The Judge's Daughter (36 page)

‘I want things back to normal – family meals and so forth – the way Louisa had it when we were first married. My daughter hates me, but something must be done before my son is
born.’

Denis did not ask how the judge would feel should the son turn out to be yet another daughter. ‘I don’t carry that much weight with Miss Helen, sir.’

‘You carried enough to strike me a few months ago. Try. I want my house in some sort of order.’ He placed a hand on Denis’s arm. ‘Tell me – how is Agnes?’

Denis blinked. Was the old bugger softening in his old age? ‘She’s OK, thanks. Getting a bit fed up with the weight and the swollen ankles, drinks a lot of bitter lemon –
she’s uncomfortable.’

‘Give her my best wishes.’ With that last unnerving request, the man disappeared into the blackness of the Rise. ‘Blood and stomach pills,’ mumbled Denis, ‘he has
to be going off his rocker.’ Perhaps insanity ran in the family? Or was the judge genuinely interested in improving the lives of all around him? Probably not. He was more likely to be making
an attempt to make his own existence more bearable.

Denis entered the house. His wife was asleep in a chair, feet propped on a padded footstool, hands folded across her swollen abdomen. Give her Judge Spencer’s best wishes? Not likely
– he wanted to keep her blood pressure at an acceptable level. He kissed her. ‘Cocoa?’

Agnes opened an eye. ‘Bitter lemon, please.’

‘You don’t like bitter lemon. You’ve always hated bitter lemon.’

She yawned. ‘Tell that to the passenger on the lower deck. It’s all his fault.’

Denis made his cocoa while Agnes chattered on about the visit of Mags, Lucy and Helen, complaining loudly about Lucy, who could eat sweets and chocolates with obvious impunity. ‘I
haven’t had chocolate in six months,’ she moaned.

‘Have some cocoa – that’s chocolate.’

But no, she had to have her bitter lemon. They sat in front of the fire like an old married couple, each too tired to talk or move. Agnes knew that this was a precious time, that the marriage
would change once there were three of them. ‘I love you, kid,’ she told her husband. ‘I’m saying it now before the dynamics get bewildered, before I become all nappies and
feeds and walks with a pram.’

Denis grinned. She would be the best mam in the world. And he couldn’t wait to be a dad.

He woke sweating again. As far as he could remember, Zachary had never suffered from nightmares. Even after . . . after that business many years ago, he had slept the sleep of
the just.

He switched on a lamp and struggled into a sitting position. The room was cool, yet his skin seemed to be heated by the fires of hell. Some medics were of the opinion that everyone had dreams
and that they were often forgotten, but Zachary had not been aware of dreaming. Until now. Until now, when his daughter occupied the witness stand, the judge’s seat and every space along the
jury’s benches. Almost every night during his sleep, she appeared and screamed out his sins for the world to hear. Journalists dashed in all directions, each needing to be the first to break
the story of a corrupt judge.

When he poured the brandy, decanter and glass shook in uncertain hands. He could do nothing, because Helen had protected herself. Even were she to die of natural causes, the documents would be
opened. Brandy burned in his throat, dragging into his digestive tract any vestige of heat that had been present in his sweat-slicked body. The shivering began, so he staggered to a wardrobe, found
an extra blanket and placed it on his bed. Denis Makepeace? Forced to beg the help of one of his two manservants, he hated his daughter all the more. He should have made an ally of her, because she
was proving to be a formidable enemy. Women were stealing positions of authority, were called to the bar, were becoming hospital consultants and managers of industry. He should have noticed, should
have encouraged her.

It was too late for that. But it was never too late to paper over cracks. He, Louisa, Helen and the expected child should cobble together an outwardly happy picture of domesticity. Denis, nearer
in age to Helen, might just be able to plead the cause on his master’s behalf. But even Denis had little time for his employer. He did his duty and no more, was always keen to return to his
wife or to his other job. It all boiled down to those damned letters in the vault of some damned bank, contents to be revealed in the event of Helen’s demise.

Retirement beckoned. Many judges continued into their dotage, but this judge was standing – or sitting – on rocky ground. He had his yacht and could disappear whenever he chose, but
first, he had to be here for the birth of Louisa’s child. Another brandy slipped down into his stomach and he leaned back against the pillows. He needed sleep, dreaded the dream, hoped that
the brandy would preclude it. It wasn’t fair. Life had never been fair. Pitying himself for his gross misfortunes, Judge Spencer fell asleep for a second time. And the dream came again.

For the sake of Louisa, Helen agreed to the terms put forward via Denis. An uneasy truce ensued, with all three Spencers eating together in the main dining room when the judge
was at home. When he was away, the two women returned to Helen’s apartment to experiment with Helen’s faith in reading as a basis for cookery. She improved, though meals created by Kate
Moores remained superior to Helen’s efforts.

A rhythm developed. Breakfast was taken in Helen’s part of the house, as was lunch; then, if the judge was at home, a later meal was served at the dining table downstairs. The women read,
watched television, became addicted to
The Archers
on the radio. While Louisa napped, Helen dealt with Oscar. It was the happiest time in Helen’s life thus far. She had her family at
last – Louisa, Agnes and the dog.

The dog, walked by Helen every day, always made a beeline for the Makepeace cottage. He had three homes, and he made determined use of every one of them. Agnes and Fred usually kept scraps for
him; he was having an excellent life – as long as he stayed away from the big man.

On the day of the second visit by Granada, Helen and Oscar returned, with Agnes, to a house of turmoil. Cameras and boom microphones took up most of the space. Kate, who was still running around
like a cat on hot bricks, had polished to within an inch of its life anything that failed to move – the hall sparkled. In its centre sat a large table on which was displayed Fred’s
latest work of art. Even his granddaughter gasped in wonderment when she saw the model. Pop was gifted. If he could learn to keep quiet, he would go far.

But he didn’t keep quiet. Fred delivered a lecture on life’s never being over until the lid settled on the coffin; he berated all who retired to idleness and argued with the
interviewer that tiredness and ill-health were no excuse for inactivity. ‘Everybody should be doing,’ he said fiercely. ‘There’s no excuse for sitting and doing
nowt.’

‘But what about disability?’ asked the poor newsman.

‘I’m disabled. I’ve had a stroke and was as daft as a brush for a while. No excuse. You have to keep at it.’

Agnes hid her face in one of Denis’s handkerchiefs. She knew her Pop inside out, knew he wasn’t one to change his mind even when in the wrong.

When cameras and microphones were switched off, the interviewer collared Agnes. ‘How do you put up with him?’ he asked.

‘I don’t. I sold him to the highest bidder and she sold her shop to afford him. He’s a kind man in his way. He just wants to encourage folk to be useful.’

‘Yes, and he’ll have several of them depressed. Some people really can’t do anything. But his work is brilliant. He’ll be doing models of all the big houses
soon.’

‘He won’t. He’s booked up for two years. So if you want a house for your daughter, you’ll have to wait.’

The man grinned. ‘I ordered mine months ago. I could tell then that he was unusual.’ He walked away.

Unusual? Fred was a one-off, a treasure, a pest and a wonderful man. He was now tackling the judge, who had come home to bask in the reflected glory of Fred’s model of Lambert House.
‘You can’t retire,’ said Fred. ‘Judges don’t retire – they die with their wigs on.’

Judge Spencer was not used to such bluntness. ‘I’ve served my country,’ he answered stiffly.

‘Aye, so have I, but that’s no excuse. Will you go travelling on yon yacht?’

‘Probably.’

Fred was quietened by that single word. ‘That’s all right, then. You’re doing summat different – sailing. If you can afford it, you do it, lad.’ Thus spoke the
father of Eileen Grimshaw, mother to Agnes, victim of Judge Spencer. Having granted permission to retire, Fred went off to irritate others. Helen grinned broadly. Her father was taking advice from
his chauffeur, the grandfather of an illegitimate daughter and from his one and only recognized child. At table, he often asked Helen’s opinion. It was a charade, but it would do for now, she
supposed. Louisa was better, there were just a couple of months to go, and all was well thus far.

Agnes tugged at Helen’s sleeve. ‘Did you hear Pop talking to your dad?’

‘I did. Our father’s being kept in his rightful place, exactly where I can see him.’ She shook her head. ‘Agnes, stop looking at me like that. I don’t know what
will happen in the future any more than you do. Leave him to me. He’ll get what’s coming to him.’

Agnes sat and gazed again at Pop’s handiwork. She wished Nan could have seen it, though she would not have denied Eva the opportunity to wear her wedding outfit for a third time. Eva was
as proud as Punch of her husband. There was no one like Fred in her book. There was no one like Pop, full stop, thought Agnes.

Denis joined her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Eh?’

He pointed to the floor beneath her chair. ‘I think your waters just broke.’

‘Oh.’

Denis pushed a hand through his hair. That ‘Oh’ was typical of Agnes. She took life as it came, didn’t seem to panic, wasn’t one for the vapours. He grabbed Helen.
‘Please get your car. Agnes is going into labour and I don’t want to put a wet wife into your dad’s Bentley. We can collect her bag on the way to Townleys.’

Helen gasped. ‘It’s not due yet, is it?’

‘No, but this is Agnes we’re dealing with. She’s got a lot of her granddad in her, so she doesn’t work to any timetable. Please hurry.’

Agnes was bundled into the car and driven to the cottage to wait while Denis got her case. She sat in the back seat and sucked a mint.

‘Any pain?’ asked Helen anxiously.

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. When the pain starts, you’ll be the third to know. Me first, then Denis, then you. OK?’

Helen shook her head. She wished she could boast such pragmatism, but she never would. According to Father, Helen’s mother had been difficult; Eileen Grimshaw had probably been compliant,
though there was little of that quality in Agnes. Agnes just got on with life, Helen supposed, as Denis jumped back into the driving seat.

They reached the hospital within twenty minutes, Agnes complaining not of pain, but of dampness. ‘I can’t remember the last time I wet my knickers,’ she complained as she was
led towards Maternity.

When Agnes had been taken away for examination, Denis and Helen sat nervously under a poster about inoculations. There was clearly a lot of complicated stuff involved in the production and
rearing of a child. ‘Denis?’

‘What?’

‘Have you thought about names?’

‘Oh. Yes, we have. A boy will be David and a girl Sally.’ He drummed his fingers on a knee. ‘They’ve been a long time.’

‘They’ve been three minutes, Denis.’

‘Oh.’

Agnes returned eventually. She wore a nightdress, a dressing gown and a disappointed air. ‘Can’t go home because the waters have gone. Can’t get on with it –
nothing’s happening. The baby is happy where it is and we just have to wait.’

‘You can go home,’ Denis advised Helen. ‘Tell Fred and Eva what’s happening.’

‘What’s not happening.’ Agnes’s tone was gloomy. ‘And get me some bitter lemon, please. And keep Pop away from here – he’ll be telling everybody how to
do their job and I won’t cope with him.’

Helen left.

Agnes paced up and down the corridor until her husband thought her in danger of wearing out the tiles. She counted doors, posters, other pregnant walkers, teacups and saucers on a trolley.
Finally, she counted her blessings. There were girls here with no company, no husband, mother or father. Denis intended to be present throughout – she was very lucky.

By evening, the corridor was packed as tightly as a children’s matinee at the Odeon. Eva had arrived in full sail – including wedding outfit, as she had not had time to change
– with Fred in tow. Helen sat with Lucy and Mags; Harry Timpson came to keep Mags company. He was followed closely by Albert and Kate Moores, who wanted to know if Agnes needed anything. When
George put in an appearance, Agnes had gone off the idea of a quorum. ‘Will you all beggar off home?’ she pleaded.

A midwife arrived to take Agnes’s blood pressure. ‘There’s ten of you,’ she exclaimed. Agnes, who had taken to counting anything and everything in order to relieve
boredom, put the midwife right. ‘There are twelve if you include parents and lower deck passenger.’

Agnes sat while the monitor did its work, was told that the reading was acceptable, then she waded in. ‘Will you get rid of this lot? I’m beginning to feel like a spectator sport at
Olympic level. There should be two of us, three if you count Nuisance – but no more. Evacuate this corridor, please, or I am going home.’

The midwife did better than that by removing the patient from the scene. ‘She’s going on a ward until labour starts,’ she explained to the audience. ‘We won’t move
her to the labour room until she’s further on. Please go home – we haven’t room for a crowd.’

Agnes didn’t move further on until the next morning, when she was delivered of a healthy boy weighing almost nine pounds. When he was handed to her, she nodded and spoke to him.
‘I’ve a bone to pick with you,’ she said before giving him to his dad.

Denis wiped away a tear as he passed the child over to the team for cleaning and checking. ‘You did well,’ he told his wife. ‘No swearing, no screaming.’