The Unbaited Trap

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘You look miles away.’

  ‘Yes.’ He blinked his eyes. ‘Yes, I think I was. This…this couch is very comfortable.’ He moved his head against the back of it. ‘It induces one to relax. But you were saying?’

  ‘Oh, I forgot what I was saying. I suppose I’ve been thinking too. Yes, yes I was. I was thinking we’re going to have a jolly Christmas. I’ve got a tree for Pat.’ She was whispering now. ‘He doesn’t know yet. I’ve got the lights and things, and I’ve had to keep moving them so he wouldn’t find them. I’m going to have it all ready for when he comes in tonight. I don’t like trees set up days before Christmas…’

  She was interrupted by a sound from the direction of the outer landing, of someone singing ‘Good King Wenceslas’, and he watched her spring up from the pouffe, her face alight with laughter, and fling out her hand towards him in her characteristic way, saying, ‘That’s Ted larking on.’

  He watched her as she ran towards the hall, then heard the door open and her crying in mock indignation, ‘No carol singers the day, thank you’; then the man’s voice, deep and pleasant-sounding, singing now, ‘I wish you a merry Christmas, I wish you a merry Christmas, I wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.’

  ‘Get in. Get in. Oh, you are a fool, Ted. Go on with you. Mr Emmerson’s here…Get in.’

  Ted came into the room. He had a wrapped bottle in the crook of one arm and a number of parcels in the other, and he cried to John, who had risen to his feet, ‘Well, hello there. I’m glad to see you better.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s nice to see you again.’ John felt his own greeting sounded too polite and formal. But Ted had turned to Cissie. ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting the bottle into her hand; ‘that’s to be kept exclusively for Irish coffee.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, Ted, thanks, Irish coffee! It’s a long time since we had Irish coffee.’

  ‘And here; these are for the Christmas tree.’ He piled the parcels into her arms. ‘Those two are for you, and those three are for his nibs. And mind, nothing to be opened until tomorrow morning. I was going to play Santa and visit all the beds in the house, but then I thought that if I got into Millie’s and Maggie’s downstairs I would never get out.’

  He laughed heartily, and Cissie laughed with him.

  And John thought, the usual prattle of commercial travellers.

  ‘Oh, it’s good of you, Ted, but you shouldn’t have bought all these things.’

  ‘Aw, go on with you. I’m looking for a free dinner. Anyway, you don’t know what’s in them, so don’t get all effusive until after you’ve opened them.’ He pushed her, then came towards the couch.

  ‘Well, well, I wouldn’t have known you. You feeling all right now, Mr Emmerson?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Yes, I’m quite recovered.’

  ‘By, that was a night, wasn’t it? How’s the car behaving itself?’

  ‘Oh, splendidly.’

  ‘By, I’d give me ears to have one like that.’

  ‘Would you like a coffee now?’ Cissie was leaning over the back of the couch between them.

  ‘Would I like one?…Two, but Irish.’ Ted stretched out his hand and touched her nose. ‘Have you any cream in?’

  ‘Yes, I got a pot fresh this morning; I must have known you were coming.’

  ‘That’s the ticket…Do you like Irish coffee?’ He leant towards John.

  ‘Yes, yes, at times, but I’m afraid I’ll have to be going.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense, Cissie won’t be a tick brewing it, will you, Cissie?’

  ‘No; and do stay, Mr Emmerson. Go on.’

  Looking up into her face, he inclined his head and said, ‘Since you insist, I will.’ He couldn’t help but be aware that his form of speech always sounded stilted, sort of old-fashioned, as if he was of another generation. Well, he might be compared with her, but not with the man.

  ‘Aw, it’s nice to be back.’ Ted stretched out his legs and buried the back of his head in a cushion. ‘You know, I often think of this room when I’m stuck in some dreary hotel. It’s funny but I never visualise my own place downstairs, although it isn’t bad, but this room has something special, don’t you think?’

  ‘I do indeed. Yes, indeed, it’s a beautiful room. I’ve never seen so many good pieces of furniture in one room before. I’ve told Mrs Thorpe so.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But if they were just egg boxes I’m sure Cissie could do something with them, make them home-like. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do. Do you travel much in your work?’

  ‘Yes, length and breadth of the country. I didn’t used to when I worked for Randalls, but I changed over last year. This is a new paint firm I’m working for and I’m pushing it, it’s all very uphill but the prospects are good. They’re pleased up top with what I’ve done this year and they’re talking about me training representatives.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good; it should make you feel very pleased.’

  ‘Aw, I don’t know. Do you smoke?’ He pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘No thanks; I gave it up about a year ago and I’m trying not to start again.’

  ‘I wish I could. But as I was saying, it’s funny the things that please you. If this opportunity had come up ten years ago I would have been over the moon, but now…well. You’ve got to have somebody to work for.’ He turned his head towards John. ‘Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re right there.’

  ‘I used to work like stink when I was young, but I picked the wrong job.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, you seem to have made a go of it.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I have in one way, although I’ve had to pay for it. It’s cost me my family.’

  John made no comment on this and Ted went on, ‘You, being a solicitor, come across my case every day in the week I suppose: wife left too much on her own, goes after other blokes. But it wasn’t quite like that in my case, until me daughter married.’

  ‘You have a married daughter?’ There was genuine surprise in John’s voice.

  ‘Yes, she’ll be twenty-one this month. And I’ve a son nineteen. After the girl married, Gladys, that’s my wife, told me bluntly she’d had enough. Of course, I knew she’d had enough for a long time, and I knew what had been going on, but when you have two kids and want to keep a home together and give them some sort of a chance you close your eyes to lots of things. The boy went into the air force; then, as I said, Claire got married, and what was there left for us? But she said nothing about a divorce until a few months ago, and now that’s going through. So there you are.’ He spread his hands wide. ‘As they say, that’s life. But, you know, they can have it for me. I’m forty-six and I’ve been on the road since I was nineteen…life!…Still’—he sat up and pulled at his waistcoat—‘here and there you meet one of the rare ones.’ He now thumbed over his shoulder towards the kitchen. ‘The best there is.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘They don’t come any better. You take my word for it.’ He now leant towards John. ‘You believe me?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do.’

  ‘She’s rare.’

  ‘Yes, as you say, she’s rare.’

  It did not appear ludicrous to him that he was discussing the qualities of this young woman with this strange man. For weeks now he’d had a personal view, an unprofessional view, of how the other half lived, and in this moment he felt an active participant in their way of life, and the candour, the honest unpretentiousness of it, appealed to him.

  Cissie now came into the room with the tray, and John got to his feet, and she said to him, ‘Sit down, sit down.’ But he took the tray from her and put it on a side table.

  ‘I’m going to let you put your own cream and brandy in it.’

  ‘Good idea. Let me get at it,’ cried Ted.

  When they had each helped themselves to the brandy and the cream, they sipped at the coffee in silence, their eyes moving from one to the other. Then John said, ‘Excellent, excellent.’

  ‘Haven’t tasted better.’ Ted
winked at Cissie and jerked his head. Then putting the cup sharply down on a small table she had placed to the side of the couch, he cried, ‘Aw, I’ve got a funny one for you, priceless. It’s about two spiritualists…’

  Perhaps it was something in John’s face that checked his flow, for now he turned to him and said, ‘Oh, it’s all right, it’s clean. It’s funny, real funny, but clean. I’m not the kind that ladles out muck to women.’

  John wanted to say that he was sure he wasn’t, but he remained silent, his face slightly flushed, as Ted, addressing himself solely to Cissie, began:

  ‘Well, it was like this. There were these two spiritualists, and they made up their minds, a sort of pact, that whoever died first would try to get in touch with the other, because they believed that they would change form once they died and they wanted to pass on the gen. Well, Johnnie was the first to go, and Bill set about his stuff. He tried, and he tried, and it was a long time before he made contact with his pal, but one day, after saying, “Are you there, Johnnie? Can you hear me, Johnnie?” he heard Johnnie’s voice coming through, saying, “Yes, I can hear you, Bill.” “Aw, good,” said Bill. “By! I’ve had a hard time contacting you. Where are you, Johnnie?”

  ‘“Oh, I’m in a wonderful place, Bill,” said Johnnie, “wonderful. It’s hard to describe to you, but it’s simply wonderful.”

  ‘“No kiddin’,” said Bill.

  ‘“No kiddin’,” said Johnnie. “The weather’s perfect. Sun all the time. You’ve never seen anything like it. And the food, man…there’s lashings and lashings and lashings of it…As for the women. Oh, boy! Dames never-ending.”

  ‘Bill could hardly believe his ears, and in an awe-filled voice he said to his late pal, “Johnnie, it sounds marvellous. And it’s done something to you; you sound changed. What are you really now, Johnnie?”

  ‘“Well…” said Johnnie. “I’m a bull in the Argentine, Bill…”’

  John watched Cissie’s head go back as she laughed. He himself knew that he was expected to laugh, to roar; he made a good pretence at it, widening his mouth and covering his face with his hand. And as he did so he listened to Ted’s rollicking mirth and his voice choking on ‘A bull in the Argentine! A bull in the Argentine.’

  The inference of the joke, its masculinity and virility, touched him on a spot that was painful. He hadn’t ever cared much for jokes; and jokers, the type that spouted the tales that bred the club-room guffaw, had always been distasteful to him. As he looked at Cissie again he felt that she hadn’t really enjoyed this joke either, and he was glad. He understood that women, when they got going, could out-do men in their relating…of good ones. He had never been able to imagine women telling each other dirty stories, yet he knew that they did. But, as Ted had said, this wasn’t a dirty story, yet he felt it was unsuitable for mixed company.

  ‘Going to have another coffee?’ Ted was leaning towards John now, and John knew that the man was aware of his feelings about the joke.

  ‘No thank you. No thank you. It was delightful, and the brandy very good indeed’—he nodded towards him—‘but I must be getting along.’

  As he got to his feet Cissie also rose, saying, ‘It’s a shame you’ve got to go so soon.’ But as she spoke she went towards the hall, adding, ‘I’ll get your coat.’

  After some seconds, when she didn’t return to the room, John held out his hand to Ted, saying, ‘Well I hope you’ll have a good Christmas and enjoy the rest.’

  ‘Thanks, and the same to you; the same to you.’

  As John reached the room door Ted’s voice came at him loudly, ‘Mind, if ever you want to get rid of that beauty of yours, remember me, won’t you?’ and John looked over his shoulder, smiled, and said, ‘Of course, of course.’

  Cissie was standing in the hall near the door, which seemed to indicate that she wanted him to leave by this way, and he felt strangely hurt, she had never done this before. She held his coat ready in her hands, and he made a small movement of protest when she went to help him on with it. Then handing him his hat she said softly, ‘Thank you for your present. I still feel you shouldn’t have done it, but thanks all the same. And I do hope you have a good Christmas.’ Her hand came out to his and he took it. It was the first time they had shaken hands. It was also the first time he had consciously touched her. His eyes were blinking rapidly, and he said under his breath as if he was whispering some endearment, ‘And you too.’ He relinquished his hold on her hand and she opened the door, and again they looked at each other.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Emmerson.’

  ‘Goodbye. Goodbye.’

  As he went down the stairs he pulled on his trilby. It was a good job he had been holding it in his hand, for if his two hands had been free he would surely have clasped hers with both of his. Yes, it was just as well he had been holding his hat.

  Back in the hallway Cissie stood looking at her hand. For such a soft-spoken, quiet man he had a firm grip. She laid great stock by handshakes. She never trusted the jelly-like handshaker or those who tried to wring your fingers off. The latter were usually big-heads. But his handshake had been firm with a kind of tenderness about it. She liked him. Oh, he was a nice man, such a nice man.

  She went into the room to Ted. By, it was going to be a nice Christmas.

  Five: The Joke

  There were three Christmas cards on the mantelpiece. They had been chosen for their lack of ostentation. The only other indication of Christmas that Ann had allowed play in her lounge were three red candles. These were arranged within a floral display, termed, apparently because of its meagreness, Chinese.

  There were no crackers on the long dinner table, such signs of low-class frivolity would have been quite out of place. The table displayed the usual glass and silver, the latter supplemented on this occasion by two candelabra. The candles they held were of a delicate cream colour, their wicks as yet unsinged.

  The men stood around, with drinks in their hands, waiting for the ladies to come downstairs. The male company was made up of James Wilcox, Arnold Ransome, and the junior partner, Michael Boyd, together with Laurie, and John himself. On occasions such as this it was very often Laurie who enquired of the guests their different tastes, then passed round the drinks; but tonight his father had forestalled him.

  When they all had glasses in their hands, and had told each other how boring they had found Christmas, which attitude seemed to be the right one to take with regard to this festive season, there fell upon the company, as is often the case, a quietness. It was the kind of quietness which tells a man that he must do something. So when young Boyd and Arnold Ransome spoke together it was as if they had combined to create a unique witticism, so loud was the laughter that ensued.

  ‘Go on.’ Still laughing, Arnold nodded towards Michael Boyd, and the young man, knowing his position, shook his head, saying, ‘No, no, it was nothing. You first.’

  ‘Oh, well, I was just going to say I heard old Rawlins speak the other night at a dinner in Newcastle and wondered if you had heard him, John?’

  ‘Yes.’ John nodded. ‘A long time ago. But never at a dinner, mostly from the Bench, and I dreaded being on the receiving end of his rapier tongue.’

  ‘I bet, I bet. I’ve never heard him in court, as he’s been in London for years, but I can imagine it. He had the whole place roaring. And can’t he imitate dialects. He told the case of an Irishman who had been brought up for fighting on St Patrick’s Day and assaulting a policeman. And he talked as broad as any Irishman I’ve ever heard. Apparently a priest had come to speak up for the man…Oh, if you had heard him doing the priest. I could never imitate him, but he went something like this: “Yer Honour, Shane O’Grady is a peace-lovin’ man; he’s at his duties every week, an’ he’s sober in his habits. But you must remember, yer Honour, that this happened on St Patrick’s Day, and for anyone to question the land of your origin on such a day is an insult.”

  ‘“Would you enlighten me?” said old Rawlins.

  ‘“Well, it’s
like this,” the priest said. “When a countryman of his, who had not long since landed, asked him if he was English green or Irish green he saw red. For your information, yer Honour, I’ll explain. There are Irish Catholics and English Catholics and as God knows they both adhere to the green, but it’s the Irishman that knows that the dye in the green of the English Catholics is not to be compared with the real thing, if you know what I mean. So the doubt put upon his true colour was too much for Shane, and he up with his fists and down went his countryman. But there were no hard feelings, it was just unfortunate that the polis man should come along at that moment, and that he shouldn’t happen to be of either dye, an’ blood, as you know, is thicker than water, and green, yer Honour, whatever its shade, is thicker than blood.”’

  They all roared.

  Still laughing, Laurie took a sip from his glass. He could tell a story could Arnold. What was that one he had heard the other day about the tax inspector and the brewer. He was searching his mind rapidly for the telling point of the story when he heard his father say, ‘I heard a funny one too about an Irish priest the other day.’ Only in time did he stop his mouth squaring from his teeth, but his eyes narrowed as he gazed in astonishment at the man standing with his back to the high hearth looking down into his glass as he began to tell the story. His father, to his knowledge, had never told a yarn in his life; he would have said he wasn’t capable of telling a story. There were men who could tell stories, and there were men who couldn’t, and his father was one of the latter.

  ‘Well, there was this Catholic priest who fell off a six-floor building, and as he dropped rapidly past five of the stories he prayed like nobody’s business to be saved, but when he came to the sixth he suddenly made the sign of the Cross and shouted, “Oh, my God, now for the bloody bump.”’

  James Wilcox was laughing. He didn’t want to laugh, but he was laughing, while in the back of his mind he was saying to himself, ‘Ah, I was right about that night. He may have been ill but he’d had a skinful nevertheless, and he’s been at it again today or I’m a Dutchman…Emmerson telling a joke!’