The Judge's Daughter

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Our father who will never be in heaven?’ Helen, who had stopped going to church, had got into the habit of referring to her father in biblical terms that were not far short of heresy. He would be Lazarus without resurrection, a shaven Samson, the stunned Goliath, Moses minus tablets, Judas at the feast – but not at this feast. ‘He won’t be here.’

  ‘Are you really sure?’

  Helen shrugged. ‘We haven’t done Christmas for years. When I was little, someone would stay in the house to give me my presents – a servant, a nanny – anyone who would agree to do it for a bit of money. Since I grew up, I have spent all my Christmases alone.’

  A tear pricked Agnes’s right eye. Christmas had always been magical for her. Stocking filled with tiny toys and nuts, always a surprise in the toe. One year, the surprise had been a little silver ring – she had outgrown it years ago. Downstairs, there would be a doll, or a toy sewing machine, several books. Dinner was chicken, as turkey could never be afforded. Her father would have had a good dinner, she supposed. But not with Helen, never with his own daughter. ‘I had lovely Christmases, Helen. I wish you’d been there then. There wasn’t a lot of money—’

  ‘But there was love,’ Helen finished for her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Grimshaw will come, I hope. And Mags with Harry. We’ll be merry if it kills us. Of course, we can’t play cards, because my stepmother cheats.’

  Louisa clouted Helen with a newspaper. ‘I came up in the school of hard knocks.’

  ‘As did I,’ Helen said. ‘Money, but no love. This party is for all of us, so that I can show my gratitude to those who have helped turn my life around. The loyal toast will be the Queen, the Duke of Lancaster and Mabel Turnbull. She knew loyalty.’

  Agnes shivered. There was no point in asking Helen to reveal in its entirety the document she had read, because such a request would receive no more than a polite refusal. The automatic response had been delivered many times – Helen remained as secretive as ever. ‘Do we bring anything?’ she asked.

  ‘Just yourselves.’ Helen smiled at her sister. She, too, wished that those long-ago Christmases could have been spent with Agnes. ‘I wonder how many of us there are and whether we are all female,’ she said, almost as if speaking to herself. ‘There could be dozens of little Spencers spread across the northern circuit. He’s a rake, but I am the shovel that will dispose of him.’

  A heavy silence rested on the shoulders of Agnes and Louisa.

  Helen laughed. ‘Don’t look so glum. I am speaking metaphorically, of course.’

  Agnes was not sure, would never be sure. She changed the subject. ‘Your doll’s house is almost ready,’ she told Louisa. ‘Even the cellars are included. He’s charging your husband a fortune for it, says it will allow him to charge less when it comes to ordinary folk.’

  Louisa shook her head. The doll’s house was not for her – it was for the proud owner of the house on which it had been modelled. ‘It will be kept in the hall,’ she said, ‘so that everyone can see what a wonderful home the judge has.’

  ‘He never has visitors,’ said Agnes. ‘It’s for himself.’

  ‘Isn’t everything?’ Helen stood and walked to the door. ‘I declare this meeting of the NPA party closed. Unless there’s any other business?’

  Louisa raised a deliberately hesitant hand. ‘Please, miss?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will somebody get Oscar off my foot? The toes have gone dead – he’s cut off my circulation.’

  Helen whistled and the dog dashed to her side.

  ‘Thanks.’ Louisa stretched her legs and counted her feet. ‘I seem to have two,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t brag,’ quipped Helen. ‘You’ll soon have four.’ She left the room.

  ‘It’s a big thing, isn’t it?’ Agnes asked. ‘The thought of producing another human being, I mean. I’m not talking about the pain – it’s the afterwards that frightens me. If a child is good and successful, they get the credit. If not, the blame is ours.’

  Louisa was staring into the fire. ‘I won’t raise a child,’ she said quietly.

  ‘No. He’ll get nannies and nurses, I suppose. The judge, I mean.’

  After several seconds, Louisa replied. ‘Yes. That’s how it will be.’ She leaned her head against the wing of her chair and dozed.

  Agnes waited until Louisa was asleep, then crept from the room. Across the landing, Helen was seated at a bureau in her bedroom, head down, right shoulder moving. She was probably continuing with her book. Agnes left the author to the necessary privacy and silence.

  Helen put down her pen, listened as her sister walked out of the apartment, looked down at the list she had made. Louisa was right – her stepdaughter was a maker of lists. The page she currently worked on was one no one must see. Its subject was retribution . . .

  Christmas Day was fine, but cold. The party, due to begin at seven in the evening, was delayed slightly by Helen’s over-ambition in the area of cookery. Her philosophy was simple – if a person could read, he or she could cook. It did not run to plan. Six o’clock found her on the phone to her new sister. She refused to allow Agnes to fetch Kate, because Kate cooked frequently in the kitchen of Lambert House, and this was one of Kate’s few holidays.

  ‘What the heck have you done?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘Crème caramel is my first problem. It’s in a bain marie and it’s as stiff as the bread board.’

  ‘Oh. Did you put water in your caramel?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s probably stuck. You’ve got melted sugar acting as glue. Start again.’

  ‘There isn’t time.’

  ‘Cheese and biscuits?’

  ‘That’s the last course. We still need a pudding.’

  ‘I’ve an apple pie, half a trifle and some mince tarts,’ said Agnes.

  ‘Bring them. Bring everything. Bring hammer and chisel for this crème caramel. Bring the fire brigade and bring Denis. I am in a mess.’

  Agnes replaced the receiver and turned to her husband. ‘Helen’s in a mess.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What do you mean, “Ah”?’

  ‘She’s bound to be in a mess. Her doings with ovens stop at warming up what Kate leaves. I thought she was taking too much on. Game pie? When she told me she was making that, I decided I wasn’t game enough for her pie. Too ambitious, she is.’

  ‘She needs us. Come on, shape yourself.’

  He shaped himself and both entered the kitchen of Lambert House within half an hour. It was a war zone. The table was littered with eggshells and implements; the floor was in a similar state. Helen was nowhere to be seen. Denis sighed. ‘She’s got herself in a right pickle this time, Agnes.’

  The woman in question crawled out from beneath the large table. ‘I’ve lost an onion,’ she pronounced.

  ‘Does she know her onions?’ Denis asked.

  Agnes shook her head. ‘Probably not. She’s likely lost a cauliflower. Perhaps she calls a cauliflower an onion—’

  ‘A spade a lawnmower?’ asked Denis helpfully.

  The mistress of the house struggled to her feet. ‘Shut up, both of you. My consommé is lumpy, the beef’s still rare enough to be saying moo and you’ve got the pudding, I hope.’

  ‘Yes.’ Agnes placed a basket on the table. ‘Right – stock cubes?’

  Helen waved in the direction of a cupboard.

  ‘I’ll do imitation French onion soup – if you can find the onion. Denis – clean up and sort out the puddings.’ She glared at Helen. ‘You can just bugger off. Where’s the game pie?’

  ‘In the pigswill bucket.’

  ‘Good. So it’s pretend French onion soup, roast beef with Yorkshires and veg, then leftovers for pudding, followed by cheese.’ Agnes cast an eye over Helen. ‘You haven’t managed to ruin the cheese, by any chance?’

  ‘The cheese is fine,’ said Helen before stalking out of the arena.

  Agnes and Denis looked at each other and burst out l
aughing. It was one of those rare and precious moments in life when laughter takes over, when the body becomes too weak to fight hilarity. They cobbled together a meal of sorts, each working hard not to surrender to mirth all over again. It was an image worth remembering, thought Agnes. With flour on her nose and in her hair, Miss Helen Spencer had looked every inch the angry housewife. It had been fun.

  The party started well. Eva, suitably impressed by her first taste of ‘foreign’ food, sipped politely from her soup spoon. Agnes, who had made the soup from half a dozen stock cubes and three onions, almost suffocated on her own spoonful. Helen pretended to glare at her. ‘Careful,’ she warned. ‘You’ll choke.’

  Denis proved the worst. His silliness took him further than his wife was willing to travel. ‘Helen?’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re a good cook. This is lovely soup.’ The word ‘soup’ emerged slightly crippled, because Agnes kicked him under the table. With the air of an injured angel, he continued to enjoy his strange food. ‘Are we having that game pie?’ he asked, his face framed in innocence.

  Agnes kicked him again.

  ‘I decided on beef,’ replied Helen.

  ‘Good.’ Fred Grimshaw slurped another mouthful of French onion. ‘If I see another turkey butty, I’ll scream.’

  Agnes laid down her spoon. She had taken enough of her Oxo cube and onion. ‘Shall I check the beef and Yorkshires, or will you, Helen?’

  ‘Thank you. You do it.’

  Agnes escaped to the far end of the room. Lucy and George, too polite to say much, were looking at each other in bewilderment. Mags and Harry had eyes only for each other, while Louisa, determined to eat anything and everything in sight, scooped up her soup without comment. It was Kate who broke the silence. ‘This is nobbut Oxo with an onion in it,’ she exclaimed.

  Thus ended the charade. ‘Out of the mouths of babes and servants,’ Agnes muttered from the safer end of the room.

  The story was told by Helen, who was prompted all the way by Denis. Kate hid her face in her napkin, her shaking back betraying uncontrollable glee.

  George stood and pushed thumbs under his lapels, voice imitating that of the judge at whose table he was dining. ‘The defendant must stand,’ he ordered.

  Helen stood.

  ‘Before I pass sentence, may I say how dim a view I take of plagiarism. You have stolen the work of another woman and have passed it off as your own.’

  ‘Yes, m’lud.’ Helen’s tone was suitably subdued.

  ‘Have you anything to say before sentence is passed?’

  ‘Yes, m’lud.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Helen inhaled deeply. ‘I do not know my onions, m’lud. Nor do I know my bain marie from my elbow, if your lordship will permit so bold a statement. I am but a poor serving girl with no brain, no hope and no pudding.’

  George smiled at Lucy, composed himself and carried on holding court. ‘Your sentence will be three years in the Cordon Bleu Prison, Paris – which is in France.’

  ‘Yes, m’lud.’

  ‘This is one of the worst cases I have tried. Yes, it has been very trying. Compensation will be made to every person who has suffered as a result of your French onion soup and you will pay all costs pertaining to this case. Mrs Agnes Makepeace will no doubt take her own measures via litigation. All rise.’

  They rose.

  ‘This court is closed.’

  They sat.

  A shadow in the doorway became flesh. Judge Zachary Spencer walked into the kitchen. ‘Very funny, Mr Henshaw,’ he said.

  Oscar, who had been sitting hopefully by the table, shot out of the room. He didn’t like the big man. Nobody liked the big man.

  George blushed, but made no reply. Lucy spoke in his defence. ‘It was just a bit of fun.’

  ‘Quite.’ Judge Spencer looked at all the people in the room. A mixed bunch, they represented most levels of society, and they had been having fun at his expense. He had paid for the food; he was also the subject of mimicry. It occurred to him that he was the outsider, that he was condemned to look at life through tinted glass. He was alone, had always been alone.

  His daughter – the real one – had managed to carve out a niche for herself. She sat among Henshaws, Makepeaces and others, seemed at ease with them and with herself. Well, she had been at ease before noticing her father. Now, she was staring at him with naked loathing in her eyes. He ignored her, walked into the kitchen, kissed his wife on the cheek, then left the room.

  Silence reigned, the quiet interrupted only by the over-enthusiastic slamming of the vast front door. ‘He’s gone,’ breathed Lucy. She no longer feared that Helen might be untrustworthy; Lucy realized at last the poor woman was the product of a brute and that Helen deserved better.

  ‘I wonder what he wanted?’ asked Louisa.

  ‘A good kick up the backside.’ Fred answered for everyone present. ‘Is that blinking beef ready yet? We’re all dying of hunger.’

  He drove at a furious rate in the direction of Manchester. After travelling so far just to visit his wife, he had found her ensconced with all kinds of idiots in the kitchen. In the kitchen? What on earth was Helen thinking of ? There were servants at the feast, there was George Henshaw trying to be clever with his impertinent imitation of the man who owned the very table at which he was eating. ‘Preposterous,’ he spat.

  The club was tedious. This year, only a handful of geriatric widowers and bachelors were in residence, most of them deaf, some in their delinquent dotage. There was no one to listen to tales of interesting cases, no one who was capable of enjoying a sermon on the legal system. He was bored.

  Oh, well. There was nothing else for it – he would have to take an evening meal in the company of his peers. The conversation would involve symptoms of illnesses, requests for mustard, loud comments on the cardboard consistency of the meat. Some old beggar would break wind at table. Waiters would decide to ignore it, but Zachary Spencer would hear all, see all and say nothing.

  At Lambert House, people were having fun. Zach did not believe in fun, as it wasted time that might be better spent in the furthering of one’s career, yet he had a strong suspicion that he had been missing something. His daughter had looked happy. The other one, basting meat at the cooker, had ignored him. Happy? How happy would Helen be when a son turned up to deprive her of her inheritance?

  He parked the car and entered the club. It smelled of old people, stale food and spilt drink. His own home had been taken from him by Helen, who had invited his other so-called daughter to share in the spoils. Well, it wasn’t over yet. Soon, a son would be born.

  Fred was rubbish at charades. Incapable of acting without speaking, he was sacked in the first round, thereby depriving his team of several points. He said it wasn’t fair, he hadn’t been ready and he’d never heard of the book whose title he had been trying to convey to team mates. ‘What the hell’s wuthering?’ he asked. ‘I can’t wuther. Did she mean wither, that there Brontë woman? Or did she mean weather?’

  ‘Or whether, or whither?’ added George helpfully.

  Fred glared at him. ‘Shut up,’ he ordered. ‘For a lawyer, you’re no bloody use at all. No wonder the court system costs too much. Where do you think you’re going?’ he asked Lucy, who was another member of his team.

  ‘I’m just wuthering off to the bathroom,’ she replied.

  Fred retreated to his chair and grumbled softly about young people not being as they used to be. There was no respect any more and people were getting too big for their clogs.

  Oscar, who had enjoyed many leftovers from the hastily prepared feast, stretched out on the rug in front of the drawing room fire. As the rug had been the stage, charades was abandoned while Helen and Agnes experimented with mulled wine. Fred poured himself a whisky, declaring that he had had enough of being a guinea pig for mulling, wuthering and culinary disaster, so they could leave him out of the mixture.

  Agnes, who was being disturbed by the movements of N
uisance, sat aside from the rest of the party. If Nuisance was going to practise cartwheels, she would need to be near the door in order to reach the bathroom when required. She watched her family – this was her family now. Pop, whom she had loved for a lifetime, continued to argue about wutherings and mullings. He was doing well in business, was content with his second wife, and was always at his most satisfied when involved in a dispute. He was involved at this moment, so he was as happy as a dog with two tails.

  Eva, hoping that no one was watching, was fiddling with a tiny gold-coloured safety pin in an effort to fasten her blouse – a button had shot off into her food, an accident caused by hilarity during the meal. Once her blouse was fastened, Eva dozed by the fire. Pop was old, but happy; Eva was older because of her weight and all those years spent making a living at the top of Noble Street. They were a special breed and, Agnes hoped, not a dying one.

  Helen, her new-found sister who had been the grey, listless librarian, was very much alive this evening. She had ousted her father, had humiliated him in front of many of the people here tonight. Only Pop and Eva remained unaware of the relationship between Helen and Agnes.

  Lucy and George were still blissful. It was a good marriage, Agnes believed. No longer resistant to the approaches of Helen Spencer, Lucy had enjoyed herself this evening. George was quieter, because he was the one who had been caught by the judge while imitating him, yet even he seemed to know that Zachary Spencer’s days were numbered. What would happen, Agnes wondered. When would Helen reveal the ace she held so close to her chest?

  Mags, who had grown into her new nose, stared lovingly into the handsome face of Glenys Timpson’s oldest lad. Agnes smiled to herself. Harry had always been a source of trouble to his mother, yet he had settled into his studies and showed great promise – which fact, Agnes thought, was sufficient to verify the saying about every dog having his day.