I tried to picture the woman from her letter. I supposed the name was Scandinavian; certainly, there was something about the way she wrote – an openness, combined with an odd formality – that suggested a foreigner. I read the letter several times; it ran for several pages, and was mostly a history of the boy’s life, his illnesses, his school grades, the minor accidents he had suffered. Each doctor he had seen was mentioned by name, as if she expected me to be familiar with his specialism and methods. There was no mention of the boy’s father; it occurred to me that the man might disapprove of her opening up to a complete stranger like this, or perhaps he was simply unaware that she had written to me. Whenever she talked about the boy, I had a distinct impression of distaste or unease. It was if she was afraid of her own child; or of someone else whose view of the child differed from hers, someone who was looking over her shoulder all the time. There was too much respect. Yes, that was it. She never used pronouns in her descriptions of the boy; she always referred to him by name. There was a kind of awe that overwhelmed her whenever she mentioned her son. I think it was this, as much as anything else, that roused my curiosity. I wanted to see this child. I wanted to see him because the letter had suggested to me that his mother was afraid of him, and I wanted to know why a grown woman would be afraid of a seven-year-old.
Twenty-six, Hartskill Road was one of a set of pebble-dashed former council houses at the end of a short terrace. I was surprised when I eventually found it; I had expected a much better neighbourhood. The other houses were grey-brown, but Mrs Olerud’s was painted white, so it looked like a piece of wedding cake left out to crumble and dry in the evening sunlight. None of the gardens was well-tended, but number twenty-six was particularly untidy, overgrown with bindweed and huge patches of Yorkshire Fog, it looked like a patch of waste ground. There was even a bed of nettles against a fence; the only sign that this piece of land had once been a garden was the odd clump of pinks, or a mildewed rose, struggling to exist amongst the weeds. The front door was blistered and cracked, as if someone had been stripping the paint and had given up half way through the job, leaving a sticky white skin of undercoat to the hazards of sunlight and frost. The window frames were intact, but the blue paintwork was scabbed and broken in places; one of the windows was cracked, and the doorbell did not ring. I knocked; waited.
The woman who opened the door was quite out of place in this house. She was wearing a fine-quality print dress and white, high-heeled shoes; she looked as if she had just come home from a wedding, or a garden party. She was wearing make-up, and I caught a hint of a good, not inexpensive perfume. Ten years before, she would have been considered pretty; now, with the lines around her mouth and the stain of persistent disappointment in her eyes, she was almost beautiful. Her eyes were bright blue, with the pure mineral colour of precious stones.
‘Mrs Olerud?’
‘Yes.’ Her manner was formal, a little remote, as if she suspected she should remember me from somewhere.
‘You said I might call.’ I said. ‘In your letter?’
Her face remained blank.
‘I would have telephoned before I came,’ I continued, ‘but I don’t have a number for you.’
‘I haven’t got a telephone,’ she said. ‘Is this about Jeremy?’
‘Yes.’
Her expression altered. There was still no sign that she understood who I was, but the fact that I was calling about the boy had obviously broken through her defences.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said.
Inside, the house was tastefully decorated, if a little sparsely furnished. The sitting room contained two armchairs, a low coffee table, a high bookcase with open shelves covered in photographs in plain silver frames. It was evident that the woman had a modicum of taste, and that she preferred to buy nothing at all if she could not afford something decent. She offered me a chair and I sat down, next to the fireplace. On the wall above the mantelpiece what looked like an original water colour of a woodland landscape was hanging in a simple, black and silver frame. It was well-executed, though a little too pretty for my taste. I knew immediately, from the expression on her face, that the woman had painted it herself.
She sat down in the chair opposite and looked at me closely. She was totally lacking in self-consciousness: she studied my face, my clothes, my hands, as if she was trying to read my character, or my intentions, from my physical appearance. She stared at me for a minute, perhaps longer. I sat still, returning her look, trying to seem unperturbed. It occurred to me, now I was in her house, that I had no idea of how to proceed. She probably expected questions, perhaps something official – a form, or a questionnaire. Without the necessary qualifications, how would I explain my interest without seeming morbid, or a little mad? I waited for her to speak. If she asked questions, I would make something up – a study, a doctoral thesis.
‘Would you like some tea?’ she said, at last.
‘That would be nice,’ I answered.
‘Please make yourself at home,’ she said. ‘I won’t be long.’
I felt uneasy. I was excited by the unexpected appearance of this beautiful woman, in such unlikely surroundings, but I wasn’t altogether sure what to make of her. There was something unsettling about her. On the one hand, she was formal, even exaggeratedly polite in her speech, yet the way she looked at me, the way she moved made it seem that I did not really exist in her eyes, or at least, that I did not exist enough for her to feel she should adapt her behaviour to my presence. By now, I was certain she lived alone with her silent child. There was no Mr Olerud – perhaps there never had been – and after years of solitude, she had forgotten how to act in the presence of other adults. She knew the words and the gestures, but the meaning had disappeared.
I walked over to the bookcase, with its rows of photographs in silver frames. Mostly they showed Mrs Olerud, either alone, or with an elderly couple I took to be her parents. The older photographs – those taken around ten or twelve years before – showed a much brighter, more attractive version of the woman I had just met. The eyes were just as blue, just as penetrating, but there was a look of amused expectation that made the young woman in the photograph appear exquisitely desirable. I noticed there were no pictures of children.
Mrs Olerud returned, with a tray of tea things: a bone china teapot, some cups and saucers, and a small, rose-patterned plate of shortbread fingers.
‘I hope you like lemon,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got any milk.’
‘Lemon is fine,’ I answered, smiling.
She did not return the smile. She put the tray on the coffee table and began to pour. The tea was transparent, almost colourless.
‘I’m afraid it’s not very strong,’ she said.
‘That’s fine for me,’ I replied, still smiling. This time she smiled back faintly, as if to apologise for the weakness of the tea.
. There was an awkward silence. It was as if she was waiting for me to speak, to explain myself, and I realised I had nothing to say. I had made no preparation for our meeting; I had no idea what I would do when I met the child. I had no props, no credentials; in all likelihood, she would take me for an impostor, or worse. I tried to think of something to say, something technical, something scientific. My mind was blank. Finally, to break the silence, Mrs Olerud began asking me questions: how far I had come, what work I did, whether I had any children of my own. The manner in which she presented the questions suggested a system, as if she had read a guide on how to make small talk; I might have imagined she was interviewing me, except that she hardly appeared to register my answers to her questions and I was sure, if I had asked her to repeat what I had said, ten or twenty minutes later, she would have forgotten everything. She seemed apprehensive; I had the impression that she was nervous about letting me see the boy. The talk was a diversion, nothing more. She asked no questions about my intentions or my method of working. She asked for no identification, or credentials. She didn’t even mention the child. I was beginning to think s
he had forgotten why I had come, or perhaps that she had changed her mind, and would send me away without seeing her son, when she stopped talking and looked at me sadly, the resignation in her face quite undisguised.
‘I imagine you’d like to see Jeremy now,’ she said.
‘If it’s convenient.’
‘Of course. I’ll fetch him. I keep him upstairs in the evenings.’
She smiled – that same faint, apologetic smile – and went out to fetch the boy. I wondered what she meant by keeping him upstairs. Was he confined in some way? Bedridden? Bound? I listened, but I heard nothing out of the ordinary: footsteps on the landing, a moment’s pause, then more footsteps, descending the stairs. I drank some tea, and tried to look neutral, like a casual visitor, when the boy entered the room – though it occurred to me that casual visitors were probably scarce in that house, and for a moment I had a fleeting thought that neither the child nor the woman had seen anyone in months, even years. But that was absurd; if he was seven years old, he would go to school. His grandparents would visit. He would have doctor’s appointments, trips to the dentist, a normal life, like any seven-year-old.
As soon as I saw him, I understood why Mrs Olerud was afraid. He was thin and pale, small for his age, with wild, yellowish hair, like Struwelpeter in the old children’s story. His eyes were as blue as his mother’s, but they were hard and opaque, like metal. He walked quickly into the room and stood looking at me in surprise. I was struck by the overwhelming sense of something animal in his presence, an unbelievable tension; he was like a black hole, an intensity that drew energy from everyone around him, and gave back nothing. I glanced at Mrs Olerud. Once again, I had an image of the child in a cage, or locked into the midden of his room, squatting on the floor, crunching on bones like the feral children in legends. Yet he was reasonably clean and, except for his hair, he looked presentable. He was wearing a pair of dungarees over a red and blue striped shirt. They were good enough clothes; his mother had probably chosen them carefully, to set off his light colouring. Nevertheless, I felt uncomfortable. There was something in the boy’s manner that suggested an almost unbearable dread, a sense of horrified anticipation.
They stood in the doorway for some time. Mrs Olerud said nothing. I felt she was simply showing me the boy; he could have been a leopard or a wild dog, some dangerous creature that had somehow come to live in her house, and she was letting me see it, so I would know what she had to endure. I wanted to say something, to break the tension, but I could not bring myself to speak directly to the child.
‘Can he hear me, if I talk to him?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Sometimes he seems to understand, but he never does anything to show it. He doesn’t – respond.’
The way she spoke the last word underlined how inappropriate it seemed to be talking like this in front of her son. Then she shrugged almost imperceptibly.
‘I thought you would like to see him,’ she said. ‘But he ought to go back now. It’s easier if he stays upstairs in the evenings.’
She touched the boy’s shoulder and they left the room without a word. The child did not look back. I heard them climbing the stairs, crossing the landing. I wanted to call them back, to see more of the boy, but I was too surprised to speak.
When Mrs Olerud returned, she seemed relieved. She sounded brighter; I thought she was making light of things.
‘Your tea must be getting cold,’ she said. She was matter of fact, but she could not altogether hide the effort.
‘What did you mean?’ I asked. ‘When you said it was easier if he stayed in his room – what did you mean exactly?’
She looked uncomfortable, as if I had caught her out in a deception.
‘He gets restless,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t sleep well at the best of times. Any excitement in the evening only makes it worse.’
‘But you told me to come in the evening. You ought to have suggested another time, if this was inconvenient.’
She looked puzzled for a moment, as if she was surprised at what I had said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Today has been difficult. Perhaps you could come again, another time.’
‘Does he go to school?’
She did not answer.
‘He must have special needs,’ I persisted.
‘Yes.’
‘Which school does he go to?’
She looked at me sharply.
‘I have to be getting on,’ she said quickly, in a near singsong. ‘I have to get him ready for bed. Would it be convenient for you to call again some time?’
She stood up, to make it clear that she wanted me to leave. Evidently the questions had annoyed her, and it occurred to me again that she had something to hide. I had no choice but to comply with her wishes, but I was in half a mind, as I left, to give up on this case before it even started. The boy was probably retarded, or emotionally disturbed. The causes of his speech problem were almost certainly buried in the past, and I doubted Mrs Olerud’s willingness to help uncover them. I think she sensed this; as she was showing me out, she stopped and laid her hand on my arm. I was struck again by the shadow of the beauty in her face.
‘Do come back,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about tonight. It’s just that today has been difficult.’
I nodded.
‘You will come again?’
We were standing in the hallway, at the foot of the stairs. It occurred to me that the boy could hear us, if he was listening, and I wondered if he understood. All of a sudden I realised why Mrs Olerud had responded to my advertisement. She had no expectation that I would be able to help her son, and no real interest in my studies. She had written to me because she was lonely, and too proud to go out looking for help or companionship of her own volition. This way, I had come to her, and now she was afraid of losing that contact.
‘I’m not sure,’ I answered. I was still annoyed. ‘I’m not sure I know why you wanted me to come. It’s not as if I can help. I’m just doing research – do you see?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do, truly.’ Her voice was too high, too sincere.
‘I can’t help you,’ I repeated.
‘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.
‘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 passed between 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.
‘Saturday,’ she said again.
‘Perhaps,’ I answered. ‘If I can. When would be convenient?’
‘Two o’clock?’
‘Fine.’ I wanted to sound noncommittal, as if I still hadn’t decided whether to keep the appointment.
‘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 best, but I was careful to get the odd question wrong, to seem foolish on occasion, to let the others laugh at me from time to time. I thought I was being smart, but now I see that it was so easy to behave that well because I felt nothing but contempt for most of my classmates.
The one exception was a boy in my class called Alexander. He was locked into a shell of isolation: because he was deaf, his speech seemed odd and amusing to the other children. All the teachers treated him with a special, condescending kindness, which he obviously hated. I made some efforts to become his friend, with almost no success. He regarded everyone with suspicion. Sometimes I would see him, out in the fields, standing with his head thrown back, staring up into the sky, as if he could see something there that nobody else could detect. I wondered what it was like to live like that. I had imagined that deaf people were locked into a calm and steady silence, but when I looked it up in a book, I discovered there was noise inside their heads, monotonous and ugly, like the space between channels on the radio. I wanted to ask Alexander how he thought: if he could see the words, instead of hearing them, whether he thought in words at all, or whether there were long gaps in his mind, when absence took over. I know, for certain, that he was looking for something. He would find telegraph poles and stand with his arms wrapped around them, his chest and face pressed to the wood, as if he could feel or hear something, coursing through the wires. Maybe he could. If I could have had a friend in school, it would have been him. If I could have asked one question, I would have asked Alexander what it was like to be how he was, but I imagine he would have found it impossible to answer.
The Dumb House Page 4