The Pumpkin Eater (6 page)

“
Beth Conway, John Hurst and Italian discovery Maria Dante are three of the stars of
The Sphinx,
the new comedy-thriller which Jake Armitage has scripted and will produce for Tower Productions. Doug Wainwright directs, and locations will be shot in North Africa
.

“
I congratulated Mrs. Armitage on running her large household with such apparent ease. ‘It wasn't so easy once,' she said, laughing. ‘There was a time when we didn't dare to answer the door in case it was someone coming to sue us!' Those days are far away now, for since that first £100 script, taken on to keep the wolf from the door, the Armitages have never looked back
…”

Everything is silent in the afternoon. Everything keeps still. The Jag is out of the garage, but the Floride is in. The grass will be mown when it starts to grow. The dishes are clean in the dishwasher and the rubbish eater has eaten the rubbish away. A Froebel-trained girl with a good complexion and a hard heart sits resting in her room. She writes to her friends and smokes one of her two daily Turkish cigarettes with a cup of weak tea. Soon she will let herself out of the front door and walk energetically from place to place, collecting the children from schools.

There: the latch clicked: she has gone. I could dust the room or tidy the magazines now the house is empty. But why? It's somebody else's job. Somebody else never does a job properly. The food is tasteless. There's no incense of furniture polish about the rooms as there used to be. The toys are never sorted out and Jake has gone to lunch with two buttons missing from his shirt. It's somebody else's job. Why can't somebody else do a job properly? Heaven knows we pay them enough.

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?”

“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.