Mags, Harry and Helen were becoming distant memories. The geographical space between them was a factor, though separation had begun before they had left Lambert House. It was probably because of the accident. Harry, who had passed his driving test just before the explosion, could have been the driver, but Denis had taken the judge to Morecambe Bay and Denis had died. That was not Harry’s fault, though he had shouldered a form of guilt, and, probably for that reason, he and Mags had followed Helen to Hastings.
In spite of his position in the legal world, Judge Zachary Spencer had died intestate, so all property and monies had gone by default to Helen and Millie. Helen, in typical fashion, had managed to divide everything into three parts, for herself, Millie and Agnes. Should Lambert House be sold, that money, too, would be split in a similar fashion.
But no one had wanted the house. Agnes could not understand why. She had spent nights there, had experienced nothing, yet she had been forced to listen to complaints from tenant after tenant while wild stories were told. No, they hadn’t actually seen or heard anything, yet stuff moved. The furniture remained in situ, but smaller, personal items disappeared all the time, only to turn up later in improbable places. The house was dark and often chilly, they said. Agnes had never found it to be dark. One tenant pointed out that the place became lighter and warmer every time Agnes entered it, but that was foolishness, surely?
She played with a crossword, read the headlines, then fell asleep. Morecambe was miles behind her when she woke. Oh, Denis. How could the pain continue after thirty-nine years? Why did his raincoat still hang from the hall stand with that ancient brown-and-black-checked scarf? She had never let go, had never said goodbye, had remained half a woman. Perhaps the burial of a body might have made things easier to accept, though she doubted that, too. He had been her soulmate and she had lived nearly two-thirds of her life without him to keep her warm and safe.
The bus dropped her outside the house and she entered by the front door. There was no one to greet her, no human, no animal, no sound. The television filled the void and she sat, still wearing her coat, to stare at a bouncy young woman making garden features. The young woman was not wearing a bra and her hair kept falling over her face. She spoke loudly and dragged bits of grey, dried wood hither and thither, her plan to make a Chinese garden in an English suburb achieved within five heavily edited minutes.
His photograph was on the mantelpiece. Pop and Nan were there, too, along with Pop and Eva, then Albert and Kate, who had lived next door. They were all gone now, of course. Agnes had inherited Bamber Cottage, had sold it and was living comfortably on her savings. What was this card about? She stared at the item she had picked up on her way in, fished out reading glasses and saw Ian Harte’s name and telephone number with a message. He was a surveyor and he wanted to talk to her about selling Briarswood. Agnes sighed. She had changed the name and the decor, yet still no tenant had endured beyond six months. Haunted, indeed. Oh, well, she would phone the man in a day or so.
As if reading her thoughts, the instrument rang out. It was Lucy. She was going round the bend with boredom and stated her intention to visit the next day. ‘Heard from Mags?’ she asked.
‘No,’ replied Agnes.
‘I’d never have believed she’d stay out of touch,’ Lucy complained. ‘We were all so close, weren’t we?’
Agnes sighed. A lifetime ago, she had married the sweetest man in the world, and Lucy had married her George, who had been the second sweetest. Mags and her new nose had been joined in wedlock to Harry Timpson, who had become a very successful accountant. Then, suddenly, it had all gone awry. ‘Morecambe was cold again,’ she said.
‘Isn’t it time you stopped going, Agnes?’
‘No. You can put flowers on George’s grave, but the sea is all I have when it comes to Denis. Yes, get your old bones round here tomorrow. I’ll go mad, butter some bread and open a tin of soup.’
She decided to unpack in the morning, made her way upstairs and, after the necessary preparations, climbed into a bed that had seen better days. She would never part with it. On Denis’s side, the old pillow remained. She had worn out several of her own and had replaced them, but she kept his and changed its cover twice a week. For a while after he had gone, the scent of him had lingered, but he was all swallowed up now, obliterated by time and by the fact that few of the current neighbours remembered him.
‘It just goes on, come what may,’ she told the luminous dial of her alarm clock. The ticking and the turning of pages in a calendar continued, no matter what. She remembered the day, felt the baby in her arms and the chill travelling the length of her spine. He should not have gone to work, should have stayed at home after the previous day’s troubles. But he had gone and nothing would ever bring him back.
Denis remained the same as ever, young and handsome in various frames around the house. Agnes, still straight and fairly strong, had silver in her hair and lines on her face. She was not afraid of ageing, was not afraid of death. All she feared was this continuing emptiness, the silence, the isolation. All she wanted was to be part of a family, but David was too far away and Denis was long gone.
Never mind. Lucy would be here tomorrow.
Lucy bustled in with fish and chips. ‘I didn’t get any mushy peas for me,’ she said, ‘they give me wind in the willows.’
They sat at the kitchen table, each leaving many chips uneaten. ‘One portion between two next time,’ said Lucy. ‘Never mind – it saved you opening a tin and buttering bread.’
In the living room, they played Scrabble for a couple of hours. Lucy, who had become an addict, manufactured some improbable words. When challenged by her partner, she came up with the inevitable Chambers dictionary and proved herself right. ‘Shall we go to the pub?’ Agnes asked as dusk fell.
‘No. It’s full of thirty-year-olds with prospects.’
‘And credit cards.’
‘Exactly. I can’t recall the last time I was in there. Remember Helen’s first game of darts? I reckon they had to plaster three walls after that. Anyway, I have come with a cunning plan.’
‘Ah.’ A cunning plan was typical of Lucy, who still continued to be the naughty child. ‘What is it this time?’
Lucy grinned. ‘It’s time we had another Hastings adventure. We won’t tell them we’re coming, eh? I can book us into a hotel and we’ll get fed and watered with our own money. Then we just turn up at the house and surprise them.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
Lucy sighed heavily. ‘Look, we were the three graces for long enough – brought one another up, we did.’
It was Agnes’s turn to sigh. ‘I just feel we’re not wanted. Helen said she would do what she saw as her duty by me, then that was that. I even had the DNA done to prove that we share blood, which took ages – it’s harder to prove siblinghood than parenthood. But I had to do it before accepting all that money and a share of the house. She’s stubborn, but so am I. I had to hang on until DNA technology had been refined before accepting the money, but she never touched my share. She waited for the test, then made me a rich woman, and that was the end of it. If they wanted us there, we would have been invited, Lucy.’
The visitor scowled. ‘Time we had it out with Mags, then. She just buggered off without so much as a by-your-leave – we hadn’t done anything to deserve that, had we?’
‘I suppose she knew we were surprised when she married Harry. He turned out OK and we all like him. But we’re not wanted.’
‘Why, though?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve told you for years that I don’t know.’
But Lucy had made up her mind. Agnes, who knew that Lucy could be rather direct and indiscreet, had to agree to the plan. She wasn’t going to allow Lucy to barge in and start a war – Hastings had seen enough of that in 1066. ‘All right, but you’ll have to behave.’
Lucy pretended to pout. ‘You mean I can’t wear my crocheted wedding dress and high boots? Do I have to be sensible?’
‘Yes, you do.’
They parted company just before the six o’clock news. Lucy returned to her converted barn, while Agnes stared at trouble in the Middle East and decided that religion was a bad thing. Wars had been fought in the name of Jesus Christ; now people quarrelled over another prophet. Even the Jews, whose Messiah was still awaited, couldn’t sit still and behave themselves for five minutes. She shook a fist at the television and turned to a cable channel. It was chewing gum for the mind, but it got her through another evening spent in the company of soup, sandwiches and silence. Broadcast sound made the house seem occupied, and she was fast becoming a fan of soaps and comedy series. But such luxuries were a poor substitute for a family. Yes, she would go to Hastings, because time, the great enemy, needed to be filled. And she must remember to phone that surveyor.
‘What did you say?’ Mags leaned over the bed and waited for an answer.
‘The parcel. As soon as I go – post it.’
Mags blinked away yet more tears, wondered how much more saline she could possibly produce. ‘Are you sure?’ What good would it do? What was the point, after all this time? Helen was fast losing her hold on life, and Mags was her sole attendant. This stubborn patient had refused admittance to hospital and had banned all visiting nurses. The doctor who handled Helen’s drugs was allowed begrudgingly to attend the bedside when the drip needed checking. All other callers were turned away from the door. Helen, having been given little choice in the early years of her life, was taking full control of the end. ‘Try not to think about it,’ Mags urged.
A travesty of a smile stretched parchment-thin skin. ‘What else would I think about?’ She often thought about Millie, although she didn’t want to, as Millie had been spoiled to a point where she considered herself to be the centre of the universe. Helen’s sister, who, because of the age difference, had been more like a daughter, was not here to support the woman who had guided her through life. Millie was on the point of divorcing a second husband and had no time for visits while chasing a third. ‘I was not a good guardian,’ said the woman in the bed.
‘You did your best. No one can do more than that.’
‘She’s selfish.’
‘So are my sons. Don’t dwell on it. And yes, I shall post your parcel when the time comes.’
‘Thank you.’
When Helen had succumbed once again to morphine-induced stupor, Mags crept out of the room and descended the stairs. Away from Helen, she managed not to cry, choosing instead to tackle stained bedlinen and other daily chores. The cancer had travelled at lightning speed through the poor woman’s body; she had days to live and Millie didn’t seem to care.
As she filled the washing machine, Mags thought about the Helen she had met almost forty years ago at Lucy and George’s wedding, remembered her pain, her brief flirtation with alcohol, her vulnerability. Thought skipped ahead to Harley Street, the new nose, her own marriage to Harry Timpson. Harry had made a good job of himself, though his nerves had never been in top condition. Mags knew why. The knowing why had brought her here, to Hastings, had separated her from Agnes and Lucy, the two people who had been her constant companions through childhood, adolescence and into adulthood.
Helen had forbidden Mags to inform Agnes of her illness and imminent death. Mags, having returned to work after her sons had grown, had now retired, but caring for Helen had become a full time job. She no longer went home at night; Harry, too, slept at Helen’s house. His blind loyalty to Helen Spencer would stay with him until the day she died.
Mags was bone weary. Although Helen had become slight after the ravages of disease, the task of moving and changing her was taking its toll on her carer’s health. ‘I’m too old for this,’ Mags told the wall. ‘I should be knitting for my grandchildren.’ She should also be up north. Hastings was a good place, but it wasn’t home. Living on the hem of the sector known as Bohemia, she had made friends among writers and artists, many of whom were interesting, some of whom were precious posers and unloved. Now in her fourth decade as a resident, Mags knew every house, every fishing boat, every spire, castle and battleground within ten miles of the town. But she still wanted to go home.
Harry appeared. ‘How is she?’ were his first words.
‘The same.’
He banged a briefcase onto a side table. ‘If she were a dog, she’d be humanely destroyed.’
‘But she isn’t a dog. What we did for Oscar can’t possibly be done for Helen.’
‘No.’ He studied his wife. ‘I’m going to take a few weeks off work. Let’s face it – I should have retired by now. I’ll help you. You look like you need a rest.’
‘I can’t rest. And you know why. None of us can rest while we know what’s coming.’ She shook her head. Harry was already on the highest permitted dose of an anti-depressant. He would probably have fared better at work, but there was no point in arguing and she was too tired, anyway, to start a discussion on a subject that was already worn thin. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said.
But he was up and out of his chair before she had finished speaking. The kettle clattered and cups were banged onto a tray. Mags simply stared at the wall. It was all going to happen and she dreaded the outcome. Helen Spencer was on the brink of death and Mags, acutely aware of the promise she had made, would abide by her word. It would be a repeat of the Battle of Hastings, but nothing could be done about that.
A picture of Agnes and Lucy suddenly insinuated its way into Mags’s exhausted brain. Oh, for the chance to talk to Agnes, to prepare her for what was about to happen. She sat with her head in her hands, elbows on the table, mind in turmoil. For Helen, death was going to mean an end to all troubles; for those she would leave behind . . .
‘Shall I take some tea upstairs?’ Harry asked.
Mags sat up straight. ‘She won’t drink it. I’ve been wetting her lips with a bit of ice. She’ll be needing no more tea, love.’
He sat opposite his wife. ‘Not long, then?’
‘No. Could be today, tonight, tomorrow – I’ve no idea.’
‘And Millie?’
Mags shrugged. ‘Mucking about in London as far as I know. She dumped the dentist and she’s chasing a stockbroker. I think she’ll become one of those serial monogamists.’
Harry attempted a joke. ‘I thought she was a physiotherapist.’
Mags shook her head. ‘She’s a bloody pest, that’s for sure.’
‘Aye, she is. Oh, I bought a bit of fish for a change.’
Mags pretended to frown. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it? Fish in a fishing port?’
‘It is,’ he replied. ‘Especially when ninety per cent of it goes to Captain Birds Eye or some such frozen person. Do you not fancy fish?’
She closed her eyes. She fancied fish and chips Lancashire style, nice, smooth batter beaten by her dad, chips fried by her mam at Bradshaw’s chippy. She fancied eating from newspaper on the moors, drinking dandelion and burdock from the bottle, wiping her hands on grass. ‘I want to go home,’ she said quietly. Mam and Dad weren’t there any more, but she still needed to be in Lancashire with Agnes and Lucy. ‘Retire, Harry. We’ll go home and face the brass band.’
His face was ashen. ‘I’m scared.’
‘So am I.’
‘I did what I did for Helen.’
‘Yes.’
‘But it was wrong.’
‘I know. At the time, there seemed little choice.’
They drank tea in silence, then Mags went to prepare the fish for supper. She was worried about her husband, about the poor soul upstairs, was still homesick after going on forty years in the south. Someone rang the front doorbell, and she heard Harry walking down the hall. When he returned, he was not alone. Mags dropped a knife. ‘Agnes,’ she whispered. ‘Lucy – when did you get here?’
‘Yesterday,’ answered Lucy. ‘We’ve done all the compulsory things, just as we did last time we came. We’ve done Battle, the Shipwreck Centre and the Fishermen’s Museum. I still say we would hav
e won if King Harold hadn’t been worn out after York.’
Agnes saw the expression on Mags’s face. ‘Mags?’
‘Hello.’
‘What are you doing in Helen’s house? Is she all right?’
‘No,’ replied Harry. ‘She’s on her last legs.’
Mags dried her hands on a tea towel. ‘She hasn’t been on her legs for weeks, Harry.’ She turned her attention to her two friends. ‘She’s got cancer. It’s a nasty one. It travels express and takes no prisoners. There’s nothing to be done apart from palliative care. She refused to go into hospital or into a hospice, so I look after her. Harry helps all he can.’
Agnes leaned against a wall. ‘How long?’ she asked.
‘Any minute now.’ Mags sat on a straight-backed chair. ‘Helen forbade me to contact you. She said you’d suffered enough and she didn’t want to put you through this.’ Mags could not mention other difficulties that would surely arise in the very near future.
Agnes’s jaw hung open. She could not think of anything to say.
Lucy waded in, of course. ‘Agnes is her sister. She should have been told.’
For once, Mags stood up to Lucy. ‘When a dying woman expresses a wish, I listen. Isn’t it time you did the same – time you listened, I mean? Hear yourself, Lucy. Think about what you’re saying before allowing the words out of your mouth. There – I’ve waited years to say that.’
It was Lucy’s turn to have a slack jaw.
Agnes left the room and made for the stairs. Apart from her son, she owned but one living relative, and her sister was about to die. There was Millie, of course, but Millie was too busy crossing the pond to buy shoes on Park Avenue, or, when she was in London, chasing someone else’s husband, to count. Panic fluttered in Agnes’s chest. Poor Helen. She had never married, yet she had been a mother to the ungrateful Millie, had devoted her life to the child.
Lucy stared at Mags. Mags had changed. ‘So, you’re standing up for yourself at last, are you? I’ll go and look at Helen—’
‘No you won’t. As you just said, they’re sisters. They haven’t seen one another for God alone knows how long – let Agnes have some time with Helen alone.’
The Judge's Daughter Page 33