‘Well, you’d never seen him drunk.’
‘No, that’s right.’
‘You’re blaming me for…for what happened?’
‘No, no I’m not.’ He went swiftly to her and put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Don’t be silly, dear. Of course I’m not. I felt I could have slain him myself when he didn’t come back to dinner after all the work that you’d put in.’
‘It was James, James that said he was drunk. The whole situation put him in his element, it gave him a handle.’
‘A handle?’ He seemed to be picking up the conversation from last night when Val had said, ‘Poor Aunt Ann. It was her turn to score.’
‘Well, anyway,’ she stretched her thin neck and tilted her chin upwards, ‘he’s found his mistake out this morning. I hope he feels silly.’
Laurie patted her shoulder and turned away, saying, ‘I suppose I’d better go in and see him.’
‘Yes. Yes, do.’
Out on the landing he paused. It was true what she had said: old Wilcox had acted as if he’d got a handle over them when he thought his father was drunk and had been in a scuffle. He’d likely seen it as the beginning of the steep road down. He could almost hear him in the club, commenting on it. ‘Pity. Pity. But I’ve expected it for a long time. He’s always been an odd bloke, has Emmerson. Deep, I could almost say furtive. And he’s had cause to be for he’s been on the secret drinking line for years. But now it’s out…The one I’m sorry for is Ann. Fine woman, fine woman. She was one of the Coopers, you know, Bailey & Cooper. Yes, yes, the shipbuilders. Of course the Coopers have gone down over the years, dropped out of the firm some time ago, but still they were people of note in the county at one time. And what did she do? Marry Emmerson, a farmer’s son. Oh yes, quite a decent farm, but after all they were only tenants of her father. It never pays. It never pays. I’ve seen it again and again.’
Laurie rubbed his hand tightly over the side of his head, shutting out Wilcox’s voice, then pressed his fingers on his eyeballs for a moment. He was all at sixes and sevens this morning; he hadn’t slept well last night, in fact he hadn’t got to sleep until two o’clock, for he had been troubled about another member of the Wilcox ménage. He had been thinking about Valerie and himself, funny thoughts, odd, disturbing thoughts. He drew in a long breath, then walked slowly towards his father’s door, knocked gently, and went in.
He felt awkward; as awkward as he used to be when, as a boy, he tried to talk to this man. It was a strange facet in their relationship that when he was away from him he could think and speak of him as his father without feeling unduly disturbed, but when he was physically close to him, as now, he was filled with feelings of resentment, and dislike, above all with the knowledge that he despised him as a man.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Oh.’ John smiled at his son, the same smile that he had given to his mother, the smile that rarely spread his mouth beyond the edge of his teeth. ‘I’m all right. There’s nothing wrong.’
‘You want a holiday.’
‘It’s only two months since I had one.’ The smile remained stationary.
‘What I mean is, a long one, six months.’ He heard himself speaking in an abrupt manner. It was always like this.
‘Yes, yes.’ John nodded. ‘I’ll take a year off some time.’ It was meant to be funny, and with anyone else Laurie would have picked it up and said, ‘Well now, that’s what you want to do, take a year off. And you can you know. The business won’t drop to bits because you’re not there.’ Instead, he said, and politely, ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No. No, thanks.’
‘I’d stay in bed today.’
‘Yes, I’m going to.’
‘I’ll look in and see you later.’
‘Thanks.’
On the landing, Laurie pulled at the collar of his dressing gown as if it was tight, then went on into the bathroom. He wanted to be sorry for him but he couldn’t. Did that mean there was something lacking in himself? Because this man could stir no good emotion in him, no feeling that should be between a father and son—a good father, because by all the rules of the book he was a good father—did it point to the fault being in himself?
He slipped off his dressing gown and stood looking at his naked body in the long mirror, and not for the first time he was thankful that he did not see before him a replica of the man across the landing. He was two inches shorter than his father, being five foot eleven. His body had no bulk about it or superfluous flesh as was on his father’s. He was cut to a symmetrical pattern; his shoulders were broad, his hips were narrow, his whole body looked hard and compact. There was hair between his breasts, and a little on his legs. The hair on his body had remained fair, while that on his head had turned from blond as a boy, to light brown as a youth, and was now shades darker. He opened his mouth and drew his fingers down one cheek, then the other, feeling the heavy stubble on each. He could never understand why, with a mother as beautiful as his, he hadn’t inherited one feature of her face, but he hadn’t. His face was the same shape as his father’s, and his features almost identical, yet, on his father’s face they resulted in a soft, insipid look, while, on his, the combination looked pugnacious. He’d always been thankful that was so.
The tinkle of the breakfast bell came to him, and brought a picture of Stringy standing at the bottom of the stairs, the bell in her hand. He was still staring at himself in the mirror when he said aloud, ‘Once I’m married I won’t hear that.’ He could see them scrambling their breakfast at a service counter in the kitchen; then Valerie would dash into her Mini and away to school, and he’d take a bus down to the office, for they wouldn’t be able to afford two cars; and he’d as likely as not have to clear up before leaving. He didn’t like the picture at all. His life up to now, under his mother’s management, had been ordered and gracious. They lived as few people lived today, and, once he left this house, the pattern of his life would alter drastically. Valerie could scoff at ‘Dinner-at-Eight’, but, for himself, he was more than partial to it, and all it embraced. This might not be as important as the issue made plain to him beside the barn last night, but it had its place.
Three: Mother and Son
‘Mam, I heard a funny one yesterday.’
Cissie Thorpe, standing at the sink, with her hands in the soapy water, stopped rubbing at the hardened yolk of egg on a plate, and, letting her head fall back on her shoulders, opened her mouth wide before she called into the next room, ‘Tell it me. Come on, tell it me.’
There was a scrambling sound, and the boy came into the kitchen in a hunched position, attempting to tie his shoe lace as he walked. Just within the kitchen door he dropped onto the floor and hastily knotted the lace, then getting to his feet, he came to her side and looked up into her face and laughed. ‘Well, it was like this,’ he said. ‘There was a Catholic priest fell off a six-storied building, a big high one.’ He demonstrated with his hands. ‘An’ he prayed all the way down past five of the stories that he’d be saved, but as he passed the last one he made the sign of the Cross—you know, Mam, like Catholics do’—he demonstrated again—‘and he said, “Oh, my God! Now for the blooming bump!”
‘Ooh! Pat.’ She had her arms about him and he had his arms about her, tight round her waist, his head down and pressed into her stomach, and they rocked together. Then leaning against the sink and pushing him from her, she said, ‘Tell it again, I must remember this one for Ted. You know I forget half of them you tell me. Who told you that one?’
‘Barry Rice. An’ he’s a Catholic an’ all, Mam…Well, like I said, there was this Catholic priest…’
She was still laughing loudly when she turned to the sink and started to rub at the plate again, and she said now, ‘But you shouldn’t say my God! It’s like swearing.’
‘Well, I don’t say it, Mam, just when I’m tellin’ the joke.’
She raised her eyebrows and smiled to herself as she looked out between the frilled curtains of the window to
where she could see a silver streak beyond the roofs and chimney tops, the river with the sun shining on it. It was a grand morning, crisp, frosty, bright. She tossed her head back to get her hair from the front of her shoulders, and asked, ‘What you going to do this morning?’
‘I was going round to Mr Bolton’s to see if he wanted any jobs done.’
She looked at him over her shoulder, her face straight now, saying, ‘You’ll get wrong, you know. You’re not supposed to work yet, so be careful.’
‘He always keeps me in the back, weighing up, nobody sees me.’
‘Well, that’s all right. And Pat,’ she turned round as he was making for the room door, ‘what you doing this afternoon?’
‘I was going to play football on the pitch.’
‘Will Tim Brooks be there with the others?’
‘I suppose so.’
As she watched his chin move downwards, she hastily dried her hands and went towards him, and, dropping onto her hunkers, she held him by the shoulders, her face level with his as she said, quietly, ‘Pat, you’re not going round with him again, are you?’
‘No, Mam. ‘Struth.’ His head went lower and his eyes screwed up tightly against her scrutiny, and his voice mumbled as he said, ‘He comes up to me and talks, and hangs on. I dodge him…I dodge him all the time.’
‘Well, go on dodging him.’ For the first time there came a stern note into her voice. ‘Now listen to me.’ She shook him gently. ‘Go on dodging him. Don’t be seen talking to him. Just remember what nearly happened. That boy’s bad.’
‘Ah, Mam, he’s—’
‘Don’t tell me what he is, Pat. He’s bad. You just take my word for it, he’s bad…Promise me you’ll steer clear of him.’ There was pleading in her voice now.
‘All right, Mam, don’t worry.’ He smiled, and the smile had an adult quality about it. It could have been a smile of understanding on the face of someone twice his age. ‘I’ll do what you tell me.’
‘Good boy.’
She bent forward and kissed him, and they clung together for a moment before, pushing him on the side of the head, she said, ‘Go on now. And mind, don’t stuff yourself with bruised fruit. Remember your tummy last Saturday night.’
‘Oh, aye. Coo, yes!’
She walked behind him, through the long room and into the hallway, and from a narrow wardrobe she took out his coat and scarf, and as he put them on he grinned up at her and said, ‘I’ll eat nothing but the best the day, so I won’t have the belly-ache.’
Again she pushed his head, then opened the door, and he was away.
She listened until the sound of his footsteps faded at the bottom flight of stairs. Then closing the door she sighed and lifted her arms high above her head and stretched. Aw, Saturday morning. She loved Saturday mornings. To be in, do what she liked. She could lie in on Sunday too, but Sundays were different. The shops weren’t open on a Sunday, and there were few people about, whereas Saturday was a live day. She liked live things.
She went into the long room again and looked about her. Everything that met her eyes gave her a feeling of satisfaction, and she sighed. Then stretching her arms above her head again, she planned her day. She would finish the dishes, then tidy up. Not that there was much to do. She had worked at the place until after twelve last night. That was her usual Friday night routine so that she could have Saturday free for herself and Pat. Then she would have a bath and go out and do some shopping. What would she get for dinner? She stood with her back to the fire, legs apart, her hands joined behind her head, and looked up to the ceiling. He liked sausages. But he was getting too many sausages; she’d get something more substantial this weekend. Chops, chump chops, and a bit of kidney, and one of those small chickens for tomorrow, yes. She swung round swirling her dressing gown into a tent, and as she gathered up school books and magazines from the couch and banged up the cushions she began to sing: ‘I love you because you understand me and all the little things I try to do.’
She was singing while she had her bath. She was singing as she put on her make-up and dressed herself; and when the bell rang she didn’t stop singing as she went to the door to answer it, for it would be either old Bill Locket, or Clara, or Miss O’Neill. It wouldn’t be Mrs Orchard, because she always worked up till one on a Saturday, and it wouldn’t be Ted because he wasn’t expected back yet.
But when she opened the door it was no-one of these.
She gazed at the tall, heavy man with the grey hair. Then her mouth falling open, she exclaimed, ‘Why! Why, I didn’t know you. Come in. Oh come in. Are you better? Well, you look better.’
As she closed the door he said, ‘Yes, thank you, I’m quite recovered.’
‘Come on in. Come on in.’ She was walking sideways away from him now, her arm extended towards the room, and he followed her. But within the room his step was checked with amazement at what he saw. He couldn’t remember any part of this room, although he knew he had been there.
‘Sit down, sit down.’ Again her arm was extended, but towards the couch now. ‘I was just going to make a cup of coffee, would you like one?’
‘That is very kind of you. Yes, yes, I would.’
She turned away, almost at a run, then turned back again, saying, ‘Oh, I am glad to see you looking better. My, you did give us a scare that night, you looked so ill. Have you been in bed since?’
‘Yes. Yes, for the last few days; the doctor thought I should have a rest.’
‘I’d say you needed it.’ She shook her head slowly at him, then said, ‘I’ll just put the milk on, I won’t be a tick.’
She was the same as he remembered her. He hadn’t been able to get her face straight in his mind, and yet now he knew her image had been there all the time. But he had remembered her voice clearly, that airy, bright, warm voice. A caressing voice. A deluding voice, because it had that quality about it that made others think they mattered to its owner. During the last few days the memory of her voice had stayed with him, the tone, one of concern for a sick man. Yet he was no longer sick, and the quality he remembered was still there; it hadn’t been imagination. And now this room. He hadn’t remembered anything about the room, and if he had, and had remembered it as he was seeing it now, he would certainly have put that down to his imagination. He looked at the walls, papered deep blue, a sort of midnight blue he supposed they would call it, and dotted all round the room were pieces of antique furniture. Almost opposite to him at each side of one long window was a pair of Sheraton mahogany card tables with satinwood bands down the legs. He turned his head to where she had disappeared into the kitchen and saw a double-pillared dining table with a set of Hepplewhite chairs around it. On a small grand piano in another corner stood a pair of inlaid tea caddies he took to be Regency.
It was fantastic, the whole room seemed full of antiques. He knew about these things, he had been brought up among similar things. A number of pieces like these were still in the family. Some in his elder brother’s house in Oxford, and others in his sister’s in Dorset but to see stuff like them here, in a top-floor flat and belonging to this girl…woman…young woman—he hadn’t got her right in his mind yet with regards to age—seemed utterly out of place, out of character. Yet why, why should it?
‘There, it won’t be a minute.’ She came hurrying towards him, as if she wanted to hurry towards him. And when he rose to his feet she said, ‘Oh, please, sit down.’
She did not sit on the couch but on a pouffe near the fire, and then she said, ‘Now tell me all about it.’ And as she did so she lifted the tongs and took a large piece of coal from a bright copper coal scuttle. ‘There.’ She dusted her hands as if they were dirty, and gave him her whole attention. ‘What was it? A heart attack?’
He smiled at her. ‘Well, a little lead-up I should say. The doctor wasn’t quite sure himself, as I was better when he came.’
She shook her head at him. ‘I thought about you all night after you’d gone. Just imagine, if I hadn’t put the ice-cream up on t
he roof. You could have been there all night and died, it was bitter.’
‘I suppose so.’ His head moved slightly.
‘You suppose so! I’m sure of it.’
‘Well, I’ve got you to thank for saving my life.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that.’
‘I know you didn’t. Nevertheless, I’m grateful. That’s what I came to say.’
‘Oh, but you shouldn’t have bothered about that. Oh, not that I’m not pleased to see you, I am, but you know what I mean.’
Again they nodded.
‘The coffee will be ready now.’
He turned his head and watched her this time as she went towards the kitchen. She was tall, almost as tall as himself, slightly taller than Ann he thought, and somewhat of her build, even thinner, but so different, oh, so different. She was mobile. Yes, that was the word that described her, mobile, every part of her body, while Ann was all repose, repose without rest. Repose that frightened you and stretched your nerves to screaming point.
‘I’ve done milk ‘cos I like it white; perhaps you prefer it black?’ She was hurrying towards him again, carrying a tray.
‘No, I like half and half.’
When he took the cup from her hand he said, ‘You’ve got a very beautiful home.’
‘You like it?’ Her wide mouth stretched, showing large white teeth, apparently all her own, for one at the side was overlapping another, and one at the bottom showed a sign of stopping.
‘Yes, I…I don’t think I’ve seen so many pieces of antique furniture together in one room before, except in a sale room.’
‘Perhaps it is a bit overdone.’ She looked around the room now, her face unsmiling, and he put in hastily, ‘Oh, no. No, I wasn’t inferring that; I think the pieces are beautiful and the arrangement equally so. Oh, please believe me.’
The Unbaited Trap Page 5
