The Silver Castle (14 page)

“It’s lovely,” I breathed. “Thank you for bringing me here, Anton.”

He was carrying a pair of binoculars, but oddly I didn’t want to bring the scene any nearer. This was the right way, to be withdrawn on a rocky pinnacle and see it as a microcosm of a contented, tranquil way of life.

“Better than London, and battling for commissions,” I said.

“Better than a silk mill, and battling for orders.”

I smiled. “I wouldn’t know about that. No doubt the mill brings you plenty of problems, but it must have its rewards, too.”

“Like money, you mean?”

“Well yes, I suppose so.”

“You think money is important?”

“It is when you haven’t very much of it.”

“Money cannot buy happiness,” he said. “A trite remark, but by God it’s true.”

I became aware that Anton wasn’t looking at the view, as I was, but studying my face. His close scrutiny disconcerted me, and I took a step or two sideways to put a greater distance between us. At once his hand shot out and caught me by the arm, and in that splinter of a moment I felt the sickening sense of panic as my feet slid from beneath me. In a frantic, desperate effort to regain my balance I wrenched my whole body around and sank to my knees in the snow. I was dazed and scared and bewildered, and Anton’s rough grip on my arm was a fierce, stabbing pain.

I heard a guttural exclamation and the scrabble of heavy boots on the path. I looked up to see two husky young men in hiking gear staring down at me anxiously. Anton helped me to my feet and propped me up with my back against the rock.

“Ist sie
okay?” one of the hikers asked.

“Ja, danke.”
Anton gave me a searching look. “You are okay, aren’t you, Gail?”

I nodded. “I think so. Just a bit shaken. How ... how did it happen?”

“You slipped. On a narrow path like this you have to watch where you put your feet.”

The other young man asked in English, “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“No really, I’m all right—honestly.”

I was feeling foolish now, more than afraid. Anton was right, I’d let my attention wander and nearly had an accident. I couldn’t tell him the real cause, though—that I’d been too disturbingly aware of his nearness.

The hikers hitched up their packs and moved on.
“Salut!”

“Wiedersehen,”
said Anton, and I added, “Thanks.”

Anton stood before me, a hand on either shoulder, pressing me back against the rock face. I had a curious sensation of time passing with neither of us saying a word. The seconds seemed to be rushing by silently like the figures on a digital watch. I couldn’t meet his intent gaze, and my lowered eyes were on the lean brown column of his throat, seeing the muscles moving as he swallowed.

“Gail...” He said my name huskily.

I knew that Anton was going to kiss me, and I felt helpless to stop him. Did I want to stop him? From out of those long seconds I have one clear memory—the anticipation of his lips, snow-cold lips that would grow quickly warm as they met and clung to mine.

The spell was shattered when he spoke. His voice came harsh against the silent stillness.

“Sigrid and Raimund must be wondering what’s happened to us.” He was moving away from me, the grip of his strong fingers relaxing. Then he said briskly, “I suggest we don’t tell them about this, Gail.”

Surprised, for an instant not understanding him, I looked into his eyes and saw a blind drop down, shutting me out. We had come too close to something that was unthinkable. His wife and my father ... an obstacle between us as immense and forbidding as the mountain itself.

How much of this he could read in my face, I didn’t know. But he added by way of explanation, “I meant, not tell them of the scare you had. It would only upset Sigrid, and there was no real danger.”

“No ... no, let’s not tell them.” It was a relief, almost, that I wouldn’t have to speak of it. That I wouldn’t have to remind myself of those moments afterwards, when my emotions had been too vulnerable. “Let’s hurry back, Anton. I’m looking forward to lunch.”

Which was totally untrue. I had no appetite whatever.

Sigrid gave me a concerned look when we rejoined them in the restaurant.

“You’re very pale, my dear, I’d have thought the frosty air would have brought some colour to your cheeks.” Her glance went to Anton, puzzled. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, nothing,” I insisted, before he could answer, and leaned back in my chair. I wanted only to close my eyes and allow my thoughts free rein. And yet I dared not, I had to pretend to them that I was happy and unconcerned. And to myself I had to pretend that my hands were not trembling under the table, that my heart was not thudding as if it would never again resume its normal beat.

During lunch, I forced myself to talk. It was I, rather than any of the others, who kept the social pleasantries flowing. I plied them with questions, made flattering remarks about Switzerland and its scenic beauty. And the more I rattled on, the more the three Kreuders seemed to be exchanging curious, covert glances.

In the end, Sigrid suggested returning home earlier than we had planned.

“I’m sure we’ve seen the best of the day. I could do with a rest, and Gail looks as if she could, too. It must be the thinner air at this high altitude.”

“Right,” said Raimund, “let’s go.”

Anton said nothing, but merely reached for the bill and settled it. I felt certain now, as I’d been feeling all the way through our meal, that he was studiously avoiding my eyes.

The little hunchback train clanked its way cautiously down the mountainside. Clouds had gathered again, and when we reached the base station it was raining hard. Anton and Raimund bustled with Sigrid to prevent her getting too wet while they lifted her into the car. Understandably she was tired, and she lay back against the cushions with closed eyes. I felt concerned for her, because she looked so pale and drawn.

We spoke little on the homeward drive, so as not to disturb Sigrid. I was thankful, because I had drained myself with my flow of bright chitchat. In silence I stared at the wet road that streamed back at us, while the screen wipers hissed to and fro monotonously.

So Anton had nearly kissed me ... on a sudden, fleeting impulse, after a moment of near danger. That was all it had amounted to. And even if he hadn’t come to his senses and drawn back at the last instant, a kiss in such circumstances still wouldn’t have meant anything. I was being stupid. I was reacting as if I’d never been kissed by a man before.

What was Anton thinking about now, as he sat behind the wheel of his fast car, eating up the kilometres? About me?

His wife and my father
... it was so utterly impossible. Even a casual, impulsive kiss would be intolerable, swamping his mind with bitter memories and mine with shame and misery. His wife and my father.

From the rear seat Raimund said, “Today hasn’t turned out as fine as we hoped, but it might have been worse. I’ve quite enjoyed it.”

“Yes,” I said hastily, “it’s been very pleasant. I’m so glad you decided to take me.”

Neither Sigrid nor Anton responded in any way. It was as if they hadn’t heard us.

I had to see Willi. More and more the need was in me ... a need, as I saw it, to prove to the boy that he wasn’t without a friend now that Benedict Sherbrooke was dead.

Whenever I had an opportunity I strolled up to the chalet. The carved wooden boat still lay on the bed, as I’d left it. But one afternoon, as I walked up the track between the tender leafed bushes, I had a curious premonition that I would find Willi there that day.

If this sounds too dramatic and improbable, I can say with truth that it came as no surprise when I opened the door and saw Willi standing between the easel and the bed. He looked startled, but perhaps it was due to his deafness, which had given him no warning of my approach.

I gave him a bright smile and held out my hand invitingly. He stared at it, took a small step backward, then hesitated. I stretched my hand still further towards him. Perhaps, I thought with compassion, shaking hands was an entirely unknown experience in his restricted life.

I waited, not going any nearer, but willing him to come to me. And in the end he did, slowly, hesitantly. Almost within touching distance he rubbed his palm against his trouser leg before reaching out to me. Willi’s fingers, I noticed, were long and sensitive like an artist’s, but the skin was as rough as a labourer’s, and his hand felt oddly timid in my grasp.

I chattered away to him, knowing that he couldn’t hear me. Even if he
had
been able to hear, I doubted that he would have understood a word of English. I became aware that he wanted to cling to my hand, as if the contact was pleasing to him. With anybody else it would have been strange to stand holding hands for minutes on end, but with Willi it seemed perfectly natural.

“I am Benedict Sherbrooke’s daughter,” I said. “He was your friend, wasn’t he? I expect you enjoy coming here, where he used to live, because it makes you feel nearer to him—is that it?”

He saw a question in my face and nodded solemnly, wanting to please me, but I could see that it distressed him not to be able to follow what I was saying. Gently I drew my hand away and went to the cupboard in the corner, taking out the sketch pad. With a stick of charcoal I drew a rough picture of a man and a child. I pointed to the man, then mimed an artist standing at his easel. I felt sure Willi grasped the idea that this represented Benedict Sherbrooke. I pointed to the child, then to myself. But that seemed to mean nothing to Willi. I performed a little charade of the man cradling a baby in his arms, then again indicated myself. Willi’s eyes lit up, and I thought he’d taken the point. But no, he touched the drawing of the child, then thumped his chest with his fist.

“No,” I said helplessly, shaking my head. “No, you’ve got it wrong, Willi. That’s meant to be me, not you.”

The boy looked upset, jerking his head up and down obstinately. In the end I decided to let it go and nodded again, smiling.

“That’s right, he was your friend, Willi. Your good friend. He was always kind to you, wasn’t he?”

Willi was pleased again, making pathetic little grunting noises. I’d come a tiny way with him, I thought, at least he accepted me now. But what next? How best to develop our relationship?

I glanced around for inspiration. The boat was missing from the bed now, but I saw that he’d placed it on the table beside the easel. With it were three carved figures, each about six inches high. I picked one up to study it, stroking the rough surface of the wood. It was a man, arms and legs together, body in a straight line, in the same crudely forceful style.

He grew suddenly excited. He touched the figure, and then the drawing I’d done of the man. That was easy;  he intended his carving to represent my father.

I picked up a second figure with my other hand. It was a woman. Hesitantly, Willi moved my hands together, so that the man and the woman became a pair. I looked at him questioningly. I had never seen him so close before, with his eyes gazing directly into mine. It was a shock to realise that behind the film of dullness shone a pale gleam of intelligence. A pitifully thwarted intelligence. Willi longed to express himself, and could not. His only means was through his carving, and I must make an effort to understand him somehow.

He picked up the boat, and gestured for me to place the two figures in it. He put the third carved figure beside them, another man. Held at eye level, he moved the boat horizontally through the air, then dropped it towards the floor, plunging straight down. But first he removed the third figure.

I stared at Willi wretchedly, wishing that he didn’t feel the need to do this. He was telling me about the drowning, thinking perhaps that I didn’t know. I nodded my head to show that I was following, but it wasn’t enough for him. Willi grew agitated, thrusting the third figure at me, holding it before my eyes.

A third person on the boat, before it sank ... ?

I felt a shiver of horror run through me, and Willi must have seen it and realised that I understood the dreadful meaning of what he was showing me.

There had been three people on the boat that February night. Two had drowned, the third had survived.

The boy was as appalled as I was, as terrified to be telling me this story as I was of learning it. Yet suddenly we seemed to have grown acutely in tune with one another. I hardly felt the need for words now, and his muteness seemed a handicap no longer.

How did he know about that night? Willi touched a finger to his eyes. He had seen, seen for himself.

Outside, there was the noise of a vehicle approaching. I heard it, but Willi’s deaf ears did not. I shut the sound from my mind because I had to learn something else. If there had been another man present, who was he?

Hastily I grabbed the third figure from Willi’s hand and waved it before him urgently. He began to gesture but I couldn’t follow his meaning. The vehicle had stopped now and the engine was switched off. I heard rapid footsteps and the door was flung open, crashing back against the wall. The man who stood there, large and ungainly and threatening, was Josef, the gardener. Willi’s father.

The boy saw him with a shock, a shock much greater than my own sudden appearance had given him. He shrank away from the man, letting the carvings fall to the floor.

“What do you want?” I demanded. Then tried in German.
“Was wollen Sie?’

Josef ignored me completely, looking only at his son. He jerked a thumb, just once, and Willi scurried across the room and shot past him through the door, ducking as though expecting a clout. It was only when Willi had clambered into the battered truck that Josef spared me a glance. On his face was a leer of triumph. I knew that he hated me, yet I couldn’t fathom why.

“How dare you scare the poor boy like that,” I began furiously. “You had no right to burst in here and order him away. I was talking to him and ...”

Josef didn’t wait to hear my protests, but stalked out, slamming the door behind him. I heard the truck engine revved up hard as he reversed and charged away down the track at full speed. Running to one of the windows I thought I saw Willi’s face in the rear window of the cab, staring back at me.