The response, in its “is that all there is?” sense of desolation, is vintage Penelope, but what she had written is in fact a lapidary classic of the interior life. I have read The Pumpkin Eater several times and never fail to be surprised by its immediacy, the way it has of bringing you into its confidence, as though you and the distraught, isolated woman at its center were old friends. Despite the passage of more than four decades, its concerns — the essential differences between men and women when it comes to matters of love and sex, the loneliness at the heart of life that can’t be assuaged by marriage or children — have not dated. It could have been written yesterday, and in its lucid examination of the fragility that haunts even our most robust endeavors I suspect it will have something urgent to say to generations of readers to come.
In real life Penelope Mortimer would continue to experience anguish of all sorts; her keenest sense of herself seems to have been that of “pressing my nose to the world’s window like some famished outcast.” She had trouble letting go of her obsessive relationship with John even as they lived apart, failed to find gratification from her literary acclaim, and missed her children — especially her son, Jeremy — as they grew up and away. But finally she was resilient; she didn’t go the way of Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton. She continued to write, came to New York to teach, and made it through to the age of eighty-one, living on her own in a cottage in the Cotswolds, where she had become an avid gardener. “Owning land,” she wrote at the close of her second memoir, which ends in 1978 (although it was only published in 1993), “made some stubbornly preserved part of me emerge rampant, sweeping the rest out of sight.”
— DAPHNE MERKIN
THE PUMPKIN EATER
Peter, Peter, Pumpkin eater,
Had a wife and couldn’t keep her.
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.
For John
1
“Well,” I said, “I will try. I honestly will try to be honest with you, although I suppose really what you’re more interested in is my not being honest, if you see what I mean.”
The doctor smiled slightly.
“When I was a child my mother had a wool drawer. It was the bottom drawer in a chest in the dining room and she kept every scrap of wool she had in it. You know, bits from years ago, jumpers she’d knitted me when I was two. Some of the bits were only a few inches long. Well, this drawer was filled with wool, all colours, and whenever it was a wet afternoon she used to make me tidy her wool drawer. It’s perfectly obvious why I tell you this. There was no point in tidying the drawer. The wool was quite useless. You couldn’t have knitted a tea-cosy out of that wool, I mean without enormous patience. She just made me sort it out for something to do, like they make prisoners dig holes and fill them up again. You do see what I mean, don’t you?”
“You would like to be something useful,” he said sadly. “Like a tea-cosy.”
“It can’t be as easy as that.”
“Oh no. It’s not at all easy. But there are other things you can make from wool.”
“Such as?”
“Hot water bottle covers,” he said promptly.
“We don’t use hot water bottles. Balls you can make, for babies. Or small golliwogs.”
“The point you are trying to make is that tidying the wool is a useless and probably impossible task?”
“Yes.”
“But you are a human being. The consequences of your … muddle are more grave. The comparison, you see, is not a true one.”
“Well, it’s how it feels to me,” I said.
“When you cry, is that how it feels? Hopeless?”
“I just want to open my mouth and cry. I want to cry, and not think.”
“But you can’t cry for the rest of your life.”
“No.”
“You can’t worry for the rest of your life.”
“No.”
“What do you worry about, Mrs. Armitage?”
“Dust,” I said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Dust. You know? Dust.”
“Oh,” he said, and wrote for a while on a long piece of paper. Then he sat back, folded his hands and said, “Tell me about it.”
“It’s very simple. Jake is rich. He makes about £50,000 a year, I suppose you’d call that rich. But everything is covered with dust.”
“Please go on.”
“It’s partly the demolition, of course. They’re pulling down the houses all round us, so you have to expect a bit of dust. My father bought the lease of the house for us when we got married, that was thirteen years ago.”
“You have been married for thirteen years,” he said, writing it down.
“To Jake, yes. There were thirteen years of the lease to run when my father bought it. He bought it for £1,500 and we pay a peppercorn rent, so you see we’re very lucky. Anyway. I was trying to tell you about the dust.”
“So your lease expires this year.”
“I suppose so. We’re building a tower in the country at the moment.”
“A tower?”
“Yes.”
“You mean … a house?”
“No. A tower. Well, I suppose you could call it a house. It’s a tower, though.”
He put his pen down carefully, with both hands, as though it were fragile. “And where is this … tower?” he asked.
“In the country,” I said.
“I realize that, but — ”
“It’s on a hill, and down in the valley is a barn, where I used to live before I married Jake. That’s where we met. Now can we get back to the dust, because …”
“Of course,” he said, and picked up his pen again.
I tried to think. I stared at him, silhouetted against the net-curtained window of the consulting room. I heard the tick of the clock, the hiss of the gas fire. “I’ve forgotten what I was going to say.”
He waited. The clock ticked. I stared at the fire.
“Jake doesn’t want any more children,” I said.
“Do you like children, Mrs. Armitage?”
“How can I answer such a question?”
“Could it be a question that you don’t wish to answer?”
“I thought I was supposed to lie on a couch and you wouldn’t say a word. It’s like the Inquisition or something. Are you trying to make me feel I’m wrong? Because I do that for myself.”
“Do you think it would be wrong not to like children?”
“I don’t know. Yes. Yes, I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because children don’t do you any harm.”
“Not directly, perhaps. But indirectly …”
“Perhaps you don’t have any,” I said.
“Oh, yes. Three. Two boys and a girl.”
“How old are they?”
“Sixteen, fourteen and ten.”
“And do you like them?”
“Most of the time.”
“Well, then. That’s my answer. I like them most of the time.”
“But you have …” He glanced at his list and made do with, “a remarkable number. You seem upset that your husband doesn’t want any more. This hardly sounds like someone who likes children most of the time. It sounds more of …”
“An obsession?”
“I wouldn’t use that word. Conviction, perhaps, would be nearer the mark.”
“I thought I was meant to lie on a couch and talk about whatever came into my head.”
“I’m not an analyst, Mrs. Armitage. I simply want to find out how you should be treated.”
“Treated for what?”
“We don’t know yet, do we?”
“For wanting another child? Is that why Jake made me come to you? Does he want you to persuade me not to have another child?”
“I am not here to persuade you of anything. You came of your own free will.”
“In that case I do everything of my own free will. Crying, worrying about the dust. Even having children. But
you don’t believe that, do you?”
“I’m not here to believe you, Mrs. Armitage. That isn’t the point.”
“You keep saying you’re not here to do this, that and the other. What are you here for?”
“Perhaps,” he gave another of his wan smiles, “to find out why you hate me so much, at the moment. Oh, I don’t mean myself, personally, of course. But you hate something, don’t you … other than dust?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“What was the first thing you hated — can you remember?”
“It wasn’t a thing. It was a man. Mr. Simpkin …”
“Yes?”
“And a girl called … Ireen Douthwaite, when I was a child. And a woman called Philpot. I don’t remember …”
“Your previous husbands?”
“Oh no. No. I liked them.”
“Your present husband? … Jake?”
“No!”
“Tell me about Jake.”
“Tell you …?”
“Yes. Go on. Tell me about Jake.” He sounded as though he were daring me. I laughed and spread my hands out, looking down on them.
“Well, what … what do you want to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell me.”
“Well, Jake … It’s impossible to tell you about Jake.”
“Try.”
I took a deep breath. I felt as though I could open my mouth and pour words out for ever. I felt as though I could open my heart, literally unlock it and fling it open. Now the truth would be told. The breath petered out of me. I said nothing. He waited.
“This house we live in,” I began. “The sitting room faces south, it has huge windows, sash windows, so whenever there is any sun it’s like a greenhouse, very hot indeed. Of course the sun shows up the dust. When people come into the sitting room for the first time they always say what a marvellous room it is, and then after a bit I see them noticing things. Women mostly, of course, but also men. Somebody once wrote an article about Jake; they said he bought books, not yachts. Well, of course, he doesn’t buy either. He doesn’t buy anything. The things people notice are the burns in the carpet and the marks on the wall. Jake used to drink a lot of tinned beer, and you know how it spurts out when you make a hole in the tin. Then the children. Well, nobody has ever washed the walls, for some reason, I mean not since it was last painted, about two years ago.
“Of course it is a marvellous room. I’m in there most of the time now, I really live in it. I do know it very well. There’s a picture on the side wall, here, just as you come in the door, a terrible yellow and green thing, an abstract. It belongs to Jake. We don’t get rid of it, although it’s the most hellish picture you’ve ever seen. There are piles of magazines, too. We don’t get rid of things. We’ve still got bicycles in the shed that we brought from the country years ago. Quite useless. Then there’s nowhere to put the new ones.
“Anyway. Jake has a study downstairs, he used to work there a lot until he got this office. His office is in St. James’s, that’s where he works now. I haven’t been there for a long time. He never liked working in the study at home, he used to feel lonely. He was always coming upstairs to talk to someone, the children, or me, or whoever was in the house. He used to cook things for himself, he was always hungry, he liked being in the kitchen. Of course Jake was an only child. We both were. There are eight bedrooms, but we’ve only got one bathroom. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
There was a long silence. I thought he might have gone to sleep. That gas fire would send anybody to sleep; he ought to have a bowl of water in front of it.
“Shall I go on?”
“Please.”
“Isn’t it time to stop?”
“Only if you want to.”
“You ought to have a bowl of water in front of that gas fire, you know.”
“You find it too hot?”
“The trouble is that people throw their match ends into it and they float about for days. Then the water dries up.”
“You hate … messes, don’t you?”
“Yes. That is something I hate.”
“They frighten you.”
“Perhaps they do frighten me.”
“Was …” he glanced down at his paper, “Mr. Simpkin a mess?”
“Yes,” I said. “To me he seemed the most terrible mess. Is that helpful?”
He stood up, leaning on his desk like an after-dinner speaker. “We shall, I think, make progress,” he said.
2
Jake’s father said, “I suppose you know what you’re doing. What do the children say?”
“They — ”
“We haven’t actually discussed it with them,” Jake said. “They are children, you know. We don’t have to ask their permission, do we?”
“Indeed,” his father said, “I should have thought that was most important.”
“I don’t understand why you want to marry Jake,” he went on, delicately biting the end off a cheese straw. “Simply don’t understand it.” He smiled in my direction, holding the straw poised for the next bite.
“I know there are an awful lot of us, but — ”
“Oh, I’m not worrying about that, not worrying about that at all. I suppose your previous husbands pay a bit of maintenance and so on?”
“A little,” I lied.
“You’ve managed so far. I should think from the look of you you’ll go on managing. Why Jake, though? He’ll be a frightful husband.”
“Now wait a minute — ” Jake said.
“Oh, he will. A frightful husband. You’re bound to be ill, for instance. You won’t get the slightest sympathy from him, he hates illness. He’s got no money and he’s bone-lazy. Also he drinks too much.” He smiled very sweetly at Jake, congratulating him.
“You’d think he hates me,” Jake said.
“Nonsense, my dear boy. She knows better than that. Give her some more sherry, but don’t have another Scotch, it’s got to last me till Tuesday. Now where are you going to live, for instance?”
“We don’t know yet …”
“Well, it’s entirely your own affair of course. If I were nicely settled in a house in the country with furniture — I presume you’ve got furniture — and all the usual amenities, I certainly shouldn’t abandon it all for Jake. He’s totally unreliable, always has been. And I wasn’t even aware that he liked children. Do you,” he enquired blandly of Jake, “like children?”
“Of course. I’m mad about children. Always have been.”
“Really? How strange. Now I would have thought you would have found them tremendously boring. Have you known many children?”
“You see?” Jake said. “I told you. He’s impossible.”
“You’re not drinking all my Scotch, are you?”
“I’ll get you another bottle.”
“Where? It’s Thursday, you know, early closing.”
“I’ll go down to the pub before lunch and get you another bottle. All right?”
“You will see that he does, won’t you?” the old man asked me. “He plunders me, you know. The last time he was here he walked off with my razor — ”
“For heaven’s sake,” Jake said, “you had six razors.”
“I need six razors. I hope you brought it back.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Perhaps you could send it me, my dear? It’s a small Gillette, the kind that screws open, I believe they cost around five and elevenpence.”
“I’ll see if I can find it,” I said. “Otherwise, of course, we’ll buy you a new one.”
“That would be kind. It’s a quite indispensable little razor — for getting at the odd corners, you know. Now, Jake, stop mooning about, boy. Give her some more sherry. His manners aren’t up to much, but I expect you’ve discovered that already.”
“Actually,” I said, screwing up my toes, my voice squeaking a little, “Actually, I love him.”
“I’m sure you do. So do I.”
We smiled warmly at each othe
r.
“You’re a brave girl,” he said.
“Oh, no. It’s Jake who’s … brave.”
“Nonsense. He’s out for what he can get. Beautiful wife who knows how to cook, ready-made family, plenty of furniture. He’ll expect a lot of you.”
I reached for Jake’s hand. “I don’t mind.”
“He’s been on his own too much. My wife couldn’t have any more children, we spoiled him. He doesn’t like his shirts sent to the laundry, you know that?”
“Good God,” Jake said. “I’m twenty-nine years old. I am here.”
“He also has a shocking temper. When do you plan to get married?”
“Next month,” I muttered. “When the divorce is through.”
“Ah, the divorce. That’s all going smoothly?”
“I think so. I’m sorry that Jake — ”
“He’s the co-respondent, of course. ‘All experience is an arch wherethro’ gleams that untravelled world …’ I must say, dear boy, I never thought you had it in you. Well … that’s everything, I think? We needn’t go on with this discussion, need we? How about getting my Scotch?”
“I hope you’ll come,” I said. “I mean, we’d like you to be there, if you’d like to come.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Thank you, my dear, but I don’t think so. I detest trains, and if I get Williams to drive me up we can never park anywhere, and then there’s the problem of Williams’s lunch. No, it’s all too tedious. But of course you have my great blessing.”
“As far as the wedding present’s concerned,” Jake said, “we’d like a cheque.” His face was a very delicate green and his upper lip was curled under in a petrified flinch.
“A cheque,” the old man said. He became motionless. A shaft of sunlight moved idly over the room, picking out little pieces of silver and cut glass, lighting up the old man’s polished toecaps, sliding over the leather chairs. He took another cheese straw, weighed it in his fingers. “What for?”
We couldn’t answer that. He waited, then bit the straw neatly. “I’ll give you a cheque. Not much, mind you, because I’m a poor man. You’ll want a little party, I daresay, after the event, a few bottles of champagne and so on. I’ll give you twenty-five pounds on the express condition that you spend it on that. You understand me?”
The Pumpkin Eater Page 2
