The Judge's Daughter (19 page)

Denis grinned. ‘Yes. Good, isn’t it?’

Helen tried on her new emerald green gown after lining up all the cosmetics she owned. Her stash had grown since the arrival of Louisa, whose opinion was that muted tones on
the face were classy. She would help Helen when the big day arrived.

Helen hung up the dress, then lay on her bed for the last time. The new living quarters consisted of a large sitting room with TV and elegant furniture, bedroom, dressing room, kitchen and
bathroom. This room was childhood, and she was leaving it behind. At the age of thirty-two, she would have her own apartment, but her feet would be wedged firmly in her father’s door. He
wasn’t happy, so she was.

Louisa had made all the difference. Much as Helen wanted to dislike her, she found that impossible, because Louisa was fun. Fun had not featured in Helen’s life thus far, so she embraced
it with enthusiasm. But she had not forgotten her other friend, the one she had met at the wedding. She had sent the invitation to Mags’s place of work. Mags, currently in London, would be
back before the opening-up party.

Dinner, a trial at the start, had become a joy. Judge Zachary Spencer presided at the head of the table, while Helen and Louisa, opposite each other, indulged in conversations of which he could
never be a part. Louisa, a dutiful wife, occasionally threw him a lifebelt, but the friendship between her and his daughter was genuine, and it grew by the day while the man of the house remained
out of his depth for much of the time. He seethed. While he seethed, Helen was triumphant.

Helen often wondered how Louisa bore the physical side of her relationship with Father. Lately, she had reached the fringe of understanding. Louisa had explained that life had not been easy, so
she had developed into a pragmatic woman who could accept and make the best of any situation in which she found herself. Of one thing Helen was certain: Louisa was not in love. Remembering the
Denis episode, Helen saw none of her own symptoms in her so-called stepmother. Louisa had tied her moorings at Father’s berth, and that was an end of the matter. ‘I’m glad she
did,’ whispered Helen. No matter what the cost, Louisa was worth every last penny.

When she thought about the longed-for son, Helen reached a grey area into which she dared not step. It was swamp and she might drown in its murky depths, so she lived for the moment and pushed
all thoughts of half-sisterhood into a compartment well away from the main engine. Perhaps Louisa’s common sense was rubbing off, because worry seemed to be a thing of the past. James Taylor,
balding eagle, had telephoned several times, and been rejected. There was no more fear, because Louisa was on her side. Even the nightmares had lost some of their edge, though they continued to
make regular visits.

Whatever the reasons, whatever the outcome, Helen was almost content. She lived with the idea that the bad dreams were nudging her to remember something, but her stepmother distracted her during
the days and panic attacks were fewer.

Denis? The feelings remained, yet she managed to control herself. If she saw him, she spoke to him, but she never sought him out. There was no time. Helen’s life was fully occupied with
the library and with Louisian adventures. Helen smiled. The Louisian era was her favourite so far, and long should it reign.

When Mags Bradshaw returned from London, she did not go home. Having booked a room at the Pack Horse, she shut herself away and waited for the last of the bruising to subside.
Over a period of days, she watched the butterfly emerging from its dark chrysalis. It was rather frightening in a sense, because she was looking at a stranger. All the time, it had been only her
nose. She was no Marilyn Monroe, no Jane Russell, but she was almost pretty. Everyone in her position should have a new nose. It improved a person’s outlook, her mental state, her whole life.
She would never regret postponing the purchase of a house, because she had spent her money wisely on a whole new promise of adventure.

Margaret Bradshaw had new hair, new make-up, new shoes, new clothes. ‘I am a reformed woman,’ she said as she sat at the dressing table. It had been a painful road, and at times she
had regretted the surgery, but the result was so stunning that she could not stop looking at herself. If this behaviour continued, she would become so self-absorbed that she might well imitate
those she had always mocked, the look-at-me girls, the floozies, the good-time females. Although she wanted to show off to her friends, she dreaded the initial impact that would cause embarrassment
at work, at home, in shops. But she would have to bite the bullet, and home was the place to begin.

After three nights, Mags made up her face, packed her bags and stood at the bus stop on Deansgate. It was time to face the world. No one stared, so that was the first hurdle cleared. The
application of heavier make-up had concealed the last pale traces of multi-coloured damage. She was free. She would be able to walk into a room without her nose acting as usher. She was normal and
she wanted to cry.

In the living quarters behind the shop known locally as Braddy’s Chippy, Mags comforted her mother, who shed tears enough for both of them. ‘You were lovely before, baby, but you are
a stunner now.’ It was clear that Mam had not realized how desperately Mags had hated her appearance. ‘We thought you’d gone looking for work down yon,’ she wailed,
referring to the many days Mags had spent in London. ‘We thought we’d lost you, sweetheart.’

Her dad was less emotional on the surface. He asked the usual questions about cost and pain, though he wiped a tear from his eye once he had gone back to his batter mix. Mags was beautiful. Like
many fathers, he worried about the male of the species. His little girl was going to attract attention, and not all that attention would be welcome.

Work was the next hurdle. When she arrived on her first day, a receptionist looked at her quizzically, asked did she have an appointment; then, once Mags grinned, the girl leapt from her chair.
‘It’s you!’ she yelled. She fled through the outer office and into the inner sanctum. ‘It’s her,’ she shouted. ‘Come and look.’

Animals in zoos probably got fed up, Mags decided as secretaries, clerks and solicitors came to view. At one point, she made monkey noises and pretended to scratch her armpits before asking for
coffee and a bun. ‘For God’s sake, bog off, will you? I feel like something in Tussaud’s. Yes, I’ve had a nose job, yes, I had a deviated septum, so it was a good idea from
a medical viewpoint, yes, I now cast a smaller shadow and no, I’m not going to tell you how it felt.’ She marched to her desk, exclaimed over the heaps of post in her in tray, then
carried on as usual. It would all calm down, she told herself. But she still had to face Lucy and Agnes.

An item in her tray provided her with the opportunity to plan the first meeting between her nose and her two confidantes. It was an invitation to celebrate the recent marriage between Zachary
Spencer and a woman named Louisa. In handwriting at the bottom, someone – probably poor Helen Spencer – had appended a message containing the information that Lucy and Agnes would be
there with their partners. Partners? Where could she get one of those within days? It was best to go alone anyway, because her nose would probably be the star, while she would play the part of a
small attachment. She smiled to herself. After twenty years of being a mere appendage to a colossal proboscis, there had been no change – just a simple adjustment of parts to be played. Until
people got used to her face, she would have to sit back and let the surgeon’s triumph take the glory.

In her lunch hour she walked around Bolton, pretending to look at displays in shop windows while, in truth, she was looking at herself. She was an inch from pretty. When she passed some painters
working on the frontage of Woolworth’s, Mags Bradshaw was in receipt of her first ever wolf whistle. There had been times when she had almost used her savings on a deposit for a place of her
own. That whistle told her that she had spent her money well. Now, all she had to do was find a truly stunning dress, because she wanted no complaints from this new, upstart nose. With a spring in
her step, Mags Bradshaw began her search for suitable trappings.

Agnes answered the door. It was the twins, as Denis had begun to describe Miss and Mrs Spencer. ‘Come in,’ she said tentatively.

Louisa Spencer was an extremely pleasant woman with a high-pitched voice to which Agnes became attuned within minutes. Whatever the woman was – gold-digger or just plain silly – she
had a genuine affection for and interest in her fellows. ‘Was that your grandfather on TV last night? The doll’s house man?’

Agnes laughed. ‘It was.’

‘You ask her.’ Louisa was speaking to Helen. ‘Go on.’

‘Would he come to the party?’ Helen asked. ‘It would be nice to have someone famous – apart from my father, of course.’

‘He’s more notorious than famous,’ said Louisa cheerfully. ‘What a wonderful man your granddad is. He had Helen and me in pleats. I thought he’d never stop talking
– I wanted him not to stop. He should have his own TV show. I laughed and laughed.’

‘Me, too,’ said Agnes. ‘Though I’m used to it. He and Nan raised me – my mam died when I was born.’

‘He’s very witty.’ Louisa laughed again. ‘He treated the interviewer like an apprentice and I swear he could talk for ever. Those houses are extraordinary. He has
actually made some real houses to scale, hasn’t he?’

‘He keeps busy.’ Agnes smoothed her apron. ‘Would you like some tea? It’s ordinary Indian, I’m afraid.’

Louisa blew out her cheeks. ‘Thank God for that. I’m not that keen on perfumed stuff. And I’m common – I take milk and sugar. Yes, I’d love a cuppa.’

While Agnes busied herself in the kitchen, Helen looked at Denis’s home. It was small, but beautiful. Agnes was beautiful, too, but bigger than she used to be. A sharp pang of jealousy
pierced Helen’s chest, but its duration was short. She could manage without him. She had taken no brandy for days. Louisa, her friend and her prop, had shown her another way of life, had lent
some of her own pragmatism to a woman whose life, thus far, had been filled by unattainable dreams. The nightmares continued, but every day was good and exciting and different from its
predecessors.

Agnes brought in the tray.

‘You’re expecting,’ announced Louisa.

‘Yes.’ Agnes poured. ‘That’s why we finally came up here. It’s better for children and easier for Denis. Pop married Eva – she was the one who appeared on the
programme by accident. Mind, she’s a big woman, and she seems to get everywhere, so I’m not surprised. When Pop married, we didn’t need to stay in Noble Street, so here we
are.’ She handed out cups and saucers.

‘Will he come to the party?’ asked Louisa. ‘We haven’t many older people on the list, and I’m sure he’d pick up some business. Not that he needs to.
Didn’t he say they were thinking of selling the shop?’

Agnes nodded. ‘Eva says she’ll do his soft furnishings. He’s got so many orders, he’ll have to take on a man to help. God help that man. Pop’s talking about buying
Bamber Cottage, so we’ll have him near us again. But they could change their minds – they often do. Eva’s not one for quick decisions. She’s not one for anything quick, come
to that. Pop says she’s built for endurance, not for speed.’

‘But will they come?’ Louisa begged. ‘He has to come. I never had a doll’s house as a child – perhaps I’ll order one now.’

‘He’ll cause trouble. I mean, think about how he made that interviewer look daft. I can’t see him fitting in with Judge Spencer and a load of lawyers.’

Louisa frowned. ‘My husband isn’t what people believe him to be. He may be a tough judge, but he’s all right.’

Helen almost choked on her next sip of tea. All right? He was far from that. But Louisa had a knack of seeing the best in just about anyone. Helen envied her that. In spite of a past about which
she would say little, Louisa Spencer looked on life as a glass half full rather than half empty. Above all, she was lively, unafraid and funny.

‘I liked the bit where the man asked your granddad about material for the roofs.’

Agnes laughed. ‘I know. When he said he’d stripped a church roof and cut all the slates into smithereens, I think they believed him for a minute. It’s all wood and
paint.’

‘And electric lights. Very clever.’ Louisa returned her cup to its saucer. ‘Make him come.’

‘I can’t make him do anything. Nobody has ever been able to make him do anything – even Nan had a fifty per cent success rate at best. As for stopping him, you’d have a
job. You should have seen my kitchen till he married Eva and her air raid shelter. Murder, it was. Sawdust in the jam, chippings in my pastry, paint all over the ironing.’

‘Then he definitely has to come.’ Louisa stood, and Helen copied the movement.

In that split second, Agnes forgave Helen Spencer for chasing her husband. She had needed someone like Louisa, a pattern to follow, a friend – almost a sister. Louisa seemed to be a
steadying influence, and that had to be a good thing.

‘Promise you’ll invite him,’ Louisa pleaded.

‘I promise.’ Agnes suffered a temporary mental picture of two old men in a corner. Like Kate’s Albert, Fred Grimshaw would tug at his collar, complain about the heat, hate the
food, wish he could be normal in overalls. Perhaps they could keep one another company at the dreaded event.

‘Goodbye,’ chorused the two women as they left the house.

Agnes sank into a chair for a rest – the dishes could wait for half an hour. Pregnancy still failed to suit her, though the vomiting had stopped. She was tired all the time. Everything was
an effort and she had to force herself to keep going. Nan would have shifted her, would have urged her on, but there was no more Nan.

She drifted into sleep, her mind filled with dreams of Pop making a doll’s house in the middle of Judge Spencer’s living room, of the judge bawling and his wig slipping. Miss Spencer
had her arms round Denis’s neck and he was bending to kiss her. Albert had stripped all the way down to vest and pants. Eva ate most of the food, leaving just a few scraps for a large
dog.