It is 1 November, and on a doorstep in a quiet cul-de-sac, a carved pumpkin is slowly becoming a different shape. Its left eye has drifted towards its mouth. Its grin, once a confident row of triangular teeth, now looks like it is trying to remember something. We sat down beside it (on the step, in the drizzle) for its first interview since the trick-or-treaters left.
Made Up News: Thanks for speaking to us. How are you feeling?
Pumpkin: Composed. Slightly concave, but composed. I would like it noted that on Thursday evening I was the best-looking pumpkin on this street. Great teeth. Real craftsmanship, considering it was done with a bread knife and a lot of swearing.
MUN: You’ve been out here since Halloween. What do you remember?
Pumpkin: The tealight, mostly. They lit it at six and it burned beautifully. Went out around twenty to eleven. Nobody checked on it. It did its best, that little light. I think about it a lot.
MUN: And the household? Did they say anything about the future?
Pumpkin: I was told there would be soup. The woman said it on Wednesday, while she was scooping out my insides. ‘We’ll definitely make soup with this.’ Then the man said ‘definitely’ as well. Two definitelys. That is how I knew.
MUN: How you knew what?
Pumpkin: That it wasn’t going to happen. Nobody says ‘definitely’ twice about something they’re going to do. Also, the seeds from my insides were put on a baking tray ‘for roasting’. I have seen that tray. It is in the sink, and the seeds have formed a sort of crust.
‘Every year we ask people to eat their pumpkin, and every year the pumpkin is photographed, admired and left to reflect on its choices. We’re not cross. We just want people to know that a pumpkin is a vegetable and not a lantern with a short lifespan.’
Helen Marsden, waste reduction officer at a county council
MUN: Is there any chance the soup could still happen?
Pumpkin: I’ve looked through the letterbox. The fridge is full of ambition. There is half a jar of something, a lone leek, and a tub that has been ‘leftovers’ since the spring. There isn’t room for me. There never was.
MUN: We understand the pumpkin next door had a different outcome.
Pumpkin: (long pause; a small slump) Yes. Smaller than me. Wonky nose. Honestly, I’d have said a bit of a show-off with the glitter. And now it’s a pie.
We checked with the neighbour, Priya Nair, a primary school teaching assistant, who confirmed the pie.
‘I had a spare hour and a recipe I’d saved in 2019. It was honestly no bother. There’s still some in the fridge if anyone wants it. I’ve got custard.’
Priya Nair, teaching assistant and next-door neighbour
MUN: How do you feel hearing that?
Pumpkin: Do I resent it? Yes. Is it on a plate with custard? Also yes. I’m trying to be gracious about it, but I’m a pumpkin sinking into a doormat, so it’s hard.
MUN: If you could ask the household for one thing, what would it be?
Pumpkin: Only the basics. Compost me. A caddy, a heap, the green bin, I’m not fussy. Just let me go back to the earth with a bit of dignity. Not the black bin. And please, not the hedge, where somebody says they’ll ‘sort it out at the weekend’. I’ve seen what happens to the hedge pumpkins. They go furry. They become a whole other thing.
MUN: That seems very reasonable.
Pumpkin: I thought so. I’m not even asking for soup any more. I’ve let the soup go. I’ve made my peace with the soup.
MUN: Do you have a message for the nation?
Pumpkin: Just that you all mean well. You really do. You buy the big one in October with a head full of velouté and a vague memory of a recipe with nutmeg in it. And then it’s Halloween, and you’re tired, and there’s a film on. I get it. I’m not angry. I’m just very soft on one side.
At this point the pumpkin’s left eye gave way entirely, folding quietly into its mouth. The front door opened, and a man in a dressing gown looked at the step, looked at us, and said, ‘I was going to do something with that.’ He then closed the door again, gently.
