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Authors: John Burnside
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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I tried half-heartedly to attract his attention â I knew by now that he understood what I was saying â but he remained withdrawn and, after about ten minutes, his mother led him away.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 certainlywasnât 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 âspeech therapyâ 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 wouldnât 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 wasnâtsleeping, and I was certain she was aware of everything that was happening.
Her body was astonishing. She was always damp, very warm â as if feverish â 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 â there was something in her passivity that demanded it â and it gave me pleasure then, to think that the boy
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 â I knew by now that he understood what I was saying â 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 certainlywasnât 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 âspeech therapyâ 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 wouldnât 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 wasnâtsleeping, and I was certain she was aware of everything that was happening.
Her body was astonishing. She was always damp, very warm â as if feverish â 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 â there was something in her passivity that demanded it â and it gave me pleasure then, to think that the boy
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