The Judge's Daughter (16 page)

‘He has. Says he wants a son. If he gets one, I’ll be left absolutely nothing but a bad temper.’ She sat on a low wall. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to me
lately, Denis. Life seems to have got away from me – not that I ever had a life.’

‘You’re warm and fed,’ he replied. ‘Where I come from, that counts as a life. And, if you don’t mind me saying, you should knock the drink on the head before it
gets hold of you. I’ve seen too much of that in my time. I’ve known folk to starve their kids to feed the habit.’

She shrugged. ‘Before brandy, I seldom spoke to anyone. With brandy, I talk to the wall – for want of better company, of course.’

Denis paused and leaned on his broom. ‘She seems decent enough.’

‘For a dancer, yes. But she isn’t stepmother material.’

‘No, you’re right there. When he told me he had a new wife, I expected all peroxide and lipstick, but she’s not loud. As for being your stepmother – I reckon she’s
younger than you. Oh, well. You’ll just have to put up with it. You can’t change anything.’

‘Indeed, it’s put up with that or a barrister with no hair and a hooked nose. Father’s found me a bridegroom and told me to leave home. I’m not leaving. You are going to
move me to the east wing. I’m not living with them, but I’m not leaving Lambert House. It’s mine.’

A chill travelled the length of his spine. From the sound of Helen Spencer, she would stop at little to get what she considered her due.

She jumped down from the wall. ‘Letters to write. See you tomorrow,’ she said as she re-entered the house.

Denis finished his work. It was a rum do, all right. The old bugger had gone and got himself wed with never a word to anyone. His wife was about the same age as his daughter, and his daughter
was going off her rocker via brandy and too much time spent on her own. Denis felt sorry for Helen, but he knew he had to keep his distance. He shouldn’t be having conversations with her. She
was like a boil ready to burst, and he wanted to be out of reach when she did finally explode. He would keep looking for another job.

He travelled home on buses, eager to tell Agnes. She would be amazed at the judge’s behaviour, of that he felt sure. But when he reached Noble Street, he found his beloved doubled over the
slop stone, her face as white as the blouse she wore. ‘Agnes?’

‘It’s supposed to be mornings,’ she groaned.

‘You what?’

‘Morning sickness. Not morning, noon and night sickness. Oh, Denis. I wanted to meet you with a smile and a nice meal, but I can’t be anywhere near food.’ She inhaled through
her mouth in an attempt to quell the nausea. ‘I’m not going to be Nurse Makepeace, love. I’m going to be a mother. Hello, Daddy.’ She was in the very early stages, but her
stomach was already a mess.

Denis’s mouth hung open. He snapped it shut and picked up his wife. ‘Don’t you dare vomit on me,’ he warned. Tears streamed down his face, but he was laughing at the same
time. ‘Lie down.’ He placed her on the sofa. ‘I’ll make my own tea.’

She fell asleep almost immediately.

He sat and watched her, a silly smile on his face. He was going to be a dad. Agnes would be the best mother in the world. Noble Street was not a good place in which to rear a child. Fred would
soon be settled in Eva’s house. There was nothing standing in the way. Except for . . . Except for his employer’s daughter, who spoke to him as a friend, who wanted him as a lover. He
longed for the days when she had seldom addressed him, because she was not a safe friend to have. But other matters had to come first, and at the top of his list was a pregnant wife.

The
Bolton Evening News
poked its way through the letterbox and landed on the doormat. Normally, he would have peeled away the pages until he found the jobs column, but there was no need,
as the decision had been made. They would move to Skirlaugh Fall as soon as Fred had left this house. God must take care of the rest.

‘I feel as if I’ve just escaped from the lunatic asylum.’ Kate Moores hung up her raincoat and threw herself onto a sofa. ‘Albert?’

Albert, who was semi-retired and taking his rest, opened one eye. ‘What?’

‘It’s him – lord and bloody master. He’s fetched a woman home, says she’s his wife. No warning, mind. No meal ordered for her, nothing prepared, just one of them
fate accomplishes.’

‘Fait accompli,’ grumbled Albert, who had read a few books in his time. ‘What’s she like, then, this new madam?’

Kate shrugged and lit a Woodbine. ‘Smallish, darkish, prettyish and dressed to kill. Why has he waited this long, eh? Yon daughter of his could have done with a replacement mother when she
were little, but she’s thirty-odd now. Bit late in the day for him to be starting all over again.’

‘First wife were never happy,’ said Albert. ‘Bonny lass, too good for him. I never could fathom what she saw in Spencer – she’d half of Lancashire chasing her for a
date.’ He went to put the kettle on. The conversation continued, as the lower storey of the house consisted of just living room and kitchen, so residents were never more than a few feet
apart. ‘How’s Miss taken it?’ he asked.

‘That’s another thing – dry as a bone, she was, till a few weeks back. Then she goes all daft, starts playing the piano with the window open, wears next to nowt and makes eyes
at poor Denis. Lipstick and all. I’m telling you, nowt good’ll come of that caper.’

‘How did she take it?’ he repeated.

‘She ran out to Denis, of course. He’s looked a bit easier since his missus come up with that neighbour – I think Mrs Makepeace sorted the bother. Any road, Miss Helen met the
new wife – Louisa – then rushed outside to mither Denis again. She never used to have two words to grind together, now she can’t shut up with him. She’ll have took it badly,
I’d say. She’s a lot to lose and I don’t trust her. She’s sly.’

Albert returned with the tea. ‘True – she has got a lot to lose. If he starts breeding again, she could be out on her ear come the day.’

Kate took a few sips of Black and Greens. ‘I’ve not told you the best. His flaming lordship comes up to me just as I’m putting me coat on, tells me to find more servants on
account of Mrs Spencer wanting the house nice. What am I supposed to do? Go to the village post office and order three maids and a partridge in a pear tree? I told him. Advertise in the paper, I
said. He wanted locals, but he can find his own. I’ve not time for it and my energy’s drained as it is. I wish I could afford to give up and let them get on with it. And I’ll have
to answer to the new upstart.’

Albert shook his head sadly. ‘There’s not many will want to work for that queer fellow. Denis Makepeace would have a better job and all but for his chest. The new Mrs Spencer’s
going to have her work cut out if she wants to live the high life.’

Kate agreed. ‘Place is like a morgue till he starts with his music.’

‘Do you think Miss will leave home, love?’

‘Nay.’ Kate poured some spillage from the saucer into her cup. ‘Nay, she’s opening up the other end of the house to get away from him and the new woman. Says she wants no
servants and she’ll do for herself.’

‘It’s him somebody should do for.’ Albert shook open his paper. ‘Anything tasty for tea, Kate?’

‘I pinched a bit of ham and some eggs. Give me a minute and I’ll get cracking.’ She laughed. ‘Cracking eggs, eh?’ She paused for thought. ‘You know,
I’ve never heard anybody laugh in that house for years. I don’t think I’ve seen a smile, either. Oh, well.’ She stood up. ‘Fried or scrambled?’

‘Just get cracking,’ said Albert. ‘If the yolks break, scrambled. If not, fried.’

While Kate cooked the meal, she decided there was a lot in what Albert had said. Life was like eggs – to be taken as it came. See a problem, mend a problem, live and let live. He was deep,
was her Albert, and she was a lucky woman. Kate didn’t envy the new Mrs Spencer one little bit. The judge was just a big load of ear hole. And his daughter was going as cracked as
Kate’s stolen eggs.

The new Mrs Spencer sat on Helen’s bed. Determined to make the best of things, she had decided to be a friend to her husband’s daughter. ‘We’ll go
shopping in Chester,’ she said. ‘I know Chester. Lovely shops, good clothes. I’ll get you dressed to the nines in no time. You need brightening up a bit.’

Like the house, thought Helen. She worked hard to dislike Louisa, but it wasn’t going to be easy. The new wife wasn’t brainy, wasn’t stupid, was astute enough to aim for peace
in this fragmented household. The house was to be opened up. Helen should stay where she was. ‘This has been your room for a while, hasn’t it? Well, don’t move on my account. If
Zach wants to shift you, I’ll fix him.’

‘I would like a suite of my own,’ said Helen. ‘This one room and the dressing room – hardly enough for a grown woman.’

Louisa clapped her hands. ‘What fun. All right, let’s plan your move. We’ll make you a boudoir, nice colours, plenty of space and light. Your own sitting room with a
television, some bookcases, pretty rugs, nice pictures on the walls. The whole place could do with a bit of colour.’

Even the voice ceased to grate after a while. Did this woman know that she had been purchased as a breeding machine? Had she realized that she must produce a son for the great man in order to
fulfil her function at Lambert House?

Louisa was suddenly serious. ‘He says he’s found a man for you.’

Helen frowned. ‘Yes. He’s found me a pock-marked beanpole with a face like the backside of a cow and a high opinion of himself.’

Louisa doubled over with glee. ‘Oh, stop it. My God, I can see him – you should write a book, Helen. Have you never thought of writing? I mean, you’re surrounded by books at
work – you must know what people want to read. I’d love to write, but I haven’t the brains or the patience. The way you described that poor bloke – hey, I hope he
doesn’t turn up here. I wouldn’t be able to face him without laughing myself sick.’

‘We met at a wedding,’ Helen told her. ‘I spent most of the reception – once the meal was over – hiding in lavatories and bedrooms. He even sat next to me at the
table – talked with his mouth full, went on and on about himself. He seems to think he’s God’s finest gift to the world.’

Louisa laughed again. ‘Put your foot down. I suppose you know how to handle your father.’

‘I don’t.’ Though she was learning . . .

‘He’s a bully,’ said Louisa. ‘Like all bullies, he backs down if you stand up to him. It took me months to agree to marry him, and I did that only once I knew I could
handle his moods. He can be very kind, you know. Zach’s been good to me.’

Helen gritted her teeth. He could be kind, she supposed, if he wanted something. How would Louisa fare now that he had married her? Tempted to ask what on earth Louisa saw in such a man, Helen
changed the subject. ‘You’re a legal secretary?’

‘Yes. And I teach ballet and tap. I wanted to go into dance professionally, but I never made the grade. And I married young, but – anyway, it didn’t work. Since then,
I’ve done a few pantomimes, but more teaching than anything else. I’d like to open a school in Bolton, but Zach isn’t keen.’

Helen walked to the window. No, Zach would not be keen, because the wife of a judge should not labour for money. How well did this young woman know the creature she had married?

‘I’ll get my way,’ said the voice from the bed.

Perhaps she would. It promised to be an interesting episode, and Helen would watch it as closely as possible. Could this person really manage Father? Or would the honeymoon period come to a halt
when he reverted to type? Something akin to pity for Louisa entered Helen’s thoughts. She wasn’t quite the expected floozy, was a decent enough soul. ‘Let’s get some
coffee,’ Helen suggested. Life promised to be improved by this newcomer. At last, there was someone to talk to. Things promised to go swimmingly. Until Louisa bore a son, at least . . .

Excitement reigned during the next ‘mothers’ meeting’ after Lucy came home from her honeymoon.

Repeated bouts of sickness had kept Agnes away from Mags: she couldn’t visit the Bradshaws because of the smell of fish and chips; Mags had stayed away from Noble Street since her
friend’s closest companion had become a bowl over which she could hang her head while lying on the sofa. Agnes had managed, just about, to hang on to the contents of her stomach for the very
small wedding of Fred and Eva, but had become increasingly fearful of leaving the house. She was not yet three months pregnant, and she had been warned that these symptoms might continue up to week
sixteen.

‘Have you chosen any names?’ Lucy asked.

Agnes shook her head. ‘At the moment, it doesn’t answer to Bloody Nuisance. Denis calls it Bertie – no idea why – and it doesn’t respond to that, either. The Bloody
Nuisance was my idea, because I can’t seem to keep down more than a cup of tea and a biscuit without starting World War Three. I’m living on dry cream crackers and arrowroot biscuits
– can’t walk past a bakery without coming over all unnecessary.’

‘You be careful,’ Mags warned. ‘Don’t be going all dehydrated on us. We don’t want to arrive and find you curled like a crisp.’

‘Desiccated, more like.’ Agnes laughed. ‘I knew there’d be pain at the end, but I hadn’t catered for this.’

‘Tell me about the wedding,’ Lucy begged.

The other two girls painted a vivid picture of Eva Hargreaves in full sail and powder blue. It had been a small wedding, they agreed, but the bride had made up for that, as she had practically
filled the centre aisle by herself. They described her hat – a strange collection of netting, sequins and small feathers – Fred’s new and squeaky shoes, the choice of hymns, one
of which – ‘Fight the Good Fight’ – had been rejected by a very amused priest, and the post-nuptial feast of pasties and ale in a local hostelry. ‘It wasn’t
anything like your do,’ concluded Agnes. ‘There was a game of darts in one corner, some old men fighting over dominoes next to the window, and the wedding in the middle. On top of all
that, the brewery delivered and they had to fetch an ambulance when one of the brewer’s men hurt his back.’

‘Lively, then,’ said Lucy.