The Judge's Daughter (42 page)

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

Lucy sighed heavily. ‘Look, we were the three graces for long enough – brought one another up, we did.’

It was Agnes’s turn to sigh. ‘I just feel we’re not wanted. Helen said she would do what she saw as her duty by me, then that was that. I even had the DNA done to prove that we
share blood, which took ages – it’s harder to prove siblinghood than parenthood. But I had to do it before accepting all that money and a share of the house. She’s stubborn, but
so am I. I had to hang on until DNA technology had been refined before accepting the money, but she never touched my share. She waited for the test, then made me a rich woman, and that was the end
of it. If they wanted us there, we would have been invited, Lucy.’

The visitor scowled. ‘Time we had it out with Mags, then. She just buggered off without so much as a by-your-leave – we hadn’t done anything to deserve that, had we?’

‘I suppose she knew we were surprised when she married Harry. He turned out OK and we all like him. But we’re not wanted.’

‘Why, though?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve told you for years that I don’t know.’

But Lucy had made up her mind. Agnes, who knew that Lucy could be rather direct and indiscreet, had to agree to the plan. She wasn’t going to allow Lucy to barge in and start a war –
Hastings had seen enough of that in 1066. ‘All right, but you’ll have to behave.’

Lucy pretended to pout. ‘You mean I can’t wear my crocheted wedding dress and high boots? Do I have to be sensible?’

‘Yes, you do.’

They parted company just before the six o’clock news. Lucy returned to her converted barn, while Agnes stared at trouble in the Middle East and decided that religion was a bad thing. Wars
had been fought in the name of Jesus Christ; now people quarrelled over another prophet. Even the Jews, whose Messiah was still awaited, couldn’t sit still and behave themselves for five
minutes. She shook a fist at the television and turned to a cable channel. It was chewing gum for the mind, but it got her through another evening spent in the company of soup, sandwiches and
silence. Broadcast sound made the house seem occupied, and she was fast becoming a fan of soaps and comedy series. But such luxuries were a poor substitute for a family. Yes, she would go to
Hastings, because time, the great enemy, needed to be filled. And she must remember to phone that surveyor.

‘What did you say?’ Mags leaned over the bed and waited for an answer.

‘The parcel. As soon as I go – post it.’

Mags blinked away yet more tears, wondered how much more saline she could possibly produce. ‘Are you sure?’ What good would it do? What was the point, after all this time? Helen was
fast losing her hold on life, and Mags was her sole attendant. This stubborn patient had refused admittance to hospital and had banned all visiting nurses. The doctor who handled Helen’s
drugs was allowed begrudgingly to attend the bedside when the drip needed checking. All other callers were turned away from the door. Helen, having been given little choice in the early years of
her life, was taking full control of the end. ‘Try not to think about it,’ Mags urged.

A travesty of a smile stretched parchment-thin skin. ‘What else would I think about?’ She often thought about Millie, although she didn’t want to, as Millie had been spoiled to
a point where she considered herself to be the centre of the universe. Helen’s sister, who, because of the age difference, had been more like a daughter, was not here to support the woman who
had guided her through life. Millie was on the point of divorcing a second husband and had no time for visits while chasing a third. ‘I was not a good guardian,’ said the woman in the
bed.

‘You did your best. No one can do more than that.’

‘She’s selfish.’

‘So are my sons. Don’t dwell on it. And yes, I shall post your parcel when the time comes.’

‘Thank you.’

When Helen had succumbed once again to morphine-induced stupor, Mags crept out of the room and descended the stairs. Away from Helen, she managed not to cry, choosing instead to tackle stained
bedlinen and other daily chores. The cancer had travelled at lightning speed through the poor woman’s body; she had days to live and Millie didn’t seem to care.

As she filled the washing machine, Mags thought about the Helen she had met almost forty years ago at Lucy and George’s wedding, remembered her pain, her brief flirtation with alcohol, her
vulnerability. Thought skipped ahead to Harley Street, the new nose, her own marriage to Harry Timpson. Harry had made a good job of himself, though his nerves had never been in top condition. Mags
knew why. The knowing why had brought her here, to Hastings, had separated her from Agnes and Lucy, the two people who had been her constant companions through childhood, adolescence and into
adulthood.

Helen had forbidden Mags to inform Agnes of her illness and imminent death. Mags, having returned to work after her sons had grown, had now retired, but caring for Helen had become a full time
job. She no longer went home at night; Harry, too, slept at Helen’s house. His blind loyalty to Helen Spencer would stay with him until the day she died.

Mags was bone weary. Although Helen had become slight after the ravages of disease, the task of moving and changing her was taking its toll on her carer’s health. ‘I’m too old
for this,’ Mags told the wall. ‘I should be knitting for my grandchildren.’ She should also be up north. Hastings was a good place, but it wasn’t home. Living on the hem of
the sector known as Bohemia, she had made friends among writers and artists, many of whom were interesting, some of whom were precious posers and unloved. Now in her fourth decade as a resident,
Mags knew every house, every fishing boat, every spire, castle and battleground within ten miles of the town. But she still wanted to go home.

Harry appeared. ‘How is she?’ were his first words.

‘The same.’

He banged a briefcase onto a side table. ‘If she were a dog, she’d be humanely destroyed.’

‘But she isn’t a dog. What we did for Oscar can’t possibly be done for Helen.’

‘No.’ He studied his wife. ‘I’m going to take a few weeks off work. Let’s face it – I should have retired by now. I’ll help you. You look like you need
a rest.’

‘I can’t rest. And you know why. None of us can rest while we know what’s coming.’ She shook her head. Harry was already on the highest permitted dose of an
anti-depressant. He would probably have fared better at work, but there was no point in arguing and she was too tired, anyway, to start a discussion on a subject that was already worn thin.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said.

But he was up and out of his chair before she had finished speaking. The kettle clattered and cups were banged onto a tray. Mags simply stared at the wall. It was all going to happen and she
dreaded the outcome. Helen Spencer was on the brink of death and Mags, acutely aware of the promise she had made, would abide by her word. It would be a repeat of the Battle of Hastings, but
nothing could be done about that.

A picture of Agnes and Lucy suddenly insinuated its way into Mags’s exhausted brain. Oh, for the chance to talk to Agnes, to prepare her for what was about to happen. She sat with her head
in her hands, elbows on the table, mind in turmoil. For Helen, death was going to mean an end to all troubles; for those she would leave behind . . .

‘Shall I take some tea upstairs?’ Harry asked.

Mags sat up straight. ‘She won’t drink it. I’ve been wetting her lips with a bit of ice. She’ll be needing no more tea, love.’

He sat opposite his wife. ‘Not long, then?’

‘No. Could be today, tonight, tomorrow – I’ve no idea.’

‘And Millie?’

Mags shrugged. ‘Mucking about in London as far as I know. She dumped the dentist and she’s chasing a stockbroker. I think she’ll become one of those serial
monogamists.’

Harry attempted a joke. ‘I thought she was a physiotherapist.’

Mags shook her head. ‘She’s a bloody pest, that’s for sure.’

‘Aye, she is. Oh, I bought a bit of fish for a change.’

Mags pretended to frown. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it? Fish in a fishing port?’

‘It is,’ he replied. ‘Especially when ninety per cent of it goes to Captain Birds Eye or some such frozen person. Do you not fancy fish?’

She closed her eyes. She fancied fish and chips Lancashire style, nice, smooth batter beaten by her dad, chips fried by her mam at Bradshaw’s chippy. She fancied eating from newspaper on
the moors, drinking dandelion and burdock from the bottle, wiping her hands on grass. ‘I want to go home,’ she said quietly. Mam and Dad weren’t there any more, but she still
needed to be in Lancashire with Agnes and Lucy. ‘Retire, Harry. We’ll go home and face the brass band.’

His face was ashen. ‘I’m scared.’

‘So am I.’

‘I did what I did for Helen.’

‘Yes.’

‘But it was wrong.’

‘I know. At the time, there seemed little choice.’

They drank tea in silence, then Mags went to prepare the fish for supper. She was worried about her husband, about the poor soul upstairs, was still homesick after going on forty years in the
south. Someone rang the front doorbell, and she heard Harry walking down the hall. When he returned, he was not alone. Mags dropped a knife. ‘Agnes,’ she whispered. ‘Lucy –
when did you get here?’

‘Yesterday,’ answered Lucy. ‘We’ve done all the compulsory things, just as we did last time we came. We’ve done Battle, the Shipwreck Centre and the
Fishermen’s Museum. I still say we would have won if King Harold hadn’t been worn out after York.’

Agnes saw the expression on Mags’s face. ‘Mags?’

‘Hello.’

‘What are you doing in Helen’s house? Is she all right?’

‘No,’ replied Harry. ‘She’s on her last legs.’

Mags dried her hands on a tea towel. ‘She hasn’t been on her legs for weeks, Harry.’ She turned her attention to her two friends. ‘She’s got cancer. It’s a
nasty one. It travels express and takes no prisoners. There’s nothing to be done apart from palliative care. She refused to go into hospital or into a hospice, so I look after her. Harry
helps all he can.’

Agnes leaned against a wall. ‘How long?’ she asked.

‘Any minute now.’ Mags sat on a straight-backed chair. ‘Helen forbade me to contact you. She said you’d suffered enough and she didn’t want to put you through
this.’ Mags could not mention other difficulties that would surely arise in the very near future.

Agnes’s jaw hung open. She could not think of anything to say.

Lucy waded in, of course. ‘Agnes is her sister. She should have been told.’

For once, Mags stood up to Lucy. ‘When a dying woman expresses a wish, I listen. Isn’t it time you did the same – time you listened, I mean? Hear yourself, Lucy. Think about
what you’re saying before allowing the words out of your mouth. There – I’ve waited years to say that.’

It was Lucy’s turn to have a slack jaw.

Agnes left the room and made for the stairs. Apart from her son, she owned but one living relative, and her sister was about to die. There was Millie, of course, but Millie was too busy crossing
the pond to buy shoes on Park Avenue, or, when she was in London, chasing someone else’s husband, to count. Panic fluttered in Agnes’s chest. Poor Helen. She had never married, yet she
had been a mother to the ungrateful Millie, had devoted her life to the child.

Lucy stared at Mags. Mags had changed. ‘So, you’re standing up for yourself at last, are you? I’ll go and look at Helen—’

‘No you won’t. As you just said, they’re sisters. They haven’t seen one another for God alone knows how long – let Agnes have some time with Helen alone.’

‘I never realized how much you dislike me,’ said Lucy.

Mags smiled grimly. ‘I don’t dislike you. It’s just that you’ve always been the centre of attention and it’s time we all grew up. Try some sensitivity. Think about
other people for a change.’ Lucy put Mags in mind of Millie, who had always been precocious and spoiled. The small, neat woman who had been married to George Henshaw continued to act the
clown, the beautiful, forgivable girl. It didn’t work any more. Like body parts, the personality should age as gracefully as possible. Naughty children in their sixties were not charming.

When Agnes walked into Helen’s bedroom, a silly, disjointed thought entered her head. She had forgotten to phone that surveyor. Helen, who had wanted to retain Briarswood for rental only,
had been outvoted by her two half-sisters. Millie demanded the money, while Agnes, tired of being caretaker to an empty pile, simply needed to be rid of the house.

All thoughts of surveyors left her when she saw what time and cancer had done to Helen Spencer. Limp, grey hair hung in clumps, punctuating baldness resulting from chemotherapy. The neck was
more than thin, while the shape beneath the blankets was horribly emaciated. She was awake, at least.

‘Hello, love.’ Agnes sat down by the bed, afraid of touching a hand that was almost transparent.

The skull on the pillows smiled. ‘Hello.’

‘Don’t tire yourself,’ Agnes begged.

‘No point in saving energy,’ came the reply. ‘I’m on borrowed seconds now.’

Agnes swallowed.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘It’s all there for you – in the book I never published. Let me die first.’

‘I don’t want you to die.’

‘You can’t choose. Is the house sold?’

‘No. But a man wants to survey it properly.’

‘When I’m dead. Wait, please.’

‘All right.’

Helen took a deep, rasping breath. ‘The haunting began before we left. Millie’s toys would be moved, my watch disappeared more than once. He’s there, you see.’

‘Your dad?’

‘And yours. Agnes – get Mags.’

Agnes descended the stairs and gave Mags the message.

‘She’s too weak now to deal with the morphine,’ said Mags, drying her hands.

Lucy and Agnes waited in the drawing room. They listened as Harry followed his wife to Helen’s bedroom, sat in silence among Helen’s treasured antiques. A grandmother clock chimed
the quarter-hour as Mags entered the room. ‘She’s gone.’