The Pumpkin Eater by Penelope Mortimer

for the sound of the nurse or a child but straining for every word through the open door.
    â€œâ€¦ very unhappy,” the doctor said.
    â€œWhat did she say to you?”
    â€œNothing 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.
    â€œWhat sort of ideas?”
    â€œOh … thinks everyone’s against her, finds fault all the time. You know the sort of thing.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œDoesn’t make sense to me, either.”
    â€œNo, I don’t, thanks … She’s not got enough to do, you know.”
    â€œOh, balls … Sorry, but that’s a lot of balls. She never sews on a button, never lifts a duster, never cooks a meal …”
    â€œSince when?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œHow are you getting on? Together, I mean?”
    â€œOh … fine. I’m busy, of course. But … fine.”
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œNo,” Jake said. “I can’t think of a reason …” The syphon hissed again. “I suppose … she’d like to have another child.”
    â€œHow old is she?”
    â€œI don’t know. Thirty-eight, I think.”
    â€œAnd the youngest?”
    â€œThree.”
    â€œThen 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 …”
    â€œWe’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
…”
    â€œObsession is a very strong word,” the doctor said.
    â€œAll 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,