The Judge's Daughter (9 page)

Kate allowed Agnes to take some of the burden. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ she lied. ‘He’s been doing all sorts today.’ At the kitchen table, she studied
Denis’s wife. Why was she here? Did this young woman suspect that her husband was being pursued by Madam? And where the hell was Madam, anyway? ‘I don’t fancy ironing,’ she
added lamely. The washing had been baked dry by a relentless sun.

‘It’ll all want damping,’ agreed Agnes.

‘Have you come about anything in particular?’ The daily set a kettle to boil, her face turned away from the visitor.

‘Just fancied the walk. I might have enjoyed it if there’d been a bit of a breeze.’ Agnes looked round the kitchen. It was bigger than the whole ground floor of the Noble
Street house. ‘Do you have to clean the whole place by yourself?’

Kate turned. ‘No. Most of it’s shut off. I don’t know why he hangs on to it – they use four rooms at the most. A girl comes in sometimes to do the silver and a few other
odd jobs.’

‘What’s the judge like to work for?’

‘He’s straight from hell,’ came the swift answer. ‘Never has a good word for anybody, never says much at all.’

‘Oh.’

‘I think your Denis is the only person he likes. But I’m guessing there and all. I’ve never heard him saying anything nasty about Denis, any road. But you really can’t
tell – he’s shut faster than the cat’s backside, is old Spencer.’

Agnes laughed out loud.

‘Hey, you’d not find it funny if you worked here, lass. When was the last time you coped with oysters and bloody avocado? Smoked salmon has to be thin enough to see through. He likes
his caviar chilled and on a bed of crushed ice – any melting and I’m for the high jump. Napkins have to be starched just right – too much or too little and I get the third degree.
I reckon his wife died on purpose to get away from him. I’d sooner be in heaven than in this house, but we need his money.’

‘Not a nice man, then?’ Agnes smiled.

‘He wants a bloody good hiding, and that’s the truth of the matter. He’ll be back in a few days, so expect rain.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of rain.’ Agnes added milk to her cup. ‘I’ll look for Denis in a minute,’ she said.

Feeling reasonably safe, Kate chattered on about ironing shirts just right, about polishing antiques and trying to clean the drapes round a four-poster. The trouble was, you could never tell
with folk these days. Denis’s wife seemed calm enough, but there was no way to be sure. Kate clung fiercely to hope. When everything else failed, hope was all that remained.

A woman was weeping.

Glenys secreted herself behind a wide tree and listened. Denis was speaking now. ‘I’ve told you to leave me alone. What do you want from me? No, I’ll take that back –
I’m pretty sure of the answer. Have you no pride?’

The sobbing continued.

‘I’ve enjoyed listening to your music this summer. But that’s all there is to it. I’m married. You know I’m married – you’ve always known. I’ll
tell you what I think, shall I?’

‘No.’ The reply was almost strangled at birth.

‘I think you need to see a doctor. This isn’t normal behaviour. Running after a married bloke who hasn’t had a proper education – that’s not right, is it? What
would your father say? What will he do when he gets home and finds you in this state? If I did anything wrong, I’m sorry. If I led you on, I apologize. I can hardly look Agnes in the eye
– and what have I done? Nothing. Or, in the language I’m more used to, bugger all.’

Glenys remained frozen, though the heat of the day had penetrated dense branches and leaves. Her mind was far from still, though. Harry was her son and she loved him. No matter what, she loved
her boys. Could she make use of this situation?

‘I can’t help loving you,’ said Helen Spencer. It had to be Helen Spencer, thought Glenys. Who else round here talked through a gobful of plums? She listened while the
invisible female ranted on about touching Denis’s arm in her car on the day of the funeral, about him hovering near a window while she played the piano. ‘You didn’t exactly push
me away or avoid me, did you?’

‘I like music,’ he said, his voice louder. ‘Do I have to stop liking music? Look, get back to the house, for goodness’ sake. Mrs Moores must be wondering what the
hell’s going on. Before you know it, we’ll be the talk of the Fall and nothing’s happened!’

Glenys held on to her courage and stepped forward. ‘Hello, Denis,’ she said, her voice sounding different, high-pitched and unsteady. ‘Hello, Miss Spencer.’

‘Who are you?’ Helen’s hand was suddenly at the base of her throat and her cheeks became ruddy. ‘You are trespassing.’

‘I’m with Agnes,’ replied Glenys. ‘Nice day, so we thought we’d have a walk and see how Denis is going on. I’m their neighbour.’ She was here for her
son and nothing else mattered. Whatever it took, she would have her say and to hell with the consequences. ‘You all right, Denis?’ she asked.

‘It’s hot,’ came the reply.

It was hot, thought Glenys. In more ways than one, this was a situation near boiling point. She felt sure that she could feel steam rising from ground protected from direct sunlight, but still
subjected to high temperature. Tropical jungles probably smelled the same. ‘I’m Glenys Timpson and I’m here about our Harry,’ she said boldly, voice strengthened by
determination. ‘Harry Timpson. He’s up before a judge soon and I wanted to have a word with you, Miss Spencer.’

‘Not a concern of mine,’ replied Helen.

No trace of tears remained on Helen Spencer’s face, and Glenys wondered whether the woman should be on the stage. ‘I want you to talk to your father. Tell him our Harry’s not a
bad lad and he blew no safes in Manchester. Your dad might be the judge or one of his mates could be – I don’t know.’

Helen waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming. ‘Due process,’ she said eventually. ‘I have no say in any judgement made in court. Your son will have to take his chances
along with anyone else who has broken the law.’

Glenys inhaled deeply. ‘Aye, and you’ll be forced to take yours if I know Agnes Grimshaw-as-was. She holds no prisoners, you know. It won’t be a cell – you’ll be
six feet under if she gets her own road.’

‘I’m not afraid of her.’ Helen Spencer’s voice trembled.

‘Then you’re daft,’ spat Glenys. ‘Agnes’s nan used to say that their Agnes could start a war in a chip shop. She’s put me and the rest of the neighbours in
our places a time or two. A fighter, is Agnes. Well, just you listen to me, Miss Spencer. I stood there behind yon tree and I heard it all. Denis has no need to feel guilty, ’cos he’s
done nowt. But you? Huh!’ The ‘huh’ arrived seasoned with more than a sprinkling of contempt. ‘Your dad wouldn’t be right pleased if he knew, eh?’

Helen blinked several times. If Father found out about her behaviour, it would be out in the open and . . . and Denis still wouldn’t want her. Even if Agnes left him, he had no interest in
his employer’s daughter. Why bring it all out if she couldn’t get what she wanted? On the other hand, why not bring it out into the open? She had nothing further to lose . . .

‘I’m waiting,’ snapped Glenys.

Helen sniffed. ‘I shall think about it,’ she said.

‘Aye, you do that.’ Glenys drew herself to full height. ‘The name’s Harold Timpson and he’s up for a burglary in Manchester. He’s frightened of saying who
blew the safe, but he never did it, not in a million years. So, unless you want muck raking all over your name, think on and talk to your dad.’ Glenys could not meet Denis’s gaze. She
was threatening him, too, but no other course of action was available, so what was she supposed to do? Three decades of the rosary and hope for the best? Not likely – she hadn’t come
this far to end up on her knees.

Helen looked from one to the other, acutely conscious of her own misbehaviour, painfully aware that she had laid herself open to blackmail. She was expected to talk to her father, a man who had
never listened to a mere woman in his life. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said stiffly before walking away.

Denis closed his eyes and leaned back against the bole of a substantial oak. ‘God, Glenys,’ he breathed. ‘What next, eh? What the bloody hell next?’

She placed a hand on his arm. ‘You know, lad, as I’ll say nowt to your Agnes, but happen you might have to in the end. I’d cut my own throat before I’d hurt your family
now. How the hell did all that lot come about? What’s Spencer’s daughter doing sniffing round you?’

‘No idea,’ he replied wearily. ‘I liked this job well enough till she came over all peculiar. I reckon she’s desperate to get away from her dad and start a family of her
own. I was the nearest.’

‘And you’re wed.’

‘I know.’

‘And she’s a few slates short of a full roof.’

‘Or several straws short of a thatch, as my old dad used to say, God rest him. What a pickle.’

Glenys told him how lucky he had been, how she had changed places with Agnes. ‘She was going to come to this here copse, but I didn’t want to be seen mooching about round the back of
the house. If Agnes had heard what I heard . . .’

‘I wish she had,’ said Denis. ‘Then she’d know what’s really gone on. If she finds out some other way . . . Mind you, there’s nothing to find out. I’ve
never looked at another woman – Agnes’ll know that.’

Glenys nodded thoughtfully. ‘Keep your mouth shut for now, Denis. Let Miss Silver-spoon talk to her dad before you have a word with Agnes. And when you do, I’ll back you up. But
while there’s a chance of our Harry getting help, hold your tongue.’

Hold his tongue? He had no choice in the matter. How the heck was he going to explain this predicament to his wife? Who would believe that Miss Helen Spencer had made the only moves?
‘Let’s go and find Agnes,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve had enough for today.’

Helen peeled off the layers and placed them in a small heap on the bed. Father would be back tomorrow. Judge Zachary Spencer’s return was imminent and his daughter had to
. . . Had to what? Ah, yes. She had to become dowdy again. The exercise had been a failure, anyway, because Denis wasn’t interested. No one was interested. She needed to return to her former
self, unlovable, sad, the spinster and librarian.

In her dressing room, she rinsed Lux Flakes from underwear, wondering whether or when she would wear such luxurious items again. Bubbles disappeared down the drain, taking with them every drop
of hope, every fleck of excitement. After cold cream had wiped off her make-up, Helen sat on her dressing stool and stared at the mirror’s reflection until it disappeared into an almost
amorphous lump of matter, a shapeless item in flat glass.

Then she heard them talking. Noiselessly, she positioned herself near the window, curtains concealing her from the happy people below. Denis was talking to the woman who had been in the copse.
Was she Glenys? Denis and Glenys – how droll. But Denis was not the property of the older female. No. Denis was with a person of some beauty, owner of chestnut tresses, dark-lashed eyes and a
pretty smile. ‘I’ve seen her in the library,’ mouthed Helen silently. She returned to her seat, her solitary position, her loneliness. She could still hear them chattering below.
They were members and she was not. No matter what she did, she would never be able to join their exclusive club, because she was different, unloved and unlovable.

‘I am no one,’ she said just before the tears came. It was as if she had been parked in the margins of life, a shadow, a fleeting thing that would never be noticed. She hated who she
was, what she had become. But above and beyond that, she despised her father, the one who had made and shaped her into an unattractive and self-absorbed creature with no idea of how to behave, of
how to relate to others. It would be back to work, back to the little cafe where she ate her lunches, to filing systems, reference section, nice little love stories for nice little old ladies. In
twenty years, she would become one of those old ladies, but she would never be nice because she was bitter to the core.

Kate Moores tapped on the bedroom door and announced her intention to go home.

‘Very well,’ Helen answered.

‘I’ve left you some salad,’ said the disembodied daily. ‘Miss Spencer? Are you all right?’

Of course she was all right. In a few years, she might be chief librarian, bespectacled, respected, bored to tears. ‘Thank you, I am very well.’

Footsteps faded, a door closed, gravel shifted under the weight of the retreating Mrs Moores. The sigh that left Helen’s body shuddered its way past quietening sobs. Six o’clock.
What did normal people do at six o’clock? They probably ate in family groups, then talked, listened to the radio, played with their children. Occasionally, there would be an outing to a
public house, a visit to relatives or to the cinema. There was television, of course, with its grim news programmes and silly games. The clock was ticking her life away. She did not want to watch
TV, didn’t relish the idea of an evening with her radio. She was losing her grip. Was she losing her mind?

‘I want a family,’ she informed the creature in her mirror. She wanted what most people had, needed to be ordinary, settled. But would she know how to behave at close quarters with
others? Could she imagine herself as a wife and mother? And would any man fill the void left by the gentle, handsome creature known as Denis Makepeace? ‘Infatuation,’ she snapped.
‘A childish fad, no more.’ What on earth did she know of love, of normality?

The salad did not tempt Helen that night. Unfed and incomplete, she curled up on her virgin bed and cried herself to sleep. Tomorrow, she would think; tomorrow was the only certainty, and she
had to content herself with that knowledge.

While Helen Spencer lay alone and disappointed, Agnes went about the business of getting to the bottom of her husband’s misery. She talked and questioned and complained
until he finally caved in. While he answered, she listened intently. ‘I’ve no need to talk to Glenys,’ she said when the tale had been told. ‘I know you, Denis Makepeace,
and I trust you. Poor Miss Spencer. I suppose she just wants to fit in like anybody else.’

He should never have doubted his wife, should have confided in her from the very start. ‘So, if she comes to you with tales of abuse, you won’t listen to her.’