The Pumpkin Eater Read Free Page B

you think it would be wrong not to like children?”
    â€œI don’t know. Yes. Yes, I think so.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause children don’t do you any harm.”
    â€œNot directly, perhaps. But indirectly …”
    â€œPerhaps you don’t have any,” I said.
    â€œOh, yes. Three. Two boys and a girl.”
    â€œHow old are they?”
    â€œSixteen, fourteen and ten.”
    â€œAnd do you like them?”
    â€œMost of the time.”
    â€œWell, then. That’s my answer. I like them most of the time.”
    â€œBut 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 …”
    â€œAn obsession?”
    â€œI wouldn’t use that word. Conviction, perhaps, would be nearer the mark.”
    â€œI thought I was meant to lie on a couch and talk about whatever came into my head.”
    â€œI’m not an analyst, Mrs. Armitage. I simply want to find out how you should be treated.”
    â€œTreated for what?”
    â€œWe don’t know yet, do we?”
    â€œFor wanting another child? Is that why Jake made me come to you? Does he want you to persuade me not to have another child?”
    â€œI am not here to persuade you of anything. You came of your own free will.”
    â€œIn 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?”
    â€œI’m not here to believe you, Mrs. Armitage. That isn’t the point.”
    â€œYou keep saying you’re not here to do this, that and the other. What
are
you here for?”
    â€œPerhaps,” 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?”
    â€œDoesn’t everyone?”
    â€œWhat was the first thing you hated — can you remember?”
    â€œIt wasn’t a thing. It was a man. Mr. Simpkin …”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œAnd a girl called … Ireen Douthwaite, when I was a child. And a woman called Philpot. I don’t remember …”
    â€œYour previous husbands?”
    â€œOh no. No. I liked them.”
    â€œYour present husband? … Jake?”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œTell me about Jake.”
    â€œTell you …?”
    â€œYes. 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.
    â€œWell, what … what do you want to know?”
    â€œWhatever you want to tell me.”
    â€œWell, Jake … It’s impossible to tell you about Jake.”
    â€œTry.”
    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.
    â€œThis 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