The Judge's Daughter (35 page)

Oh, well. There was nothing else for it – he would have to take an evening meal in the company of his peers. The conversation would involve symptoms of illnesses, requests for mustard,
loud comments on the cardboard consistency of the meat. Some old beggar would break wind at table. Waiters would decide to ignore it, but Zachary Spencer would hear all, see all and say
nothing.

At Lambert House, people were having fun. Zach did not believe in fun, as it wasted time that might be better spent in the furthering of one’s career, yet he had a strong suspicion that he
had been missing something. His daughter had looked happy. The other one, basting meat at the cooker, had ignored him. Happy? How happy would Helen be when a son turned up to deprive her of her
inheritance?

He parked the car and entered the club. It smelled of old people, stale food and spilt drink. His own home had been taken from him by Helen, who had invited his other so-called daughter to share
in the spoils. Well, it wasn’t over yet. Soon, a son would be born.

Fred was rubbish at charades. Incapable of acting without speaking, he was sacked in the first round, thereby depriving his team of several points. He said it wasn’t
fair, he hadn’t been ready and he’d never heard of the book whose title he had been trying to convey to team mates. ‘What the hell’s wuthering?’ he asked. ‘I
can’t wuther. Did she mean wither, that there Brontë woman? Or did she mean weather?’

‘Or whether, or whither?’ added George helpfully.

Fred glared at him. ‘Shut up,’ he ordered. ‘For a lawyer, you’re no bloody use at all. No wonder the court system costs too much. Where do you think you’re
going?’ he asked Lucy, who was another member of his team.

‘I’m just wuthering off to the bathroom,’ she replied.

Fred retreated to his chair and grumbled softly about young people not being as they used to be. There was no respect any more and people were getting too big for their clogs.

Oscar, who had enjoyed many leftovers from the hastily prepared feast, stretched out on the rug in front of the drawing room fire. As the rug had been the stage, charades was abandoned while
Helen and Agnes experimented with mulled wine. Fred poured himself a whisky, declaring that he had had enough of being a guinea pig for mulling, wuthering and culinary disaster, so they could leave
him out of the mixture.

Agnes, who was being disturbed by the movements of Nuisance, sat aside from the rest of the party. If Nuisance was going to practise cartwheels, she would need to be near the door in order to
reach the bathroom when required. She watched her family – this was her family now. Pop, whom she had loved for a lifetime, continued to argue about wutherings and mullings. He was doing well
in business, was content with his second wife, and was always at his most satisfied when involved in a dispute. He was involved at this moment, so he was as happy as a dog with two tails.

Eva, hoping that no one was watching, was fiddling with a tiny gold-coloured safety pin in an effort to fasten her blouse – a button had shot off into her food, an accident caused by
hilarity during the meal. Once her blouse was fastened, Eva dozed by the fire. Pop was old, but happy; Eva was older because of her weight and all those years spent making a living at the top of
Noble Street. They were a special breed and, Agnes hoped, not a dying one.

Helen, her new-found sister who had been the grey, listless librarian, was very much alive this evening. She had ousted her father, had humiliated him in front of many of the people here
tonight. Only Pop and Eva remained unaware of the relationship between Helen and Agnes.

Lucy and George were still blissful. It was a good marriage, Agnes believed. No longer resistant to the approaches of Helen Spencer, Lucy had enjoyed herself this evening. George was quieter,
because he was the one who had been caught by the judge while imitating him, yet even he seemed to know that Zachary Spencer’s days were numbered. What would happen, Agnes wondered. When
would Helen reveal the ace she held so close to her chest?

Mags, who had grown into her new nose, stared lovingly into the handsome face of Glenys Timpson’s oldest lad. Agnes smiled to herself. Harry had always been a source of trouble to his
mother, yet he had settled into his studies and showed great promise – which fact, Agnes thought, was sufficient to verify the saying about every dog having his day.

The canine dog was certainly having his day. Replete and exhausted by the effort of over-eating, Oscar lay at Eva’s feet. They seemed to be indulging in synchronized snoring – the
company was suddenly silent as each person became aware of the comic scene.

Oscar rolled over and broke the rhythm. ‘Shame, that,’ muttered Fred. ‘I were going to accompany them two on me comb and paper.’

Kate and Albert laughed. They were the best neighbours in the world and Agnes was glad to know them.

Denis was joking with George. The scars left on Denis’s lungs had not been too troublesome this winter, so that was another worry gone.

Only Louisa remained. Agnes cast an eye over the young woman who had married a man twice her age in order to secure a safe future for herself. But she had gained a good friend in her
stepdaughter and motherhood would surely bring its own reward. Yet her husband remained in the house even though he was absent. It was as if he stained everything he touched, because each person
here had been affected by him to a greater or lesser degree.

The thoughts came full circle. Agnes found herself gazing at Helen yet again. Laughing and joking, she seemed to fool most people, though Agnes was not convinced by the act. Helen’s anger
was so deep that it had cooled all the way down to ice. She had a plan of some kind and it was tied up in the letters held by a Bolton bank under the instruction of George Henshaw. The judge seldom
came home; he was threatened by his daughter and chose to keep a distance between himself and his own house.

Helen arrived at Agnes’s side. ‘You’re quiet.’

‘I’m tired – Nuisance is learning to dance.’

‘He’ll be born walking, then.’

‘Probably. Helen?’

‘What? Oh, not again, Agnes. Stop worrying. Nothing will happen. He’ll simply disappear one day and we’ll have peace.’

‘Disappear?’

‘Yes. Retire abroad – whatever.’

‘And Louisa?’

Helen shrugged. ‘Will stay with me.’

‘The baby?’

‘We haven’t got there yet. Can’t you just enjoy Christmas, Agnes? You’re surrounded by friends and family, yet you still worry about Father. Forget him. He is a man of no
importance.’

With that, Agnes had to be satisfied.

As the date of Louisa’s confinement drew near, Judge Spencer began to spend more time at Lambert House. Louisa, who was in better health, appointed herself peacekeeper
during this stressful time. Helen, living in her own apartment, saw little of her father; Louisa, in search of a more tranquil household, divided her time between the two adversaries. She was a
poor go-between, as she determinedly avoided conversations involving any controversy, and she realized that the relationship between father and daughter was not easily redeemable. She continued to
eat well, using the latter part of her pregnancy as a cocoon inside which she was safe. But she dreaded the afterwards. The real trouble would begin once the baby had been delivered. For now, she
was cushioned by her passenger, and she chose not to think too clearly about the birth and its aftermath.

Helen kept to herself, emerging only to visit Agnes. Mags and Lucy came each Thursday to the Makepeace cottage, and Helen was now part of the group. The subject of Helen’s letter and the
accompanying document from the deceased nanny had ceased to wear out telephone lines between the houses of Agnes, Mags and Lucy; the matter was no longer raised in the presence of Helen Spencer,
and it seemed to die a natural death as the confinement of Agnes drew near.

‘It’s going to be a whopper,’ declared Lucy, who, still slim as a reed, was munching on a chocolate bar.

‘I hate you.’ Agnes looked down, tried to see her feet, failed. She raised one leg to display a slightly swollen ankle. ‘Ah, there you are,’ she told the foot. ‘But
there should be two of you.’

Helen ate a sandwich. ‘Louisa looks like a galleon in full sail. I’d swear she was carrying twins, but the doctors say not. It seems she’s storing fluids. If she gets any
bigger, we could rent her out as a petrol tanker.’

‘Better a commercial vehicle than an object that stays in and waits,’ Agnes grumbled. ‘I’m a thing now – not a person. I’m just a building that’s been
placed around this child.’ She patted her belly. ‘I’m going to have a raffle when it’s born. The winner gets the baby, three dozen nappies, a Silver Cross – second
hand – and a good supply of clothing.’

‘Green Shield stamps?’ asked Lucy.

‘Definitely not. I’m saving up for a coffee percolator.’ Agnes winced. ‘I didn’t like that.’

‘What?’ asked Mags.

‘Pain in my back.’

Helen sat up straight in her chair. She had read a book about labour and considered herself something of an expert. ‘It can start there,’ she advised cheerfully. ‘The coccyx
moves.’

‘Does it?’ Agnes shifted her weight. ‘I’m not due. The coccyx can stay where it is or it’ll be raffled off along with the rest.’

The three women stared hard at their friend.

‘Stop it!’ she yelled. ‘Unless you paid to come in, you are not to look at the exhibits. Also, this zoo is closed until the spring. We are hibernating. Now, bugger off and let
me get some sleep.’

Helen remained when the others had left. She declared her intention to stay until Denis got home. The book was in the car. A person who could read could deliver a child; a person who could read
had failed to deliver a simple crème caramel . . . ‘Any more pain?’

‘No. The only discomfort I’m feeling comes from the expression on your face. I’m not due for a couple of weeks. Even if it does start, it can take days. God – can we not
talk about something else?’

Helen grinned. ‘Yes, we can. Your grandfather’s work is on display in the main hall at Lambert House. It is brilliant, though. He did the immediate garden, and the house lifts off,
section by section, until you reach the cellars. Father said – to Louisa, of course – that Mr Grimshaw can bring people in to look at his handiwork. The TV people are to be involved
again, along with several newspapers. Your grandfather is a star.’

Agnes groaned.

‘Are you all right?’

‘No, I’m not all right. He’s bad enough without being a bloody star. It’ll all go to his head. He’ll get himself excited, then he’ll start going too fast for
his own good. Poor Eva and Albert will bear the brunt. There’ll be no living with him.’

‘Oh, dear. Sorry.’

‘Not your fault. He will push himself until he has another stroke, but that’s his nature. Or he may prove too stubborn to have another attack – he could outlive us all. He will
certainly brag about his house in your house.’

‘Never mind.’

‘Exactly.’

Helen smoothed her skirt. ‘Our father who isn’t in heaven is talking of retirement. According to Louisa, he intends to spend much of his time on the yacht. I never saw her more
pleased, because she won’t take a baby to sea. We may survive despite him.’

Agnes looked at her visitor. She knew full well that Helen’s brain seldom rested, that her thoughts were predominantly about her father and the damage he had done throughout his life. More
specifically, there was one occasion in particular that had resurrected itself and Helen brooded about whatever it was. There was no point in asking; Agnes had stopped wasting time in that area
months earlier. ‘Denis will be home soon. Go back and make sure that Louisa is OK.’

‘You’re due before she is.’

‘I know that, Helen, but babies are not trains – they don’t run to a timetable.’

‘Nor do trains. All right, all right, I shall go. Phone me if you need me. Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Helen bent and planted a kiss on her sister’s head. These babies would thrive in safety. Whatever it took, Helen Spencer would make sure of that.

‘Helen, why don’t you find yourself a nice man? Has there been no one since—’

‘Since the balding eagle? No.’

‘I was going to say since Denis.’

‘Ah.’ Helen blushed. ‘Denis was one of my crazy times. I suppose I went through my teenage at thirty-two. No. My energies are directed elsewhere. Into writing, for a
start.’

‘For a start? I thought you’d stopped.’

Helen sighed. ‘My dear, disabuse yourself of the mistaken concept that an author writes only with a pen or a typewriter. Every waking moment is spent writing. In here.’ She tapped
her head. ‘It’s a collection box. When it gets full, I shall empty it, discard the dross and polish the good stuff.’

‘But no man?’

‘No.’

It was more than writing, mused Agnes when Helen had left. She was concentrating on something, and the something was a worry. Denis, too, had remarked on the preoccupation of Miss Helen Spencer.
She was up to no good. But the room was warm and sleep beckoned. With her hands folded on the ever-increasing mound of her belly, Agnes slept the sleep of the very pregnant.

Denis came out of the pub. He was two quid better off after a game of dominoes and was looking forward to a brisk walk homeward. When he reached the bottom of the lane that led
up to Skirlaugh Rise, he stopped. ‘Judge Spencer? What are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for you.’

‘Ah.’ What did the old beggar want at this time of night? ‘I’m on my way home,’ said Denis.

‘I know. Just give me five minutes. It’s about my daughter.’

Denis cleared his throat. ‘Oh? Which one?’

‘Helen.’

‘Right. What do you want from me?’

Much as he hated to beg, Zachary knew that he had no alternative. ‘Talk to her. Ask her whether she would thrive if she made public the contents of Mabel Turnbull’s meanderings. Ask
whether her expected sibling would thrive on the exposure of such lies. I just want . . .’ What did he want?

‘Yes?’ asked Denis.