The Judge's Daughter (12 page)

‘There’s nothing wrong with your nose. God, are you determined to become a carbon copy of Helen Spencer? In ten years, you’ll be exactly like her, dowdy and dull. If necessary,
I’ll get Lucy in on the act,’ Agnes threatened. ‘The minute she comes back from Paris, I’ll beg her to help me frogmarch you to Bolton.’

‘All right, I give in. But nothing spectacular – are you listening?’

‘I’m listening. I’m always bloody listening. You’re worse than the
Billy Cotton Band Show
, all noise and no sense. Mags, put your future in my hands. By the way
– where’s your locket?’

‘Locket?’

‘The one given to you by George – your bridesmaid’s gift.’

‘Bugger.’

‘Let’s be refined just for today. Buggery is off the menu.’

‘I’ve left it upstairs. God, Lucy will kill me.’ Mags left the scene at speed.

Helen was still unconscious, though the mumbling had ceased. After retrieving the silver locket from a dressing table, Mags stood over the sleeping woman. Agnes’s words echoed through the
whole building – if Mags wasn’t careful, she might end up like the tormented and lonely soul in this characterless room. Mags swallowed. Agnes was probably right. In fact, Agnes had
only skirted the edges of the problem.

On the landing, she fastened the locket round her neck, smiling as she remembered George’s speech. For a lawyer, he was very funny. He had spoken of a queue of women wanting to marry him,
of Lucy winning hands down because she told the muckiest jokes.

‘Right,’ breathed the bridesmaid. ‘Might as well hang for the full sheep.’ She had saved for long enough. It was time to bite the bullet and endure the knife. And the
chisel. She swallowed hard. Margaret Marie Bradshaw was going to have a new nose.

Denis was relieved when Helen did her disappearing act, perturbed when Mags followed her. All through the service, he had imagined Helen’s eyes boring into the back of
his head like a pair of red-hot pokers. He hoped with all his heart that the judge’s daughter would keep her mouth shut about a situation that existed only in her head. She was ill. Beyond a
shadow of doubt, Helen Spencer was a sick woman, a time bomb preparing to explode.

But Mags was a sensible girl. Of the trio, Lucy Walsh had always been the fun, Mags Bradshaw the brains, Agnes a mixture of both. Of said trio, Agnes was the best by a mile and he didn’t
want her life made difficult by lies which would result in pity from her lifelong friends. Lucy would probably have dragged the screaming cat out of the bag; Mags, on the other hand, would always
weigh pros and cons before wading in at the shallow end. He had to stop worrying.

The worry abated for about five minutes, then returned in the form of Fred, who had recently been rescued from the clutches of two inebriated and larger than life women.

‘I were nearer death then than in any bloody trench,’ cursed Fred, a grin widening his mouth. ‘Stuck between two fine ladies – what a way to go, eh, Denis?’

Denis feigned displeasure. ‘You’re old enough to stop chasing the girls.’ One of the ‘girls’ appeared behind Fred. ‘Hello, Eva. Can’t you keep him out
of trouble?’

‘No.’ She lowered her bulk into a chair that looked too frail to bear such weight. ‘I thought about locking him in my shed for the day, but he would have got out one road or
another. I didn’t know you could dance, Fred.’

‘That weren’t dancing,’ came the swift response. ‘That were hopping – you were stood on my other foot. It felt as if the coalman had dropped all his bags at once.
Denis?’

‘What?’

‘Can we have a word?’

‘I’ve never known you have less than five hundred words, but feel free.’

Fred placed himself in the chair next to Eva’s. ‘I want to ask you about Agnes,’ he said.

‘What about her?’

The older man inhaled deeply. ‘I want to know how she’d feel if I got married again.’

‘Married again,’ echoed Eva.

Denis scratched his head. Was marriage infectious? Was this a germ picked up by Fred at the church this morning? ‘Who’d have you?’ he jested.

The ‘She would’ and the ‘I would’ arrived simultaneously.

Denis glanced from one to the other several times. ‘Oh, I see,’ was the best he could achieve.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Fred said. ‘I spend more time in Eva’s place than I do in ours and we get on a treat – don’t we, lass?’

The ‘lass’ nodded. ‘House on fire,’ she agreed.

This was a pantomime, thought Denis. Or perhaps a Laurel and Hardy film with a slightly altered cast. Fred, recently bereaved, stroke victim and doll’s house builder, wanted to marry a
shed. Was it right for a man to marry just for a damp-proof area in which he might work for a few years?

‘We’re suited,’ chimed the chorus of two.

‘Eva, you’re a good twenty years younger than Fred.’ Denis could think of nothing else to say.

‘Companionship, mainly,’ said Eva.

‘And good meat and tatie pies,’ added Fred. ‘She’s a better cook than our Agnes.’

Denis took a quick sip of beer. So, he was marrying a shed and some pies. Oh, well – better two reasons than one, he supposed. And Eva was well respected by all who knew her. But how would
Agnes feel? He had no idea whatsoever.

‘There’s a lot of reasons for getting wed.’ Fred was clearly reading his son-in-law’s thoughts. ‘Eva here’s been on her own for a fair while and she gets fed
up.’

‘Fed up,’ she agreed.

‘I know my Sadie’s not long gone, but she thought a lot of Eva, and me and Eva think a lot of you and our Agnes. That’s why we’re going to clear a path for you.
You’d be better off up Skirlaugh Fall with fresh air for that chest of yours. I’m holding you back.’

‘Back,’ chirped Eva.

Denis wished he hadn’t drunk three pints plus champagne for toasts. He didn’t want to be released to live in Skirlaugh Fall, right on the doorstep of a woman who was plainly
suffering some kind of breakdown, a female who had set her sights on him. And how would Agnes react when she heard that Fred intended to remarry before Sadie was cold in her grave?

‘What do you think?’ Fred was staring hard at Denis. ‘Will our Agnes throw a fit?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He doesn’t know,’ agreed Eva.

‘It makes sense, though,’ argued Fred. ‘I am at one end of life, you and Agnes are at the other. Eva might be a few years younger than me, but we can keep each other company
and run that shop. I can’t have you two looking after me all the while, can I? Me and Eva will look after each other.’

Denis waited for the echo, but nothing came. ‘I’ll talk to her.’

‘You talk to her.’ Eva patted her rigid curls. ‘Let us know what she says, like. We don’t want to go upsetting her, but at our time of life, we can’t be hanging
about.’

‘No,’ agreed Fred. ‘We can’t hang about.’

This double act worked both ways, Denis realized. They were good people, lonely people who had found each other in spite of the odds against such a match. They talked in harmony, danced with
difficulty and ran an excellent business between them. The doll’s houses, recently advertised in the
Bolton Evening News
, promised to bring in a decent income – Fred was taking
orders for Christmas and would soon have to close the book, as he had a full schedule for the foreseeable future.

‘He’s thinking,’ said Eva, pointing at Denis.

‘He is,’ replied Fred. ‘And it’s a strain, because his brain cell’s had a couple of pints – it’s in danger of running out of steam.’

Denis found himself incapable of suppressing his mirth. ‘I’ll talk to you two later,’ he threatened. ‘And don’t be getting into any mischief before the ink’s
dry on your marriage certificate, or Agnes will have your guts for garters and your bones for soup.’

Fred bowed comically at his intended before leading her to the dance floor for a sedate waltz. Denis watched. Eva had been an important ingredient in the recovery of a sick and confused man. She
had given him space in her home, in her shop and in her heart. Fred could have done a lot worse. All that remained now was telling Agnes, and Denis had been selected to soften the blow.

It wasn’t a blow, he told himself as he saw the couple laughing on the dance floor. It was a blessing. He would make sure that Agnes felt the same way. But Skirlaugh Fall? He shivered.
Where was that bloody woman?

The judge arrived at Denis’s side. ‘Have you seen my daughter?’

‘Erm . . . she left about an hour ago.’

‘Her coat is on her chair.’ The judge pointed to a table. ‘She must be in the building, then.’

‘I suppose she must,’ agreed Denis.

Zachary Spencer lit a fat cigar. ‘Find her,’ he ordered before returning to continue a lecture on the anomalies of the British system of justice.

Denis gulped a large draught of air. He found Mags and asked the necessary questions. On leaden feet, the judge’s servant made his way to the room booked for Helen Spencer. At the top of
the stairs, he breathed deeply again. His master had issued an order and it must be obeyed. ‘Three bags full, sir,’ he muttered, touching the neb of an absent cap before knocking.

There was no reply. He knocked again, then entered the room. She was flat out on the bed, a half-bottle of brandy in one hand. The lid had not been replaced and she had a damp patch on her
blouse. God, she was drinking. Because he had enjoyed her music and her conversation, she had turned to the bottle.

He shook her gently. ‘Miss Spencer?’

Helen opened an eye. ‘Denis? Where am I?’

‘You’re at a wedding. Pack Horse, Bolton. Your dad’s downstairs looking for you.’ She stank like a distillery. ‘Can you stand up?’

‘Of course I can.’ She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, then fell backwards. ‘Oops-a-daisy,’ she said before righting herself.

Denis’s mind shot into top gear. ‘Listen to me. Listen!’ He removed the brandy and screwed on its cap. ‘You had better sober up. I don’t need to tell you what your
father’s like about appearances – and disappearances, come to that.’

‘Where’s that young woman?’

‘Mags? She’s where she should be – with the wedding party. Look at me.’ He had considered sending for Mags or bringing her to the room, but he knew Helen’s vagaries
too well. It was better to make sure that as few people as possible from his regular circle came into contact with Miss Spencer. ‘Look at me,’ he repeated.

She obeyed. ‘You are so handsome.’

‘And you, Miss Spencer, are drunk.’ He picked up the phone and ordered black, strong coffee. ‘Your story is this. A man bumped into you and spilled brandy all over your
clothes, so you came up here to try to get yourself cleaned up. Do you understand?’

‘Very handsome.’

Denis sighed. He had travelled from one comedic scenario to another, but this one was definitely a piece of black humour. ‘Your father will ask questions.’

‘He got me a balding eagle, you know.’

‘What?’

‘I am supposed to be courted by a man with little hair and a lot of nose. You must have noticed. His name’s Pinocchio.’

Ah, so here was a second case of wedding fever, though this bride-to-be was not quite as happy as Eva. ‘You must get downstairs before your father decides to have the whole hotel searched.
Remember the brandy story.’

While she attempted to tidy herself, Denis received coffee delivered by a young man in braided uniform. He forced Helen to drink two cups, then began the business of persuading her to leave the
room.

She studied him, following his every move. ‘I expect you think I’m a lunatic and a drunk,’ she said eventually, words slightly blurred by the earlier bout of drinking.
‘I’m neither. The brandy is a crutch to get me through occasions like this one – it isn’t easy for a spinster to stand and watch others fulfilling their dreams.’

‘We have to go soon.’

‘Because he said so?’ There was no need for a name.

‘Yes. Like it or not, he’s your dad and my boss. I hope you didn’t say anything to Mags Bradshaw about . . .’ About what?

‘Of course I didn’t. As for your neighbour at the church gate begging me to intercede on behalf of her son – what was I supposed to do about that? Does she know what an
absolute monster my father is? When I was five years old, he locked me in my room for three whole days, food delivered on a tray, lectures delivered every evening. My crime?’ She laughed
mirthlessly. ‘I stole a brooch of my mother’s. I wanted something she had worn, something that would remind me that I was normal, that I had once had a mother.’

Denis dragged a weary hand through his hair.

‘What does Glenys Timpson expect me to achieve for her son? Acquittal? A short sentence? A tap on the hand and advice to behave himself in the future? No one knows the life I have had with
that man. He isn’t normal.’

He began to wonder what ‘normal’ was. Agnes was probably the closest he could get to an embodied definition of the adjective. ‘We’d better go.’ At least her speech
was improving. ‘Remember – you came up here after someone spilled a drink on you.’

Helen shook her head. ‘Mags booked this room for me and for herself. Like me, she is wallpaper. In a decade, she will be me. I just hope she doesn’t fall in love as heavily as I
did.’

‘It wasn’t love,’ he protested. ‘It was your loneliness and my liking for your piano playing.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘But when a person falls in love, he or she has no choice in the object of their affections. You are a handsome man and I know you have
feelings for me.’

He did have feelings for her. He pitied Helen Spencer, sympathized with her situation, wished with all his heart that he could do something to improve her lot. But Helen’s predicament was
not a matter in which he could intervene. He sat on a dressing stool. ‘I love my Agnes so much it hurts,’ he told her. ‘I wouldn’t swap her for a bank vault full of gold.
You have been a friend to me, and your father is cold and unfeeling – I have to work for him, so I know that much. But I can’t get you away from him.’

Helen gazed into her coffee cup. ‘The balding eagle could,’ she said.

Denis shrugged. ‘All I can tell you is this – marry for love, not for money, not to please your father. Marriage is hard even if there’s love in it. You have to make room for
your partner’s faults and needs. We’re going to be a bit poorer while Agnes studies nursing – but we’ll get there. We might have a few rows, but love sorts all that out.
More important, Agnes is my best friend in the world. You have to find a friend you can love.’