He became aware that there was a noise coming from somewhere, a strange noise for up here, like people laughing, and singing. It could be coming from the street; yet it wasn’t, it was too muffled. It was likely coming from the flats. Yes, from the flats. All the years he had used the roof he could count on his two hands the times he had seen anyone else up here. That was, except for the warm summer a few years ago when his clerks and typists discovered the building had a roof, as did those in the offices of Wallace & Pringle, and the wholesale firm in No. 1.
He wanted to lie down; he would have to get back. It had been mad to come up here, but he’d wanted air. If he lay down he could be here all night. Well, would it matter? No. No, not one jot. Best way in fact. Yes, the best thing that could happen. And when they found him, they couldn’t say he had tried anything, could they? Not like before. He was tired, oh, so tired of it all.
He heard the music again and the laughter. It was still distant, still muffled. Then as if someone had turned the volume of a wireless to its full pitch a voice screamed over his head, ‘LOVE ME, LOVE ME OR I DIE.’
He slid down onto the flat of the roof with his head leaning against a low parapet, and as he did so he thought he heard a child’s voice shouting, ‘Mam! Mam!’
There was a blank space in his thinking, as if his heart had stopped and he had died, and then he felt someone lifting his head up and a frightened voice from a long distance, saying, ‘Is he dead?’
Now there were different voices all floating around him, and some part of his mind was trying to put faces to the voices. He was very sensitive to voices; when he met clients for the first time and they opened their mouths, he came to decisions about them, and he was very seldom wrong.
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, no. And get out of the way.’
‘I saw his hand, Mam, in the light from the stairs, hanging over the wall. Eeh! I got a gliff.’
‘Be quiet, Pat, and get downstairs. Can you get him on his feet, Ted?’
‘He’s a big fellow, I’ll try…No, it’s no good; I could never get him over the parapet on me own. What about old Locket? Give him a shout.’
‘No, no, he’d have a heart attack. He couldn’t get up here anyway. Look, we’ll manage him together.’
‘Wait a minute, he’s coming round.’
‘How are you feeling?’ It was a soft, warm voice.
He opened his eyes and whispered to the dark figure, ‘Better, thanks.’
‘Do you think you can get to your feet? We’ll help you.’
‘Thanks.’
They sat him on the wall, and it was the woman who lifted his legs, one after the other, over the low parapet. The man started backwards down the steps, similar to those up which John had come from his own landing and the woman held the shoulders of his coat tightly in her fists to steady him from above.
He was swaying and blinking as they brought him across the landing and into a room, which was crowded with people, at least so it seemed to his fuddled mind.
Now he was lying down and the woman was loosening his collar and tie. It was years since anyone had touched his neck. He felt shy and wanted to protest. The voices started up again, muted and soft now, but each different, forming mental pictures in his mind.
‘Aw, he looks bad.’ This was an old voice, a thick North-country voice, a workman’s voice. ‘Reckon he could peg out any minute.’
‘Don’t talk daft, Bill. Trust you to say something sensible. What if he hears you?’ Another thick voice, a woman’s, but kindly. He put a fat figure to this voice.
‘Do you think we could give him a drop of brandy, Ted?’
This was the voice he had first heard. He wanted to open his eyes and look at the source of this voice.
‘Don’t see that it could do much harm. Of course, it all depends what’s wrong with him. I think we should get a doctor.’ A clipped, precise voice this. North-country too, yet different from the other man’s. This was a voice that was used to talking.
‘Why, I know him.’ The high exclamation caused him to flicker his eyelids. ‘He’s Mr Emmerson, the solicitor from next door. You know, I’ve told you, my people’s daughter, Miss Valerie, is going to marry his son. You mind, Cissie, me tellin’ you about their engagement?’
This voice was thin and fussy, and brought him to himself. He opened his eyes and looked at the faces around him. They were all slightly blurred, but the nearest one he knew belonged to the woman with the nice voice. Yet she wasn’t quite a woman, and yet she wasn’t a girl either. And beside her stood a thin, dapper man. He was the one who had helped him down the ladder; he had the voice that was used to talking. At the foot of the couch stood an old couple. They were likely the owners of the North-country voices. And to the side of them stood another two women. The thin, small one was smiling at him. She, he felt, was the one who knew him. Her companion was equally small, but fat with it. And then standing to the side of this fat woman was a boy. He was slight and thin and very fair and looked about nine years old.
‘Do you feel better?’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’ He looked up into a pair of warm dark brown eyes in an oval face, the cheeks flanked by two long strands of fair hair.
‘Would you like a drop of brandy?’
‘Thank you…please.’
No-one spoke until the brandy was brought to him, and as he tried to sip it, it spilled down his chin and onto the front of his shirt.
‘Drink it all up, it’ll do you good.’ She held her hand round his to steady the glass.
In a moment or so he felt better, stronger. His heart wasn’t beating so fast, although it was still thumping hard.
‘Look, I’ll put a cushion behind your head.’
She put a cushion behind his head, then said, ‘Will I phone for your doctor?’
‘No, no thanks. I’ll…I’ll soon be all right. I’m so sorry…’
‘Oh, don’t be…’ He felt she was going to add, ‘silly’, but she smiled and changed it to bothered, and repeated, ‘Don’t be bothered about anything…Look.’ She sat down on the edge of the couch near his legs, and bending forward, asked softly, ‘Will I phone your house?’
This question was like an injection, giving him life. He pulled himself a little way up on the couch and said quickly, ‘No, no, please. I’ll be all right. If I…if I could just stay a moment longer.’
‘Oh!’ He watched her throw her head upwards, an action suggesting that her whole body was relaxed, loose. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’
‘Thank you.’ He looked from one to the other of the company now, and it came to him that they were a mixed group…this wasn’t a family. And his voice was troubled as he said, ‘I’ve interrupted something?’
‘You haven’t. You haven’t.’ Again she tossed her head, smiling widely now. ‘They were all about to go, weren’t you?’ She looked round the company, and one after the other they nodded and said in their own particular ways, ‘Yes, yes, we were just going.’
Then the old woman spoke to him. ‘It was Cissie’s party,’ she said; ‘we just came up for a cup of tea, but as always happens when we get in here we forget to go. We need a reminder.’ She nodded at him.
‘Oh, Mrs Locket!’ The young woman looked at the old woman, and again she said, ‘Oh, Mrs Locket!’
‘It’s true, Cissie; we always stay too long.’ Mrs Locket now took her husband by the arm, and she nodded towards John before making her way to the door, almost on tiptoe, as if afraid to disturb him further.
Now the little fat woman and the little thin one made to depart, and the little thin one looked at him and wagged her head as she whispered down on him, ‘I hope you’ll soon be better, Mr Emmerson.’
The man, called Ted, followed them. Then came the sound of a door closing, and the man came back. ‘How are you really feeling?’ he asked gently, bringing his face close to John’s.
‘Much better. Much better. Thank you.’
He did feel better, but s
o tired. He wanted to sleep, and he felt he could sleep, he was so comfortable and so relaxed. He had put these people out, broken up their party and yet he didn’t feel disturbed by the fact, which was strange. His eyes were now drawn to the boy who was standing staring at him. He could see he had a nice face; it was like the young woman’s. He connected them as mother and son. They had the same colouring, the same shaped face, the same brown eyes. In fact, they were replicas of each other.
The young woman was saying, ‘Do you think you could manage a cup of coffee?’
‘That’s kind of you. Yes, I think I would like a cup of coffee.’
‘I’ll make it, you stay where you are.’ The man put out his flat hand towards her, then disappeared round the head of the couch.
John blinked rapidly, then tried to focus his tired gaze on the young woman again. She was sitting down, but even so she looked tall. He said to her, ‘Your husband’s very kind.’
The laughter of the boy brought his head slowly round and he looked from one to the other. They were exchanging broad smiles. He watched her put out her hand and push at the air between them, as if to stop the boy’s laughter, the action also indicated that they were sharing a joke. She said soberly now, ‘He’s not my husband; that’s Mr Glazier from the ground-floor flat.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, you weren’t to know. He’s a traveller. He’s very rarely here, but he always comes up and sees us when he comes home.’
He inclined his head towards her but made no further comment.
She now bent slightly towards him and began to identify the late company to him as if it were important he should know, them. ‘The old man and woman,’ she said, ‘are a Mr and Mrs Locket. They live on the second floor, No. 3 Flat. They’re old-age pensioners, and they get lonely at times. I often ask them up for a cup of tea.’ Her head moved as she spoke. ‘Then the other two, the one who knows you, she’s Mrs Orchard. She works as a daily for Mrs Wilcox, and she lives with Miss O’Neill, that’s the fat one. Miss O’Neill’s a cook in the school canteen. They live on the first floor.’ She pointed her finger downwards. She paused here, then looked towards her son and smiled again as she said, ‘And up here among the gods, there’s Pat and me.’
Pat and me, she had said; no mention of a husband. She could be a widow, or perhaps not married and the child illegitimate. Yes, very likely, for she had the kind of personality that attracted people seemingly; old and young, cooks and commercial travellers.
‘I’m tiring you. You don’t want to hear about all us here, but I thought I would explain. Look, wouldn’t you like me to ring your home?’
‘No, no thank you very much.’ He moved restlessly now, and as if coming out of a drugged sleep he stretched his eyes wide and asked, ‘What is the time, please?’ As he did so he fumbled for his watch, and she turned her head and looked at a grandfather clock in the far corner and said, ‘Twenty minutes to nine.’
‘Twenty minutes to…!’ With a jerk he was sitting upright. ‘It…it can’t be.’ He looked at her as if he were begging her to tell him she was wrong. ‘I came to the office just before seven and…and I was out again within ten minutes…at least I…’
‘You must have lain on the roof for some time?’
‘No, no.’ He shook his head. He had lost an hour, and he had lost it in the office, not on the roof. It wasn’t the first time he had lost an hour when this had happened to him. He’d have to see about it. But now he must get home, and at once. What would she say? He felt very tired again as he thought she would say the same if he went home now or in another hour’s time, or tomorrow morning, because he hadn’t been home at eight o’clock. He’d have to tell her about these turns he was having, then perhaps she would understand…But no she wouldn’t; she would never forgive him for this. He couldn’t do even this one thing for her, she would say. And she would say it quietly, and the echo of that quietness would seep deeper into them for months ahead; the fact that he had conformed to her pattern of social etiquette for years would bear no weight. He had missed conforming this once, and it was always the once that mattered.
‘There.’ The man came to the couch with a tray in his hand. ‘I’ve made it strong. Do you like plenty of sugar?’
‘One spoonful, please.’ As he took the cup from the man’s hand he said, ‘I must get home. I wonder if you’d be kind enough to phone for a taxi as I don’t think I’ll be fit enough to drive my car?’
‘You’ve got a car downstairs?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded at the man.
‘Well then, I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll drive you home and Cissie here can come on behind in my car and bring me back. How’s that?’ He looked at Cissie now and she said quickly, ‘Yes, that’s the idea.’
‘Can I come with you, Mam?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ She smiled at her son.
‘I’m putting you to too much trouble.’ John made to move his legs off the couch, and when she bent down to assist him he became hot with embarrassment. He wanted to say, ‘No. No, don’t do that, please,’ but that would have made things awkward, so he let her bring his feet to the carpet.
‘By the way, what is the make of your car?’ asked the man.
‘A Rover 2000.’
‘Really? Oh, boy! I’m going to enjoy this. I used to have a Rover; but a Rover 2000! I hear they’re spanking. You don’t mind me driving her, do you? I’m a good driver, that’s part of my living.’
‘I’m sure you are, and you’re very welcome to drive it…particularly tonight.’ He smiled weakly.
They had the room to themselves now, as the young woman and the boy had disappeared, getting dressed he surmised, and the man took this opportunity to praise his hostess. Bending down to John, he said in a confidential whisper, ‘She’s a good sport, is Cissie, none better. They don’t come like her the day. A good sport.’ He jerked his head and winked his eye.
The nod, wink, and information could have suggested many things, but he was in no frame of mind at the moment to analyse them.
He stood up now and steadied himself on his feet. He still felt a bit rocky. He was aware of his overcoat being creased, and he smoothed it slowly downwards with his hands, then buttoned it up to the neck.
The boy and his mother now returned to the room, and the boy, coming up to him, said, ‘Wasn’t it lucky I went up for the ice-cream?’
He looked down on the fair head and smiling face and repeated, ‘Ice-cream?’ He was unable to follow the child.
‘We had two blocks of ice-cream. I keep things up there in the winter, I haven’t a fridge.’ She was pulling a hat carelessly onto her head as she spoke, tucking the strands of hair behind her ears. She looked like an overgrown schoolgirl, not the mother of the boy. ‘So it was lucky we went up, wasn’t it? How are you feeling now?’
‘Oh, much better.’ He did not comment on her reference to luck. But for two blocks of ice-cream he would have lain up there all night, and that would have been the finish. He had wanted it that way, but two blocks of ice-cream had baulked his intention. It was odd how things, little things, could interfere with one’s life, or the desire to be rid of it.
‘Careful how you go.’ Ted had him by the arm now, steadying him firmly, as if he were an old man, down one step after another until they reached the street. There John handed him his car keys and he felt the man’s excitement when he took the wheel of the car. He tried to explain the mechanism to him. ‘It’s a bit different,’ he said. ‘Quick off the start compared to…’
‘Oh, I’ll get it, never you fear. There’s never been a car yet I couldn’t drive. There, that’s it.’ He pressed the starter, then turned his face to John, saying, ‘You can hardly hear her, she’s a beauty. I’ve read a bit about her. I bet you what you like I’ll not rest until I have one. There’ll be some second-hands coming along shortly…Now, where to?’
‘Do you know Lime Avenue?’
‘Oh yes. Yes, I know Lime Avenue. Nice houses there. What number?
’
‘Seventy-four.’
He looked through his mirror and said, ‘I’ll just wait a tick until Cissie comes round the corner…Aw, there she is. Now off we go.’
John thought the man handled the car as if he had driven it for years. He was a natural driver, and he didn’t talk while he was driving. As the journey neared its end he wondered about asking them in. It might ease things, help to explain without words. They were in the drive now, going round the bend and into the blaze of light from the windows. And there was Wilcox’s car right opposite the door. They always came by car; the comparatively short distance down the road was not to be walked when going out to dinner. He said to the man, ‘This is very kind of you.’
‘No, no, not at all. Sad world if we can’t help one another. Anyway, it’s put me in your debt, and what’s more it’ll likely put me in real debt afore I’m finished.’ He laughed. ‘For as I said I’ll not rest until I have one of these.’ He patted the wheel.
‘Would you care to come in?’
The man hesitated, then said slowly, almost shyly, ‘Well, not tonight, if you don’t mind. I’m off early in the morning. I leave around six and I’ve got things to see to.’
John was out of the car now and he looked towards the gate, from where he could see the reflection of the headlights of the other car. She hadn’t got out and he didn’t feel able to go to her and thank her. He said, ‘I would like to thank Mrs…what is her name?’
‘Mrs Thorpe.’
‘Will you tell her…?’ His voice trailed away on a feeling of weakness.
‘Don’t you trouble about her; she doesn’t need any thanks. Get yourself inside. Good night now.’ He pushed him gently towards the porch. ‘Sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Yes, thanks. I’m all right, and I’m very very grateful.’
‘Go on, go on.’ The man spoke as if he were addressing an old pal; then added, ‘I won’t be back for another few weeks or so. Going down south this time, but I’ll be interested to know how you get on.’
The Unbaited Trap Page 3