The Judge's Daughter (15 page)

Only his laboured breathing and the ticking of the clock pierced the ensuing silence. Unused to discussion, Zachary found himself almost speechless. Helen’s mother had possessed a backbone
– it appeared that her daughter had inherited some of that wilfulness.

‘Is that all, Father?’ she asked.

The judge blinked. ‘For the moment, yes. Louisa will arrive in a week or so. Perhaps you should remain here for a while – you can make yourself useful to her.’

Helen nodded. Her staying had to appear to be his idea, otherwise he would have failed to get his way. Had she owned a gun, she could have shot him quite cheerfully in that moment. ‘Oh,
another thing, Father. There is a young man named Harry Timpson – some nonsense about a jewel robbery in Manchester. He was involved, though just on the fringes of the crime. His mother is an
acquaintance of mine – a great reader.’ The lies slid glibly from her newly loosened tongue. ‘She is not in good health. A long custodial sentence might well mean that she would
never see her son again. You know the importance of sons in a family – he is the oldest.’

Colour rose in his cheeks once more.

Helen continued to stare in fascination. She had mentioned Harry Timpson not because she cared for him or his mother, not because she sought to conceal her silliness about Denis, but because she
could. She owned an ounce of power and intended to build on it.

He cleared his throat.

Helen continued, pushing herself into an imitation of a caring daughter.

‘Beard your lawyers in their own den, Father. They think you are too harsh and unfeeling. Alarm them by showing some compassion. Make fools of them. They will not speak badly of you again
– I will not allow it. But you can help yourself. Change their opinion, make them worry. It will unseat those defence barristers for a while. If they are speaking so ill of you, make them
uncomfortable. I should – most certainly.’

He tapped his fingers on the desk. With alarming suddenness, he finally understood that his daughter had a brain, an excellent brain. She might have made a good enough lawyer herself . . .

‘I shall go now, Father. I need a bath – this blouse is saturated in brandy.’

Outside the study door, Helen found herself trembling. The palms of her hands were slick with sweat and, without thinking, she dried them on the jacket of her fifty-pound suit. He intended to
father a son. That would mean . . . no. It did not bear thinking of. All the years she had served in silence, all the time she had spent in the presence of a cruel father, would come to nothing.
Her reward for endurance was to have been sole ownership of this house and the large parcel of land that contained it. Her expectations would come to nothing if he sired a male child.

She sat on her bed and counted nosegays on wallpaper. She would lose the room, the corner that had been all her own. Since childhood, this had been her exclusive area, her bolt-hole. Now, she
would be forced to remove herself and her furnishings to a neglected part of the house, while he moved in a dancer, a potential mother for his son. Try as she might, she could not imagine her
father with a woman. He probably wanted Helen to move out in order to avoid having a witness to his silliness.

But she would not move out. Why was she staying? Because this was her setting and, like any other still life arrangement, she felt forced to remain where she had been placed more than three
decades ago. She had neither the imagination nor the bravery to face a new beginning. And why should she go? Why should she move out for the sake of some cheap dancing girl?

A smile touched on her lips as she recalled her father’s reaction to today’s gossip. It had affected him – of that she was certain. Monarch of all he surveyed, he would perhaps
look more closely now at those who worked below him, because they made fun of him. He would not like that at all. Nor would he be pleased about his daughter’s refusal to move out of his
house. As for her plea on behalf of Harry Timpson – that would leave him thoroughly flummoxed. Flummoxed was an expression she had borrowed from Denis. His father-in-law had been flummoxed
after a bleed in his head.

Well, she could now tell Denis’s neighbour that she had attempted to intervene on Harry’s behalf. It would be interesting to see what happened, thought Helen. She would be in court
on that day if her father was sitting; she would see whether she had had any effect on Judge Zachary Spencer. It was never too late to begin again, she advised herself. In some small areas, she
must take the upper hand and manipulate him.

The biggest problem hung in the air like a low thundercloud. After thirty years as a single man, the blundering fool had married. Had she been challenged, Helen would have bet a month’s
salary that Louisa was under thirty, silly and impressionable. The woman was probably a fortune-hunter, too. How long would Father last with a young woman to satisfy? If he died, this house would
pass to Louisa, and that was not fair.

She undressed and placed the suit on a chair in readiness for the dry cleaner. Brandy beckoned, but she refused to indulge. Her supper would be on a tray next to his – they never ate at
the table – would that change? No. Helen intended to have her own kitchen and her own life, though she would keep a close eye on those who shared her home. It was
her
home, not
Louisa’s. She didn’t need servants, didn’t require people on whom she might wipe her feet. ‘I am not my father’s daughter,’ she told the flowers on her
wallpaper. ‘And I am certainly in no mood for a stepmother.’

Everything was about to change, and there wasn’t anything to be done about that fact. But she had bearded him in his den, had pretended to support him. In truth, Helen Spencer’s
hatred for her father increased tenfold that evening. Had she possessed the smallest amount of courage, she would have packed up and left the house. But she needed to stay. She wanted to watch him
closely. Helen Spencer prayed that he was sterile, even wished for his death. And guilt played no part in her musings.

Agnes Makepeace strolled through town, looking into shop windows, appearing engrossed in displays, her mind jumping about all over the place. It couldn’t be true. It was
true. No matter what she did, it would remain the truth.

She studied three-piece suites, clothing, shoes, even managed to feign interest in Thomas Cook’s package holidays. But she did not want new dresses or footwear, had no interest in a week
on the Costa Brava. Her life had changed with the suddenness of a lightning bolt and she was having trouble adjusting to the news. The nursing would have to lie in a pending tray, because Agnes was
pregnant.

She should be pleased. The tiny life in her belly was a demonstration of the love that existed in her marriage. They wanted children, but she needed a career. Nursing could be heavy work,
though, and training in a lecture hall was only half of the course. The other half included bed-making, the lifting of patients, the laying out of the dead. She would have to give up her place,
because pregnancy and heavy work were not ideal companions. Perhaps she would find a minder when the child was born, but would she be able to leave a baby? Raised by wonderful grandparents after
her own mother’s death, Agnes had developed a strong sense of family. A child needed a mother. Would she be granted another place next year? Would she be in a position to accept such a
gift?

Feeling selfish and guilty, she rounded a corner and almost collided with Glenys Timpson. ‘Sorry.’ She smiled. ‘I was in a world of my own.’

They drank coffee in the UCP, chatted about the forthcoming wedding between Fred and Eva. ‘She’ll look after him,’ said Glenys. ‘She’s all right, is Eva Hargreaves.
Speaking of all right, you don’t look so clever yourself.’

‘Bit of a summer cold,’ replied Agnes. She could not yet confide in her neighbour, because Denis had not heard the news.

‘When do you start your nursing?’

‘September.’

‘Good. That’ll give you a proper job. I always wanted a proper job myself, but with three lads I had no chance. It’s their turn to feed me now. I’ve done my share. So
have you, love, but in a different direction. You looked after Sadie and Fred – grab your freedom while you can. You’ll make a smashing nurse.’

Another pang of guilt stabbed at Agnes’s chest. She had probably been looking forward to doing something for herself, for her own sake exclusively. But there would be no time, because
babies required attention.

Glenys changed the subject. ‘I went in the library and spoke to yon Miss Spencer. She’s had a word with her dad. He didn’t say much, but she planted the seed, said I
wasn’t well and I needed my eldest. Now, we just have to wait and see.’

‘She tried, then.’

‘She did. Give her her due, Agnes, she had a go. Our Harry’s like a dog with two tails. I mean, he could still go down, because he’s pleading guilty to receiving and handling,
but not guilty to blowing up the jewellery shop. Seems there’s enough evidence for him to be cleared of that, but he’s admitting the rest. Fingers crossed, eh? Let’s just hope the
judge goes easy on him.’

‘Fingers crossed, Glenys.’

They went their separate ways, Agnes to the Co-op, Glenys to meet her son at his solicitor’s office.

When her purchases had been made, Agnes decided to walk home. The doctor had told her to keep active as long as she was fit, and she might as well take her exercise before she got a bump as big
as Brazil. The timing of her pregnancy was not ideal, but God had dictated that she should have her first child in 1965. It would be a spring baby, a child born with all the blossom that was
noticeable by its absence in Noble Street.

Oh, well. The decision had made itself. Agnes and Denis would be moving to Skirlaugh Fall, because a child would enjoy that blossom.

Louisa arrived in a cloud of perfume and fuss. She left Denis to bring in her expensive luggage while she greeted her husband. ‘Darling Zach,’ she exclaimed in a
lightweight voice. ‘How I have missed you.’ After a pause, she spoke again. ‘This place could do with brightening up a little.’

Helen, who had just arrived home from work, hid on the landing and listened to the canoodling. Father was whispering, while his wife giggled in a silly, childish way. ‘She’ll never
fit in,’ whispered Helen. Lambert House needed brightening up? For that to happen, its owner would need to put a great deal of space between himself and his home.

The reed-like voice made its way up the stairwell. ‘But I must meet your daughter, Zach. We shall be like sisters.’

The judge muttered something about that being highly unlikely before positioning himself in the hall. ‘Helen?’

The twin syllables sounded strange, as he had seldom spoken her name. Like a woodlouse, she was alive, an uninvited guest, usually invisible. Helen didn’t know what to do. She crept
hastily to a bathroom and locked herself inside. This was, she told herself sharply, very childish behaviour, yet she dreaded meeting the wonderful Louisa.

He was on the landing. ‘Helen?’

‘In the bath,’ she lied.

‘Oh. Very well. Louisa is anxious to meet you. We’ll be in the main drawing room.’ Heavy footfalls marked his retreat. He was angry. The speed of his movements betrayed inner
fury.

Helen leaned on the door. Hurt and helpless, she felt much as she had just before declaring herself to Denis, upset and confused. The only time she felt sane was for an hour or two after a drink
– and she needed a larger dose these days. It happened quickly, then, the dependence on alcohol. Within a matter of weeks, her capacity for brandy had grown.

Softly, she opened the door, went into her bedroom, gulped some of the precious amber fluid. A mouthwash at the handbasin should chase away any fumes, she decided.

The staircase seemed to have shrunk, because she reached the hall in seconds. The judge and his wife were side by side on a sofa. Through the open door to the drawing room, Helen watched her
father smiling. The whole world was standing on its head. He had listened to his daughter, had married, was smiling. Perhaps he would change; perhaps he would sire a son, then Helen would be out in
the cold.

He rose to his feet, clearly embarrassed by the situation. ‘Louisa, this is my daughter.’

Louisa leapt up. ‘Hello!’ she chirped.

Helen nodded and attempted a pleasant smile. Louisa was small, dark and beautifully turned out. This was a woman to whom she needed to become close, because the eleventh commandment was
‘know thine enemy and guard him well’. She held out a hand and Louisa shook it warmly. ‘You’re a librarian, aren’t you?’

‘For my sins, yes.’

‘I’m a big reader,’ announced the young wife.

‘So am I,’ said Helen. ‘I like Trollope and Galsworthy. You?’

Louisa reeled off a list of authors, some who produced trash, others who loitered on the hem of literature. This was not a stupid woman.

Zachary was pouring himself a drink. ‘Louisa?’ he asked.

She asked for a sweet sherry.

‘Helen?’ The name sounded rusty. He would need to practise it.

‘Brandy for me, Father.’ Helen placed herself next to her stepmother. He could sit elsewhere, as the sofa would not accommodate two women and his considerable bulk.

‘When do you eat?’ Louisa asked. ‘I am famished after the journey.’

Helen became engrossed in a pattern on the rug. Her father cleared his throat. ‘My daughter and I work strange hours. We usually eat separately. Mrs Moores makes up trays and we eat when
we can.’

The new wife declared that this would not do, that they must be a family and eat together in the dining room. There were several changes to be made, it seemed. She wanted a horse, a dog and a
proper dinner in the evening. ‘Breakfasts on trays are all very well, Zach. But we must be civilized. Each evening, we shall eat together and talk about the day. That’s the normal thing
to do, I think.’

Helen finished her brandy, then excused herself, saying that she had a very important letter to write. Outside the rear door, she found Denis sweeping a path. He tried to smile. ‘Well,
he’s gone and done it, then.’