The Dumb House (7 page)

The back door was wide open, but I was certain he hadn't gone inside. He belonged to the garden, not the house. I had a momentary image of him hunting for small rodents and insects, his fingers and mouth caked with fresh soil, mouse bones cracking between his teeth.

I thought of leaving. Then it occurred to me that something might have happened to Mrs Olerud. She had seemed on edge the previous evening, almost despairing at times; now the thought passed through my mind that she might have done something to harm herself. A few days before, on the radio, I'd heard how a couple had committed suicide in a holiday cottage in Wales. They had killed themselves with alcohol and sleeping pills and their two children, aged four and eighteen months, had been left alone with the bodies, too frightened to go out. It had been several days before anybody noticed something was wrong. When the police forced their way into the cottage, they found the children in the kitchen, huddled together behind the door. They had been living on corn flakes.

I stepped into the kitchen and looked around. No one was there. I called out. Nobody answered. When I went through to the sitting room, I found Mrs Olerud, laid out on the sofa, in a floral-patterned dressing gown. She appeared to be asleep, or perhaps unconscious. On the coffee table, a bottle of gin, a glass, still half-full, a large plastic bottle of tonic, now empty, were the only objects that looked out of place in the clean, well-ordered room. I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; it was eleven thirty. Lying there, with one arm raised, half-covering her face, Mrs Olerud was obviously drunk. The dressing gown was
covered in large, dark flowers, it reminded me of something Mother had worn, years before, on summer afternoons; as far as I could tell, the woman was naked under the thin satin. I stood over her. She looked impossibly moist and soft; I could see her breathing and I imagined how warm she would be if I touched her, how smooth the skin would be on her neck and shoulders. The dressing gown was knotted loosely at the waist with a wide belt, in the same red and white material; it had fallen open just above the knee, where her legs were bent slightly; though her arm was raised to half-cover her face, I could see her mouth, and I was tempted to run my fingers over her full, red lips. I was struck again by how beautiful she looked; for a moment I was almost overcome by a feeling akin to grief, a mixture of longing and despair that surprised me. I set the flowers down carefully on the edge of the coffee table.

‘Mrs Olerud?'

I stood waiting for her to respond; then, when she made no move, I sat down on the floor next to the sofa and rested my fingers, gently, on her ankle. I could not see her eyes, but I could tell she wasn't so much asleep as unconscious. Her breathing was slow and shallow, somehow academic, like the breathing of an automaton, like the waxwork Sleeping Beauty I had once seen in a museum. I slid my hand lightly along her leg, past the knee, to where the thigh filled out, smooth and warm to the touch. I was excited. Looking at her like this, at rest, I could see she was all roundness, perfect in proportion, and I wanted to touch her everywhere at once, to have a thousand hands, to explore and describe the entire surface of her body. At the same time, the idea began to form in my mind that she was not unconscious at all; or at least, that she was half-aware of what was happening, and was only pretending she was asleep, to see what I would do next. I lifted my hand gently – it seemed what might disturb
her, or make her take fright, wasn't so much the moment of contact, as the moment's withdrawal – and I found where the belt was knotted around her waist. She lay still. I teased the knot loose, slowly, taking pleasure in the way I was able to contain my desire, then I let the belt fall and turned back the gown so her hips and breasts were naked. I bent towards her. I could feel the warmth off her body; I could smell that sweet mustiness of sleep, mingled with her perfume. I could almost taste her hair, her wet mouth, the salt of her skin. Her breasts were a little smaller than I would have expected, and her belly was a little rounded; she had an old-fashioned body, like the figure of Eve in one of those medieval paintings that showed the Expulsion from Eden. I ran a fingertip along her arm. It was soft, warm, covered in fine down. Still she did not move. I reached out and stroked her softly, running my fingers lightly over her breasts, belly and hips. I was afraid she would wake at any moment; at the same time, I wanted her to know I was there, to respond, to pull me towards her, into the moist warmth of her flesh.

Suddenly I was aware of something and turned. The boy, Jeremy, was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching me. I hadn't heard him come in; he was quite still, quite silent, and I realised he'd been standing there for some time, literally holding his breath, curious to see what I would do. That was what I'd heard – that soft intake of breath – though something else was suggested, a slight turn of the head, as he scented the air, like an animal. Yes, that was it, he was scenting me, taking me in fully, perhaps for the first time. Now, seeing that I'd noticed he was there, he smiled, softly, conspiratorially. I pulled back the hem of the dressing gown and stood up. I thought he would run to his mother and wake her, but all he did was stand there, frowning slightly, disappointed, or puzzled by something, as if I had just given him some task to perform that he did not understand. I
noticed that his hair and clothes were wet, and his hands were dirty, crusted at the knuckles with scabs of loam, as if he had just been digging.

‘It's all right,' I said. ‘She's only sleeping.'

I was aware of the defensiveness in my voice, the note of guilt, and it irritated me, that I had felt the need to explain myself to a child. Yet there was no sign that he understood, either what I had said, or what he had caught me doing. I backed away from the sofa, towards the door that led to the hallway.

‘I'd better go,' I said. ‘I'll call back later. When she's awake.'

He shook his head fiercely, like a dog, scattering drops of water everywhere. Then he turned and ran out, leaving a trail of muddy footprints across the kitchen floor. Mrs Olerud stirred then, or perhaps she only moved in her sleep, and I left quickly, leaving the front door ajar, just as I'd found it. As I walked away, I had the idea that I knew her in a way she would understand the next time she saw me, like the idea that sometimes comes when you touch someone in a dream then see them the next day, on the street, or in a shop, and you're sure they remember the same dream, the one they had the night before, where you touched them and they responded, surprised by their own complicity, amazed by a moment of unexpected surrender. At the same time, I felt Mrs Olerud had intended it that way, that she had somehow contrived the whole thing.

I returned at precisely two o'clock on Saturday afternoon, as we had agreed. Once again, Mrs Olerud was dressed impeccably, and she was as remote and polite as she had been at our first meeting. Yet the thought remained that she half-remembered everything that had happened, that a secret complicity existed between us. Once again, I brought her flowers: before I arrived
I had half-expected her to refuse them, but she accepted the gift naturally, and carried the bouquet into the kitchen, to put it in water. I noticed, then, that the flowers I had brought on my previous visit were standing on a shelf to one side of the fireplace, carefully arranged in a bright-blue ceramic vase. At that moment, I knew Mrs Olerud had been aware of me the previous day. She had allowed me to touch her, to explore her skin, and there was no doubt in my mind that she would have allowed me to go further. The flowers were a signal of that fact.

On this occasion, however, we were polite and formal. We discussed the weather. Mrs Olerud served me tea, as she had on my first visit, apologising again that she had no milk, and asking if lemon would do. There was a ritual quality in everything she did, as if she had to perform every action exactly as she had always done. She served tea as if enacting a ceremony, as if she were Japanese; every movement was controlled, every word, no matter how trivial, seemed calculated. It was as if she was afraid of letting something slip, of giving something away. When it came time to fetch Jeremy, she managed to conceal her anxiety, and he was produced from upstairs, like an exhibit in a museum. As on my first visit, he was clean and well-dressed enough, but now he was sleepy, almost groggy, as if he had been drugged. He seemed not to recognise me, and showed no signs of the wildness I had seen in him before. I tried half-heartedly to attract his attention – I knew by now that he understood what I was saying – but he remained withdrawn and, after about ten minutes, his mother led him away. I was mystified. Mrs Olerud appeared to be entirely in control of her strange child, yet she could not quite hide her fear of him. I had seen evidence of a near-animal quality in his behaviour, but that could easily have been the result of loneliness or neglect, and it certainly
wasn't enough to explain her discomfort. Was she afraid the child would harm her in some way? Or was she afraid of what she might do to him?

When she returned, we sat a while, making small talk. I was beguiled by her beauty, just as I was bored by our conversation. She asked about my interest in what she called ‘speech therapy' and I explained as well as I could. Occasionally we lapsed into silence and I sat watching her, looking for any sign she might offer, that she remembered the events of the previous day. I knew she did, but she gave nothing away, and after what felt like a respectable time, I left. As before, she stopped me at the door; this time her suggestion that I visit her again was almost casual. I immediately agreed, and we set a date for the following week. I knew she understood that I would come before then, that I would not be able to stay away so long. There was a promise between us, even if nothing was said.

This pattern established itself over the next several visits. On some days, I would arrive in the morning and find her in a kind of trance, wandering about the house in her floral-patterned gown, or lying on the sofa, as if waiting for me to find her there. Sometimes she had been drinking, but not always. Sometimes the child would be playing in the garden; often he was nowhere to be seen. I would knock at the front door, and she wouldn't answer; then I would walk around the side of the house and go in through the kitchen, carrying whatever gift I had brought, a bunch of flowers, a box of chocolates, a bottle of wine. The first few times this happened, I tried talking to her, asking where Jeremy was, and if she was all right, but her only response was to wait, silently, while I loosened her belt and slipped back her dressing gown. Her eyes would be closed, but she wasn't
sleeping, and I was certain she was aware of everything that was happening.

Her body was astonishing. She was always damp, very warm – as if feverish – yet she smelled sweet, and her skin was smooth to the touch, almost incredibly soft. When I kissed her, her mouth would be very wet. Sometimes I would have her on the sofa, in the sitting room, with the back door open and the child somewhere outside. I wondered what he understood, if he knew I was there, if he was watching. Sometimes I would force her on to the floor and take her violently – there was something in her passivity that demanded it – and it gave me pleasure then, to think that the boy might see. I would raise her legs and bend back her knees, so I could pin her down and drive into her. I did whatever I liked: she was always utterly compliant, lying with her face pressed to the floor, sometimes crying out or moaning softly, plaintive, and oddly childlike. Sometimes I had to go looking through the house before I found her. Once, she was lying face down on the bed, and she did not move or make a sound all the time I was there. It was like having sex with a corpse – yet I was certain she was aware of me, and of what I was doing. No matter how I found her, no matter what I did, she never spoke, except to utter those odd little sounds. When I was finished, I left her and went home without a word, with her smell on me, warm and sweet, like a mingling of honey and blood. Every time I went to her house I was excited: I wanted her so violently it was almost painful, and taking her was a mixture of pleasure and exquisite relief.

Afterwards, though, I would feel slightly disgusted, as if I had been exposed to some kind of contamination, as if I had deliberately allowed myself to be sullied. There were days when I was angry with her, for being so powerless, so available; yet on the other days, when she would be fully-dressed, formal,
almost excessively polite, pretending nothing had ever happened between us, I wanted to pull her to the floor and take her by force. I might have had her the day before, there might still be bruises under her clothes, but she acknowledged nothing. We would sit in the living room, drinking tea, then she would fetch Jeremy, and I would offer him little gifts, to win his trust, to break through his suspicion, though by now I was only going through the motions. The child accepted the bribes, but he gave no sign that he recognised the giver. Mrs Olerud – I always called her Mrs Olerud, never Karen, though I knew that was her name – would encourage him, trying to make him open up, as if I were a doctor, or an expert of some kind, come to administer a cure. If anything, this assistance was counterproductive: Jeremy seemed to regard her with as much suspicion as he showed me. He was never badly behaved. He came when he was called, and stood stock-still while I talked to him; he ate the sweets I brought him, one after another, though with no sign of pleasure. He wasn't really there; perhaps he was nothing more than the alert animal he seemed, at home in the wet undergrowth of the garden, like some wolf child. He was fascinating to watch, in his state of limbo, utterly incommunicado, but I knew, no matter what I did, I would never understand him. I kept going back, but not to see him. I wanted those mornings when Karen Olerud was lost in her trance, naked under her dressing gown, waiting for me, or for some imagined other, whose place I was assuming, briefly, without acknowledgement.