The Silver Castle by Nancy Buckingham

Author:Nancy Buckingham [Buckingham, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Gothic Romance
Publisher: Belgrave House
Published: 1978-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

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.

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