Mortimer Penelope - The Pumpkin Eater

He sighed again, more deeply, and examined his pen with such close scrutiny that he might have been reading a thermometer. Then he looked up. “Tell me,” he said, “how’s Dinah? She had ’flu, I think, last time you came.”

“She’s better. She’s … taken to Trotsky.”

“Indeed? Why?”

“Somebody told her that he believed in the liberty of the individual.”

“It’s a pleasant thought,” he said wistfully. He did not get up when I left. I heard later that he had broken a leg ski-ing. I thought then, blaming him, that if he hadn’t gone we might both have remained undamaged.

Jake arrived back from North Africa early on Saturday morning, and the children were all home from school. Most of them were in the front bedrooms, watching for him; when they saw his car draw up they cateracted down the stairs, swarming over him as he came through the front door, disregarding the clipped cries of the nurse. The violinist’s children flung themselves bodily, but his own stood holding him like a maypole. Dinah was not there. I called for her, but she didn’t answer. I could only see the top of Jake’s head as I came down slowly, smiling, step by step. He seemed to be being eaten.

“Hullo … Hullo … Hullo, there … How’s my baby?” (This to the youngest, held up by the nurse.) “Go on, then, get the things out of the car… Where’s Mum? … Go on, unload the car, can’t you? … Where’s Dinah? Where’s Mum? … No, I haven’t brought you anything, you haven’t been good enough … Is Mum still in bed? Where’s Mum?”

“Here,” I said, and hurried the rest of the way. His coat was damp, his face darkly sunburned. The children fell back a little and we embraced self-consciously.

“It’s lovely to have you back,” I said.

“Lovely to be back.”

“You do look well.”

“I’m bloody tired actually.”

“Would you like some … coffee or something?”

“No thanks. I need a drink.”

“Well… come in.”

The older children staggered in with the suitcases, grasping the handles in both hands, straining backwards against the weight, making a great fuss. They dropped them about the room and the younger children undid them, rummaging about among dirty shirts to find packages. Jake helped them energetically, after one of them had poured him a large brandy and another had put too much soda in it.

“Where is Dinah, anyway?”

“Oh, she’s still in bed.”

“She hasn’t been well,” I said quickly.

“Oh … here …”

I put on a vaguely Moorish dressing gown, pure rayon and covered with the signs of the Zodiac; they all admired it and Jake said uneasily, “It’s meant to bring you luck. I got one for Dinah too.”

“I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“There’s nothing to buy, really. You know, just a lot of junk.”

“It’s lovely. Really it is.”

“Well. Anyway …”

“I got a green star … I got top in Friday Paper … Two of the goldfish died and a cat… Did you see any lions? … I got a green star for spelling and I got … Well, I got top in Friday Paper … What were the elephants like, did you see any lions? … We went to the circus, we went to the pictures three times … That’s where I fell down … Did you see any camels, then? … and I got a green star for sums … I didn’t have a plaster, I had a bandage … So can we have some more goldfish, and can we have a dog … Would you like to see my Scripture book? Was it a Jet? Did you see any hyenas? Can we have tropical fish? … That’s Moses, that’s David, that’s Joseph in prison …”

The welcome slowly burned itself out. At last they grew bored and drifted away, some guiltily, saying they would soon be back, some with relief. Jake reached for my hand.

“Well?” he asked. “How are you?”

“I’m … fine.”

He patted his knee. “Come and tell me all about it. Give me a drink first.”

I gave him a drink and knelt, leaning against his leg.

“I wish you’d been there,” he said. “We had a wonderful time. Of course Hurst and Dante hated each other on sight…” I listened, content. Jake was a great gossip, he enjoyed speculation and intrigue and seldom disliked anyone. The few people he did dislike were overbearingly sincere, intensely serious and tinged with failure: these he dismissed as bores, and they did not enter his world.

I listened, and waited.

“What about the rest of the unit? Are they back?”

“Beth and John came back with me.” He yawned one of his enormous yawns, his eyes watering. “Doug’s coming tomorrow, we’re starting at Elstree on Wednesday.”

“And what about Dante, whatever she’s called?”

“Oh, we got rid of her at the beginning of the week. She went off somewhere to buy a bit of Balmain. Anyway … what about you?”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Have you been going to that chap, that doctor?”

“Yes. Yes, I have.”

“Oh well, then …” He shook his head to clear his eyes. “God, I’m tired. I suppose it’s Saturday morning …”

“Yes.”

I could see Saturday morning creeping over him. He looked round the room. Some children were shooting each other out in the cold garden. A radio, a gramophone and a clarinet were being played in various parts of the house. The smell of roasting joint seeped under the door. His face seemed to gather sadness and he repeated heavily, “Oh well, then …” and gave a great sigh. “Oh well, I suppose …”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Sorry?”

I held his knees tightly, unable to explain. The party’s over. Poor Jake, poor Jake. There ought to be champagne and calling people up, flowers and friends and a hotel suite where you ring for the ice … But no. There is carving the joint and quarrelling about the cauliflower. Poor, poor Jake.

He asked affectionately, “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.” Still easily moved, uncontrollable and easy, my eyes had filled with tears. “Nothing. Really.”

He withdrew, nervous. “There’s nothing to cry about.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Is that…doc doing you any good?”

“He says I think I’m a tea cosy.”

He laughed, but only for a moment. I heard him thinking, weeping wife, kids, bills, joint, Saturday, nothing’s changed. It did not occur to me that these were my thoughts, or that his could be more complex. I felt that I could not comfort him alone, and that I must appear to understand his feelings without having them explained to me. I blew my nose and said, “Why not ask them round?”

“Ask who round?”

“I don’t know — John, Beth Conway, even Dante if you know where she is.”

“You mean tonight?”

“Then I could hear all about it. Properly.”

“You mean this evening?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“But … you don’t want them round here tonight ?”

“Yes, I do. I do. Really.” Why wouldn’t he believe me? I was telling the truth. “Ring them up. Come on, they’re probably feeling just as gloomy as you are. You know you want to.”

He looked extremely puzzled: bewilderment and hope, Cinderella sent back to the ball, Jake raised from the dead.

“Oh, no,” he said. “No. It’d bore you …”

“If you won’t, I will. Where’s Hurst staying?”

“At the Connaught. But he’ll probably be asleep.”

Hurst was not asleep. He was very drunk. He would come, he said, he would come on the dot, he couldn’t wait, my darling, my sweet, oh God the laughs they’d had …

“Now you ring Beth Conway,” I said.

“No. You ring her. You’re so good at it.”

Beth Conway said she would have to ask her husband. There was a long wait. Finally she came back and said in a small voice, “Yes, Bob says that would be absolutely marvellous. What a splendid idea. Will it be sort of … dressy, do you think?”