Mortimer Penelope - The Pumpkin Eater

Jake has been at lunch for four hours. His secretary doesn’t know where he is. She smirks at me over the telephone. Oh, there’s such treachery. Stop punishing me, God.

It is the afternoon and I have nothing to do. I’ll go and buy something for Dinah, to protect her: a possession, to protect her. A petticoat, a pair of stockings. The Oxford Companion to French Literature. When I was fourteen I had the world at my feet but somebody didn’t do their job properly and allowed me to sin. They are not getting on with the building of the tower, they are not doing it right. I have told them a hundred times, but they are incapable of building a simple tower even at that price.

Yesterday — I remember it so well — everything was all right. Tomorrow, what with superlative tax at 18/6 in the pound and the companies I am married to — Mrs. Production Limited is my name, I spring from an Armitage Enterprise — tomorrow everything will be different. But today? Today I am a legitimate expense. I direct without the faintest sense of direction; I share and have nothing to hold. At least I make myself laugh. When I walk round the shops and never decide to buy, I am looking for something to buy, but there is nothing to buy.

What did I come here for? Why did I walk, in the spring, along a mile of pavement? Do I want a bed rest, a barbecue, a clock like a plate or a satin stole or a pepper mill or a dozen Irish linen tea towels printed, most beautifully, with the months of the year? April brings the primrose sweet, scatters daisies at our feet. I am beginning to cry. I stand in the bloody great linen department and cry and cry quite soundlessly, sprinkling the stiff cloths with extraordinarily large tears. Oh, what has happened to you, Mrs. Enterprise, dear? Are your productions limited, your trusts faithless, and what of the company you keep? Think of all those lovely children, dear, and don’t cry as the world turns round holding you on its shoulder like a mouse.

But I cried just the same. The doctor they sent me to was expensive and Jake said, “Do you think you’re going to get over this period of your life, because I find it awfully depressing?”

It was late at night and all the children, even Dinah, were asleep. Jake had just gone downstairs with our family doctor, a sturdy, middle-aged G.P. who had never seen me ill before, although he had bullied and encouraged me through many labours. He had given me an injection earlier in the evening, but when I woke up the tears were still pouring out, a kind of haemorrhage of grief. Now, exhausted, I wondered if I was going out of my mind. Was this how it began, with this terrible sense of loss, as though everyone had died?

I got out of bed and went to the door; it squeaked when I opened it, but the landing light wasn’t on, so I ran to the banisters and leant over. As I had hoped, the sitting room door was open. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, so I crept halfway down the stairs. Now I could hear. I crouched on the stairs, hugging my knees, alert for the sound of the nurse or a child but straining for every word through the open door.

“… very unhappy,” the doctor said.

“What did she say to you?”

“Nothing very much. Why? Do you think …?”

They were moving about the room. I heard the hiss of the soda syphon. “… gets mad ideas into her head,” Jake said.

“What sort of ideas?”

“Oh … thinks everyone’s against her, finds fault all the time. You know the sort of thing.”

“I’ve known it in many people, not your wife. Don’t forget I’ve known her for, what is it, eleven, twelve years. She’s a remarkable …” He must be leaning forward for his drink. “Tough, sensible, full of life. This doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Doesn’t make sense to me, either.”

“No, I don’t, thanks … She’s not got enough to do, you know.”

“Oh, balls … Sorry, but that’s a lot of balls. She never sews on a button, never lifts a duster, never cooks a meal …”

“Since when?”

“I don’t know. The last few months. Just sits here and mopes all the time.”

There was a short silence. I eased myself farther down the stairs. My heart was pounding again and I felt sick. Eavesdroppers, my mother would say, hear what they deserve.

“How are you getting on? Together, I mean?”

“Oh … fine. I’m busy, of course. But … fine.”

“So you can’t think of any reason for this … sudden collapse? She’s very disturbed, you know. I don’t think you should take it lightly.”

Why didn’t Jake speak? “Jake!” I had cried, “Jake!”, as the crackling white nurses had carried me off for aspirin and sweet tea in some kind of antiseptic rest room through Lingerie. “Jake! Jake!”, as though I were literally dying of grief. But they hadn’t been able to find him, so one of them had brought me back in a taxi, allowing me to hold her plump, grey-gloved hand, and the children, just back from school, had stared dumbfounded as I was helped upstairs.

“No,” Jake said. “I can’t think of a reason …” The syphon hissed again. “I suppose … she’d like to have another child.”

“How old is she?”

“I don’t know. Thirty-eight, I think.”

“And the youngest?”

“Three.”

“Then why doesn’t she have one? When this little storm’s over, probably just the thing. She drops those babies like a cat, you know — it’s a pleasure to watch …”

“We’ve got enough children! Good God, we’ve got enough!” The doctor murmured something I couldn’t hear. I was shivering. “It may be a pleasure to watch for you … When’s she going to face facts? She can’t go on having children for ever, anyway what for ? They’ll all grow up in the end. She’s got a bloody houseful already, and me, she’s got me! Why can’t she grow up, settle for what she’s got, why can’t she take some interest in the outside world for a change? I’m sick of living in a bloody nursery! …” There was a long silence. He must have paced to the far side of the room because I could hardly hear him now… love her … all right … can’t go on indefinite … obsession …”

“Obsession is a very strong word,” the doctor said.

“All right. It’s a strong word.” Jake came to the doorway, his back to me. He had one hand in his pocket and the other hammered his words. “Look, I work harder than anyone else in the business. I work because I like working, and because I like money. Right. But all she wants is to sit in some shack with a tin of corned beef and have more children . Is that sane? She’s got everything any woman could want — clothes, a car, servants, she’s attractive. Why doesn’t she go abroad, or make some friends or … make a life for herself? That’s what I don’t understand.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to,” the doctor said.

Jake stalked away out of sight. “You’re dead right she doesn’t want to. Drink?”

“No, thanks. I must be going.” I heard the effort of raising himself from the sofa and got up, ready to run. “I see your point, Armitage. But has she ever said to you that she wants another child?”

“Not in so many words. No.”

“She didn’t say so to me, either. I wonder … if you’re right?”

“I don’t know. I give up.”

“I shouldn’t do that … just at the moment.”

“I get back to the office after a bloody hard day and I’m told my wife’s gone off her nut in Harrods. Harrods, of all places. Well … what do we do?”

“I think she should probably see a psychiatrist, try and get this depression sorted out before it takes root, you understand. I know a very good man … You’d like to pay, of course? You don’t want this on the National Health?”