Mortimer Penelope - The Pumpkin Eater

“I suppose so. I mean, yes. I’ll pay.”

“There’s a lot you can do in the meanwhile. I hope you will.”

“Such as?”

“Be kind to her, for a start.”

“I’m always kind to her.”

“Tell her … well, you know. Tell her you love her and so forth.”

“I never stop. But it’s not me she wants. I’ve told you. It’s another bloody baby she wants.”

“I should cut down on the drink, if I were you. It doesn’t … it doesn’t help the situation.”

“It helps me.”

“Yes. Well. Your wife loves you, you know.” He was coming towards the door. I ran, two stairs at a time, to the landing. This was the place, hidden by the linen cupboard, where children peered down at parties. My teeth were chattering. I pressed my hands over my mouth. “I’ll come again in the morning. You have the tablets, but don’t give her any more unless she starts weeping.”

They walked slowly along the hall. Jake’s scalp shone pink through his dark, thin hair; the doctor had grey hair like a mat.

“Perhaps she ought to go away?” Jake said.

“Could you go with her?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m off to North Africa in a couple of weeks and I’ve got a hell of a lot to get through before then.”

“Why not take her to North Africa?”

“She wouldn’t want to go.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“I’ve asked her. She hates going on location. You know, there’s nothing for her to do, she just sits about and gets in the — she feels she gets in the way.”

“I see. Well … take care of her. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ve got one or two things I must do, so if I’m not here I’ll ring you. All right? I’ll ring you at lunch time.”

“I should stay here if you can,” the doctor said.

I drew back quickly. The front door slammed. I turned to race to the bedroom, but Jake wasn’t coming upstairs. He had gone back into the sitting room. The telephone dial whirred deliberately, seven times. He began to speak, but so softly that I couldn’t hear a word. I waited for a few minutes, but it was a long conversation. I got into bed and lay down flat under the bedclothes. At last I heard the sharp ting as he put down the receiver. Now he was having another drink. Now, heavily, he was coming up the stairs. I closed my eyes. He opened the door very cautiously.

“Asleep?”

“No …” I held out my hand. He took it, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Has he gone?”

“Yes. Don’t wake up.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh … nothing much.” He bent over and kissed my forehead. “We’ll straighten you out. Don’t worry.”

“When will they finish the tower?”

“Soon. Go to sleep now. Happy dreams …”

I shut my eyes. He stroked my hair for a time, until he grew uncomfortable; then he went away.

A woman whom I knew to be his mother closed the door. We were in a dark castle. She was going to have a party, she said; we were invited. We were there early, eating a meal with Jake’s mother and another woman who didn’t like her very much. She said, “I’ve asked Philpot for a cup of tea.” There was a storm and we ran for shelter, Jake and myself and the others, I was wearing a fur coat. Philpot was standing wearing terrible clothes, looking plain and poor. The party began. There were hundreds of people in a vast, white, icy hall. “Who are these people?” I asked, “and why don’t we know them too?” Someone said, “They are Jake’s cousins.” Jake wasn’t there and I was nervous, but there was a Paul Jones, so I joined in and danced with the Mongol boy. It was a marvellous dance, elated, soaring. I was enjoying it, but he went away and I walked over to a group of street-corner louts who were sitting on a bench and asked, “Why don’t you dance?” One of them said, “I don’t dance with hard-faced bitches.” I said, “I’m not a hard-faced bitch,” and he believed me. We waltzed very beautifully on the ice.

I walked down a broad, long corridor, as though dug out of the earth. Philpot was walking a long way in front of me carrying a great sheaf of copper beech leaves. I laughed, unpleasantly, and she dropped the leaves and ran away. When I reached them, the leaves had all disintegrated into dust and twigs. I felt ashamed, and found her in a brightly lit little cabin with her child. “I’m sorry I laughed,” I said. She burst into tears and threw something at me, something soft, a cushion or a scarf. I caught it and gave it back to her and walked away.

There was a huge barn, and wagons made out of ice. I sat on top of one of the wagons with a lot of other people, waiting for a film to begin. It began, and Philpot, dressed in stuffy clothes and a cartwheel hat, was the Snow Queen. “She is here in a menial capacity,” I said, “as an actor.” The lights went out and she sang, off key and rather sadly, a little song. Jake appeared, sitting by me on the wagon. I said, “I’m having a wonderful time, what have you been doing?” He said, “I’ve been making love to your friend here.” I looked down, there was a schoolgirl in an old, broken down car beside the wagon.

Jake and I set off somewhere, through a great fair. I kept on saying how much it must have cost. We found that we had to go the wrong way, through a chain of caverns, each cavern contained Mickey Mouse or Popeye or the Sleeping Beauty. But we were going the wrong way. We walked along the truck lines and at last climbed up a conveyor belt: the belt carried wooden painted mermaids, which were going down, but it was not too difficult. When we came out, the party, the people, had all gone: nothing was left but icy water lapping against the walls, darkness and cold. A man in uniform, a fireman, was poking about in the water. Jake had disappeared. I looked and searched, but couldn’t see him. Then I heard him calling and saw a hand coming up out of the water. I ran and put my hand down into the water, feeling the rim and neck of some big jar or hole into which he had fallen. I felt his head and hand inside. He was holding a blade of grass and I pulled at it, trying to pull him out, but it broke. I shouted for the fireman, but he shouted back, “I’ve got six more down here!” I tried to hold Jake, to pull him out, but my hand kept slipping and at last he stopped moving, and I knew he was dead.

“I don’t think, at the moment, we need to think in terms of treatment of any sort. Your immediate need, I feel, is for someone to talk to. Say twice a week. Shall we see how we get on?” He was wearing a different suit today, sombre tweed and a heather-mixture tie.

“All right,” I said. “So long as I can think of something to talk about.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be too difficult.” He slyly uncapped his pen. “How’s the weeping?”

I didn’t want to disappoint him. “Better, I think.”

“We’ll give you some tablets to pep you up a little. Children all well?”

“Dinah’s got ’flu or something.”

“Dinah. Let me see, Dinah is the …” Again he raked, worried, down the list. “She’s sixteen,” I said.

“Ah, yes.” He was almost cosy today. “You must have difficulty finding names for them all.”

“That’s what everybody says. It’s stupid. There are hundreds of names. My grandmother had fifteen children and each one of them had at least three names. That makes forty-five names if you work it out, but she didn’t find it difficult.”

“Your father’s mother?”

“No, my mother’s mother. Of course a lot of them died.”

“You could hardly hope to keep fifteen children in those days.”

“But you could now.”

“Yes …” he said slowly; then, darting up at me, “How’s Jake?”

“He’s gone to North Africa.”