The Unbaited Trap

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘I haven’t an idea.’

  ‘Another china cabinet.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’ And to this she added, ‘Come on down and see how you like it.’

  And like a boy climbing into a cave, into an Aladdin’s cave, he went down her steps and into the long room again, and, of all things that morning, she had finished up by playing the piano to him.

  He had noticed the open piano and the music on the stand and had remarked, ‘You play the piano, Mrs Thorpe?’

  ‘Oh, play it,’ she said in her airy way; ‘I should be able to, I learned long enough. My mam put me to it when I was five, and I passed all my exams up to the advanced stage of Trinity College, but to tell you the truth I’ve no touch. Technically I’m all right, but my teacher used to say my fingers were like hammers. She used to say they were all right for Beethoven, but, you know, I don’t like Beethoven, I like Mozart or Chopin. You always like the things you’re not fitted for, don’t you?’

  She hadn’t to be coaxed to play; she had played for him and given to the music her own interpretation. Perhaps her touch was slightly hard, perhaps an authority on music would have writhed and tried to shut his ears to certain passages, but as he sat on the couch, his head resting in the corner of it, his eyes focussed on the mantelpiece where stood, in artistic isolation, the jade figure of a Chinese lady, her playing had soothed him, stimulated him, and excited him. Here was this girl who not only lived with beautiful furniture, but who knew and appreciated it, who could sit down at the piano without any fuss and play. What else could she do? She appeared to him at that moment like an uncharted island, mysterious, alluring…This girl whom Ann, without a moment’s hesitation, would have dubbed common.

  That particular morning before he had climbed the ladder to take his departure she had looked at him, her expression and whole manner serious, as he was finding it could be at times, and she said to him, ‘Don’t think this is cheek, or that I’m being forward or anything, Mr Emmerson, but you’re welcome here any time you’ve got a mind to drop in. I’m always in on a Saturday.’

  He had thanked her for her invitation with a gravity similar to that with which she had made it, and although during the following week he had told himself that he must not go into her house again, the next Saturday morning found him, like some furtive lover, kneeling on the roof, tapping at her fanlight.

  During his first three or four visits they had been alone together, and he couldn’t now recall anything they had talked about. Then one Saturday morning the old man, Mr Locket, came up, and this had made him ill at ease, but only for a short time, because he realised that Bill Locket had not been at all surprised to find him here. Yet this fact, when he came to think about it later, disturbed him.

  Bill had stayed about half an hour, drunk four cups of treaclish tea, given him an insight into the workings of the gasworks, by which company he had been employed until his retirement. Together with his version of why the last war had gone on for so long, and lastly a whispered appreciation of their hostess, who left the key for him under the mat, so that when his wife was out he could slip up and make himself a pot of tea.

  This generosity on Cissie’s part, and the necessity for Mr Locket to avail himself of it, was explained by Cissie after the visitor departed. Clara, Mrs Locket, had to make ends meet, but, in her efforts she not only made them meet, but managed to make them overlap. Clara was careful. She bought a certain quantity of tea each week, and that had to last them. The irony of it all, Cissie had explained, was that Clara’s saving was to enable her to leave something to her only son, who was in Canada and apparently comfortably off. People were funny, weren’t they, she had said to him. And he agreed heartily with her…people were funny.

  Then last week Mrs O’Neill had dropped in.

  Mrs O’Neill’s presence really had disturbed him; women always put the wrong construction on things. Mrs O’Neill was jolly and laughed a lot, and on that occasion she had seemed determined to outstay him. And he hadn’t imagined it was because she enjoyed his company.

  He had come across Cissie again this morning, in Danes’ store, at the perfume counter of all places. She had been profuse in her greeting as if they had known each other for years. ‘After Christmas boxes?’ she had said. Yes, he had replied, that was what he was after. She said she liked lavender water, it was so refreshing; and he agreed with her; and this after receiving very little change out of a ten-pound note for a bottle of perfume.

  The thought of the perfume brought his eyes to the chair, and he rose and took the small package out of his case. As he stood looking at it lying in the palm of his hand he hoped she would like it. He didn’t know what perfume she used; there was always a fresh smell about her, but he didn’t associate it with anything in particular.

  He went hurriedly into the washroom now, washed his hands, smoothed down his hair, stroked his nose, moved one finger to each side of his upper lip, and he was ready.

  He had to make his way carefully over the roof. Heaps of last week’s snow were still lying frozen hard in the corners, and the roof itself was like a sheet of glass.

  There had been no arrangement for leaving the fanlight open, no arrangement whether or not he should come down if he heard voices, nothing surreptitious about his visits, but he tapped gently on the fanlight before opening it, and when he stood in the hall he called gently. ‘Are you there Mrs Thorpe?’ She was still Mrs Thorpe, and he was still Mr Emmerson.

  ‘Yes. Come on in. I won’t be a minute.’

  He went into the long room which now held an enchantment for him. There was something about it that cried to him of home as no other room had done since, as a boy, he sat before the fire in the big farm kitchen surrounded by the close unity of his family.

  She put her head round the kitchen door and smiled widely at him as she said, ‘Sit yourself down. I’m trying to turn a blancmange out without breaking it; I won’t be a tick.’

  He had taken off his hat, but he never took his coat off until she asked him. He sniffed at the air. There was a Christmas smell pervading the room, and as he sat down he called to her in a soft voice, devoid of the heartiness that he used to Mrs Stringer, ‘Something smells nice. Are you roasting your goose?’

  ‘No, no,’ she called back, ‘not till tomorrow. And it’s a turkey. I’ve been making brawn this morning.’

  ‘Oh, brawn.’ He was looking towards the fireplace, his eyes on the leaping flames. She made brawn. He had never heard of anyone making brawn since his mother had made it; he thought everybody bought that kind of thing now, there were at least three cooked meat shops in the main street.

  ‘There.’ She came hurrying towards him. She was wearing a deep mauve coloured woollen dress, and round her waist she had a pink apron. Her fair hair was tied back, young-girl fashion, this morning, with a ribbon; her arms were bare past the elbow. The whole sight of her hurt him.

  ‘Well, it’s nearly here. I’ve done as much preparation as if I’d ten bairns. Anyway, it only comes once a year.’

  Because it was she who had said the threadworn phrase there was nothing trite in the remark.

  ‘Why don’t you take your coat off? I’m always telling you.’ She put her hand out, and he rose from the couch and took off his coat. But as he gave it to her he exclaimed hastily, ‘Just a minute; there’s something in the pocket.’ When he withdrew the small parcel he looked at it for a second before handing it to her and saying, ‘I hope it’s right. A Merry Christmas.’

  ‘For me? Mr Emmerson, you shouldn’t, now you shouldn’t…Oh, but thanks.’

  ‘You haven’t looked at it yet, it might be a cracker.’ He watched her intently as she undid the brown paper, then the expensive-looking coloured tape with which Danes’ always wrapped up their goods, and when she came to the plain oblong box with the simple word ‘Chanel’ written across it she stared at it for a moment, then looked up, her dark eyes moist, her whole face drooping in soft lines. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed under her bre
ath. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have done it. Not Chanel, it costs the earth. Oh, Mr Emmerson.’

  He saw her body sway slightly towards him, and for a second he thought she was going to kiss him. It was a terrifying second. The anticipation checked his breathing, and when the movement of her body stopped it was her hand that touched him, and there swept over him a feeling of relief, yet mixed with it a sense of loss and a wide emptiness. But it wouldn’t have done. No, it wouldn’t have done, the little voice was piping at him. If she had kissed him that would have been the end of their association. He wanted this to go on for ever, the way they were now, but it couldn’t have gone on if she had kissed him, because he would…What would he have done? What?…Told her? Yes. Yes. Strange, but he could have told her. She was the one person in the world he had met whom he could have told, and in the telling he knew that he wouldn’t have been enveloped in shame.

  ‘I’ve never had Chanel. I’ve always wanted it, mind you, and I could have bought it for myself many times over, but I wouldn’t afford it. It must have cost the earth; look at the size of the box.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ His voice was a little hoarse as if it had been affected by the raw fog from outside. ‘It’s a very small appreciation for all your hospitality and kindness.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ She folded her arms around his coat while she held the bottle in her hand, and she gazed into his face as she said, ‘Anything I’ve done for you you’ve repaid a thousandfold. I’m going to say it now…I’ve never met anybody like you, not to talk to. What I mean is, outside of business. I meet men like Ted, who prattles, and my husband wasn’t much of a talker. No.’ She shook her head now and repeated, ‘No he wasn’t much of a talker.’ He felt her words conveyed something other than what they said; her face was in its rare unsmiling state. ‘And there’s been the music. I’ve never had anyone to listen to me before. I play for myself sometimes, but it’s different when you’re playing for somebody else…And then the books. Oh, I’ve read novels of all kinds but I’ve never read an autobiography until you mentioned they were your favourite reading.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should have got you a book or two?’

  ‘No. No.’ She flapped the hand at him that held the scent. ‘I can get them from the public library.’ Her head went back and she laughed, and clutching the bottle to her again, she cried, ‘Oh! my scent. Oh! won’t I smell lovely.’ Then, ‘You’re so kind,’ she finished. Solemnly she turned from him and went into the hall with his coat, and he watched for a moment before sitting down again. One small present—and compared with what he gave Ann it was small—yet what a difference in the reception and the thanks.

  ‘What are you doing over the holidays?’ she asked as she came back into the room.

  ‘Oh, the usual thing. Tonight we go to my son’s fiancée’s place. That’s been the usual procedure for years, even before they got to know each other…at least well. Then tomorrow we don’t have dinner until the evening, when we have a few personal friends in.’ He felt somehow as if he were excluding her by saying that, and he put in quickly, ‘I must admit I don’t enjoy it very much, I mean dinners and things.’

  ‘Do you go to many cocktail parties?’ Her head was on one side.

  ‘For my sins I have to attend a few, but if I can get out of them I do.’

  ‘I suppose you’re kept at it every night at this time of the year; I’ve never known such a town as this for parties. Everybody seems to want to throw parties. I’m going to one on Boxing Night; one of the girls in the office is having a do. I don’t care very much for parties. Too many people saying nothing, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do. I do. And I go to one on Boxing Night too,’ he inclined his head towards her. ‘My partner’s having a do, so we’re both going to suffer, though I must say that Mr Ransome’s do’s are more bearable than most.’

  She sat down on the pouffe at the side of the couch and said musingly, ‘You know, I think Christmas is overdone, it’s just become a racket for the shops. Would you believe it?’ Her eyes widened. ‘I’ve spent over twenty-five pounds on Pat.’

  Twenty-five pounds!’ he repeated. ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘But, I’ve bought him things that’ll last, like a set of encyclopedias.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sensible.’ It came to him at this point that he’d forgotten to buy the child anything, and he said, ‘I didn’t know what to buy him but I thought a little extra pocket money wouldn’t come amiss, not if I know boys.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Emmerson, you mustn’t. No, you mustn’t. After buying that scent, no, you mustn’t.’

  He was about to protest again that it was nothing when there came the sound of a door opening and Pat came in from the hall in a rush.

  ‘Oo! Mam. Coo, it’s cold! Hello, Mr Emmerson. Oh, Mam, I’m freezin’. How long’s dinner going to be? I’ve got to go back to Mr Bolton’s this afternoon, he’s up to his eyes in orders. He let me off at eleven ‘cos he had to get the place cleared afore I could do any more, and…’

  ‘All right, all right.’ She hadn’t moved from the pouffe, and when he came round to her side she put her arms about him and pressed him to her as she said, ‘One thing at a time, and I’ll answer one thing at a time.’ Again she hugged him to her, and bouncing her head at him and laughing she said, ‘Yes, it’s cold, and dinner won’t be ready for another hour, and I’m glad you’re going back to Mr Bolton’s this afternoon. Go on now into the kitchen and have a sausage roll; that will fill up the space until dinner time. But, mind you’—she pushed him from her—‘no more than two. I said two, mind. I’ve counted them.’

  The boy grinned at John, and John grinned back at him, and as he ran towards the kitchen he cried, ‘You said two and two, that’s twenty-two, twenty-two sausage rolls.’

  She looked at John and shook her head and was about to make some comment when Pat’s voice came from the kitchen door, muffled now with food, saying, ‘Forgot to tell you, Mam, Ted’s back…Saw his car outside the stables.’

  ‘Oh is he? Oh, that’s great. He said he’d try to make it. Now he won’t be stuck in some hole by himself for Christmas.’ She looked at John. ‘He gets lonely. Commercial travellers do, you know. People wouldn’t believe it, but by what Ted tells me it’s one of the loneliest occupations on earth.’

  He watched her face intently as she talked. She was pleased that the man was back; what were they to each other? It was not the first time he had asked himself the question, and he gave himself the same answer now as he had before. It was nothing to do with him. She was a young woman, free, and could live her own life. Nevertheless, as before, the answer increased the loneliness within him.

  ‘I’m off to play for a bit, Mam,’ called Pat. ‘All right?’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But don’t be long.’ Then turning back to John, she continued, ‘That’ll mean we’ll have a bit of fun over the holidays. Ted being back. They’re all coming up, the others you know, Miss O’Neill, and Mrs Orchard, and Mr and Mrs Locket; but it wouldn’t be the same without Ted; he makes things go, he’s got that way with him. As I said, he prattles, but he’s funny in company.’ She leant towards him. ‘I…I suppose you wouldn’t like to come in one evening when…?’ She straightened up and ended quickly, ‘Of course you wouldn’t. You’ll have all your spare time planned over the holidays.’

  He caught her statement as an excuse and said, ‘Yes. Yes, my wife generally works out all my spare time.’ He widened his eyes and shook his head as if it was funny, and she smiled understandingly back at him.

  Quite candidly he told himself that even given the time he would never accept an invitation to join in one of these gatherings, informal and natural as they were—and there was a craving in him these days for the informal and the natural. The small voice told him he was going beyond the bounds of propriety in visiting her at all. In the beginning he had hoped to keep his visits secret, yet he had acceded to this in one way only, by coming over the roof. Even this, he felt, w
as proving more clandestine than if he came boldly up the stairs, for his visits were known to the other inhabitants in the flats. And what if they put the wrong construction on things? It wasn’t the first time he had put this question to himself, and again he shied from giving himself an answer.

  In his work he dealt with all types of cases, among which divorce was frequent, and slander not infrequent. The latter, in nine cases out of ten, was dealt with privately. Slander always started in a whisper. That was no legal phrase, he had first heard his mother use it. He wondered now if there was already a whisper going through the building. He had been vitally aware from the morning Ann had come into his bedroom, after hearing through May that he had really been ill the previous evening, and not drunk, that Mrs Orchard could quite easily start a whisper about him. Yet he felt certain that if she had said anything to her mistress, May would have passed it on to Ann quicker than a shot from a gun.

  For the past few weeks he had been holding his hands out towards a flame; and that was all he told himself he ever meant to do, just hold his hands towards the flame and feel the comfort of it. Yet how many people would believe him? And could he expect anyone to look upon his motives as altruistic? He would find it hard to take this view were he surveying such conduct in someone else. If a client in the same position were to say to him, ‘I didn’t stop seeing her because my conscience was clear. There was nothing between us but friendship, just friendship,’ he would smile at him, his professional smile, and reply quietly, ‘The public don’t want to hear about clear consciences, they don’t want to know about the good people, they’re only interested in the bad, and once they get a smell of any kind they follow it, hoping at the end they’ll find something rotten. That is human nature.’