“I was hoping you hadn’t gone too far! We’ve decided to come back to the shop before we leave; one of the guys inside says it’s going to rain soon, and pretty hard, so if we want to see anything outside we should do it now. We’re all going to walk up to the water terraces; come on!”
There was no room for disagreement or, indeed, for talk of any kind, as the group moved off in the direction of the water terraces. Charlotte noted that the couple with the boy were part of the group, and caught the lad’s eye as he turned to follow his parents. The look of sullen resentment had gone; now there was just apathy. He shuffled off after the group, head down, hands in his pockets, kicking aimlessly at loose stones on the walkway.
Charlotte reluctantly started after them, drawn on by the mechanics of the group. Better, after all, to be with someone—anyone—than to be alone. Wasn’t that right? Yes.
No. A voice from somewhere surprised her. It was not from inside her head; indeed, it was almost as if she had someone perched on her shoulder, speaking into her ear, like those cartoons of people with an angel on one side of them and a devil on the other, both trying to put forward their cases. No, said the voice again, that’s not right. You don’t have to go with them. Do what you want to do! Go off on your own! See something else!
She slowed her steps, allowing the group to gain distance. Frank was near the front; mercifully, he was buried in conversation with someone else, and was oblivious to Charlotte’s absence. In a moment they would be out of sight around a bend in the path. She stopped and watched as they gradually disappeared, swallowed up by the trees. The only one who noticed her was the boy, who turned at the last moment and caught her eye briefly. Then he, too, was gone.
Charlotte stood, savouring her freedom, feeling like a prisoner who has unexpectedly been granted parole and who stands, blinking, on the outside of the prison door. With a small shake of her head she focussed her attention once more on the leaflet. The water terraces were definitely out; what else did she want to see? The lake and its bridge were justly famous, but Charlotte felt that she was already overly familiar with that image, it having featured in the opening credits of Soldier of Fortune every week for thirteen weeks. The grotto sounded interesting. She would make for that, and if something else came up along the way, then she could always stop and see that instead; as long as the rain held off.
Wrought-iron signposts with long, elegant fingers pointed the way to the various attractions which Wynsford had to offer, and Charlotte set off in the direction of the grotto. She saw few other people, and most of them were heading in the opposite direction, back towards the house, in anticipation of the rain. She patted her bag with a small smile. She had her mac and umbrella; even if the rain started before she got back to the coach, she’d be able to escape the worst of it. Preparation; that was the key.
The path twisted and turned, but every now and then a signpost appeared to point the way to the grotto. Looking behind her, she saw that the house had disappeared from sight. Once or twice she thought that someone was on the path, a little way behind her, but to her relief no one appeared to break the stillness with their presence. She walked briskly, swinging her arms, breathing deeply, letting the silence wash over her, cleanse her, refresh her.
She came to a junction where a small path led off to the right. There was no signpost to guide her, but she supposed that the grotto must be further along the main, better-travelled, path. Odd that there was no sign.
Now that she had stopped, Charlotte realised how immense and total the silence was. There was nothing to indicate the presence of any living thing, other than herself: not even a bird. Did they hide in their nests when it threatened rain? Charlotte wondered. She wasn’t sure. But the stillness was what she had been hoping for, longing for; wasn’t it?
Yes; but not this still another voice whispered. She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge something. This was silly. She had come out here to get away from people; she had got away from people; so why was she suddenly nervous? The grotto; she had said she would find the grotto. Well, she would find it, and then she would head straight back to the house. After all, it wasn’t sensible to get caught in a rainstorm, no matter how well prepared she was. She didn’t want a long ride back to town in damp clothes.
A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she turned and looked down the path along which she had come. There was nothing there. “A squirrel,” she thought; “it must have been a squirrel, darting across the path.” She had seen no other squirrels during her walk.
Charlotte looked about once more, hoping to find some indication that she should continue down the main path. She was grimly determined to find the grotto now that she had come so far. If I had known it was such a distance from the house I wouldn’t have come, she thought. Perhaps the water terraces would have been a safer bet after all.
“Safer”; odd word to choose. Before she could pursue this thought further, however, she spotted a small sign, close to the ground and partly obscured by foliage and leaves. It had obviously been there for some time; probably this sign, and others like it, had been forerunners of the obviously much newer, shinier, more tourist-friendly wrought-iron signposts she had been following. One finger, marked “Grotto”, pointed clearly down the main path; but she was intrigued to note that another finger, pointing down the smaller path, read “Maze”.
A maze! There was nothing about a maze marked on the leaflet she had been given; she was positive of that. Just to be sure, she dug it out of her pocket and checked. No; not a word. That was odd. Perhaps it was being built, or whatever you called it when you were putting together a maze. Cultivated, she supposed. But no; this sign had clearly been there for some time. Perhaps the maze had been grubbed up, like a hedgerow, or had been infested with something or caught some botanical disease.
Well, the best way to find out would be to go and look. She checked her watch and calculated how long it would take her to walk back to the house and coach. She estimated that she had about twenty minutes to spare to find the maze—or what was left of it—have a quick look, and then start back. It would certainly give her something to talk about on the way back; not even Frank would be able to top this.
Charlotte started off down the smaller path, all thoughts of the grotto forgotten. She was fascinated with the idea of seeing a maze; the only one she had ever been in was the one at Hampton Court, and it had been so full of tourists that any element of mystery or delicious confusion had been lost in a babble of voices, shrieks, and laughter. This promised to be quite different, if it was still in existence.
The smaller path was clearly not frequented; foliage was encroaching from both sides, and tufts of grass were springing up here and there, in contrast to the tidy paths along which she had previously walked. It was impossible to say how long it had been since anyone had been that way. She hoped it wouldn’t take too long to get to the maze; she wanted to have a chance to look around it before she had to start back.
As if in answer to her unspoken wish, the path took a sharp turn to the left and disclosed, to her delighted vision, what was clearly an extensive and ornate yew hedge, set in a clearing amid overhanging trees. She imagined that when it had been laid out, the trees had been much smaller, and the whole construction had been much more open. Now, however, the trees, clearly unchecked, were spreading dark branches over the maze, as if trying to claim it, and the effect was somewhat oppressive. It needed someone to come in and do some extensive trimming. Perhaps that was why the maze was closed; work had started—or was about to start, she corrected herself; there was certainly no sign of anything currently going on—and the owners wanted to keep people away for the duration.
An elaborate wrought-iron gate was set in the centre of the wall of hedge facing her. Charlotte approached it, expecting it to be firmly shut and padlocked, and was pleased to find that the gate was unlocked, and actually hanging open a few feet, as if in invitation. Should she go in? Her ambition had been merel
y to satisfy her curiosity as to the maze’s existence, and she didn’t have very much time. But a glance at her watch showed her that she had a few minutes to spare; long enough to go a short way in, satisfy herself as to the maze’s condition, and then return to the house.
She pushed at the gate so that it was almost completely open and went in a few feet. The hedges rose up two or three feet above her head; there was certainly no possibility of cheating by peering over the tops to ascertain the best route! She must be sure that she didn’t go in too far, or she might find herself unable to find her way back to the entrance.
She remembered having read somewhere that if you always chose the left fork in a maze, you would find yourself in the centre in no time. Or was it the right-hand path you were supposed to take? She was sure it was left. Anyway, it didn’t matter, as she wasn’t trying to find the centre. She’d just go in a short distance, so she could say she’d been in the maze, and then come straight back out again. She didn’t have time to do much more than that, anyway.
But as she made her way into the maze, she was beckoned onwards—or so it seemed—by a seductive siren call, inviting her to go just a little further, see what was around the next corner, and then the next, and then the one after. And it all seemed so easy. She had obviously remembered correctly, for whenever Charlotte came to a choice of ways she took the left-hand path, which always seemed to be correct, for she met with no dead ends and never seemed to double back on her own tracks. It was easy to tell that she had been the only one in the maze for some time: the long grass was untrodden save where she had walked.
Almost before she knew it, Charlotte had reached the centre. She did not know what to expect: a sundial, perhaps, or pond, or a small garden. There were none of these things: merely two stone benches, facing each other across a square some twenty or so feet across. There might once, perhaps, have been a garden of some sort between them, but it had obviously been pulled up or left to die at some point, and never been replanted.
A small, soft sound reached her ears as something landed in the long grass at her feet. Then another sound, and another, and Charlotte looked up to see that the promised rain had now arrived. She sighed, pulled open her bag, and shrugged her way into her plastic mac, then fished her umbrella from out of the bag’s depths. She struggled to get it to open properly —collapsible umbrellas never opened without a struggle—then stood for a moment, surveying her surroundings. She wished that she had someone there with whom to share her experience. Even Frank would have been a relief, for she had to admit that the silence was now oppressive. She smiled faintly at the thought that she could consider Frank’s presence at all welcome. It seemed almost odd, somehow, that he wasn’t hovering nearby, like a shadow.
“It’s too bad you’re not here, Frank,” Charlotte said aloud, more to break the silence than anything else. “You’d have liked this. You picked the wrong time to leave me on my own.”
From somewhere close by she heard the unmistakable sound of laughter.
It was only the slightest of sounds, low and soft, but gloating, somehow. She stood stock still, eyes darting about the small clearing. Nothing.
Of course there’s nothing said a voice. You’ve made sure of that, haven’t you? No one even knows you’re here.
And somehow that thought made things much worse.
A few moments ago she had been surprised to find that she wouldn’t have minded Frank’s company. Now she would have given just about anything to see him come walking around the corner, chattering non-stop about how great the maze was. But no one came around the corner. Because no one’s here except you came a voice. And if you’ve got any sense, you’ll get yourself out of here, too, before you get soaked.
Charlotte shivered and realised that the rain was coming down harder now; much harder, in fact. She raised her umbrella and, huddling under it, turned towards the opening out of the centre of the maze. As she did so, she thought she saw someone slip thinly through the gap in the hedge, out into the maze. She could not be positive, but she thought she heard, over the steady patter of the raindrops, another laugh.
Charlotte stood motionless in the centre of the maze, her heart pounding, her eyes fixed on the gap in the hedge. Someone was out there; she was sure of it. Someone had been following her! But who? Frank? No; she didn’t think that he was capable of something quite so subtle. Had Frank decided to follow her, he could never have kept silent for so long. Who then?
The boy! Yes, that had to be it. She remembered him turning to look at her as the group moved away. He had been at the back; perhaps he had slipped away, unbeknownst to his parents, and had decided to brighten his day by following the unsuspecting Charlotte. Well, a schoolboy was someone she felt she could deal with. She raised her voice to ensure she was heard above the sound of the rain.
“I don’t know your name, but I recognised you, so you might as well give up this silly game.” Silence. “Come on, you can’t have gone very far, you must be able to hear me. Just call a halt now, and we’ll head back to the house together.” Still nothing. “Look, this isn’t remotely funny. If you’re waiting there to jump out and yell boo, then don’t bother. Just show yourself like a sensible lad, and we can both get out of here. You can share my umbrella, if you want.”
Only the sound of the rain greeted her. If he was out there, then the boy was ignoring her well-meaning efforts to smooth things over. Perhaps he had already gone, the surprise of having been recognised speeding him back to his parents so that he could deny anything should Charlotte accuse him when she returned to the coach.
The coach! Charlotte fumbled for her watch, and was shocked to find that the time, which had seemed to be passing so gently, had now flown by. They were supposed to be back at the coach at 4.30; it was now almost twenty-five past. She was going to be terribly late.
She turned once more to the entrance. It seemed to be harder to make out now, and she realised that the rain and the coming dusk were conspiring with the surrounding trees to bring the darkness on. Much as she disliked the idea of stepping out into the maze again, she couldn’t stand there all day. She took a deep breath.
“Okay; if you’re still there, I just want you to know I’m coming out now, so no stupid tricks, please. I won’t say anything to your parents if you’ll just behave sensibly. Deal?”
No answer. Either he was intent on playing some silly prank, or—she fervently hoped—he was far away, legging it back to his parents. She took another deep breath and, squaring her shoulders, started back into the maze.
Almost immediately she found herself in difficulty. Her umbrella, although fairly compact even when opened, was still too wide for the overgrown maze, and was continually snagging itself on overhanging branches. Worse still, her sense of direction, so sure before, seemed to have completely deserted her. Charlotte had reasoned that if she kept to the right at each junction, she would make her way out as easily as she had got in; but this was not the case, and the steady rain was beating down the grass, obscuring the marks she had made on the way in. She found herself walking up blind alleys, then retracing her steps, only to grow confused as to which way she had just come. The rain was falling ceaselessly and relentlessly, and her umbrella was more hindrance than help. It snagged again on a particularly ruthless branch, and as she struggled to free it Charlotte saw someone standing at the end of the alley she was in. As soon as her eyes were turned directly on the spot, the figure slipped sideways and was gone; but she was positive she had recognised the boy. Only surely he hadn’t been that thin . . .
“All right, so you want to play stupid games then, do you?” she shouted into the gathering gloom. “Fine! I’ll have a thing or two to say to your parents, young man; just you wait!”
Ron drummed his fingers impatiently on the door of the coach and tried to ignore the low murmurs of his bored and restless passengers. He checked his watch again. Past five o’clock. He turned once more to Frank, who was sitting behind the driver, and who had been uncharac
teristically silent for the last few minutes.
“You sure you don’t know where she’s got herself off to?”
“I’ve told you!” Frank’s voice contained a mixture of annoyance, perplexity, resentment, and worry. All four emotions had been struggling for mastery each time Ron had questioned him; worry was now emerging as a clear winner. “We ran into her outside the gift shop and told her we were going to the water terraces before it started to rain. As far as I knew, she was with us; it was only when we got there that I saw she hadn’t come, and then I just figured she’d decided to go off somewhere else on her own. I thought she’d be back here waiting for us; she didn’t seem the kind of gal who’d be late for things.”
Ron turned to the young boy, who was sitting with his mother. The apathy had vanished from his face; he seemed, if anything, rather pleased to have a part to play in the drama which appeared to be unfolding around him.
“And you, son; you said that you saw her as you were heading up to the water terraces. What was she doing?”
“She weren’t doing nothing,” he said.
“Anything, William; she weren’t doing anything,” his mother corrected automatically.
“Weren’t doing anything, then,” said William. “She were just standing there, watching us, like; then I went round a corner and couldn’t see her.”
“And she didn’t follow the group after that?”
“Nope. I were in back all the time, and no one were behind me.”
“And we didn’t see her after that,” chimed in Frank. “I thought it kind of funny that she wasn’t there; I was sort of expecting her, I guess. I kept looking for her all the way back here.”
“Right,” said Ron heavily. He pointed to Frank. “You’d better come with me.”
“Why me? Where’re we going?” asked Frank, rather nervously. A stranger in a foreign country, he didn’t like the direction events were taking.
Northwest Passages Page 18