Fred bowed comically at his intended before leading her to the dance floor for a sedate waltz. Denis watched. Eva had been an important ingredient in the recovery of a sick and confused man. She had given him space in her home, in her shop and in her heart. Fred could have done a lot worse. All that remained now was telling Agnes, and Denis had been selected to soften the blow.
It wasn’t a blow, he told himself as he saw the couple laughing on the dance floor. It was a blessing. He would make sure that Agnes felt the same way. But Skirlaugh Fall? He shivered. Where was that bloody woman?
The judge arrived at Denis’s side. ‘Have you seen my daughter?’
‘Erm . . . she left about an hour ago.’
‘Her coat is on her chair.’ The judge pointed to a table. ‘She must be in the building, then.’
‘I suppose she must,’ agreed Denis.
Zachary Spencer lit a fat cigar. ‘Find her,’ he ordered before returning to continue a lecture on the anomalies of the British system of justice.
Denis gulped a large draught of air. He found Mags and asked the necessary questions. On leaden feet, the judge’s servant made his way to the room booked for Helen Spencer. At the top of the stairs, he breathed deeply again. His master had issued an order and it must be obeyed. ‘Three bags full, sir,’ he muttered, touching the neb of an absent cap before knocking.
There was no reply. He knocked again, then entered the room. She was flat out on the bed, a half-bottle of brandy in one hand. The lid had not been replaced and she had a damp patch on her blouse. God, she was drinking. Because he had enjoyed her music and her conversation, she had turned to the bottle.
He shook her gently. ‘Miss Spencer?’
Helen opened an eye. ‘Denis? Where am I?’
‘You’re at a wedding. Pack Horse, Bolton. Your dad’s downstairs looking for you.’ She stank like a distillery. ‘Can you stand up?’
‘Of course I can.’ She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, then fell backwards. ‘Oops-a-daisy,’ she said before righting herself.
Denis’s mind shot into top gear. ‘Listen to me. Listen!’ He removed the brandy and screwed on its cap. ‘You had better sober up. I don’t need to tell you what your father’s like about appearances – and disappearances, come to that.’
‘Where’s that young woman?’
‘Mags? She’s where she should be – with the wedding party. Look at me.’ He had considered sending for Mags or bringing her to the room, but he knew Helen’s vagaries too well. It was better to make sure that as few people as possible from his regular circle came into contact with Miss Spencer. ‘Look at me,’ he repeated.
She obeyed. ‘You are so handsome.’
‘And you, Miss Spencer, are drunk.’ He picked up the phone and ordered black, strong coffee. ‘Your story is this. A man bumped into you and spilled brandy all over your clothes, so you came up here to try to get yourself cleaned up. Do you understand?’
‘Very handsome.’
Denis sighed. He had travelled from one comedic scenario to another, but this one was definitely a piece of black humour. ‘Your father will ask questions.’
‘He got me a balding eagle, you know.’
‘What?’
‘I am supposed to be courted by a man with little hair and a lot of nose. You must have noticed. His name’s Pinocchio.’
Ah, so here was a second case of wedding fever, though this bride-to-be was not quite as happy as Eva. ‘You must get downstairs before your father decides to have the whole hotel searched. Remember the brandy story.’
While she attempted to tidy herself, Denis received coffee delivered by a young man in braided uniform. He forced Helen to drink two cups, then began the business of persuading her to leave the room.
She studied him, following his every move. ‘I expect you think I’m a lunatic and a drunk,’ she said eventually, words slightly blurred by the earlier bout of drinking. ‘I’m neither. The brandy is a crutch to get me through occasions like this one – it isn’t easy for a spinster to stand and watch others fulfilling their dreams.’
‘We have to go soon.’
‘Because he said so?’ There was no need for a name.
‘Yes. Like it or not, he’s your dad and my boss. I hope you didn’t say anything to Mags Bradshaw about . . .’ About what?
‘Of course I didn’t. As for your neighbour at the church gate begging me to intercede on behalf of her son – what was I supposed to do about that? Does she know what an absolute monster my father is? When I was five years old, he locked me in my room for three whole days, food delivered on a tray, lectures delivered every evening. My crime?’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘I stole a brooch of my mother’s. I wanted something she had worn, something that would remind me that I was normal, that I had once had a mother.’
Denis dragged a weary hand through his hair.
‘What does Glenys Timpson expect me to achieve for her son? Acquittal? A short sentence? A tap on the hand and advice to behave himself in the future? No one knows the life I have had with that man. He isn’t normal.’
He began to wonder what ‘normal’ was. Agnes was probably the closest he could get to an embodied definition of the adjective. ‘We’d better go.’ At least her speech was improving. ‘Remember – you came up here after someone spilled a drink on you.’
Helen shook her head. ‘Mags booked this room for me and for herself. Like me, she is wallpaper. In a decade, she will be me. I just hope she doesn’t fall in love as heavily as I did.’
‘It wasn’t love,’ he protested. ‘It was your loneliness and my liking for your piano playing.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘But when a person falls in love, he or she has no choice in the object of their affections. You are a handsome man and I know you have feelings for me.’
He did have feelings for her. He pitied Helen Spencer, sympathized with her situation, wished with all his heart that he could do something to improve her lot. But Helen’s predicament was not a matter in which he could intervene. He sat on a dressing stool. ‘I love my Agnes so much it hurts,’ he told her. ‘I wouldn’t swap her for a bank vault full of gold. You have been a friend to me, and your father is cold and unfeeling – I have to work for him, so I know that much. But I can’t get you away from him.’
Helen gazed into her coffee cup. ‘The balding eagle could,’ she said.
Denis shrugged. ‘All I can tell you is this – marry for love, not for money, not to please your father. Marriage is hard even if there’s love in it. You have to make room for your partner’s faults and needs. We’re going to be a bit poorer while Agnes studies nursing – but we’ll get there. We might have a few rows, but love sorts all that out. More important, Agnes is my best friend in the world. You have to find a friend you can love.’
‘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.
Chapter Five
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.
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