The Judge's Daughter (13 page)

‘I love you,’ she whispered, ‘and I am a fool for telling you that.’

‘We’re friends and we’ll get over it,’ he replied.

‘But not loving friends?’

‘No.’

‘I’m a silly woman?’

She was a frightened woman – Denis knew that. The prospect of living at Lambert House until her father’s death was a terrifying one. Her only chances of escape thus far were to marry
in accordance with her father’s wishes, or to accept her daily escape into the dry and dusty embrace of the town library. ‘Not silly.’ No, she was more than silly – this
poor woman teetered on the brink of reason. ‘You did one daft thing. That doesn’t make you altogether daft. Now. Go downstairs and I’ll follow in a few minutes. Your dad sent me
for you, but we don’t want to set other tongues wagging, do we?’

She wanted tongues to wag like flags in a hurricane. She wanted to re-enter that big room on Denis’s arm, wanted to fling abuse in her father’s face, wanted the world to see that she
had a man. But she had no man. Denis was immovable and she had to accept that. All her life, she had been accepting; all her life, she had been denied and ignored.

‘Go,’ he urged.

She went. As she walked down the corridor towards the stairs, she felt that she had left behind all hope. Even Pandora’s box had contained some of that element, but she, Helen Spencer, was
denied that one last straw. It wasn’t fair, never had been fair. ‘Abandon all hope ye who enter here,’ she murmured under her breath before rejoining the party.

After explaining her absence to the judge, she found herself in the company of James Taylor, who stuck to her like an incubus. He must have had bad acne in his youth, she mused as she watched
his mouth opening and closing. So busy was she studying the craters in his skin that she was surprised when his lips stopped moving.

After a moment or two, he asked, ‘What do you think?’

Helen blinked. ‘Sorry. I am too concerned about the way I must smell – brandy all over my clothes, I’m afraid. What did you say?’

He repeated a request that she would accompany him to a concert in Manchester.

‘I’m afraid I can’t go,’ she said. ‘I have been away from work for a while and will have to catch up. We have to list missing books and try to retrieve fines from
those who have kept them. Another time, perhaps.’

He frowned, causing two pock marks above his nose to join in a miniature imitation of the Grand Canyon. ‘Just one evening? Surely you can manage that?’

The man had a temper, she decided. Denied his wishes, he became another like Father, turned into a man who did not take rejection well. ‘I must keep myself available,’ she told him.
‘It’s like a massive audit and we all have to pull our weight.’ She needed brandy.

‘I shall telephone you,’ he promised.

Feeling threatened, Helen declared her need to talk to a friend. She found Mags Bradshaw temporarily alone at the edge of the dance floor. ‘Help me,’ Helen begged. ‘The balding
eagle is back.’

Mags patted the chair next to hers. ‘Sit down.’ She giggled. The champagne had gone to her head, but this poor woman had taken in more than bubbles. ‘How are you
now?’

‘Still running. Seated, but running.’

Mags told Helen of her plan for her nose. ‘Agnes is determined to do something about me, but I am going to do something for myself. Harley Street. I’ve saved up. This is our secret,
Helen. I am not telling anyone but you.’

Helen felt strangely pleased. As far as she could recall, no one had ever trusted her with a special confidence. She repaid the compliment. ‘He asked me out. I made an excuse about working
overtime. He’s staring now – don’t look just yet, but have a glance in a moment.’

Mags laughed again. ‘I’ve seen better-looking road accidents,’ she declared. ‘Mind, I’m no raving beauty myself, so I should keep my mouth well and truly
shut.’

‘You’ve good hair and eyes,’ said Helen.

‘Have to get highlights – Agnes has spoken.’

‘And your nose? What will happen to that?’

Mags shrugged. ‘They use a hammer and chisel, I believe.’

‘No!’

‘Not a lump hammer, not a big chisel. But it’s the same as a sculptor working with marble. For about three weeks, I’ll look as if I’ve been in a boxing ring – black
eyes and a nose like rising dough. Work has granted me extended leave – they let me save last year’s holidays – so I’m doing what I always said I wouldn’t: I’m
trying to join the beautiful set.’

Helen wondered whether plastic surgery might improve her lot in life, but she did not air her thoughts. For the first time ever, she longed for her father to order her to accompany him home.
Although she was enjoying the company of a potential friend, James Taylor stared constantly and the desire to scream and run was returning.

‘Are you all right?’ Mags asked.

‘I’ll go to the powder room.’ Helen rose to her feet. ‘He can’t follow me there, can he?’

Mags blew out her cheeks. ‘I have to talk to Agnes – see you later.’

Abandoned by Mags, Helen saw James Taylor embarking on a beeline in her direction, so she picked up her bag and fled the scene. This time, she remained on the same floor, locking herself in a
cubicle before taking a few sips of brandy.

Cisterns flushed, taps ran, women chattered. ‘He’s a boring old bugger.’

‘All judges are boring.’

A third voice chipped in. ‘And that stuff about bringing back hanging – God, I wouldn’t want to stand trial with that sitting on the bench in his flea-bitten wig. I bet he
still has his bit of black cloth and I’ll bet further he wishes he could use it.’

Helen fought a fit of giggles. She was separated only by a thin door from the wives of lawyers who had to contend regularly with the vagaries of Judge Zachary Spencer.

‘My Peter gets in a terrible mood if Spencer’s in court. He’s always dishing out homilies on moral standards – but what about his own? Have you heard about his latest? A
dancer. According to gossip in chambers, she can’t possibly know her two times table, but she must have some good moves, eh?’

Helen’s giggles subsided and she listened intently.

‘They were seen in Chester last week. In a restaurant whispering sweet nothings, by all accounts. They say she looks like her clothes have been sprayed on. So how can he sit there telling
criminals to stop sinning? Bloody old hypocrite.’

‘His daughter looks like she’s had a hard life. Librarian, isn’t she?’

‘Yes. I feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for anybody who has to live with that miserable monster. She’s the one with the life sentence, isn’t she? I wonder why she
doesn’t clear off and leave him to his mistresses? He could be charged with running a house of ill-repute if he brought home more than one at a time. You know how he’d look his
best?’

‘No,’ chorused the rest.

‘Six feet under with a nice headstone.’

The laughter rose, then died of its own accord. ‘There’ll be no real justice in Britain while that man lives,’ said the one who had recommended a graveyard. ‘According to
Charlie Fairbanks, Spencer treats women criminals like aliens – he thinks only men should have the luxury of sinning. If a man steals a car, he gets his dues. A woman gets branded by his
red-hot tongue. He’s one of those who think women belong in kitchens and bedrooms. We’re just another utility in his book.’

Helen swallowed. No, it wasn’t just her. Other women hated him, too, while men didn’t have a great deal of time for him either. How she wished she could have made a recording of the
conversation. Hated and berated, the judge went through life crippling most in his path. Except for the dancer and her ilk. Jesus Christ, what a two-faced barbarian he was. Women? How many had
there been in thirty years, she wondered.

Helen stood, flushed the lavatory and emerged to wash her hands.

Half a dozen women froze when they saw her. ‘Miss Spencer?’ said the nearest. ‘Sorry about that. If we’d known you were there—’

‘If you’d known I was there, your opinions would have remained the same.’

Bangles clattered on wrists while bags were grabbed.

‘Don’t worry,’ Helen told her companions. ‘I live with him and I know what he is. My sole regret is that I don’t have the courage to tell him what I heard in here
today. He’s a bad man. None of us can choose our parents.’

A chorus of apologies echoed round the room after the women had rushed away. Helen dried her hands. A dancer? A dancer who was merely the latest in a long string of women? Yet his daughter was
ashamed of admitting her feelings for a fine man who worked as hard as his disability allowed?

She sat on a stool for a long time. Women came, used the facilities, left. Some bothered to speak to her; others, seeing the expression on her face, or knowing who she was, left in clouds of
perfume and heavy silence. Active hatred for her surviving parent was flooding her veins and increasing the rate of her heart. ‘Why my mother and not him?’ she asked of her reflection
during a lull in traffic. ‘It should have been him. I want him gone from my life.’

She fantasized for a few moments on the idea of a house all to herself, of an existence containing music, laughter and, above all, friends. There was Mags Bradshaw for a start. Helen could not
imagine entertaining Mags while the judge was in the house. Even fellow school pupils had not visited Lambert House. A sad child, Helen Spencer had attracted few companions and, because of her
father, had brought no one home.

But there was nothing she could do; there had never been an escape and she must continue, as always, to live in the shadow of her parent’s sins. To do that, she would need her brandy.

The wedding celebrations drifted to a halt as the sun began its descent across a flawless sky. Lucy and George left in a flurry of confetti and good wishes, a flustered Mags
retrieving the bridal bouquet when Lucy tossed it over a shoulder. Mags, who had imbibed several glasses of champagne, held on to the flowers tightly – were they an omen foretelling the
success of her planned hammer and chisel job?

Helen watched impassively as the bedecked Rolls-Royce pulled away towards Manchester Road and the airport. Mags didn’t like the look of Helen Spencer. The woman appeared shocked,
white-faced, and her fingers trembled. The others probably didn’t notice, but Mags, even after so short an acquaintance, knew enough to feel concern for the librarian. Drinking was a terrible
thing. It had taken an uncle and a great-uncle from Mags Bradshaw’s family, and she didn’t want Helen to suffer the same fate. Not that her dad would miss her, she mused as she joined
with the rest and waved at the disappearing Rolls. He had a face like a clock stopped at midnight, two deep furrows above his nose announcing the time. The man was not smiling even now. He stood
out among the happy throng and Mags, who knew what he was, shivered at the thought of such a father. Her own upbringing, while far from perfect, had been full of love. Love, batter, marrowfat peas
and mounds of chips were Mags’s foundation, and she pitied anyone who had not experienced the first on the list. Love was everything. It made even cod more palatable.

The judge frogmarched his daughter to the Bentley and prepared to motor homeward. Never the world’s greatest driver, he missed Denis, but this was Denis’s day off, and the man had to
get his family back to that hovel in Noble Street. Denis Makepeace ought to take the cottage and be grateful, but he was fastened, via his wife, to her grandfather. It was nonsense. The cottages
had two bedrooms, so there was space enough if she wanted to hang on to ancient emotional baggage. People were a mystery to Judge Spencer, as he did not make room for emotion.

Agnes, Denis, Eva and Fred walked to the station and climbed aboard the Derby Street bus. They sat on the lower deck, each tired and deep in thought, waiting for the stop nearest to Noble
Street. Eva fiddled nervously with gloves and handbag; Fred stared through a window, outwardly absorbed in sights he had seen for seventy years.

As they walked to the shop after leaving the bus, Fred mouthed a message at Denis, a clear enough instruction regarding the approach to Agnes. Denis sighed. He had rescued Helen; now he had to
contend with Agnes, who was sober, at least. Didn’t Fred know his granddaughter well enough to approach her himself?

‘Aren’t you coming home, Pop?’ Agnes asked.

‘No. Me and Eva are going to have a drop of cocoa and Navy rum. We’ve things to talk about.’ He winked at Denis. ‘I won’t be long. Go on – get yourselves sat
down and have a rest.’

Agnes remained where she was, arms folded under her chest, a foot tapping the ground. The old couple disappeared into the shop before she spoke. ‘What’s going on, Denis? I know
there’s something brewing – I’ve felt it all day. I didn’t arrive here with yesterday’s Fleetwood catch, you know.’

He sighed again, wishing that his wife could be slightly less sensitive to atmosphere. ‘I have to talk to you, but I’d rather we did it at home. Come on, shift yourself.’

She tapped the foot again. ‘Is Miss Spencer still after your body? Has she asked you to elope with her?’

Denis forced a smile. ‘As good as, yes – but that’s nothing to do with what I have to say. Sad woman, that. The drink loosens her tongue – I’ve heard more words out
of her this last couple of weeks than she’s spoken in years. But there’s nowt I can do about her.’

Agnes gritted her teeth during the short walk to the house. Secrets were things to be investigated, considered, dealt with. As soon as they were both inside, she spoke. ‘Well? Come on, out
with it.’

‘Sit down,’ he said.

‘Why? Am I going to fall over with shock? Have you done something terrible?’

‘I’ve done nothing,’ he answered. ‘Apart from trying to separate Helen Spencer from her brandy bottle. She’s got that many sheets in the wind, she looks like
Nelson’s little trip to Trafalgar. No. It’s not her this time. It’s your granddad.’

‘Oh?’ Her face blanched. ‘He’s not ill again, is he? He looked well enough today, showing me up all over the Pack Horse. Don’t tell me he’s sick, Denis. I
can’t face any more, not after Nan.’