The Judge's Daughter (11 page)

A woman among the spectators was mouthing at Helen. It was Glenys Timpson, and the silent message was, ‘Don’t forget.’

‘Are you coming to the reception?’ James Taylor asked.

She nodded. Her father was studying her and she knew that she could not run away. The reception was to provide the setting for the mating ritual ordered by the judge. By the end of the month,
she must be engaged. A winter wedding needed to be followed closely by pregnancy and trouble-free birth. Perhaps a grandson would placate Father, though he would doubtless have preferred a Spencer
to a Taylor. That fact might well result in hyphenated surnames and she could not imagine herself sleeping in the same continent as her intended appendage, with or without hyphenation.

James drove her to the centre of Bolton, where the party was to be held. In a large ground floor room of the Pack Horse, tables formed three sides of a square, and Helen decided that the bride
and groom must have been in on the plot, as she was seated next to James Taylor. From the rear, he had worn the air of a bird of prey; from the front, he was no less startling, as his nose
resembled the beak of an eagle and he had a habit of staring unblinkingly at his companion. Any minute now, she would be snatched up and carried in talons back to his eyrie. Determined not to be
cowed, she attacked her food with all the enthusiasm she could muster. It tasted like cardboard, but wine improved her palate.

He told her of cases in which he had triumphed, boasted about his prowess in court, declared himself to be quite the orator. His long-term intention was not the bar; he wanted to take his seat
among the Conservative Party in Westminster. Before the meal was over, Helen had the full picture of his life, including attitudes to the work-shy, immigrants, miscreants and golf. The last saved a
man’s sanity after days spent in court. If rain stopped play, he joined his fellow damp players for a game of chess at the nineteenth. Did she play chess or golf? Oh, what a shame, but he
would teach her both – it would be an honour. Golf would keep her physically fit, while chess would hone her brain to perfection. She hated him. Hating him was easy, but escaping him in this
claustrophobic environment might prove difficult.

When the cake was cut, and speeches had been delivered, Helen excused herself and went to a powder room on the first floor, a quieter area well away from the wedding feast. In a cubicle, she
gulped down another dose of her chosen medicine, remembering the Mint Imperial before emerging to stare at herself in an enormous mirror in the outer area of the women’s rest room.
‘What a mess,’ she said aloud. In fawn and brown, she resembled a sixth-former from some Catholic grammar school run by over-protective nuns. She was not pretty, would never be pretty,
yet she knew she could look better than this, though not in the company of the pride of the pride.

A cistern flushed, then a young woman emerged from the second stall.

‘Sorry,’ said Helen. ‘Talking to myself again – I am the only audience that will tolerate me.’

Mags Bradshaw grinned ruefully. ‘Did you come here to escape the madding crowd?’

Helen nodded.

‘So did I. There’s only so much beauty and happiness that can be digested in one day. I think my cup runneth over and I needeth a break.’

Helen found herself smiling. ‘I’m Helen Spencer.’

‘Mags Bradshaw, friend of the bride for my sins. As you can tell from the silly clothes, I am also bridesmaid.’

‘Yes. You and Agnes Makepeace, isn’t it?’

‘She was matron of honour, because she has bagged her man. I am now the only singleton in the pack, and no sign of a man on the horizon.’

‘I have had one thrust upon me.’ Helen wondered why she was speaking so freely, remembering after a second or two that this was a side-effect of her brandy. ‘In the middle of a
hymn, my father announced that I am to be sold to a balding eagle. Aforementioned balding eagle has been pecking away at me since we left the church. Any idea of how I might get away? These birds
of prey are terribly persistent and I have no wish to be swallowed whole.’

Mags pointed to a green door. ‘Fire escape? We could go and watch Donald Duck at the children’s matinee. Or what about a manhunt? If we sit for long enough on the town hall steps,
someone will pick us up. We’d do better there than here. I work with lawyers and they are a dry lot. Let’s go and be discovered by a pair of lusty youths. We could repair to some nearby
tavern and talk about football and stuff.’

Helen considered that. ‘A balding eagle could find us. The eyesight of the species is legendary.’

‘True.’ Mags sat on a pink stool. ‘Being unbeautiful isn’t easy.’

‘I know.’

‘Lucy always says that my beauty lies within. I bet no one ever says that to Marilyn Monroe.’

Helen voiced the opinion that it was easy to hate Marilyn Monroe. ‘Beautiful women have a special knowledge that precludes the need for actual brains. They always seem to know exactly what
to do and say – it must be something that arrives with maturation and admiration. One minute, they are sitting at the back of the class with runny noses. The next they are at the Palais de
Danse picking up every youth without spots.’

Mags agreed that the whole thing was sick-making. ‘I had a boyfriend for six months. Then I found out he was only in it for the chips. My parents own a fish and chip shop and he got a free
supper every time he took me out. A piece of bad cod put paid to that adventure, I’m afraid. Nearly put paid to him as well – terrible case of food poisoning.’ She sighed.
‘Alas, he survived. There is no true justice in this world.’

‘So you are a friend of Agnes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Her husband works for my father.’

Mags nodded. ‘Denis needs an easy job – he had TB when he was a child and it left a few scars. Even then, he and his family were well loved. Three mills set up a fund to send him off
to Switzerland. He couldn’t go till the war was over, so his lungs never fully recovered. He’s lucky with his wife, though. Agnes has never been one for frills and flounces – and
she adores him.’

‘Good. He works hard. My father appreciates him.’

Mags raised an eyebrow and smiled broadly. ‘Really?’

‘Father approves of anyone who fights the odds, but there is no real affection in him.’

‘Your mam died?’

Helen dusted a hair from her shoulder. ‘I scarcely remember my mother, but I believe my birth was her undoing. She became unsteady and prone to accidents. Childbirth weakened her
heart.’

‘Sad.’

Emboldened by alcohol, Helen continued to open up to the stranger. ‘I used to think he blamed me for her death, but nothing is as easy as that with him. He doesn’t like women. I am a
woman. Quod erat demonstrandum, as the theorem states. It’s as if I’m not there. Or I wasn’t until today.’

‘Balding eagle?’

‘Exactly.’ Helen applied lipstick. ‘We still haven’t an answer. Where do we hide?’

‘Give me five minutes.’ Mags disappeared into the corridor.

Helen sat on the pink-padded stool and stared unseeing at the mirror. What on earth was she thinking of? First, she had tried in vain to have an affair with Agnes Makepeace’s husband;
second, she was currently engaged in conversation with one of that woman’s closest friends. A nip of brandy put paid to misgivings. She was a thirty-two-year-old adult and she could do what
she damned well pleased.

Mags returned, a key brandished in one hand. ‘I got us a room for the day,’ she crowed in triumph. ‘Two beds, two chairs and our very own bottle of champagne.’

‘But my father—’

‘Your father can bugger off. If anyone questions you, I was taken ill and you were kind enough to cater for my needs. It’s nearly true. I am allergic to lawyers and I need champagne.
You can pour, thereby providing me with the medication I require.’

Helen blinked. Could all lies be turned into truth? Could she marry a man she had disliked on sight, could she go through a hyphenated life with a smile on her face? ‘I won’t marry
him.’ The announcement surprised her – she hadn’t meant to say the words out loud.

‘You tell ’em, matey. We’ve a similar article at work. He
is
articled – a mere clerk. He’s as fat as two boars and the beer gut enters a room five minutes
before the rest of him. He breathes.’

Helen giggled. ‘Everyone breathes.’

‘It’s his main occupation. You can hear him from the other end of the building. Near me, he breathes more heavily and, to top it all, I get the impression that he expects me to be
grateful for his attentions. Come on. We can manage an hour away from the chaos, but I’ll have to go back eventually. Lucy and I have been friends since school.’

They drank the champagne, then laid themselves flat on the two beds. Helen, who had never before mixed her drinks, was decidedly befuddled, though she managed to remain alert while Mags told
tales from a childhood she had shared with the bride and the matron of honour.

Then, while Mags Bradshaw snored gently, Helen considered her own childhood. It had not been normal, and she found herself resenting three girls who had played with skipping ropes, bats and
balls, pieces of slate as hopscotch markers. They had been injured in the rubble of bomb sites, had gone to Saturday matinees armed with liquorice allsorts and sherbet dabs, had been dragged home
by a constable after stealing apples from an orchard.

Helen’s own childhood? A series of nannies, then a governess followed by some years in a select school for the privileged. Dance and music lessons while Father was in court, silence when
he was at home. She had never been to the roller rink, to public parks, to the wild and wonderful moors. For her, Rivington Pike had been the name of a place; to Mags, Lucy and Agnes, the pike was
for rolling eggs at Easter, for sliding down on an old tray in snow, for picnics on summer days.

‘I hate him,’ Helen advised the ceiling, which suddenly refused to keep still. ‘It’s not an earthquake,’ she added, a barely contained mirth accompanying her words.
But it wasn’t just mirth – she felt like sobbing. The feelings were justified this time, though. The thing that had happened to her in church had been unattached to any particular fear
and she hoped it would never return. She liked Mags Bradshaw. Would she be allowed to like Mags? Would she ever be allowed to choose anything or anyone?

Mags woke with a start and tried to work out where she was. Someone was talking. That someone lay in the other bed, and Mags remembered the strange turn of events that had led to her current
situation. Downstairs, people were dancing and talking, celebrating Lucy’s marriage to George Henshaw. She had to go.

‘I hate him,’ said the woman in the other bed.

Was she referring to her dad or to the balding eagle, Mags wondered.

‘Nowhere to go, nowhere to go.’ The words were accompanied by a few quiet sobs.

Mags sat up. ‘Oh, my God,’ she moaned. ‘Remind me that champagne’s off-limits for me, will you?’

But Helen continued to mumble, and Mags realized that the woman was now asleep, but still speaking.

As quietly as she could, Mags repaired damage to make-up, straightened her skirt, walked to the door. She had just spent an hour or so in the company of a very strange woman. No one loved Helen
Spencer. She had travelled thus far without encouragement or affection. But Lucy and Agnes were downstairs and this was an important day.

Before leaving the room, Mags found hotel notepaper and scribbled a message for Helen.
Had to go back to the party, hope you are OK, Mags Bradshaw.
She placed it on the bedside cabinet
and crept to the door. A strange feeling of guilt accompanied her all the way back to the reception. Helen Spencer was not fit to be left alone. Although Mags did not understand why, she continued
to feel uneasy for the remainder of the day.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Agnes pulled Mags into a corner. ‘You missed Pop having a go at the twist. He got stuck between Eva and the groom’s mother
– said he thought he’d need a bloody doctor to cut him out. Mind, he looked quite happy wedged between two pairs of enormous bosoms. So, where did you get to?’

‘I found Helen Spencer in a bit of a state. So I put her in a room and sat with her till she fell asleep. It’s her dad. He’s found her some lawyer to marry and she’s not
best pleased.’

Agnes blinked rapidly. Had Miss Spencer mentioned anything about her misplaced affection for Denis? Probably not – Mags owned a face that gave away inner feelings, and she was looking her
companion in the eye.

‘Agnes?’

‘What?’

‘Have you ever met anyone really desperate?’

‘My grandfather when he loses his rag with one of his blinking doll’s houses. Lucy till she found the right wedding shoes. Oh, and you now. What’s happened?’

Mags shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But she shouldn’t be on her own. I feel as if she might do something horrible. She’s living life right on the edge, Agnes. He never
talks to her.’ She nodded in the direction of Judge Spencer, who was holding court across the room. ‘Now, he says she’s got to marry somebody who looks like a starving hawk.
I’ve never in my life met anyone so completely miserable. She’s given up.’

‘Stop worrying about other people and start thinking about yourself.’

‘What’s to think about? I look like the back of a bus stuck in mud.’

‘You don’t. You’ve lovely hair and—’

‘Oh, shut up, Aggie. I know what I look like. Helen Spencer’s the same – plain and resigned to spending the rest of her life as half a person. She looked at me and knew that I
was in a similar boat. It takes one to know one.’

Agnes sighed and shook her head. If Mags would only add some colour to the thick, mouse-coloured waves, she would look so much better. Green eyes begged for blonde highlights, but Mags, who
hated artifice, seemed determined not to make the best of herself. ‘Right, you.’ Agnes folded her arms. ‘You are coming with me to the hairdresser’s and I’ll get you
sorted out. Nothing drastic – don’t worry. It’s time somebody took you in hand, because you do nothing to help yourself.’

Mags blew out her cheeks. ‘He’ll breathe even louder!’ She was referring to the articled clerk at her place of employment. ‘It’s bad enough now – if I go
glamorous, he’ll blow a fuse. I can’t be doing with clerk articles puffing around my chair. And my nose will still be the same.’