The Pumpkin Eater

by Penelope Mortimer

  In the afternoons they drew the two pieces of cretonne, took away the pillows and told me to sleep. That afternoon I was excited as a child before a party. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t rest. I made a list: sack nurse, sort out things for tower, THROW AWAY, ring movers, get cleaners, Jake’s shirts, get hair cut, MAKE CLEAN SWEEP. At the bottom I wrote: love Jake. When this was done I decided to pack, to save time in the morning. It didn’t take very long. I was disappointed to find that I was tired now, the sticking plaster dragging and burning. I had used up half an hour of the afternoon. What to do now? The telephones were dead until four o’clock, the nurses resting more fervently than the patients. I had piled all the books on the table for Jake to take home this evening. There must be one I hadn’t read. I got up and looked them over. No, I’d read them all. Idle, bored, I flipped through the pile of Jake’s letters. A few of them were addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jake Armitage, but I didn’t bother to open them. There was a mauve envelope with large, scrawling writing, marked Personal. I threw it on top of the pile and got back into bed. Lying there, I watched the mauve envelope. After a while, I got out of bed and opened the letters addressed to both of us: circulars, invitations, nothing interesting. Then I ripped open the mauve envelope, tearing it carelessly with my thumb. The mauve paper was headed in mauve print: Beth Conway. An arrow from this heading pointed to two words, scrawled and underlined: needs Armitage. I thought very clearly, I don’t want to read it. I think I sat down somewhere, on the bed or the chair. Anyway, I held the letter in my lap because it seemed too heavy to hold it up. The writing was like a careless child’s.

  Jake baby,

  How are you honey lamb, are you still managing without me? I’m so terribly sorry, poor darling, but you know why and it can’t be helped, I only hope we can keep going afterwards. How brave, courageous and tough you are to face it all alone. But then I always knew you had it in you. Tell old B. and everyone that I’ll be back on Monday even if it’s on a stretcher. Make it a double stretcher in that case. What ho!

  Apart from going out of my mind with fright I’m beginning to feel better now, but they’re talking about sending me to a head shrinker next week. It’s not a head shrinker I want as well you know. I’m writing this out in the garden with the sun blazing down like the height of summer and I’m thinking of you and Tunis and the old Sunset Strip if we ever get there. It’s so sweet of you to say how much you need me now, and I feel just awful to be adding to your worries and not soothing them away. But keep going, Jake baby, don’t let your eyes stray to those luscious bits hanging around the set, they’re no good when it comes to it as well you know. I’m saving myself for you like you told me, although it’s pretty difficult (you understand!).

  If you write again my love be very careful (as I know you always are) but sometimes Bob gets the post before me and he always reads my mail or should I say male. See you on Monday and then!!

  Much love and kisses,

  Beth.

  I went to the basin and was sick. I could feel the lips of my wound parting, as though my wound were laughing at me.

  18

  The tea shop, like many teashops, was called the Copper Kettle, but I doubt whether there was a kettle in the place. If you ordered tea it came black, in a glass with a raffia holder, and you sweetened it with brown sugar. They only served black bread. There was music, Italian twist, on tape. It was very dark, for which I was grateful.

  “I’ve made it my business,” Bob Conway said, “to find out a few facts about Jake Armitage. He’s been bashing around for years, but I suppose you know that.”

  “Bashing around?”

  “Author’s perks. He gets the ones the stars don’t want. There’s a pub quite near the studio — well, I suppose there are pubs quite near any studio. Pricey, I should think, for a couple of hours, but that wouldn’t matter to him, would it?”

  “I only wanted … not to be the only person to know. If I’d gone on being the only person, Jake wouldn’t have cared.”

  “He certainly wouldn’t. He rang her this morning, you know that?”

  “Yes. He told me.”

  “Oh. Well, he’s been sending her flowers to the studio every day, right up till yesterday. You know that?”

  “It’s the florist. Jake never remembers to cancel anything. He never …”

  “Don’t be daft, duckie. He’s crazy about her. She told me so herself. He’s mad about her.”

  If you walk into a torture chamber and ask to be tortured, there’s no sense in complaining at the pain. If you go up Sam’s lane with Mr. Simpkin, you have only yourself to blame if he assaults you. Pain and evil are there for the asking, nobody’s going to protect you from them. Homilies on samplers, tracts of facts, legends inscribed on a dying soul, I knew them all.

  “He doesn’t love her,” I said.

  “Love? What’s love? It was Dante before this, it seems they were always necking on the set until she got fed up with him. He’s not much good in bed, I understand. A bit on the small side.”

  I knocked over the chair as I got up. He grabbed my wrist. Still holding it, he got up, came round the table, picked up the chair, forced me back into it. The wound screamed and I doubled up, my arm being dragged back across the table.

  “I’m ill …” I said. “Please …”

  “You had an abortion, didn’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “You know why you had an abortion? Because Beth’s a good girl at heart, she would have left him. He made you have it, so he could keep Beth. It’s a charming thought, isn’t it?”

  “Let me go … let me go.”

  “Be your age, then. Let’s discuss this thing sensibly. We’re both in the same boat, we need to get together.”

  I drew my hand back; it felt broken.

  “Now,” Conway said. “Are you going to divorce him?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. I don’t give a damn about Armitage, but I care for Beth. As it happens, I love Beth. That may sound crazy to you, but it’s the truth. I don’t intend to lose her. I’m going to go off now and lay every woman I can find and I’m going to tell Beth every time I do it. I’m going to make her suffer, by Christ, she’s going to hear the lot — when, where, how, how often, and let me tell you I’m no under-sized egg-head, I know what I’m up to. But Beth, no, I’ll leave Beth alone. I wouldn’t touch her with a barge-pole, not if she took her pants off and came crawling …”

  “I’m going now.”

  “Oh no, you’re not. We haven’t finished. If he ever rings her or sees her again, I’ll fry him. You understand? I’ll blast him. You’ll tell him that.”

  “No.”

  “You’d better. He’s not a grown man, your husband, he’s a puking boy. He can’t even lay a girl without the whole world knowing it. Beth says he made her sick with his slop. I made her swear on the baby’s head that she was telling me the truth. I brought the baby in and I told her to swear on its head. That’s how I feel about it. If he tries to get in touch with her, I’ll know, you understand? So tell him to keep off.”

  “You must tell him yourself.”

  “I don’t want to speak to him. I don’t want to hear his pansy voice.”

  “Is that all? I want to go.”

  “Just one more thing. I’m checking on Beth, you see. She swears she’s telling the truth, but I’m checking on her. If she can lie about one thing, she can lie about another. I could go and ask all the girlies at the studio, of course, but since you’re here …”

  I stared at him. His hand crept across the table and climbed on to mine like a small, hot animal.

  “Is it true that when he’s in bed he likes to …”

  I was running and crying, my arm braced across my stomach. It was a one-way street, the pavement very narrow. Jake, oh Jake, where are you? Save me, I’m dying. I turned into a broad street and stopped running. A dark stain was spreading over the front of my skirt. I pulled my coat together and walked with small
steps, trying to keep my body stiff. It’s my own fault, my own fault. Everything’s my own fault. I knew I was parting with reason because this senseless nagging, that it was my own fault, kept on in some part of my head that didn’t exist. Now it was saying my name. I walked on, carrying my reason like a high, tugging balloon. It’s your own fault, and then my name. Somebody took my arm, forcing me to stop. I looked very closely into a man’s face, and he was saying my name.

  “Giles,” I said.

  His hand was still on my arm. He was looking at me. I watched pleasure change to bewilderment, bewilderment to anxiety. He was kind and good, he always had been. Where his hand touched my arm suffering flowed to and fro, a mutual transfusion of pain. He began to speak, but I left him in the middle of what he was saying because I could not bear the pity that he was about to feel.

  19

  “It’s not true. What more can I say? The man’s mad, he just wants to hurt you. It’s your own fault. You’ve brought the whole damn thing on yourself from the start.”

  “Did you sleep with Philpot?”

  “Oh Christ, why drag up that old thing again? It’s centuries ago. It’s ancient history.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes, of course I did.”

  “But you told me … that you hadn’t.”

  “That’s right. I lied to you. What else do you expect me to do?”

  “Was it here? In the house?”

  “I suppose so. I can’t think where else I would have slept with her.”

  “Often?”

  “Why keep torturing yourself? As often as we could, I imagine. What the hell does it matter now?”

  “Nothing matters now, I suppose. And yet something does.”

  “Of course something does. The future.”

  “No. Not the future. The truth.”

  “Can’t you see? Before you knew the truth, we were happy. What’s the good in ferreting out the truth all the time? It’s always unpleasant.”

  “Is it only lies that are pleasant?”

  “Usually. That’s why people tell them. To make life bearable.”

  “Yes. I see.”

  “This thing’s only turned into a nightmare now you’ve seen Conway. Before that it was nothing. I suppose you realize I’d have to marry the girl if he divorced her?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d have to stand by her.”

  “What about all the others? Didn’t you have to stand by them?”

  “There weren’t any others!”

  “How many?”

  “I’ve told you! None!”

  “How many?”

  “Half a dozen. A dozen. I don’t know. What does it matter, how many?”

  “When you were away, or when you were here?”

  “I expect it was when I was away! Does that comfort you?”

  “Yes, if it’s true.”

  “Then it was while I was away. I don’t give a damn.”

  “Why did you marry me, Jake?”

  “Because I loved you.”

  “Why did you marry me?”

  “I married … a background, I suppose.”

  “What do you think about marriage?”

  “I don’t think it exists, really. There are just human beings in situations they make for themselves. What do you think about marriage?”

  “What do you think about human beings?”

  “That they’re sad. And lonely.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Pretty well all … Giles rang today while you were out. You know — your husband. Giles. He said he’d seen you.”

  “Yes. We met in the street.”

  “He asked if you were all right. He said you wouldn’t speak to him.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t speak to him.”

  “Why?”

  “I … didn’t know what to say.”

  “Well, it’s a bit odd when he rings up after God knows how many years — ”

  “Thirteen.”

  “To ask if you’re all right. I should have thought you’d fling yourself into his arms and ask him to take you back, considering how much you hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “Of course you do. Otherwise you’d never have told Conway.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about you. I was thinking about myself.”

  “That’s honest, anyway. That’s the truth.”

  “Why did you go to bed with her?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “Why?”

  “Out of curiosity. Vanity. Wanting to keep young.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “I found her … appealing.”

  “But did you love her?”

  “I love you. I don’t know what it means, love.”

  “Didn’t you ever, any of the times … try not to?”

  “You know I have no self-control.”

  “When I was in the nursing home … didn’t you mind?”

  “Of course I minded! Good God, I came to see you every evening, didn’t I?”

  “And sometimes you went to her afterwards. Sometimes she had an excuse for Conway and met you, after you had left me.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “Where did you meet? Somewhere near the nursing home? Would she be waiting for you there?”

  “It’s simply not true.”

  “How many times?”

  “Only a few times. She was ill too. She couldn’t go out much.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “A hotel, of course. Where do you think we’d meet?”

  “Near the nursing home?”

  “Not very far. I don’t know where it was. Anyway, it never happened. What are you doing? What’s the point of it?”

  “Did you sign the register?”

  “No!”

  “You mean there are hotels where you can go for some hours, without signing the register?”

  “Yes, if you pay! Good God, why don’t you find out for yourself, if you want to know these things! Why ask me, of all people?”

  “You sent flowers to her yesterday.”

  “Yes. I sent flowers to her yesterday. Now I’ve cancelled the order. Why don’t you shut up? Why don’t you die?”

  “How should I die?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care. Why don’t you leave me?”

  “We can’t seem to leave each other.”

  “No. I wish to God we could.”

  “If you’d let me have the baby — ”

  “That was your decision. You decided that of your own free will.”

  “But it didn’t help either of us, did it? We both had our reasons. We both failed.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t talk about it. I can’t stand any more.”

  “So what shall we do?”

  “Forget it. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Forget it.”

  “He says that you love her. He says that you made her sick with your … love.”

  “Well, it’s not true. What more can I say? The man’s crazy, he just wants to make you miserable. It’s your own bloody fault, opening letters, talking to people. You’ve brought the whole damn thing on yourself.”

  “Was Philpot the first, or were there others, before?”

  “No, of course there weren’t any others.”

  “How many? Who were they?”

  So we were back at the beginning again. There was no end. You learn nothing by hurting others; you only learn by being hurt. Where I had been viable, ignorant, rash and loving I was now an accomplished bitch, creating an emptiness in which my own emptiness might survive. We should have been locked up while it lasted, or allowed to kill each other physically. But if the choice had been given, it would not have been each other we would have killed, it would have been ourselves.

  20

  Now I realized how completely I had been absorbed by Jake. I needed the outside world, but had no idea where to find it. For the first time, I needed friends; t
here were none. Over-indulgence in sexual and family life had left us, as far as other relationships were concerned, virginal; we said we had friends much as schoolchildren, busy with notes and hearts and keepsakes, say they have lovers. In a packed address book there was not one person to whom I could speak or write. If you have ever found yourself in this predicament, Ireen, and if you have followed your faith, you will of course have taken a part-time job, a cookery course, you will have plunged into bridge or spiritualism. Don’t think I despise you. On the contrary. I envy you at last. I only knew how to do one thing, to give myself away. Now there was nothing left to give. It is a moral tale, proving that it is better to take life in neat steps and small sips than it is to believe, as I did, that there is a wealth which is perpetually renewed.

  The wound would not heal. I had injections, pills, I was plugged and probed, my body, which had always done exactly as I wanted, turned spiteful. I became morbidly ashamed, avoided seeing myself naked, undressed in hiding. The idea that I was in some way monstrous grew unchecked, except by the feeble attacks of my own reason. Jake made love to me, for comfort, after the terrible evening battles; afterwards, while he slept, my thoughts were so hideous that when they became dreams I was consciously relieved and said to myself, as though under anaesthetic, this is only a dream.

  I wanted to go home, but now my father was dead there was no home to go to, only a house where my mother mourned and thanked goodness that I had at last seen reason. Jake told me that he had heard that Conway was roaming London blind drunk. I knew this, because for a week after our meeting he had rung me every day with such vile punishment that now I never answered the telephone, and if I was alone in the house took the receiver off the hook. I began drinking because the thought that I was drinking gave me a kind of identity: each time I poured myself a brandy in the deserted afternoon I could say to myself “I am a woman who drinks.” It was the positive action rather than the brandy itself that gave me courage. By tea-time I could sit at the head of the table and listen calmly enough to the children, even though I could not understand them. They roistered like billeted troops, cramming themselves with bread and chocolate, swigging great mugs of milk and sweetened tea, miraculously innocent, strong, indifferent. The thought of this half a ton of hungry, growing, sentient body and brain coming from my body should, perhaps, have satisfied me. In fact, lacking now my own instincts, values and beliefs, I had nothing to offer them, and what they offered me—dependence, love, trust—seemed a monumental responsibility which I could no longer bear.