“No. No. I’m not much of a one for crime.”
“He’s selfish, and mean, but… I’m very fond of him, too. He was away a lot when Jake was a child. Jake was terribly lonely. Lonely and sad at home, and at school. He was at school from the time he was six, and he hated it.”
“Did he go into the army?”
“Well, he did for about eight weeks. Before the war, when he left Oxford, he wanted to be an actor, then he went into advertising for a bit, then he was called up. But there was something wrong with his bladder, so they circumcised him, and when that didn’t do any good they let him out.”
“You mean he was discharged?”
“Yes. But the bladder thing got better anyway. He says that was the unhappiest time of his life, but afterwards, when he’d left the army, he enjoyed the war. He worked in the Ministry of Information — I don’t quite know what he did — but goodness, those were the days.”
“I don’t follow you…”
“For Jake, those were the days. The shelters, the blackout, everybody not being downhearted. The war did everything for him. It did his feeling for him. I mean, nobody expected anything of him, do you see? The whole world was serious and tragic and full of gloom, so people like Jake were let off. It wasn’t necessary for Jake to think or feel during the war, or take anything seriously, or care. He didn’t have to make up his mind about anything and he was approved of. When he talks about the war now it’s just like somebody talking about their childhood. You know? It was always summer and always strawberries for tea, there was always someone who loved you for what you were, not for what you ought to be.”
“But of course that’s not true.”
“No.”
He looked up at me, smiling. “Go on. When you first met him, what was he doing?”
“He’d just begun to work in films, but he was only doing re-writes, nothing very much, he didn’t even know whether he’d be able to go on. The first time I met him, he came to tea.” I hesitated, but he seemed fairly interested, so I went on. “Jake was a friend of Giles’s and he came down from London, it was a Sunday. We lived in a sort of barn — I told you, I think, that’s where we’re building the tower — someone had begun to convert it before the war, then when the war came they just left it and we rented it for practically nothing. It was a very sensible place for us really. It was huge, there was nothing inside except a big platform, like a gallery. But it had light and water and drains, because they’d already put them in. Giles collected a lot of hardboard from somewhere — he was very practical, for a violinist — and made dozens of partitions, like loose boxes, he called them areas. So we had these areas for everything, even one for him to play the violin in, but since the walls were only about six feet high the children used to climb over them, though Giles kept telling them he’d left perfectly good pathways. After a bit they got very shaky and some of them fell down, but by that time I think Giles knew it was all over so he didn’t bother to fix them up again. They were just left propped about. I was always falling over them with trays … Anyway, Jake came to tea. I was pregnant, about seven months pregnant, and I was wearing the most dreadful smock, and boots because it was so cold. It must have been chaos. It’s funny, I can’t remember. I can remember it happening, but not what I thought or felt or what we talked about, except that Dinah sat on Jake’s knee. She was nearly four. He always liked Dinah best because her father was dead, also because she was very pretty. He told me afterwards that he fell in love with me then, that afternoon, that he wanted to make love to me. I don’t know if it’s true. I think he wanted to join us, that’s all. I think he wanted … to belong to us.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
“So he married me.”
“Yes.’
“We were very happy.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“He enjoyed everything — things that I’d got so used to, I didn’t notice them any more. He used to help put them to bed — I mean, they weren’t his, after all — and tell them great stories and play with them. He worked hard, perhaps in a way he worked harder than he does now, but because it was for a different reason it was easier. I find all this hard to explain. Christmas, for instance. When he was a child he hated it, he was all alone, they used to have dinner in the evening and make him wear a dinner jacket and then when the port came he was sent to bed. The first Christmas he knew us he hacked down an enormous tree, much too big, and they all carried it in and he decorated it, he made an angel for the top. Then on Christmas Day he did a play with them but they all laughed so much that… I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. Don’t worry.”
“Now he sends his secretary to Hamleys and everything comes wrapped, and except for the youngest ones they’re all bored and hating it because he does nothing but tell them how expensive it is and how meaningless. And anyway there’s nothing to give. That Christmas I gave him a snow-storm, a glass ball.”
He waited for a moment. “When did his success begin? Some time ago, I take it?”
“He wrote a film about…Philpot. It was about a girl who went around breaking up people’s marriages, but always by mistake, comically. It started with all the ushers in the Divorce Court saying hullo to her in the morning, because they knew her so well. It was sexy and it made people laugh. That was the beginning. It was about eight years ago.”
“And life changed.”
“Not all at once. Of course it didn’t. But we bought a lot of things — furniture, machines, cars. We got help. I don’t know why it’s called help.”
“You mean servants?”
“We don’t call them servants.”
“It must have been a relief to you.”
“At first it was. The idea of it was. I imagined I’d have more time for Jake. But we all began to live alone, that’s what really happened. We got men in to paint the rooms, and we didn’t have to wash up any more, the children didn’t come and grate cheese or make biscuits, in the evening they watched television, but not with us, and in the afternoons they went out for walks with the help. We drove about alone in our cars and we went away for holidays without Jake, because he was working. He took an office and …”
“And what?”
“I don’t know. We’ve managed it badly, I suppose. There’s nothing left.”
He sighed, as though he thought the story had been a sad one. Then he asked abruptly, “Do you like Jake?”
“Like him?”
“Apart from everything else you feel about him, all your conflicting emotions … Do you like him?”
“No,” I said. “Not very much.”
“That’s my impression. Why don’t you like him?”
I tried to think. One by one I turned over the possible reasons for disliking Jake: he is a coward, a cheat, he is mean, vain, cruel, he is slovenly, he is sly. “I… I don’t know,” I said.
“But you love him?”
“Yes. Yes, I love him.”
“You want your marriage to survive?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think that in order for your marriage to survive there should be some … change?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Jake is liable to change?”
“No.”
I felt that I had at last given him a correct answer. He folded his file, screwed up his pen, with the air of a man whose backward pupil is beginning, after long weeks of patience and work, to make a little progress. “Think about what you have just said. Just chew it over a little during the next couple of weeks. Will you do that?”
“Couple of weeks?”
“I shan’t be seeing you again for a fortnight. Surely I told you?”
“No — ”
“Oh, really — I’m so tremendously sorry. I quite thought I’d told you last time. We’re off to Gstadt on Friday for a spot of ski-ing.” He grinned bashfully. “It’s my great passion, I’m afraid.”
“But…” I couldn’t believe it. Leaving me? Lea
ving me now? “But what about…?”
“Keep on with the pills, if you need them. Oh, and cut down on liquids as much as you can. We’ll make an appointment, shall we, for the … 19th? Would the 19th suit you?”
“I can’t manage the 19th. I know I can’t.”
“Then why don’t you give me a ring in, say, three weeks’ time? See how you get on.” He beamed at me, persuasive, bland as a salesman leaving a free sample. No obligation, madam, it’s entirely up to you.
“Jake will be back by then. I don’t think I shall be able to manage it.”
“Oh, come now …”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think I shall be able to manage it.”
“But it would be such a pity if you gave up …”
“If I gave up? What do your patients do while you’re away? Commit suicide, murder their wives, or do they just sit and cry and take pills and think about what they told you last time? Supposing I take it into my head to get pregnant again? That’s my disease, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be a great deal simpler just to … sterilize me, or whatever it is they do, then you could go off to your ski-ing without a care in the world? If I’m sane enough to be left alone with my thoughts for two weeks then I’m too sane to need these futile, boring conversations — because my God, they bore me — at six guineas a time. I thought I was meant to…” I shut my mouth, clenching it tight. The wailing stopped. The room was peaceful. I said carefully, “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I was wrong. I’ll go now.”
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.
12
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 b
e 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?”
“No, not a bit.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece and said, “She wants to know if it’ll be dressy.” He said, on the fringe of a yawn, “Give her my love.”
The Pumpkin Eater Page 9
