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, Iâd 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 wascovered 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.
âMrs Olerud?â
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 wasnât 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 â it seemed what might disturbher, or make her take fright, wasnât so much the moment of contact, as the momentâs withdrawal â 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 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, Iâd 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 wascovered 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.
âMrs Olerud?â
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 wasnât 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 â it seemed what might disturbher, or make her take fright, wasnât so much the moment of contact, as the momentâs withdrawal â 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;
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