The Dumb House by John Burnside Read Free Book Online Page B

as if I can help. I’m just doing research – do you see?’
    â€˜Yes,’ she said. ‘I do, truly.’ Her voice was too high, too sincere.
    â€˜I can’t help you,’ I repeated.
    â€˜I don’t want help. I want to help you if I can. With your – studies.’
    She hesitated, watching me. Her hand was still clutching my arm. I could see she was trying to think of something else to say, to put me at my ease, so I would come again.
    â€˜Come on Saturday,’ she said. ‘In the daytime. It’s easier in the daytime.’
    She was animated now, almost desperate. When I had arrived, she had seemed not to know who I was, or why I had come. She had been distant, almost indifferent. Nothing had passedbetween us, except small talk; she had shown me the boy, then told me to leave, more or less unceremoniously. Now she was pleading with me to return. I might have been angry with her: her behaviour had been rude, and unnecessarily mysterious. Instead, I was intrigued. Karen Olerud possessed a quality that I recognised, even at that first meeting.
    â€˜Saturday,’ she said again.
    â€˜Perhaps,’ I answered. ‘If I can. When would be convenient?’
    â€˜Two o’clock?’
    â€˜Fine.’ I wanted to sound noncommittal, as if I still hadn’t decided whether to keep the appointment.
    â€˜I’ll expect you at two then,’ she said, and as she opened the door, her expression became neutral again. It was as if, with her anxiety, something else was bleeding away, and the last picture I had of her was the image of an empty, impassive face, a contrived and practised absence, a kind of nothingness.
    I returned the next morning. At seven thirty I parked the car at the end of the street, so I had a clear view of the house, and waited. I wanted to see Jeremy leave for school and what Mrs Olerud did when she was alone. I did not trust what she had told me in the letter – I had no evidence, other than her word, that the child really was dumb. He might be disturbed, but it was just as likely that his mother was the one with the problem. The boy might have chosen his silence, or he might have had silence forced upon him. I told myself that that was my motive for being there; yet, at the same time, I have to confess that I was less interested in the boy than in his mother. Something had passed between us the previous evening. I had lain awake half the night, thinking about her, remembering her face, and the feel of her hand on my arm. I think, from the first,I guessed what was about to happen. I had brought her flowers from the garden; even though it seemed quite inappropriate, I felt sure she would accept them.
    It was a damp morning. It had rained in the night and the gardens were still wet. As soon as the sun came up, everything began to steam; clouds of vapour unfurled from the larchlap fences, a fine mist formed on the hedges and lawns. Soon it was warm. The light streamed through the gaps between the houses, catching on car mirrors and headlamps, investing the run-down estate with a ghostly and transient beauty. There was no sign of Mrs Olerud or her son. Other children appeared on the street, girls in blue dresses, boys in uniform. One or two saw me and peered into the car, but mostly they passed by without noticing, oblivious to everything but the small miseries and joys to which the school day condemned them. I remembered that sensation from my own school years. I remembered the care I had to take, not to stand out among my classmates. I could have gone to another school, but Mother wanted me to stay close to home, which meant I had to attend the village school, with children who were poorer and less bright than I was. It was an effort not to become a target, especially with the older boys. But I managed quite well. I never put myself forward, never volunteered; in games, I waited to be chosen, in class I waited to be asked. I always seemed to do my