The Judge's Daughter

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Glenys?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Mind, thinking about Glenys, you may have something there. No. Helen Spencer. Sometimes, she has a wildness about her. She’s very . . .’

  ‘Intense?’

  ‘Yes. Desperate. One minute she wants to tell the world that she loves me, then the next – oh, I don’t know. Anyway, the old man’s home tomorrow, so that’ll cool her down a bit. And she’ll be going back to her job soon enough. But I find myself half waiting for her to do something peculiar like drinking paint or ripping her hair out. She stares at me. Her eyes bore right through me – I feel as if she can read my mind.’

  ‘Only a couple of paragraphs, then, so don’t worry.’ Agnes grinned, then shook her head pensively. ‘So she threatened to tell me herself, then changed her mind. And when Glenys said she’d tell me, Miss Spencer ran off?’

  Denis nodded.

  ‘Doesn’t know what she wants, does she?’

  ‘No. I suppose this will sound daft, love, but it’s as if she doesn’t know who she is, who she ought to be, who she wants to be. I remember girls – and boys – very like her when I was at school: ready to grow up, but still kids. Oh, well. Where’s our Pop?’

  ‘Sorting out his batteries. He’s putting torch bulbs in all his ceilings. Central heating next, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Shall I walk up and fetch him home?’

  ‘No. Let me have you all to myself for a few minutes, Denis.’ She kissed him. ‘If we were all like you, we’d do.’

  Denis, relieved of the larger burden, still managed to feel a pang of guilt. He remembered the music, the elegance of Helen’s hands, the sadness in her eyes. Perhaps he had encouraged her on a level that lay just below full consciousness. But he hadn’t done anything wrong and life, as the saying went, had to go on.

  Glenys put in a sudden, belated appearance. ‘I knew you’d come,’ Denis said as soon as she stepped into the house. ‘I knew you wouldn’t leave me in a state.’

  Glenys, flustered beyond measure, blurted out the tale. ‘I said I wouldn’t say anything, Agnes, but then I thought on and here I am.’

  Agnes grinned. The arrival of her neighbour had not been completely unexpected. ‘He told me,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry – for your Harry’s sake, I’ll pretend I know nothing, then we’ll see if Miss Spencer will have a word with her dad.’

  ‘Might as well talk to the fireback,’ muttered Denis before going to make hot cocoa.

  Agnes studied her neighbour, the gossip, eyes and ears of the street, she who had always made everyone’s business her own. Glenys had altered. Her face was thinner, there was more silver in her hair and her skin was lined. This was going to be a good friend.

  ‘It’s a hard life, all right,’ Glenys was saying now. ‘If he goes to jail, it’ll kill me.’

  It wouldn’t kill her. Agnes, having grown up among strong women whose husbands were at war, recognized the steely quality that had kept machines turning and a country fed for six long years. Glenys would not die if her Harry went to prison; she would do what all females did in such circumstances – she would work and wait. ‘We’ll look after you, Glenys. Remember that.’

  ‘Aye, I know you will, lass. Where is he with that cocoa? My throat’s like the bottom of a parrot’s cage.’

  Sleep eluded Helen for the whole of the night. When she did drift for a few minutes, she was back in the copse with Glenys and Denis, whose rhyming names were no longer a source of amusement. Father was in the woods as well, his voice drowning hers, his presence crushing the very air from her lungs. There was another dream too, one she did not care to remember just yet. It was nasty and she was glad to be free of it. These days, it recurred more often and sleep had ceased to be a hiding place. There was noise in the second dream. And terror . . .

  Awake, she stared into blackness and tried to curb her imagination, failing completely to control the circular motion of her thoughts. If people knew how she felt about Denis, Agnes Makepeace might leave her husband, but would he turn to Helen? If no one found out, might she persuade him to love her in secret? ‘Why did I declare myself?’ she asked the ceiling. ‘What is happening to me?’ Women in books didn’t go around opening their hearts to all and sundry. Elizabeth Bennet, Jane Eyre – all the great heroines played their cards close to their hearts, never, ever wearing them on sleeves of transparent silken robes. ‘I am sitting at my own wedding feast with no groom,’ she whispered. ‘Dickensian, over-dramatic and downright stupid. I should be shot, then I’d be released from everyone’s misery.’

  Sleep. She needed rest. Father had a cure for sleeplessness and Helen, desperate for some peace, descended the stairs and entered the sanctum of Judge Zachary Spencer in search of help. Rows of leather-bound books occupied polished mahogany shelves. His desk and blotter were pristine, no sign of work, no notes, no splashes of ink. The room displayed no character; it was a reflection of his severity and conservatism. Had he ever owned an imagination, had he suffered at all, had he loved her mother?

  She removed a bottle of brandy from a cupboard, hoped he hadn’t measured the contents. Instead of taking one of his sparkling crystal glasses, Helen went into the kitchen and chose a less ostentatious water tumbler before returning to her room.

  The first mouthful made her cough, burning her throat like hot ashes. But the second went down easily and she felt calmer and almost carefree. Denis Makepeace? Why had she worried about a man so much lower than herself? Her father was a judge in the High Courts, for goodness’ sake. She would find someone else, someone worthy of her attentions. Her body, limp from the effects of alcohol, began to relax. With the tumbler still in her hand, Helen fell asleep on the chaise. Everything would be all right. All she needed was a good night’s rest.

  If she had any nightmares, she did not remember them. Morning found her very well except for a slight headache that disappeared after several cups of tea and a light breakfast. But, when Denis arrived to do his job, her heart lurched in her chest as soon as she caught sight of him. Brandy was good for sleeplessness, but it did nothing to eradicate the cause of discomfort. It dealt with symptoms, not with cause. ‘Like aspirin,’ she muttered as she stood at her window. Denis looked handsome in his uniform. Shortly, he would leave to pick up Father from Trinity Street, and the house would once again be filled by the noise and bluster that always accompanied Judge Zachary Spencer. It was, thought Helen, time for a hair of the dog. A very little would suffice, as she sought waking peace rather than unconsciousness.

  She ascended the stairs and prepared for the return of her only parent. He would dominate the house, would ignore her, would act the part of monarch again.

  Brandy made it all much easier to bear.

  Chapter Four

  Lucy looked wonderful in her watered silk wedding dress. She would have looked gorgeous in a potato sack, Agnes thought as she took up her position as matron of honour. The bride turned just before preparing to leave the porch and enter the church. ‘The old dragon’s here,’ she whispered, ‘with his dragoness. I should have put garlic flowers in our bouquets. Grab a crucifix and don’t look him in the eye.’

  Agnes swallowed. Judge Zachary Spencer had begun his illustrious career in the chambers of Henshaw & Taylor, and he had apparently decided to grace the occasion with his surly presence. Helen Spencer, his ‘dragoness’, was the last person Agnes wished to see today, but the groom’s side was wall-to-wall lawyers and it couldn’t be helped. George’s father was head of chambers and he had probably invited all his colleagues. Agnes drew back her shoulders, raised her chin and walked with Mags behind Lucy and her father. Aware that she looked her best, she intended to show Miss Helen Spencer that Denis was married to a fine specimen. She cast a sideways glance at the judge’s daughter, who looked decent but unimaginative in a colourless suit that had probably cost an arm, a leg and a full dining room suite.

  Helen watched the service, teeth biting down on lower lip, hands clenched around bag, gloves and hymn book, face deli
berately cleansed of all expression. She could and would get through this. A half-bottle of Napoleon was secreted in a pocket of her bag hard against a quarter of Mint Imperials to shift the scent of alcohol from her breath. Father was huffing and puffing beside her. Father had no time for Catholics, foreigners, vagrants, criminals and daughters. The Latin Mass probably infuriated the bigoted old buffoon, and Helen was mildly pleased about that. He shifted his weight, sighed repeatedly and joined in none of the prayers.

  During the hymn ‘Love Divine’, he bent his head and whispered to her. ‘Chap over there, third row from the front – friend of the groom – you could do a lot worse.’

  Helen followed his nod until her eyes alighted on a gaunt man with thinning hair and a very stiff collar. ‘James Taylor,’ mumbled the judge. ‘Good man, big future. Time you settled.’

  Icy fingers curled around her heart. She had seen Denis looking smart in his suit, had devoured the vision that was his wife and was now expected to pay full attention to a man with a neck thinner than Denis’s wrist. She was exaggerating, she told herself sharply. James Taylor was probably no oil painting from the front; from the rear, he resembled an anxious-looking character from a Victorian novel, all starved and on the lookout for its next meal.

  It was her turn to sigh. Why was she pretending to have a choice? There was no queue of suitors, no line of men waiting to meet the daughter of Judge Spencer. She remembered Charlotte Lucas from Pride and Prejudice, who had married a buffoon of a clergyman just to be safe in a comfortable home. Elizabeth Bennet was maid of honour in Helen’s own story. Helen, halfway down the church and nowhere in anyone’s opinion, was the plain and sensible woman who would have to settle for a Mr Collins. ‘Just to be safe,’ she whispered. Was that all there was going to be? Safety and a man uglier than sin?

  ‘Did you say something?’ asked her father.

  Surprised beyond measure, she shook her head. When had he last been interested in any words emerging from her mouth? When had he last deigned to notice her? Noticed now, she felt threatened and decided that she could go through life more easily without the attention of her father. She wanted to run, but dared not follow so base an instinct. She did not want to be here, did not want to be anywhere, but she must endure.

  The judge coughed his way through the nuptial Mass and proxy papal blessing. The whole thing was a bloody nonsense. Henshaw Senior refused to handle divorce because of his religious beliefs. Fortunately, his son, who was bridegroom, seemed more willing to accept lucrative cases. Divorce was about to become big business and sense needed to be employed when it came to litigation.

  James Taylor, of a landed family, was a good prospect for Helen. He was already a senior partner and he showed great promise in spite of his lack of style. She was drab, as was he, and she would do well to marry him. If the union crumbled, any settlement would be large. ‘Called to the bar before he hit thirty.’ The words slid from a corner of his mouth towards his daughter. ‘About your age, too.’

  She suffered a renewed desire to run, but this time she felt like screaming while dashing from the church. As ‘Love Divine’ faded into the ether, Helen’s first free-floating panic attack crashed into her chest like a ten-ton lorry. Oxygen suddenly became a luxury, and she grasped each breath, lungs stiffening, throat as dry as bone. She dropped bag, gloves and hymn book, sinking onto the pew bench just in time. Her heart was going too fast. Sweat gathered on forehead and upper lip, and she longed for brandy. Brandy was the answer. If she could take a drink, she would be all right. As soon as everyone else was seated, the judge, who had given his only child a withering look, forgot about her. She had sat down a second too early, that was all, and few had noticed, he hoped.

  With a lace-edged handkerchief, Helen dried her face. Why had she suddenly become so frightened? It was like being in a darkened room with a wild animal, no chance of knowing where it was, just blind fear and a strong desire to be elsewhere. Was this her heart, would she die young? Her mother had died a premature death caused by a heart attack after some kind of accident. Would Helen suffer a similar fate? It didn’t matter. The moment she ceased to fear death, her pulse slowed and she breathed evenly. If she died, it would be a release from the torture named life.

  It was over. Bride and groom emerged from a side room in which they had signed legal documents attached to marriage. The main party left the church to the strains of a pleasant piece of Bach, then the congregation peeled itself row by row out of the pews.

  Avoiding photographs at all costs, Helen stayed in the school playground, treating herself to a few drops of brandy before sucking on the necessary mint. ‘Ah, there you are,’ said a disembodied voice.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, embarrassment staining her cheeks. Was there to be no peace at all today?

  ‘I’ve seen you in the library,’ added the owner of the voice. ‘I’m James Taylor. Your father suggested that I seek you out, as he will be in older company. You are Helen Spencer, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her vocabulary had shrunk, it seemed.

  ‘Nice wedding.’

  ‘Yes, it was. The bride looked lovely.’ Agnes Makepeace had looked lovely, too.

  ‘George is a lucky man. Shall we?’ He crooked an arm.

  Tentatively, she placed a very light hand on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her back to the large gathering at the church gates. He was definitely not a thing of beauty. Had she allowed herself to wear some of her new clothes and make-up, she would have outshone him with comparatively little effort. But Helen had come as her father’s companion, and no one competed with Judge Zachary Spencer. The king of the beasts demanded pride of place. Pride among a pride, she pondered giddily, because most lawyers were bigger than their boots. The collective noun for lawyers should be ‘pride’ – and pride, as everyone knew, came just before a fall. She hoped with all her heart that the fall would be soon and that she could be there to witness the undoing of the super-king – her father.

  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 hi
m 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.’