The Dumb House (13 page)

‘Come on,' I said. ‘You can get cleaned up and have a hot meal. Then you can decide what you want to do.'

I retracted the blade of the Stanley knife and put it back in my pocket. Jimmy was no longer a threat.

‘Come on,' I repeated, ‘or I'll have to leave you here.'

She hesitated a moment longer; maybe she half-understood that, by now, I had no intention of leaving her there, or of letting her decide anything. Maybe that was what decided her.

‘You'll be safe,' I said.

She looked away, towards the far corner of the churchyard, where the other man had disappeared through the bushes. I think she believed he was still watching. Then she glanced back at Jimmy, still kneeling on the path, with his head bowed to the ground. I think she gave something up then, and cast her fate to the wind. Minutes later, she was sitting, her head bowed, her hair covering her face, in the passenger seat of my car, and I was driving her home, my heart racing with excitement at the thought of this strange new treasure that I would open and discover and explore.

Her name was Lillian. As far as I could tell, it was the one word she could write. She didn't stay with me for long, and I think
of her now as a ghost who inhabited the house for a time, then slipped away silently, leaving me with the twins, as if she had been sent to me for that purpose alone. Perhaps she had. From the first, she was a complete mystery to me. There was no way of knowing what was in her mind. Most of the time, I suspect, she was vacant, or as vacant as it was possible for anyone to be and, even though I knew she could hear me when I spoke, I was convinced she had the power to switch everything off and sit there, a few feet away, completely alone inside her head, like the old foreign woman along the road, sitting in her cottage with the lights out, disconnected from the rest of the world. Sometimes I would call her by name and she would turn, surprised and uncertain, and perhaps even a little excited, as if she wasn't altogether sure that the word applied strictly to her. Then she would smile, pleased with herself, pleased with this small confirmation of her presence. It was hard to think of her as a distinct person at such times. She had the air of a newly adopted puppy, all attention, all eagerness to be seen; yet she was tactful, in her way, and she existed as lightly as she could, as if she was afraid she might outlive her welcome.

I never discovered anything of her history. She could hear, but she couldn't speak; she could read a little, I think, but she could not write. When I had won her trust, she scrawled her name on a large piece of paper, then drew a picture of herself alongside the word, to illustrate it. That was how her mind worked, I think. She saw pictures. She wrote slowly, with her left hand, twisting her arm, so her elbow pointed outwards. She looked even more like a child then but I don't think she was mentally deficient. It was as if she lived in a different space from the rest of the world. I soon forgot the idea that she could share my thoughts, or understand my intentions. Nevertheless, I would catch her looking at me, from time to time, and it seemed the
mind behind that look was more penetrating, in its way, than the most incisive intelligence.

On the first night, I fixed the cut over her eye, got her cleaned up and put her in one of the guest rooms. She was so reluctant to assume a place, or take anything for granted, that I found her the next morning, asleep in her clothes on the kitchen floor, with her knees pulled up into her belly and her elbows folded in front, like the mummified princess I had once seen in a picture book. For three days she hardly moved out of the kitchen – the first place I had brought her to on that first night home. It was as if she imagined she belonged there, and had no title to the rest of the house. Whenever I was with her, she seemed to be watching me, waiting for me to leave her alone, and I thought she was afraid. She still wasn't sure I wouldn't harm her in some way. I didn't realise what she was up to till later, when I glanced out of an upstairs window, and saw that she was going out into the garden, when my back was turned, to urinate in the far corner, near the compost heap. After that, I made more of an effort to make her see that she was welcome. I introduced her, gradually, to the rest of the house: though I kept Mother's room locked, I let her know she was free to go anywhere she pleased, that she could touch and use things, that she could fill the kettle and make herself tea, and sit down at the table to drink.

Since she had nothing other than the clothes she stood up in, I decided that as soon as her bruises had healed, I would take her shopping in another town, far enough away to avoid recognition. She could have used Mother's things – she was almost the same height, though considerably thinner – but I didn't think it appropriate, at least to begin with. Besides, I wanted to make an occasion of the shopping trip, to win her trust and, if possible, find out something about her. I couldn't
take the risk of our being seen together in Weston, of course, and I was sure, if I took her there, she would suspect me of wanting to return her to Jimmy. Naturally, I had no intention of doing any such thing. From the moment I had realised she was mute, a plan had been forming in my mind. It was perfect; it was elegant. However, first I would need to win her confidence, before I could set the plan in motion.

So it came about that, after a few days had passed, and she had begun to feel at home, I told her I was going to go out and buy her some more things to wear and, if she wanted, she could come too. I told her I wouldn't be going to Weston, but we would go somewhere farther away, where there were better shops, and if she wanted to, we could have lunch in a nice restaurant. We were sitting in the kitchen, having breakfast: she had a passion for toast, and ate it as often as she could, spreading the butter on thick, while the bread was still hot, then adding a layer of jam or marmalade and cutting the whole thing into longitudinal strips, before eating them, one by one, with obvious, even exaggerated relish. It was a ritual she performed, I think, for a kind of luck, as if a pleasurable moment in the morning would carry over into the rest of the day. As I described my plan, she kept working on her
confezione.
I tried to make the outing sound as attractive as I could; nevertheless, I still half-expected a guarded reaction. Instead, she was delighted.

I think that was one of the happiest days of her life. She seemed to like everything: the car journey, the shopping mall, the people. The smallest details excited and pleased her: cattle in a field, a children's play park, a boating lake. She pressed her face to the window and watched as the world flew by, like a speeded-up film. She stood gazing into shop windows as if she had just found heaven. It was amusing, how unself-conscious she was. Things pleased her, but she had no idea that they
had to be paid for, that they were instruments of power. That morning we visited several good clothes shops. On arrival, the assistants would be amused at her appearance, and some played the snob card, looking down their noses at us, as we selected dresses and skirts and jumpers from the racks and Lillian tried them on, dancing out from the changing booth to show me, to receive my approval. In every case, I was the one who made the selections. I wanted to perpetuate that first impression she had made on me, that image of the gamine, half-child, half-woman. I suppose I found it erotic; yet it was appropriate too, the style expressed her very essence. I asked her, from time to time, what she liked, and when I chose something, I held it up for her to see, so I could observe her reaction, but she showed no preferences, no opposition to the image of her that I was creating. She was utterly innocent and, at the same time, she was intensely physical, stroking the fabric, smoothing it out over her thin body, holding out silk blouses or mohair sweaters so I could feel the textures. As each visit progressed, the assistants' amusement would change to puzzlement, then awkwardness, as the purchases mounted up, and it was obvious that this girl-woman was neither my daughter nor my wife. When it came time to pay, I paid in cash. I wanted to leave no evidence behind, nothing that could be traced to show we had been there. As the money changed hands, the well-dressed, well-groomed young ladies who invariably dealt with us would have to work at hiding their disapproval, while at the same time demonstrating, by an extreme and forced courtesy, that they had seen right through our little charade. Lillian noticed none of this. She was delighting in her day, delighting in herself.

When we had packed the car with bags and boxes, I took her to lunch. Once again, she made no attempt to conceal her excitement. It was as if she had never been in a restaurant
before in her life. Perhaps she hadn't. Looking back, I realise that everything we did that day was new to her. When it came time to order, I chose avocado and prawns for her as a starter, followed by medallions of lamb with baby new potatoes and mixed vegetables. As soon as the bread arrived, she began spreading thick layers of butter on each slice; then, when the main course came, I had to order more butter, so she could drown her potatoes in thick yellow pats of running fat, and more bread, so she could wipe the plate clean of the lamb sauce. She ate everything, even the greens. People were watching us from the corner of their eyes: customers and waiters, giving one another sidelong embarrassed looks, as if we were performing some bizarre, slightly obscene ritual in their presence. For afters, I ordered a large, extravagant confection of ice cream and peaches for Lillian, while I sat quietly, drinking my coffee, watching her, and the whole room, with detached amusement.

But the finishing touch, the moment that sealed our complicity came as we made our way back to the car. We were passing a large store that sold electrical goods, computers and televisions and videos, row on row of large brightly coloured screens massed in the window so people could see there really was a world that went on without them, while they wandered the half-light of the mall, searching for whatever it was gave them comfort. Nothing is more wonderful than being able to buy what you want. Nothing is worse than seeing others buy in your place. A tall man in a baseball cap and bright purple trousers stood at the shop window, gazing hopelessly at the array of television screens, like someone standing at the gates of heaven, unable to find a way in. Lillian walked over and stood beside him. He glanced at her, then turned back to the twenty-odd images of Hedy Lamarr, in her Delilah costume,
preparing to cut Samson's hair. Lillian was fascinated. She turned to me, to make me come and look – and I knew, in that moment that, while she wasn't asking for anything, she wanted a television more than anything else in the whole world. It was strange. Mother would never allow us to have a television set in the house, and I had honoured her wishes, even after her death, even though there were times I had thought it would be interesting to get programmes on nature and science and the news. Now, though I was fully aware of how much Mother would have disapproved, I took Lillian by the arm and led her into the shop, leaving the man in the baseball cap to his lonely vigil. As we found an assistant and I listened to him as he explained about screen sizes, and surround sound, and remote controls, and all the other marvellous features on offer, Lillian appeared genuinely confused. She seemed to find it difficult to imagine that we could just walk into a shop and buy a television set and, sensing this, I asked the salesman to throw in a good VCR as well. When the transaction had been completed, I told the assistant I would pick up the goods as soon as I had fetched my car. Then I turned to Lillian and told her the television was hers, just to see the look on her face. I thought Mother wouldn't mind, if she knew the full explanation for bringing those machines into the house.

That night, after we had gone to our separate beds, Lillian came to my door and stood watching me for some time. She was naked, a thin waif with her thumb in her mouth, gazing through the half-dark till I sat up quietly and drew back the covers. She did not hesitate for a moment. As she slipped in beside me, I understood that this was the one gift she had to offer in exchange for what she must have perceived as a near-imperial generosity. When I held her, she felt thin and
fragile, and I have to confess that I didn't know quite what to do with her, that it was she who guided me, and drew me into the wetness of her childlike body. I still had no idea of how old she was and, though it was obvious she knew what she was doing, the idea that I was having sex with a child was pleasurable and exciting. I had not expected to feel so intensely, to want her so much, to be overwhelmed, almost, by my desire. In every human transaction, the first and decisive question is: who is in control? This is so commonly understood, it has become a cliché – but its truth remains unaltered, no matter how many people recognise it. Of course, control can be established in any number of ways, but it is important not to lose it, and it is not always the stronger who governs. The weak have many and varied stratagems, some unconscious, some planned. For a moment, the transaction I had entered into with Lillian hung in the balance: I could so easily have fallen under the spell of her thin body, her deliberate sensuality, her profound innocence. What I remember most clearly now about that night is the exultation of taking her roughly, for the second time, and of causing her to flinch, and to hold me closer in her pain, knowing she would be mine to do with as I wished, that it was her choice, not mine, that had made her my possession.

So a regime of sorts was established. It gave her pleasure to keep house, to tidy the rooms, to make simple meals, to carry out the rubbish and wash the dishes. It was a highly domestic life. She wanted to look after me, I think. She wanted me to be happy. For my part, I still desired her with the same intensity I had experienced on that first night. I couldn't keep my hands off her. I would find her in the kitchen and lean her over the table, or I would catch her halfway up the stairs and have her there, lifting the hem of the skirt or the dress I had bought for
her and slipping off her plain white cotton panties, so I could enter, while she clung to me, making low gasping sounds and moving back and forth, gripping me tightly with her legs. I knew her response could be put down to gratitude, at least to some extent, for the things I had given her, but I believe she was genuinely fond of me, after her fashion. She had never expected such a life, and she couldn't help but like the one who provided it. Meanwhile, I would go out from time to time and bring home presents, baubles and toys that she would accept with the same delight, the same gratitude, no matter how expensive or how insignificant the gift might be.