The Judge's Daughter (17 page)

‘Lively?’ Mags hooted with laughter. ‘After four pints and a glass of bubbly wine, Mr Grimshaw had to be practically carried home by his new wife and Denis. He had no visible
means of support apart from them.’

‘Denis wants danger money if Pop ever marries again. It was good fun, though. Tell us about Paris.’

Lucy waxed enthusiastic about the city, which she had enjoyed hugely. ‘But one thing I hadn’t thought of – it’s full of French people.’

‘It would be,’ said Agnes. ‘It’s in France.’

‘They say the English have stiff upper lips.’ Lucy was getting into her hilarious stride. ‘You could park a double decker bus on a Frenchman’s gob, and he wouldn’t
flinch. And we ate horse – we didn’t know till afterwards. Sorry, Agnes – it would make anyone feel sick. George dared me to eat a snail, so I had five, then he had to eat
frogs’ legs. Tasted like strong chicken, according to him. The
Mona Lisa
’s horrible, the Eiffel Tower’s a pile of rust-coloured girders, but the rest is stunning.’
Thus she dismissed that wonderful city, adding only her opinion that the Arc de Triomphe was a bit good.

Mags cleared her throat. ‘I’m off to London for a month soon,’ she said as casually as she could. ‘Time I took a break.’

‘Why?’ chorused the others. ‘Why London?’

‘It’s there, we know it’s there, but do we need to go?’ added Lucy.

‘We should enjoy our own cities first – what’s the matter with London?’

‘Southerners?’ offered Lucy.

‘Traffic?’ suggested Agnes.

Mags shrugged. ‘Victoria and Albert, Science Museum, Buck House, Tate, National, St Paul’s – need I go on?’

‘Pickpockets,’ shouted Lucy.

‘Thieves and vagabonds.’ Agnes grinned.

‘You’ve been reading Dickens again.’ Mags smoothed her skirt. She wanted the whole thing to be a surprise, yet she feared the pain and worried about the outcome – what if
they gave her the wrong nose? What if they gave her the right nose, thereby making the rest of her face wrong?

‘She’s hiding something.’ Lucy folded her arms.

‘She is.’ Agnes stared hard at Mags. ‘Out with it. Is it a man? Are you sneaking off for a dirty month with a married person?’ She glanced at Lucy. ‘George
isn’t going to London, is he?’

‘No, he isn’t. If he decides to go, I’ll ground him with a couple of tent pegs.’

‘Denis isn’t going, either. Whose husband is she pinching, Lucy?’

‘It’ll be your Denis’s judge. That should get her into the House of Lords. By a back door, of course.’

The judge. Agnes began to tell her friends about recent events at Lambert House, thus changing the subject for a relieved Mags. ‘The wife’s younger than Miss Spencer. Denis says the
two women get along well enough together, so that makes life a bit easier. I feel sorry for Helen Spencer, you know.’

‘She drinks,’ said Mags. ‘It’s a damned shame, because it’s all her dad’s fault. Did you see the article she was sitting with at Lucy’s reception?
That’s the husband chosen by his flaming lordship. Looked like the back of a mangled tram. That’s why she ran off. Then I met her in the loos and booked her a room. I found her soaked
in brandy later on. The judge sent Denis to find her.’

‘I know.’ Agnes chewed on a nail. ‘We’re going to live up there. Judge Spencer will like that, because he’ll have Denis on the doorstep. We’re to have a
phone. If the old devil can’t fasten his corsets, he’ll be sending for poor Denis. I’m in two minds.’

‘Does he wear corsets?’ Lucy’s perfect eyebrows almost disappeared under her fringe.

‘He did the last time I saw him stripping off.’ Agnes looked from one to the other. ‘Joke,’ she said. ‘Anybody seeing him undressed probably needs to be under the
influence of a strong tranquillizer. He’s a mess. I hear he’s to be the judge at Harry Timpson’s trial. He’s a hang-’em-high type, or so I’m told. Glenys spoke
to Miss Spencer, asked her to help, but I’m not holding my breath – unless I’m going to vomit, of course.’

‘When will you be normal?’ Mags asked.

‘She was never normal.’ Lucy drained her coffee cup. ‘If she’d been normal, I wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with her. Normal’s boring.’ She looked
hard at Agnes. ‘Is this vomiting going to carry on all through?’

‘No idea. It could be temporary, could be hyperemesis.’

‘Who?’

‘Stop messing about, Lucy. If I’ve got hyperemesis, I could damage my brain, my liver and my child. I’d spend most of the time in hospital.’

Nobody liked the sound of that. ‘Can I press you to a jelly?’ asked Lucy, her stern expression surviving snorts of laughter. ‘Look, some folk can hang on to that when all else
fails – calf’s foot, fruit jelly – it slides down. And,’ she smiled again, ‘if it comes back up, there’s nothing to it – it slides like sugar off a shiny
shovel.’

Cushions flew in the company of several impolite words.

They settled back eventually. ‘London, though,’ pondered Agnes aloud. ‘You’ll not need your bucket and spade or a phrase book, will you?’

Mags shrugged. ‘I might need the phrase book – they talk a load of rubbish down there. And I draw the line at jellied eels and whelks. They don’t even eat proper like what we
do.’

‘And we talk proper and all, don’t we?’ Lucy jumped to her feet. ‘I’ve a hungry lawyer and three cats to feed. Look after yourself, Agnes.’ She glared at her
other friend. ‘Don’t go marrying any cockneys – I had enough of them with the
Billy Cotton Band Show
and his “Wakey, wakey”. Load of flaming numbskulls.’
She swept out, leaving a sudden silence in the house, the word ‘London’ thrown over her shoulder as she closed the door.

‘What’s going on, Mags?’

‘Eh?’

‘You’re up to something.’

Mags sighed. ‘Don’t tell anybody.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Well, you know how I’ve never left home for a flat of my own?’

‘Yes?’

‘It was so I could save up for a new nose. If I decided not to have a nose, I could put a deposit on a house or a flat. But when I was sitting with that Miss Spencer at Lucy’s
wedding, I thought I might end up like her. She’s plain, but not ugly. If I have a new nose, I might graduate to plain. With the right clothes and a good haircut, plain can pass as
OK.’

Agnes bit her lip. ‘God, that’s scary. They break bones and stuff, don’t they? And doesn’t it take a few weeks for all the swellings to go down?’ She shivered.
‘It’ll hurt.’

‘Yes.’

‘Aren’t you scared?’

‘Yes. Aren’t you scared – all biscuits and bowls?’

‘Yes.’

Mags reached out and grasped her dear friend’s hands. ‘Then we’ll be scared together. I don’t know what I’ll look like; you don’t know what Nuisance will look
like. I’m sorry about your nursing, but we have to get on with life, haven’t we? We only get the one chance.’

Agnes nodded. ‘But a baby’s a natural thing, Mags. New noses interfere with nature. You’ve always been against make-up and hair dye – yet here you are, going for plastic
surgery in London.’

‘I am not walking behind this great big conk for the rest of my life. It comes into a room ten full minutes before the rest of me. There’s no getting away from a nose like this. This
is a nose you have to live up to. I’d do all right as one of the three witches in
Macbeth
– no greasepaint required. And I want to go to Carnaby Street for some daft clothes, get
my hair done in the West End, see all those London markets. I’m doing it, Agnes. For better or worse, I’m doing it.’

Alone, Agnes thought about Mags’s parting words. For better or worse sounded about right. You had to live with a nose before you understood its significance. The same might be said for
marriage – for better or for worse, a partner, once chosen, was supposed to be there for life. Mags’s nose was going to be a better or worse job, and everyone would have to take time to
get to know it. ‘Good luck, Magsy,’ she whispered. Then she went to try a bit of toast.

She was still coming to terms with her bit of toast when love’s young dream – as she had nominated Fred and Eva – burst into the house. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Do
come in. Oh, I see. You’re already in.’ Agnes noticed that Eva was breathless and that Pop was a strange shade of pink. Eva stood in front of the dresser.

‘Tell her,’ she ordered.

‘They’re coming,’ he announced. ‘With a great big van and stuff. You’ll have to help me, Agnes – I don’t know what to say.’

Thus far, the toast had sat well enough. But all Agnes needed was two confused senior citizens and she would lose calories, plus moisture, all over again. The pair shifted weight from foot to
foot, putting her in mind of a couple of children kept in at playtime for bad behaviour. ‘What are you on about?’ she asked.

‘Me doll’s houses,’ spluttered Fred.

‘Doll’s houses,’ came the echo.

Agnes chewed, swallowed, took a sip of tea. ‘Start at the beginning and finish at the end, please.’

Fred dropped into a chair. ‘
Coronation Street
,’ he said.

‘Them as makes it,’ added Eva in an attempt to make matters clear. ‘I’ve shut the shop. Your granddad’s famous.’

Agnes glared at the personification of fame – dirty overalls with an off-the-shoulder touch of fashion at one side, hair full of sawdust, eyes as wide as a frightened rabbit’s.
‘Granada?’

He nodded, causing a shower of fine wood shavings to abandon his person. ‘Making a series called
Man at Work
. It’s about retired folk doing crafts and stuff. They say my
houses are in a class of their own. Somebody up Chorley New Road ordered a Tudor mansion, then, after seeing the plans, went and phoned these here Granada folk. I’m going on the telly.
They’re doing an OB on me.’

‘Isn’t that a medal?’ asked Agnes with feigned ignorance.

‘That has an E fastened to it,’ said Fred. ‘OB is outside broadcast and they cost money. They want to see me in my natural wotsername.’

‘Habit,’ said Eva.

‘Habitat, you daft lummox.’ Fred sighed. ‘We’ve even shut the shop to come and talk to you.’

‘Yes, Eva said so before,’ said Agnes.

‘What’ll I do?’ Fred looked truly frightened.

‘Nothing.’ Agnes placed her cup on the table. ‘They ask questions, film your houses, you just give answers. You don’t know what they’ll ask, so you can’t
practise for it.’

‘Can’t practise,’ said Eva.

Fred jumped up. ‘What are we doing here?’ he asked his bemused wife. ‘I’ve carpets to fit and lights to install. Come on.’ He rushed out of the house. ‘Where
did I put that box of doorknockers?’ The final words grew fainter as he marched up the street.

‘I hope this doesn’t make him ill again.’ Eva walked to the door. ‘He’s getting all worked up.’

Agnes sighed and shook her head. ‘For better or worse, Eva. Just let it all happen. It’ll happen anyway. Enjoy it. He’ll be all right. If he isn’t, send him back.
You’ve a twelve-month guarantee for parts and labour on that item.’

Alone at last, Agnes put her feet up and waited for her stomach to rise, but her indigestive system seemed to have made up its mind to take time off for good behaviour. She kept the bowl nearby,
just in case, but minutes passed without the need to leave a deposit.

‘Let’s hope I’m finally on parole,’ she told her feet. ‘Because the three of us – not including toes – have to get moving – literally. Skirlaugh
Fall, here I come.’

Skirlaugh Fall was a village consisting of a group of houses that clung together for support at the bottom of Skirlaugh Rise. The big house sat on top of the Rise, as if it
oversaw movements among serfs condemned to live lower down both social and geographical scales. It was a pretty place and Agnes had always loved it. She was excited. Nuisance, too, seemed
impressed, though it was too soon for him to start kicking and Agnes put the flutters down to wind or imagination.

On all sides, moors swept towards every compass point, so the Fall could be a bit damp, but that fact made it all the greener. It was a fresh, wholesome place that made her think of the hymn
‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. The cottage was a bit small, but no one could have everything. There was no scullery, though the kitchen, which ran the full width of the building,
was big enough to double up as a second living room. ‘Nice,’ she told her husband. It was more than nice. It was cosy, with wonderful views, clear air and decent neighbours in the form
of Kate and Albert Moores. This was a splendid place in which to raise a child. There was a school within easy reach, there was clean oxygen to breathe, and there were playgrounds in the form of
lush, green fields.

Inside the cottage, they had found a welcoming bunch of orange flowers in the grate. Agnes declared this to be a thoughtful gesture, as it gave colour without heat and made the place seem homely
right from the start. ‘They’re from Mr and Mrs Moores,’ she told her husband. ‘That was a friendly thing to do, very thoughtful.’

‘She’s all right, is Kate Moores,’ he declared. ‘Solid as a rock and no nonsense. Her husband works the land, but he’s semi-retired these days. She’s run off
her feet. Wife the Second up at the house wants more servants. Most round here would kill the judge before they’d work for him, so Kate’s having to look further afield. It’s all
new curtains and rugs up yon. Mrs Spencer’s a fresh broom, but she’ll not do her own sweeping.’

‘They never do. Denis?’

‘What?’

‘Come in the kitchen – Mrs Moores has left us new bread and butter, some cheese and a pot of home-made strawberry jam. She’s got willow pattern plates. I’ve always wanted
some of those.’

‘And I grew the strawberries.’ He came to stand by his wife at the kitchen window. The mock-Tudor mansion was clearly visible from this position. ‘They’re getting on too
well for the old bugger’s liking,’ he said. ‘Mrs and Miss are busy footling round Manchester, Chester and Liverpool, separating him from his brass, I shouldn’t wonder.
He’s not saying much, but he’s aged about ten years these past few weeks. Mrs is there just to produce a son and heir; Miss is staying put because she won’t be shifted and I
can’t say I blame her. But the new wife’s done her a lot of good, I must say. No, I can’t blame either of them.’