The Unbaited Trap

by Catherine Cookson

  He looked towards her as he said now, ‘Would you like a drink?’ His voice, no longer hearty, had a tentative sound to it.

  ‘No. No thanks.’ Her body made a nervous movement. Then sitting down abruptly on a mushroom-coloured couch, she leant her head back and after a moment said, ‘Yes, I think I will, after all. Just a small one.’

  He went into the dining room and beyond the table, and to what looked like a corner cupboard with a carved counter roughly hewn out of a length of oak standing in front of it. When he opened the door of the cupboard, there was displayed a sparkling array of glasses and bottles. The bottles started from floorwards, and the glasses from above his head, all graded sizes and all standing on their particular shelves. He took down two and placed them on the counter; then lifting up a bottle of sherry, he filled the glasses and carried them down the room to the couch. After handing her a glass, he stood with his back to the fire and again the silence descended on them. With the second sip from his glass, he asked quietly, ‘What are we having tonight?’ It didn’t really matter to him what they had, he wasn’t very interested in food—he’d had to learn to eat less and less to keep his bulk down—but she spent a lot of time thinking up menus for her dinners, and again he felt it was expected of him to be interested.

  ‘Oh, nothing elaborate.’ She shook her head. ‘Sole with wine sauce, and pineapple ham and apple rabbit, with the usual accessories; then French pears.’

  Nothing elaborate, she had said. There’d be about six vegetables, and a sauce with everything, and wines in their right places, and a platter with eight different cheeses. Nothing elaborate! And all for the Wilcoxes, whom she saw at least every other day.

  The Wilcoxes had been her friends for years, long before he knew her. She and May Wilcox had gone to school together and had remained inseparable since, but a battle for social supremacy had grown up between them, and the giving of little dinners such as was to take place tonight was part of that battle. Nothing elaborate! If May’s dinners started with shrimp cocktails or hors d’oeuvres you could be sure that in his house those items would not be allowed on his table for many months.

  In this covert and genteel battle his wife, John knew, had always been on the winning side, whether it was planning a meal, or being re-elected chairman of a committee, or organising the coffee mornings. That was, until James Wilcox promoted himself from the position of assistant accountant in the firm of Baxter and Morton, to starting a business on his own. This was achieved by the sudden death of his father-in-law, a widower who had dabbled more than a little in property. Following this unexpected rise in their fortunes it became obvious that May Wilcox could no longer be tactfully patronised, so the battle between the two friends had become more balanced.

  But the battle, John had thought of late, had reached a point where a definite cease-fire must be called, for the implements of it had moved from dinners to interior decorating, and he had the strong feeling that the next choice of weapons was going to be headed mink. Yet he was aware, from experience, it was one thing to decide the line he must take, and quite another to carry it out, for he knew, and she knew, oh yes she knew, that he owed her this one outlet.

  As he emptied his glass there came the sound of a deep laugh, a guttural, jolly laugh, from the direction of the hall. John did not look towards the door but kept his eyes on his wife’s face. At one time her face had brightened when she heard that laugh. It was as if a light were shining under her skin and illuminating her eyes, yet since the wedding date had been fixed between their only son and the daughter of her dearest friend the light in her face had dimmed. She could have been overjoyed that her son and her closest friend’s daughter were going to cement their parents’ friendship, but she wasn’t. She had never said one word to him that would betray her feelings for her future daughter-in-law, but he knew that she didn’t like the girl. But there, would she like any girl who would take from her the one thing that had made life bearable?

  When Laurance Emmerson came into the room he was still laughing. ‘Hello there,’ he said. He included his father in the greeting, but only just. Then without pausing he went on, ‘Stringy’s priceless. Talk about the honour of the house. “No-one can do pineapple ham like the missus.”’ He was mimicking now. ‘“Are you suggesting that my future mother-in-law is not a good cook?” said me. “Ain’t suggestin’ anything, merely telling you.”

  His laughter rose as he flopped onto the couch beside his mother. Then gradually it faded away. But his face still showed his merriment as he bent towards her and kissed her cheek, saying, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ She kept her eyes on him.

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘Just a little; nothing that a bath won’t cure.’

  He turned his head and looked towards the dining room. ‘Looks wonderful.’ He was gazing at her again, his eyes tender and full of concern. ‘You are tired,’ he said. ‘Go on up now and have a rest. You’ve got a good hour-and-a-half; go on with you.’

  As he pushed her gently his father went out of the room, and he turned and looked towards the door, after which he sighed and lay back, his head leaning towards his mother’s.

  He always felt better, more relaxed, when his father wasn’t about, although nowadays his presence didn’t affect him as it used to, for he had come to the conclusion that there was nothing in his father to be affected by. He was too colourless, too inane—too gutless. Yes, that was the word that summed up his father. It was hard to believe that a man so big could make so small an imprint on others. Yet they said he was good in court, that he talked well. It was a pity he didn’t make use of his legal versatility at home; it would make things a little more lively for his mother. He wondered how she had stood it all these years. The big bulky quietness of him, his soft voice, and that soundless laugh. Why didn’t he laugh, really laugh? It was odd, but he had never heard his father laugh outright in his life.

  He now put out his hand and picked hers up from where it was lying by her side as if waiting. Without moving she said, ‘What kind of a day have you had?’ She was sitting with her eyes closed.

  ‘Oh, the usual…You know, between you and me old Wilcox is a pompous beast; he makes me sick at times.’

  ‘Ssh! Ssh!’

  ‘Well, no-one can hear us.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. If you think it, don’t say it.’ She moved restlessly. ‘It’s a pity you ever went into his office. But then, you didn’t know he was to become your father-in-law, did you? Perhaps you should have gone in for law after all.’

  ‘No. No.’ His cultured, pleasing voice was gruff now. ‘Not law for me.’

  She remained quiet for a moment. It was as if he had said, ‘What! Be like my father.’

  She moved restlessly again. ‘Once you’re married he may offer you a partnership.’

  ‘I’m not banking on it; if that was in his mind he would have broached it before now. He loves to be top-dog and have a lot of little puppies running round his heels.’

  ‘Ssh! Ssh!’

  ‘Don’t keep saying Ssh! Ssh!’ He wagged her hand, and they laughed softly together.

  ‘Does Valerie know how you feel about him?’

  ‘I think she guesses.’

  ‘He’s very fond of her. When once you’re married she’ll likely persuade him to…’

  ‘Oh, no, she won’t.’ He sat up and turned to face her. ‘Look.’ He wagged his finger like a pendulum before her face. ‘I don’t want any favours through my wife. Don’t forget that where Papa Wilcox is today is solely because of Mama Wilcox’s favours, and she’s never let him forget it.’

  ‘Oh, Laurie, don’t be silly. And don’t call May Mama Wilcox; you might come out with it sometime without thinking.’

  ‘Oh, that would be too bad. But I’m not being silly, and you know it. He’s the big boss in the office, but out of it…Oh, boy! Who wears the trousers in the house, and who keeps the finger on the purse strings? I know what I know, dear Mama.’ He nodded at her, smi
ling broadly now. ‘Anyway’—he pulled himself up from the couch—‘there are other jobs. If he doesn’t make himself plain about my prospects at the end of another year, well I can always move.’

  ‘You wouldn’t leave…leave the town?’

  He turned to her where she was sitting on the edge of the couch staring up at him, and he put his hand out and gently touched her cheek. ‘No. Don’t worry, I won’t go far away. There are at least four other accountants’ offices in the town…Anyway, I may set up on my own. All I need to do is pinch a few clients and rent an office.’

  She lowered her eyes and dropped her head as if in shame.

  ‘Come on.’ His voice was cheerful, bracing. ‘Upstairs you go, and get ready for the fray.’

  He still had her by the hand as they entered the hall, and there saw his father crossing it with a briefcase in his hand.

  ‘I’m…I’m going back to the office for a little while.’ John looked at Ann and she looked up to the half-landing at a clock encased in a gold-starred frame, like the home of the eucharist in a Catholic church. ‘It’s twenty-to-seven,’ she said.

  ‘I won’t be more than half-an-hour. I want to collect some papers. The case was finished today; I told you. And I…I want to tidy up.’

  ‘They’ll be here about quarter to.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be back before then.’

  ‘You’re not changed.’ She looked him up and down.

  ‘It won’t take me long. I’ll give myself half-an-hour. I’ll be back on time.’

  As he went out of the door into the lobby, he knew that they were both watching him. He got into the car and drove out of the drive onto the road, not taking so much care of the frost now, which was much harder.

  After turning out of the avenue, he drove down the lane which still clung to the country, then on to the main road, past the park; past Brampton Hill, that mansion-studded hill, a relic of bygone days, a hive now of building speculators, who vied with each other to see how many flats they could get out of a house; past the old town, bordering on Bog’s End; past the new town, with its brash shopping centre; over the main bridge that spanned the river; and to Greystone Buildings.

  Greystone Buildings consisted of five four-storied houses. They had been built by one Arthur Greystone, in 1874, primarily as dwelling houses for better-class citizens, men say, who worked in Newcastle and could afford to drive there by coach and pair. The only remaining evidence of this particular splendour was the coach houses at the back now making admirable garages. Four of the houses in Greystone Buildings were taken over as offices; only number ten still carried out its primary use, and this had been turned into four flats.

  John’s office was in number eight, and somewhere within him, unacknowledged but nevertheless known to be there, was the fact that this house spelt home to him more than did ‘The Gables’, 74 Lime Avenue.

  His fingers trembled as he inserted the key in the Yale lock. The hall into which he stepped was the usual office hall, bare but for a list of slotted names in an oak board attached to the wall, and it had that dreary air that seems to permeate most solicitors’ offices, at least the entrance to them. He went up the brass bound stairs, past the door marked Enquiries, up another flight, past a number of doors here, one with a nameplate on which said ‘J. A. Ransome’, and another ‘M. O. Boyd’. Then up a third flight of stairs to the top floor.

  There were three doors on the top floor. One bore his own name, a second led to a storeroom, and the third to an antiquated lavatory with an equally antiquated washbasin.

  As a young man he had been put on this top floor, and together with two other clerks he had shared the one large, chilly room. When, in the course of years, he received promotion and the staff was moved round, he asked to stay on the third floor. There had been nothing unusual in that request, for he was still not very important, but now, as head of the firm he should have been occupying a room on the floor below, the one his junior had, but he had stated a preference to remain on the third floor. This had been considered odd, and, what was more, not good for business. Influential clients were used to lifts; there were no lifts in Greystone Buildings and never likely to be.

  Yet people climbed the stairs to the top floor and business grew so much that at times he passed work on to his less fortunate colleagues in the town.

  The room he entered was warm from the central heating. It looked what it was, an office, but a comfortable one. It had a good carpet on the floor, four large leather chairs, and a great mahogany desk. One of the walls was covered by a high glass-fronted bookcase, and round the remaining walls were a collection of prints, some sporting, some so faded that their pictures were hardly discernible.

  He switched on the metal angle-poised desk light, then returned to the door and switched off the main light.

  After this, he lowered himself slowly into one of the chairs; then, with his hands covering his face, he sat perfectly still. He shouldn’t have done it, come back here. And so little time. But he felt he would have gone mad had he stayed in the house. After he had changed he couldn’t have stayed upstairs until the others actually came, and if he had gone downstairs, there they would have been, the two of them, holding hands, or laughing with each other, or talking over his head. He couldn’t stand it much longer, he would go mad. Would it be better when he was married and out of the house? No, it would be worse, because then she would be entirely lost and he’d feel her agony and not be able to lift a hand to ease it.

  But he shouldn’t have come out tonight. He knew what stock she laid on these dinner do’s. That’s all she asked of him: to be there at the head of the table when she gave her dinners. He knew, too, that in her own way she was grateful to him if he smiled and talked and generally made himself agreeable. And he always tried, knowing that the one fear of her life was that the state that existed between them should ever become public knowledge.

  He was sure that even May Wilcox knew nothing whatever about the pattern of their real life. The Wilcoxes just considered him a quiet, withdrawn sort of fellow…Did Laurie talk to Valerie about the situation in the house, a situation that had not altered from when he was a small child? No; somehow he didn’t think that Laurie would discuss his mother with anyone, not even his future wife. At least he would say nothing that might cause her to probe his mother’s façade, that well-bred, cultured, ready-for-any-situation façade that effectually hid an intolerable situation. Instinctively he knew that his son was as protective of his mother’s image as was she herself.

  But he must get home. Why the devil had he to come out tonight of all nights? He’d take the papers and do some work later after they had all gone.

  His hand dropped from his face to the arm of the chair, and he went to rise; then stopped, one leg stretched out, one shoulder forward. Slowly now he brought his hand towards his ribs and held it there, and after a moment, during which he remained still, he asked himself how long it was since he’d had a turn. About two months. But this could be indigestion; that lunch had been too heavy…He’d get into the air; he always felt better if he could get into the air. But he couldn’t drive the car like this. Get up, get up, he said to himself. Take it slowly. But he remained stationary, and it was some time later when he moved.

  He hadn’t taken his overcoat off, just his hat, but he did not pick it up, nor yet put the desk light off when he got to his feet.

  On the landing he slowly turned the key in the lock, put the key case in his pocket, and went towards the stairs. There was a good light over the stairs, it picked out every step down to the next landing, but as he stood with his hands on the top of the balustrade he knew he couldn’t go down them. He closed his eyes and went back to his door and stood leaning against it for a moment, his breathing short and sharp now. He would have to get air, he wanted air. The roof. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Of course the roof. He went slowly past the storeroom door, past the lavatory door and towards eight steps wedged in the corner of the passage, which mounted up to a
fanlight. He had only to stand on the bottom step to release the bolt that secured the glass frame. When he stood on the second step his hand pushed the frame upwards, and from the third step his head came into the open, and the frame dropped back on to the roof none too gently. He leaned his arms on the flat roof now and bowed his head as he gulped at the air, and after a while he slowly drew himself up to the roof proper. That was better; that was better.

  He knew the roof as well as he knew the room down below; it had been a sort of bolt-hole to him for years. In the summer he kept a deck- chair up here. Sitting with his back to the chimney, he could look over the town to the river, and beyond to the fells, to that part which hadn’t as yet been encroached on by housing estates. He considered the view from the roof one of the pleasantest in Fellburn.

  But there was no chair up on the roof tonight, so he stood leaning with his back to the chimney breast for a moment before making his way to the low stone parapet that was the only barrier between the houses. Then sitting on it, he bent over and rested his elbow on the top and cupped his head in his hand.

  There was a wind blowing, a gusty, rough, iced wind, but it didn’t affect him, for he was sweating. He could feel the moisture running down under his shirt.