The Unbaited Trap

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘The boy has done something. He helped to interfere with a girl. Isn’t that something?’

  ‘But your father won’t be judging him for that, he’ll be judging him because his daughter’s future father-in-law has slipped up.’

  She took a step backwards and her pert face became stiff, and she surveyed him with cold eyes for a full minute before she said, ‘You’re an ungrateful sod.’

  She said the word sod in such a way that it was deprived of some of its coarseness, but nevertheless it caused the muscles of his face to twitch. She often used that word sod and he didn’t like it, and she knew he didn’t like it. She now grabbed up the papers that she had placed on the desk and stalked towards the door, saying, ‘I’ll see you when you’re in a better frame of mind.’

  He heard her pause in the hall to pick up her coat, but he made no effort to follow her. He sat bent forward, his hands between his knees. The feeling of rage was increasing in him. His father would be the laughing stock of the town; they’d all be a laughing stock. But if this had been going on for months, as it must have been, his father supposedly didn’t mind being a laughing stock. Nor, apparently, did he mind jeopardising his position in the town, but the contemplation of such an eventuality was driving his mother to the verge of a mental breakdown.

  That his mother should be thrown over for some loose piece and become the object of pity to her friends was unbearable to him. There were those who would say, ‘Poor Ann,’ but who would glory in her downfall, and among those who would derive private satisfaction from the situation he included her dear, dear friend, Aunt May. It was very odd, but at this moment, this particular moment, he loathed the Wilcox family more than he did his father, and that was saying a great deal. And this did not come as a revelation, it was something he had been trying to disregard for a long time. But now he was facing it.

  He sat on in the same position, waiting, listening for his father coming in. He felt sick at the thought of seeing him. He’d want to hit him; he pictured himself pushing his father’s big flabby body up against the wall and slapping out right and left at his pale face. How in the name of God had he the nerve to go after a woman …

  When seven o’clock came John hadn’t come in; nor yet when the clock reached half-past. During the last half-hour Laurie had walked between the lounge, the study, the dining room and the kitchen a countless number of times, finally ending up in the kitchen.

  ‘What is it, Mr Laurie?’ asked Mrs Stringer. ‘Are you worried about Madam?’

  ‘No, Stringy. Look.’ Turning to her with an impulsive movement he said, ‘I know you should be off but can you stay a little while longer?’

  ‘Yes. Long as you like.’

  ‘I have to go out and I don’t want to leave Mother alone. I may be only half-an-hour, but it might be a little longer.’

  ‘Don’t hurry. Don’t matter what time you get back as long as you run me home.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Stringy. Thanks.’

  Without bothering to don a hat or take up his light overcoat, he hurried out through the side door into the garage. Getting into his mother’s car, he drove into the town, finally bringing the car to a stop opposite number eight Greystone Buildings. Afterwards he remembered that apart from wanting to confront his father and hit out at him, there was in him a deep curiosity to see what type of woman it was who had fallen for the big lump of inanity.

  Getting out of the car he looked towards the door of number eight. It was locked. That squashed any possibility of his father still being in his office. He walked now towards number ten. In the hall he saw the names of the tenants. Mrs Cecilia Thorpe’s was at the top of the list. As he mounted the stairs his nostrils twitched with distaste against the mixed odours of cooking, and when he came to the last flight he paused for a moment, looking upwards, then went swiftly to the top. Without hesitation he rang the bell.

  ‘Yes?’ She looked surprised as if she had been expecting someone she knew.

  He looked at the woman. But she didn’t look a woman, more like a young girl. She had long sandy-coloured hair tied back from her shoulders; she had dark brown eyes, was tall, and extremely thin.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘I’m Laurance Emmerson. I would like to see my father.’

  His tone expressed his deep hostility and she appeared to stretch herself upwards before it as she answered, ‘Mr Emmerson isn’t here.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you. Tell him I want to see him.’

  Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut again.

  ‘I’ve told you he’s not here. Come in and see for yourself.’ She pulled the door wide. ‘And what’s more, Mr Emmerson, I don’t like your tone.’

  He stood still, glaring at her. That’s who she had expected. Well, he had got this far and he would wait too. He passed her, and she closed the door behind him with a bang that vibrated through the flat.

  ‘Go on in. Go on in. Search.’

  He moved into the room, just within the doorway, and then stood stock still. And what he saw proved to him how right Valerie was. He could see for himself she was a type and she was certainly living in style. You didn’t collect this sort of stuff on a typist’s salary.

  She pushed past him and walked towards the middle of the room before she turned to face him, and from there she said, ‘I know what you’re thinking Mr Emmerson, but you’re wrong, quite wrong.’

  For answer he said, ‘You’re expecting my father?’

  ‘Yes, I’m expecting him.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait.’

  ‘Do, but let me tell you something. And get this clear. You’re on the wrong track. I’m not going to say I don’t know why you’re here, I do, but you’re on the wrong track…’ She turned abruptly from him, and looking towards a door at the far side of the room and to a boy standing with his back to it, she said, ‘Go back to bed, and stay there.’ When she turned to him again he said, but under his breath, ‘Do you deny that my father visits you?’

  ‘No, I don’t. There’s no point in denying it, everybody in the house knows it. You can’t keep anything secret in flats not even if you want to, and I can assure you neither I nor your father went out of our way to keep anything secret…Yes, he visits me. What of it?’

  ‘And I suppose you talk art.’ His tone, still low, was an insult in itself, and it brought the colour rushing into her pale face.

  ‘Now look, I’m warning you. You be careful, because you’re going to be sorry for what you’re saying.’

  He walked farther into the room now, looking around him, his stare insolent. He looked at the card tables flanking the window, then at the small baby grand, its lid closed now. Then he turned and without invitation seated himself, and looking up at her he said, still quietly. ‘I know your type, and this set up, a sort of unbaited trap, until they get inside…’

  Cissie put her hand to her throat. She wetted her lips and closed her eyes for a second before she ground out, ‘If…if you weren’t his son I’d call Mr Glazier up and have him throw you out.’

  ‘Mr Glazier?’ He nodded at her. ‘He’s the one in the bottom flat, isn’t he? I’ve heard about him.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Her hand still to her throat, she turned from him and walked across the room and looked down into the street for some minutes before she said, ‘Mr Emmerson, I’m in trouble, I’m very worried over my son. Your father’s seeing into it for me. I’m expecting him up any minute…Now,’ she turned to him, ‘if I swear to you that you are wrong, will you go? I don’t want any disturbance. He’ll…he’ll explain it to you.’ She made the characteristic wide sweep with her hand. ‘But there’s really no explaining to do, nothing, nothing.’ She joined her hands now in front of her and walked slowly towards him. ‘Your father comes here. We have a cup of coffee, we talk…’ She suited her step to each word, her body swaying slightly as if to a rhythm. ‘He likes music, and furniture, and…’

  ‘You needn’t press it. What do you take me for? Do I look gr
een?’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ Her voice coming as a scream startled him. And at that moment, there came sounds from the hallway, like a small door closing then quick footsteps and when he turned there stood his father in the doorway.

  He rose to his feet and looked at this big now florid-looking man for his father’s face was suffused with a deep red, almost purple tinge. It was evident that he had received a severe shock and was trying to rally against it.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  It didn’t sound like his father’s voice. It had a strength about it that he didn’t associate with the man before him. But here he was seeing a different man to the one he saw at home. Of course, this house was where he led his different life. He had been clever, he had used two distinct personalities. They said he was good in court, he wasn’t a solicitor for nothing. This kind of thing had likely been going on for years. It explained too why this undeniably attractive piece should fall for him.

  He watched him come forward into the room, slowly, heavily. He watched him ignore himself and go towards her. He saw him look at her with a look he had never seen on his face before, tender, loving, with a sort of mute adoration. When he heard him say softly to her, ‘I’m sorry about this, very sorry,’ and she answer ‘I’ve tried to explain’, it was too much. And his wrath burst from him, uncontrolled for the moment. His voice filling the room, he yelled at them, ‘You’re sorry. You’re both sorry about being found out. But what about my mother? I suppose its news to you that she’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown?’ He was glaring at his father. ‘I went to see the doctor today; you couldn’t, you were otherwise engaged. The doctor told me she’d something on her mind, something worrying her. She’d been like it for weeks. Is it news to you that she’s known about your carrying on all the time?’

  John opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn’t. There was a racing feeling underneath his ribs. His brain was racing too. Ann had known about this? No, no, she couldn’t. She would have said something, something mild, slightly sarcastic, telling him that she valued her good name, her position in the town. But that is all she would have said, because that was the only way it would have affected her. Yet if she had known, why hadn’t she spoken of it? The racing feeling accelerated, bringing with it a pain, a pain so sharp that it brought his shoulders down. He was still looking at Laurie, trying to say something. The last thing he remembered was Cissie’s arms going round him, and her voice spiralling upwards, crying, ‘Oh, Mr Emmerson. Oh, Mr Emmerson.’

  ‘See what you’ve done. See what you’ve done.’ She was kneeling on the floor supporting John’s head on her knees. Laurie, too was on the floor, kneeling at his father’s side looking into the lifeless face.

  ‘You’ve killed him. You’ve killed him.’

  ‘Be quiet!’ He tore at his father’s waistcoat and put his head down to his chest. Then looking up at her, he said, ‘He’s not dead.’

  ‘It isn’t your fault.’ She poked her face at him as she spoke, and then, the tears bursting from her eyes and spilling down her face, she cried, ‘You! You!’ and after gulping two or three times she shouted at him, ‘Don’t sit there like a dummy, go and get a doctor.’

  Obediently he scrambled to his feet. His own face was white and drawn and he felt a fear within him. Although his father’s heart was beating, he looked dead; he might die at any minute. She was shouting at him. ‘There’s a doctor round in Cromwell Road, a few doors down. Bell, Doctor Bell. Go and get him.’

  He took the stairs two at a time, almost overbalancing an old man who was coming up. He ran into the street and down Cromwell Road, and stopped at the door with the plate on it.

  The woman who answered the door said, ‘The doctor has finished surgery.’

  He gabbled at her that his father had had a heart attack in Greystone Buildings. Reluctantly she went and brought the doctor, who as soon as he saw Laurie said, ‘Oh, hello. What’s the trouble? You’re young Emmerson, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Doctor; my father’s had a heart attack.

  ‘Where is he? In his office?’

  ‘No, next door, in one of the flats.’

  ‘I’ll be with you directly.’

  It was just a matter of minutes later when the doctor, following Laurie at some distance up the stairs, puffed his way into the room. Cissie was still in the same position, still holding John’s head on her knees.

  ‘Put him down,’ said the doctor quietly, ‘and get a pillow.’

  A short while later the doctor looked up from the floor towards Laurie and said, ‘Ring for an ambulance. Mention my name and tell them to be smart about it.’

  Fear had entirely replaced his anger now, and once again he was dashing down the stairs, only to stop in the street and wonder where he would find a phone box. And then he remembered having seen one round near the garages at the back of the building.

  After he had made the call he stood in the box and leant his elbow on the top of the directory and rested his head on his hand for a moment. What had he done? WHAT HAD HE DONE? What had possessed him to go to her house? He should have waited. Oh yes, now he knew he should have waited. When it was too late to alter anything he knew he should have waited.

  He walked slowly back to the house and up the stairs. His father was still lifeless on the floor. The doctor was standing near the head of the couch looking down at him. The girl was standing near his father’s feet, her hands joined tightly under her chin as if she were praying. As he walked into the room the doctor was saying to her, ‘How did it happen? Anything to cause it? Was it sudden?’

  She looked up, not at the doctor, but towards him, and after two gasping breaths that sounded like a child sobbing, she said, ‘Nothing. It was sudden.’

  The doctor now turned and looked at him and asked, ‘You got through?’

  He nodded his head but didn’t speak.

  ‘Has he had these attacks before?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, he has; he’s had them before.’

  The doctor turned slowly round towards Cissie. He didn’t know who she was, only that she wasn’t Mrs Emmerson, but she seemed to know more about the man on the floor there than the son did. There was something fishy here. ‘How many?’ he said.

  ‘I know of one, a bad one, but…but not like this.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  She considered a moment, then said, ‘Last November.’

  The doctor raised his brows, looked down towards the floor again, then turning sharply towards the window said. ‘That’s them now…’

  When John had been placed on the stretcher the doctor followed the bearers out of the flat, and Laurie followed him. At least he followed him into the hall, but there he paused and looked back towards Cissie, where she was standing in the middle of the room. And he watched her press her lips together and fling her head from side to side before crying under her breath, ‘You! You!’

  Two: The Reason

  It was turned twelve when Laurie brought his mother home from the hospital. His father had regained consciousness but the doctor thought it unwise that she should see him, such was the state she was in.

  Since earlier in the evening, when he had dashed from the hospital back to the house and told her what had happened, at least that his father had had a heart attack and had been taken to hospital, she, too, had seemed on the point of collapse. During the time they had sat in the waiting room she had hardly spoken. In fact, during the first two hours of waiting she had sat in a coma of dumb misery, and it wasn’t until towards eleven o’clock, when the door had opened and that woman had come in, that she had come to life.

  He had walked towards the straight grey-coated figure and under his breath had said, ‘What do you want here?’ She had looked past him towards his mother, and he had turned and seen the recognition in his mother’s face. Then she had said, ‘You know why I’m here, I came to enquire about your father.’ There was dignity about her bearing, a
quietness about her tone that maddened him, that made him want to go for her, expose her for what she was. What he would have done had the night nurse not come in at that moment he didn’t know, but he glared at her as she said to the nurse, ‘Can you tell me how Mr Emmerson is, please?’ And having been told there was as yet no change in John’s condition, she had then looked back at him with one long, penetrating, disdainful stare before leaving the waiting room.

  It was after the nurse had gone that his mother had spoken for the first time. ‘How did she know he was ill?’ she said.

  When he hadn’t answered she had turned on him, her voice deep and harsh in her throat, and said, ‘Well?’

  He had sat down in a chair before saying. ‘It happened at her house.’

  ‘And you were there?’

  He moved his head downwards once.‘Why? Why were you there?’

  ‘Mother.’ He had appealed to her under his breath, ‘Don’t let’s go into it here. Wait till we get home. Please.’

  And now they were home.

  He opened the front door for her and she stormed past him. The calm reserved woman was gone. Her fingers were moving agitatedly, her head was jerking all the while, first to one side and then to the other. She tore off her coat as she was crossing the hall; she flung her bag on the table and her hat after it and then she went into the lounge.

  He followed her slowly, wondering what the outcome of this was to be. He had never seen her het up like this, never imagined her letting herself get into this state.

  ‘Well now!’ she turned on him. ‘Tell me. Tell me about it; explain how you managed to be with him when this happened.’

  ‘Look, Mother, sit down and calm yourself.’ He went towards her, his hand outstretched, but she backed away from him. She had never moved away from him in her life before, but now it was as if she didn’t want him to touch her.