The Judge's Daughter (7 page)

Eva Hargreaves stepped tentatively into the house. Even after knocking loudly and shouting at the top of her range, she had been unable to make herself heard. Into a brief
silence, she called again. ‘Agnes?’

Fred, hair full of sawdust, hands clutching hammer and nails, appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘How do?’ he said politely, eyes blinking to rid lashes of wood shavings.
‘She’s gone into town – something to do with being a nurse.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Eva didn’t blame Agnes for absenting herself from the factory that had once been her home. ‘I’ve shut the shop.’

‘You what?’ The hammer landed at his feet, just half an inch away from his toes. ‘Shut the shop?’ Eva never shut her shop. She was open from seven in the morning till
nine at night, no excuses, no rest, food eaten at the counter, a stool the only perch she allowed herself. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

Eva dropped into an armchair. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she answered wearily. ‘Everybody’s beck and call, firewood, paraffin, nails, buckets – I shall be kicking the
bucket meself if I don’t slow down.’

‘Nay, lass – you’re not cut out for retirement.’ Fred made some effort to shake dust from tattered overalls before joining Eva in the front room. ‘You’d go
daft in six months. And remember – I’m experienced in daft. Daft’s making bullets for a war that’s twenty years over and—’

‘But you’re all right now.’

‘Aye, happen I am, but it’s only through fettling with these doll’s houses. I might branch out into railways – stations, trees and all that – but Eva, you’ve
never been idle since your husband died.’

‘I know.’

‘What’ll you do?’

She raised her shoulders in a gesture of near-despair. ‘Little bungalow up Harwood, read some books, get a dog and walk it.’

‘You’ll not cope.’

‘I’ll cope. Other folk cope—’

‘Yes, but . . . but you’re—’

‘That’s why I’m here.’ Eva took as deep a breath as cruel corsets would allow. ‘Help me, Fred. If I get some help, I might just hang on a bit longer.’

‘I’ve had a stroke, lass—’

‘And you’re turning this place into a right pigsty, aren’t you? Yon shed’s not big enough, but my air raid shelter is. They put it there in case of a bombing with a
shopload of customers, so it’s time it got used. Make you a good workshop, that would. Fred, you could serve a few customers while I rested – just a few hours a day.’

He leaned back and closed his eyes. If Eva would pay him, he could get better wood – he might even acquire nails in her shop for no price at all. And it was true – he was spoiling
Sadie’s house, making life difficult for his granddaughter. ‘Is there electric in the air raid shelter?’ he asked. ‘Only I need to see what I’m doing.’

‘There is now.’

‘Let me think on it.’

While he was thinking, the back door opened.

‘Bugger,’ said Fred softly.

Eva squashed a grin.

‘I’ll be left out with the bins come Thursday,’ groaned the old man. ‘The dust cart’ll take me away, just you wait and see.’

Agnes arrived in the doorway, arms tightly folded, lips clamped together, her expression promising some very bad weather. ‘Hello, Mrs Hargreaves.’ Agnes’s eyes never left her
grandfather’s face. ‘What the heck have you been doing, Pop? We can’t live like this – I’ve a meal to make and baking to do.’

Fred scratched his head. ‘We’ve been thinking,’ he replied eventually. ‘Me and Eva, I mean. She wants help in her shop and I could do with her air raid
shelter.’

Agnes nodded. ‘Yes, you’ll need somewhere to hide if I find the place in this state again. Oh, and I could do with a kitchen table without a lathe stuck to it. Are you up to serving
in a shop, though?’

He rose to his feet. ‘Yes, I am up to serving in a shop and running me own business at the same time. There’s still a bit of life in me, you know. And I would have tidied up,
but—’

‘But you didn’t.’ Agnes shook her head. ‘He’ll fill your shelter and spill into the house,’ she told the ironmonger. ‘He’s all talk and
screwdriver when it comes to straightening up after himself. Yes, you can have him, Mrs Hargreaves.’ She grinned at her beloved Pop. ‘You’re well and that’s all that
matters. I love you, you old goat.’

An unhappy Denis had accidentally unleashed a woman of great passion and uncertain temperament. Freed from restraint, she followed him, played music for him, courted him. She
would hear no argument. She wanted her way all the time and considered no one’s feelings but her own.

‘I’m a fool,’ he told the pigswill bin as he emptied scraps into its depths. The daily, a woman from Skirlaugh Fall, was in the house and Denis was panicking. He had stepped
out of his league all the way up to Lambert House, Skirlaugh Rise, and he had almost betrayed a beloved wife. Mrs Moores, the daily, had taken to looking at him sideways and Denis was sure that the
whole village knew of his supposed crimes. ‘I’m sorry, Agnes,’ he breathed, his head leaning on cool stone. What was he going to do? What on earth could anyone do?

A light step bade him turn and he looked right into the angry eyes of his mistress.

‘There you are,’ snapped Helen. ‘I want you to mend my bookcase upstairs.’

He placed the bucket on the ground. ‘This has to stop,’ he said.

‘Why?’

Denis inhaled as deeply as he could. ‘You’re different. Everyone can see that you’re different. They’ll know. Your dad will find out, Agnes will find out.’ There
was a kind of madness in her eyes, a brightness that went beyond mere happiness or excitement. She didn’t care about being discovered. ‘It has to stop,’ he said again.

‘You have regrets.’ Her tone was accusatory.

‘Of course I do. I’m married. I love my wife. Your father’s a judge with a lot of power. This should not be happening. I want things back the way they were. And that’s
just the start of the list.’

Helen Spencer nodded, turned on her heel and walked back into the house. Fury quickened her step as she ran up the stairs and into her bedroom. She dropped face down onto a chaise longue, balled
fists beating pink velvet upholstery, mouth opened in a scream she managed to strangle at birth. He didn’t love her. If an odd-job man could not love her . . . What was happening to her? Why
did she occasionally lose herself and where had self-control gone for a holiday?

She had to have him, had to keep him for herself. He could get a divorce. Father would not approve, but Father seldom approved of anything. If Agnes Makepeace knew the full extent of her
husband’s supposedly bad behaviour, perhaps she would leave Denis. ‘But I would be named,’ she said aloud. Did it matter? Was any price too high when it came to the love of her
life? She was unbalanced, yet she retained sufficient intelligence to allow insight into her own disorder. This was a clear route to madness.

She turned over, closed her eyes and imagined how he would be as a lover. He would treat her like precious porcelain, would be amazed and pleased by her responses. But no. He had no intention of
indulging in an animal act, a business performed by any beast in field or stable yard. He was a good man in a world inhabited by the bad.

What could she do? Angrily, she rose and began to pace the floor, back and forth, hands rubbing together, forehead creased by a deep frown, ears on alert just in case he deigned to climb the
stairs to mend her bookcase. Mother’s money. Helen placed herself at the dressing table. She had come into a small inheritance at the age of twenty-one, and it had languished in a bank for
all these years. Her own house. If she bought a place, he could visit her there . . . but would she have any power if she moved out? His job was here, her father was his employer and she, daughter
of the house, held some sway during her father’s absences.

It was hopeless and she wanted to die if she could not have Denis. The library? She didn’t care about her job any more, could take it or leave it. Mrs Moores knew what was going on, but
that didn’t bother Helen. Why should she care what a skivvy thought? And what was wrong with a few fashionable clothes and a bit of make-up?

He was walking across the lawn. Through narrowed eyes, Helen took in every single detail. Denis was carrying a canvas bag, a pair of work boots joined by laces hanging from a shoulder.
‘He’s leaving,’ she whispered. ‘He’s walking out. And I am supposed to sit here like Little Miss Muffet.’ She left the room and ran downstairs.

From the drawing room window, Kate Moores watched the scene as it unfolded before eyes that had seen too much in recent days. Helen Spencer had finally gone off her rocker. Kate knew Denis
Makepeace well enough to realize that he had been used by Madam. She also knew Madam, had often seen damped-down fury in pale hazel eyes. Lipstick and high heels? The reason for those articles was
only too clear – Miss Helen Spencer had decided to indulge in sins of the flesh.

The view from the window was not pleasant. Denis was almost motionless while his companion stamped and ranted until she collapsed on the grass. ‘Go,’ urged Kate quietly. ‘Get
out now, lad, while the going’s good.’ He should stay away from Helen Spencer. Anyone who wanted the ordinary life should keep a fair distance from that woman. Kate dusted quickly.
‘She was a sneaky kid and she’s no better now she’s grown.’

Applying beeswax to a side table, Kate Moores continued to pray inwardly. If Denis left today, he would get no reference; if he stayed, he would get no peace. The clock chimed, and Kate knew
that her working day was almost over. She was also fully aware of Helen Spencer’s quiet power, of her persuasive tongue. Only the judge had remained unmoved by his daughter’s clever
ways. ‘Go home, Denis,’ Kate begged inwardly. ‘Dear God, make him go home.’

But he didn’t go home. Helen Spencer returned to the house and ran upstairs once more, while Denis sat on a bench near the rockery. Kate dragged her coat from a hook in the laundry room,
decided that the day was too warm to merit outdoor clothing, and left the house by the kitchen door, coat draped over an arm. As she rounded the corner, she met Denis on his way back. Dragging him
along the side of the building, Kate tutted at him. ‘You should have gone,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

He swallowed audibly. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, I do. My Auntie Vi looked after Miss Spencer for years back in the days when they had servants – before they closed off half the house.’ She nodded furiously.
‘From the age of about three, Miss Spencer had a way of getting her own road. Not where her dad’s concerned – she gave up on him when she was a baby. Happen that’s why she
bends other folk to do her will – I’m not a head doctor, so I can’t work it out. Get gone before it’s too late, son.’

‘She said she’ll go and see Agnes. Nothing’s happened, but she’s going to pretend I’ve been to bed with her. She’ll tell my wife.’

Kate Moores puffed up her cheeks and blew noisily. ‘Will she heck as like. Come what may, she protects herself. That quiet woman in the dowdy clothes is just what she wants us to see
– inside, she’s all for number one. You’re just another thing she wants. She’ll do nowt that’ll pain herself.’

He sighed. ‘She’s round the bloody twist and it’s my fault.’

‘No, it’s not. Now, listen to me, Denis. Although she can’t see it, she’s her dad all over again – selfish, nasty, ill-tempered. I’ll bet a year’s wages
she started it. Am I right?’

He nodded. ‘It’s my fault as much as hers – I should have told her to bugger off right from the start. I haven’t even kissed her. I’m fed up.’

‘And a bit flattered because she’s Miss Spencer?’

‘Aye, perhaps I was. Not now, though. She’s dangerous.’

Kate gripped the young man’s arm. ‘Find yourself another job. This is just the start, Denis. You’re like a fish on a hook – the more you struggle, the more she digs in.
Look at me. There’s none down the bottom know about this.’ Her head bent in the direction of Skirlaugh Fall, the dip in which lay the village of her birth. ‘I’ll say nowt.
But the longer you hang about round here, the more chance you have of getting caught out. You’re a sitting duck, son. Bugger off home.’

Kate Moores was putting his own thoughts into words. He knew all the dangers, yet he feared that Helen would abide by her threat and tell Agnes a pack of lies if he left his job at Lambert
House. ‘He’s bound to see the change in her when he gets home,’ he said. ‘She’s walking about like a fourteen-year-old with a crush on some daft lad.’

Kate nodded in agreement. The judge said little except when giving orders, though he noticed everything and meted out punishments when life did not suit him. ‘He’ll hit the roof.
I’d not like to be at the receiving end. All the lawyers hate him, you know. Prosecution or defence, they can’t abide him.’

‘If she’s so clever, why can’t she see sense?’ Denis asked. ‘She knows I don’t want her and that I love Agnes – so why doesn’t she leave me
alone?’

Kate pondered a while before replying. ‘Auntie Vi told me a few tales before she died. Too many for me to start telling now – my Albert’ll be wanting feeding. But when she was
a little lass, Helen Spencer stole and lied and played the angel all the while – butter wouldn’t melt. She’s sly and I’m going home. So think on. Remember –
she’s made in the image of her dad, not her mam, God rest that good soul.’

‘I just don’t know what to do. No matter what, I’m the one in trouble. Who’d believe me, Kate?’

‘I would.’

‘But everyone else?’

‘Like I said, just think on before you do anything. And make sure the anything you do is not done with her.’

Denis thought on until it was time to go home. He toyed with his meal, found great difficulty in looking his wife in the eye, tried to feign interest when Fred rattled on about Eva and the shop.
The thinking continued through evening and into the night, sleep punctuated by nightmares populated by silk and muslin and Chopin. This could not go on, yet Denis had not the slightest idea of how
to make it stop.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Agnes sleepily.

‘Yes. Go back to sleep, love.’ There was nothing to be done. Unless . . . Unless he could pluck up the courage to tell the judge.