked with Mags behind Lucy and her father. Aware that she looked her best,
she intended to show Miss Helen Spencer that Denis was married to a fine specimen. She cast a sideways glance at the judge’s daughter, who looked decent but unimaginative in a colourless suit
that had probably cost an arm, a leg and a full dining room suite.

Helen watched the service, teeth biting down on lower lip, hands clenched around bag, gloves and hymn book, face deliberately cleansed of all expression. She could and would get through this. A
half-bottle of Napoleon was secreted in a pocket of her bag hard against a quarter of Mint Imperials to shift the scent of alcohol from her breath. Father was huffing and puffing beside her. Father
had no time for Catholics, foreigners, vagrants, criminals and daughters. The Latin Mass probably infuriated the bigoted old buffoon, and Helen was mildly pleased about that. He shifted his weight,
sighed repeatedly and joined in none of the prayers.

During the hymn ‘Love Divine’, he bent his head and whispered to her. ‘Chap over there, third row from the front – friend of the groom – you could do a lot
worse.’

Helen followed his nod until her eyes alighted on a gaunt man with thinning hair and a very stiff collar. ‘James Taylor,’ mumbled the judge. ‘Good man, big future. Time you
settled.’

Icy fingers curled around her heart. She had seen Denis looking smart in his suit, had devoured the vision that was his wife and was now expected to pay full attention to a man with a neck
thinner than Denis’s wrist. She was exaggerating, she told herself sharply. James Taylor was probably no oil painting from the front; from the rear, he resembled an anxious-looking character
from a Victorian novel, all starved and on the lookout for its next meal.

It was her turn to sigh. Why was she pretending to have a choice? There was no queue of suitors, no line of men waiting to meet the daughter of Judge Spencer. She remembered Charlotte Lucas from
Pride and Prejudice
, who had married a buffoon of a clergyman just to be safe in a comfortable home. Elizabeth Bennet was maid of honour in Helen’s own story. Helen, halfway down the
church and nowhere in anyone’s opinion, was the plain and sensible woman who would have to settle for a Mr Collins. ‘Just to be safe,’ she whispered. Was that all there was going
to be? Safety and a man uglier than sin?

‘Did you say something?’ asked her father.

Surprised beyond measure, she shook her head. When had he last been interested in any words emerging from her mouth? When had he last deigned to notice her? Noticed now, she felt threatened and
decided that she could go through life more easily without the attention of her father. She wanted to run, but dared not follow so base an instinct. She did not want to be here, did not want to be
anywhere, but she must endure.

The judge coughed his way through the nuptial Mass and proxy papal blessing. The whole thing was a bloody nonsense. Henshaw Senior refused to handle divorce because of his religious beliefs.
Fortunately, his son, who was bridegroom, seemed more willing to accept lucrative cases. Divorce was about to become big business and sense needed to be employed when it came to litigation.

James Taylor, of a landed family, was a good prospect for Helen. He was already a senior partner and he showed great promise in spite of his lack of style. She was drab, as was he, and she would
do well to marry him. If the union crumbled, any settlement would be large. ‘Called to the bar before he hit thirty.’ The words slid from a corner of his mouth towards his daughter.
‘About your age, too.’

She suffered a renewed desire to run, but this time she felt like screaming while dashing from the church. As ‘Love Divine’ faded into the ether, Helen’s first free-floating
panic attack crashed into her chest like a ten-ton lorry. Oxygen suddenly became a luxury, and she grasped each breath, lungs stiffening, throat as dry as bone. She dropped bag, gloves and hymn
book, sinking onto the pew bench just in time. Her heart was going too fast. Sweat gathered on forehead and upper lip, and she longed for brandy. Brandy was the answer. If she could take a drink,
she would be all right. As soon as everyone else was seated, the judge, who had given his only child a withering look, forgot about her. She had sat down a second too early, that was all, and few
had noticed, he hoped.

With a lace-edged handkerchief, Helen dried her face. Why had she suddenly become so frightened? It was like being in a darkened room with a wild animal, no chance of knowing where it was, just
blind fear and a strong desire to be elsewhere. Was this her heart, would she die young? Her mother had died a premature death caused by a heart attack after some kind of accident. Would Helen
suffer a similar fate? It didn’t matter. The moment she ceased to fear death, her pulse slowed and she breathed evenly. If she died, it would be a release from the torture named life.

It was over. Bride and groom emerged from a side room in which they had signed legal documents attached to marriage. The main party left the church to the strains of a pleasant piece of Bach,
then the congregation peeled itself row by row out of the pews.

Avoiding photographs at all costs, Helen stayed in the school playground, treating herself to a few drops of brandy before sucking on the necessary mint. ‘Ah, there you are,’ said a
disembodied voice.

‘Yes,’ she replied, embarrassment staining her cheeks. Was there to be no peace at all today?

‘I’ve seen you in the library,’ added the owner of the voice. ‘I’m James Taylor. Your father suggested that I seek you out, as he will be in older company. You are
Helen Spencer, I take it?’

‘Yes.’ Her vocabulary had shrunk, it seemed.

‘Nice wedding.’

‘Yes, it was. The bride looked lovely.’ Agnes Makepeace had looked lovely, too.

‘George is a lucky man. Shall we?’ He crooked an arm.

Tentatively, she placed a very light hand on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her back to the large gathering at the church gates. He was definitely not a thing of beauty. Had she allowed
herself to wear some of her new clothes and make-up, she would have outshone him with comparatively little effort. But Helen had come as her father’s companion, and no one competed with Judge
Zachary Spencer. The king of the beasts demanded pride of place. Pride among a pride, she pondered giddily, because most lawyers were bigger than their boots. The collective noun for lawyers should
be ‘pride’ – and pride, as everyone knew, came just before a fall. She hoped with all her heart that the fall would be soon and that she could be there to witness the undoing of
the super-king – her father.