‘How did she take it?’ he repeated.
‘She ran out to Denis, of course. He’s looked a bit easier since his missus come up with that neighbour – I think Mrs Makepeace sorted the bother. Any road, Miss Helen met the new wife – Louisa – then rushed outside to mither Denis again. She never used to have two words to grind together, now she can’t shut up with him. She’ll have took it badly, I’d say. She’s a lot to lose and I don’t trust her. She’s sly.’
Albert returned with the tea. ‘True – she has got a lot to lose. If he starts breeding again, she could be out on her ear come the day.’
Kate took a few sips of Black and Greens. ‘I’ve not told you the best. His flaming lordship comes up to me just as I’m putting me coat on, tells me to find more servants on account of Mrs Spencer wanting the house nice. What am I supposed to do? Go to the village post office and order three maids and a partridge in a pear tree? I told him. Advertise in the paper, I said. He wanted locals, but he can find his own. I’ve not time for it and my energy’s drained as it is. I wish I could afford to give up and let them get on with it. And I’ll have to answer to the new upstart.’
Albert shook his head sadly. ‘There’s not many will want to work for that queer fellow. Denis Makepeace would have a better job and all but for his chest. The new Mrs Spencer’s going to have her work cut out if she wants to live the high life.’
Kate agreed. ‘Place is like a morgue till he starts with his music.’
‘Do you think Miss will leave home, love?’
‘Nay.’ Kate poured some spillage from the saucer into her cup. ‘Nay, she’s opening up the other end of the house to get away from him and the new woman. Says she wants no servants and she’ll do for herself.’
‘It’s him somebody should do for.’ Albert shook open his paper. ‘Anything tasty for tea, Kate?’
‘I pinched a bit of ham and some eggs. Give me a minute and I’ll get cracking.’ She laughed. ‘Cracking eggs, eh?’ She paused for thought. ‘You know, I’ve never heard anybody laugh in that house for years. I don’t think I’ve seen a smile, either. Oh, well.’ She stood up. ‘Fried or scrambled?’
‘Just get cracking,’ said Albert. ‘If the yolks break, scrambled. If not, fried.’
While Kate cooked the meal, she decided there was a lot in what Albert had said. Life was like eggs – to be taken as it came. See a problem, mend a problem, live and let live. He was deep, was her Albert, and she was a lucky woman. Kate didn’t envy the new Mrs Spencer one little bit. The judge was just a big load of ear hole. And his daughter was going as cracked as Kate’s stolen eggs.
The new Mrs Spencer sat on Helen’s bed. Determined to make the best of things, she had decided to be a friend to her husband’s daughter. ‘We’ll go shopping in Chester,’ she said. ‘I know Chester. Lovely shops, good clothes. I’ll get you dressed to the nines in no time. You need brightening up a bit.’
Like the house, thought Helen. She worked hard to dislike Louisa, but it wasn’t going to be easy. The new wife wasn’t brainy, wasn’t stupid, was astute enough to aim for peace in this fragmented household. The house was to be opened up. Helen should stay where she was. ‘This has been your room for a while, hasn’t it? Well, don’t move on my account. If Zach wants to shift you, I’ll fix him.’
‘I would like a suite of my own,’ said Helen. ‘This one room and the dressing room – hardly enough for a grown woman.’
Louisa clapped her hands. ‘What fun. All right, let’s plan your move. We’ll make you a boudoir, nice colours, plenty of space and light. Your own sitting room with a television, some bookcases, pretty rugs, nice pictures on the walls. The whole place could do with a bit of colour.’
Even the voice ceased to grate after a while. Did this woman know that she had been purchased as a breeding machine? Had she realized that she must produce a son for the great man in order to fulfil her function at Lambert House?
Louisa was suddenly serious. ‘He says he’s found a man for you.’
Helen frowned. ‘Yes. He’s found me a pock-marked beanpole with a face like the backside of a cow and a high opinion of himself.’
Louisa doubled over with glee. ‘Oh, stop it. My God, I can see him – you should write a book, Helen. Have you never thought of writing? I mean, you’re surrounded by books at work – you must know what people want to read. I’d love to write, but I haven’t the brains or the patience. The way you described that poor bloke – hey, I hope he doesn’t turn up here. I wouldn’t be able to face him without laughing myself sick.’
‘We met at a wedding,’ Helen told her. ‘I spent most of the reception – once the meal was over – hiding in lavatories and bedrooms. He even sat next to me at the table – talked with his mouth full, went on and on about himself. He seems to think he’s God’s finest gift to the world.’
Louisa laughed again. ‘Put your foot down. I suppose you know how to handle your father.’
‘I don’t.’ Though she was learning . . .
‘He’s a bully,’ said Louisa. ‘Like all bullies, he backs down if you stand up to him. It took me months to agree to marry him, and I did that only once I knew I could handle his moods. He can be very kind, you know. Zach’s been good to me.’
Helen gritted her teeth. He could be kind, she supposed, if he wanted something. How would Louisa fare now that he had married her? Tempted to ask what on earth Louisa saw in such a man, Helen changed the subject. ‘You’re a legal secretary?’
‘Yes. And I teach ballet and tap. I wanted to go into dance professionally, but I never made the grade. And I married young, but – anyway, it didn’t work. Since then, I’ve done a few pantomimes, but more teaching than anything else. I’d like to open a school in Bolton, but Zach isn’t keen.’
Helen walked to the window. No, Zach would not be keen, because the wife of a judge should not labour for money. How well did this young woman know the creature she had married?
‘I’ll get my way,’ said the voice from the bed.
Perhaps she would. It promised to be an interesting episode, and Helen would watch it as closely as possible. Could this person really manage Father? Or would the honeymoon period come to a halt when he reverted to type? Something akin to pity for Louisa entered Helen’s thoughts. She wasn’t quite the expected floozy, was a decent enough soul. ‘Let’s get some coffee,’ Helen suggested. Life promised to be improved by this newcomer. At last, there was someone to talk to. Things promised to go swimmingly. Until Louisa bore a son, at least . . .
Chapter Six
Excitement reigned during the next ‘mothers’ meeting’ after Lucy came home from her honeymoon.
Repeated bouts of sickness had kept Agnes away from Mags: she couldn’t visit the Bradshaws because of the smell of fish and chips; Mags had stayed away from Noble Street since her friend’s closest companion had become a bowl over which she could hang her head while lying on the sofa. Agnes had managed, just about, to hang on to the contents of her stomach for the very small wedding of Fred and Eva, but had become increasingly fearful of leaving the house. She was not yet three months pregnant, and she had been warned that these symptoms might continue up to week sixteen.
‘Have you chosen any names?’ Lucy asked.
Agnes shook her head. ‘At the moment, it doesn’t answer to Bloody Nuisance. Denis calls it Bertie – no idea why – and it doesn’t respond to that, either. The Bloody Nuisance was my idea, because I can’t seem to keep down more than a cup of tea and a biscuit without starting World War Three. I’m living on dry cream crackers and arrowroot biscuits – can’t walk past a bakery without coming over all unnecessary.’
‘You be careful,’ Mags warned. ‘Don’t be going all dehydrated on us. We don’t want to arrive and find you curled like a crisp.’
‘Desiccated, more like.’ Agnes laughed. ‘I knew there’d be pain at the end, but I hadn’t catered for this.’
‘Tell me about the wedding,’ Lucy begged.
The other two girls
painted a vivid picture of Eva Hargreaves in full sail and powder blue. It had been a small wedding, they agreed, but the bride had made up for that, as she had practically filled the centre aisle by herself. They described her hat – a strange collection of netting, sequins and small feathers – Fred’s new and squeaky shoes, the choice of hymns, one of which – ‘Fight the Good Fight’ – had been rejected by a very amused priest, and the post-nuptial feast of pasties and ale in a local hostelry. ‘It wasn’t anything like your do,’ concluded Agnes. ‘There was a game of darts in one corner, some old men fighting over dominoes next to the window, and the wedding in the middle. On top of all that, the brewery delivered and they had to fetch an ambulance when one of the brewer’s men hurt his back.’
‘Lively, then,’ said Lucy.
‘Lively?’ Mags hooted with laughter. ‘After four pints and a glass of bubbly wine, Mr Grimshaw had to be practically carried home by his new wife and Denis. He had no visible means of support apart from them.’
‘Denis wants danger money if Pop ever marries again. It was good fun, though. Tell us about Paris.’
Lucy waxed enthusiastic about the city, which she had enjoyed hugely. ‘But one thing I hadn’t thought of – it’s full of French people.’
‘It would be,’ said Agnes. ‘It’s in France.’
‘They say the English have stiff upper lips.’ Lucy was getting into her hilarious stride. ‘You could park a double decker bus on a Frenchman’s gob, and he wouldn’t flinch. And we ate horse – we didn’t know till afterwards. Sorry, Agnes – it would make anyone feel sick. George dared me to eat a snail, so I had five, then he had to eat frogs’ legs. Tasted like strong chicken, according to him. The Mona Lisa’s horrible, the Eiffel Tower’s a pile of rust-coloured girders, but the rest is stunning.’ Thus she dismissed that wonderful city, adding only her opinion that the Arc de Triomphe was a bit good.
Mags cleared her throat. ‘I’m off to London for a month soon,’ she said as casually as she could. ‘Time I took a break.’
‘Why?’ chorused the others. ‘Why London?’
‘It’s there, we know it’s there, but do we need to go?’ added Lucy.
‘We should enjoy our own cities first – what’s the matter with London?’
‘Southerners?’ offered Lucy.
‘Traffic?’ suggested Agnes.
Mags shrugged. ‘Victoria and Albert, Science Museum, Buck House, Tate, National, St Paul’s – need I go on?’
‘Pickpockets,’ shouted Lucy.
‘Thieves and vagabonds.’ Agnes grinned.
‘You’ve been reading Dickens again.’ Mags smoothed her skirt. She wanted the whole thing to be a surprise, yet she feared the pain and worried about the outcome – what if they gave her the wrong nose? What if they gave her the right nose, thereby making the rest of her face wrong?
‘She’s hiding something.’ Lucy folded her arms.
‘She is.’ Agnes stared hard at Mags. ‘Out with it. Is it a man? Are you sneaking off for a dirty month with a married person?’ She glanced at Lucy. ‘George isn’t going to London, is he?’
‘No, he isn’t. If he decides to go, I’ll ground him with a couple of tent pegs.’
‘Denis isn’t going, either. Whose husband is she pinching, Lucy?’
‘It’ll be your Denis’s judge. That should get her into the House of Lords. By a back door, of course.’
The judge. Agnes began to tell her friends about recent events at Lambert House, thus changing the subject for a relieved Mags. ‘The wife’s younger than Miss Spencer. Denis says the two women get along well enough together, so that makes life a bit easier. I feel sorry for Helen Spencer, you know.’
‘She drinks,’ said Mags. ‘It’s a damned shame, because it’s all her dad’s fault. Did you see the article she was sitting with at Lucy’s reception? That’s the husband chosen by his flaming lordship. Looked like the back of a mangled tram. That’s why she ran off. Then I met her in the loos and booked her a room. I found her soaked in brandy later on. The judge sent Denis to find her.’
‘I know.’ Agnes chewed on a nail. ‘We’re going to live up there. Judge Spencer will like that, because he’ll have Denis on the doorstep. We’re to have a phone. If the old devil can’t fasten his corsets, he’ll be sending for poor Denis. I’m in two minds.’
‘Does he wear corsets?’ Lucy’s perfect eyebrows almost disappeared under her fringe.
‘He did the last time I saw him stripping off.’ Agnes looked from one to the other. ‘Joke,’ she said. ‘Anybody seeing him undressed probably needs to be under the influence of a strong tranquillizer. He’s a mess. I hear he’s to be the judge at Harry Timpson’s trial. He’s a hang-’em-high type, or so I’m told. Glenys spoke to Miss Spencer, asked her to help, but I’m not holding my breath – unless I’m going to vomit, of course.’
‘When will you be normal?’ Mags asked.
‘She was never normal.’ Lucy drained her coffee cup. ‘If she’d been normal, I wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with her. Normal’s boring.’ She looked hard at Agnes. ‘Is this vomiting going to carry on all through?’
‘No idea. It could be temporary, could be hyperemesis.’
‘Who?’
‘Stop messing about, Lucy. If I’ve got hyperemesis, I could damage my brain, my liver and my child. I’d spend most of the time in hospital.’
Nobody liked the sound of that. ‘Can I press you to a jelly?’ asked Lucy, her stern expression surviving snorts of laughter. ‘Look, some folk can hang on to that when all else fails – calf’s foot, fruit jelly – it slides down. And,’ she smiled again, ‘if it comes back up, there’s nothing to it – it slides like sugar off a shiny shovel.’
Cushions flew in the company of several impolite words.
They settled back eventually. ‘London, though,’ pondered Agnes aloud. ‘You’ll not need your bucket and spade or a phrase book, will you?’
Mags shrugged. ‘I might need the phrase book – they talk a load of rubbish down there. And I draw the line at jellied eels and whelks. They don’t even eat proper like what we do.’
‘And we talk proper and all, don’t we?’ Lucy jumped to her feet. ‘I’ve a hungry lawyer and three cats to feed. Look after yourself, Agnes.’ She glared at her other friend. ‘Don’t go marrying any cockneys – I had enough of them with the Billy Cotton Band Show and his “Wakey, wakey”. Load of flaming numbskulls.’ She swept out, leaving a sudden silence in the house, the word ‘London’ thrown over her shoulder as she closed the door.
‘What’s going on, Mags?’
‘Eh?’
‘You’re up to something.’
Mags sighed. ‘Don’t tell anybody.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Well, you know how I’ve never left home for a flat of my own?’
‘Yes?’
‘It was so I could save up for a new nose. If I decided not to have a nose, I could put a deposit on a house or a flat. But when I was sitting with that Miss Spencer at Lucy’s wedding, I thought I might end up like her. She’s plain, but not ugly. If I have a new nose, I might graduate to plain. With the right clothes and a good haircut, plain can pass as OK.’
Agnes bit her lip. ‘God, that’s scary. They break bones and stuff, don’t they? And doesn’t it take a few weeks for all the swellings to go down?’ She shivered. ‘It’ll hurt.’
‘Yes.’
‘Aren’t you scared?’
‘Yes. Aren’t you scared – all biscuits and bowls?’
‘Yes.’
Mags reached out and grasped her dear friend’s hands. ‘Then we’ll be scared together. I don’t know what I’ll look like; you don’t know what Nuisance will look like. I’m sorry about your nursing, but we have to get on with life, haven’t we? We only get the one chance.’
Agnes nodded. ‘But a baby’s a natural thing, Mags. New noses interfere with nature. You’ve always been against make-up and hair dye – yet here you are, going for plastic surgery in Lo
ndon.’
‘I am not walking behind this great big conk for the rest of my life. It comes into a room ten full minutes before the rest of me. There’s no getting away from a nose like this. This is a nose you have to live up to. I’d do all right as one of the three witches in Macbeth – no greasepaint required. And I want to go to Carnaby Street for some daft clothes, get my hair done in the West End, see all those London markets. I’m doing it, Agnes. For better or worse, I’m doing it.’
Alone, Agnes thought about Mags’s parting words. For better or worse sounded about right. You had to live with a nose before you understood its significance. The same might be said for marriage – for better or for worse, a partner, once chosen, was supposed to be there for life. Mags’s nose was going to be a better or worse job, and everyone would have to take time to get to know it. ‘Good luck, Magsy,’ she whispered. Then she went to try a bit of toast.
She was still coming to terms with her bit of toast when love’s young dream – as she had nominated Fred and Eva – burst into the house. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Do come in. Oh, I see. You’re already in.’ Agnes noticed that Eva was breathless and that Pop was a strange shade of pink. Eva stood in front of the dresser.
‘Tell her,’ she ordered.
‘They’re coming,’ he announced. ‘With a great big van and stuff. You’ll have to help me, Agnes – I don’t know what to say.’
Thus far, the toast had sat well enough. But all Agnes needed was two confused senior citizens and she would lose calories, plus moisture, all over again. The pair shifted weight from foot to foot, putting her in mind of a couple of children kept in at playtime for bad behaviour. ‘What are you on about?’ she asked.
‘Me doll’s houses,’ spluttered Fred.
‘Doll’s houses,’ came the echo.
Agnes chewed, swallowed, took a sip of tea. ‘Start at the beginning and finish at the end, please.’
Fred dropped into a chair. ‘Coronation Street,’ he said.
The Judge's Daughter Page 13
