The Golden Maze (20 page)

"I shall be all right," she said stiffly.

He smiled. "I'm sure you will, but at the moment you're a little trouble-prone. Everything you have to do with seems to go wrong."

How right he was, Cindy thought as she watched the large dark green car pull out and she went to find the garage owner.

"What do I owe you ?" she asked him, a little nervous, for she was afraid it might be more than the cash she had with her.

"Nothing, miss," the manager, a tall, thin man with a cap pulled over one eye, smiled. "Mr. Baxter, he paid for it."

"Oh !" Cindy frowned. "It's . . . it's all right now ?"

"Fine . . . goes like t'little bomb, it does any time," the man told her with a smile.

Driving along the roads, Cindy had little time to think, yet at the back of her mind gnawed several unhappy thoughts. Peter's obvious eagerness to get rid of them. Who was he expecting? Had he merely left Yvonne somewhere and promised to fetch her back when the others were safely out of the way? Or was it Johanna? Keith Ayres' suggestion was growing fast in her mind. Peter had obviously liked Johanna . . . and Johanna? Caught on the rebound, it was easy to mistake liking for love.

Cindy was quite relieved when she reached the hotel Keith had told her about and he was waiting for her. There was no doubt but that he was a very nice man. She felt so relaxed when she was with him, for he talked interestingly and made her laugh a lot.

They were having coffee when Keith took her breath away, without warning, as he said abruptly :

"It's Peter, isn't it ?"

To Cindy's horror, the tears stung her eyes. She nodded silently. Keith leaned forward and put his hand over hers.

"You 'poor darling," he said tenderly.

CINDY'S return to London was like a nightmare. Her small, square bedsitter with its narrow bed, curtained corner that was a wardrobe, a small table and chair and the dismal lime-green curtains was such a contrast to the huge rooms of the castle that she found herself constantly comparing them. She realised she had also been spoilt, taking it for granted her meals would be prepared, whereas now she forgot her evening meal and did no shopping.

She couldn't have returned at a worse time, for after she and Keith Ayres had parted after lunch, they ran into rain and the last part of her journey was a miserable one with the rain pounding down mercilessly. There was, of course, no one to greet her after she had parked her little car and carried her suitcase back down the Place where her bedsitter was on the fourth floor. Somehow, that evening, she missed the welcome she had never known before her stay at the castle. It was so still, not even Mrs. Craddock, her landlady, in sight as Cindy trudged up the steep narrow staircase, her suitcase dragging her back. Then she opened the door and the awful dull impersonality of the room hit her.

She closed the door, leaning against it, looking round at the smallness. There was no possible way of calling it 'home'. She, knew, though, that it was mostly her own fault. She had wanted to save up for

a car so much that nothing else mattered; hence she was paying as low a rent as she could, nor had she spent money on bright posters or gay bed-covers as others did. She shuddered at the thought of what Peter would say if he ever saw this dingy cell, for that was what it was. The cell in which she was a prisoner....

Hastily she
unpacked. Realising she had no 'food, she-unearthed a box of water biscuits and some honey and made herself a cup of coffee. An early night would be a good idea.

But was it? She tossed and turned in the narrow bed, moving quickly several times and nearly falling out ! Sleep was far away. No matter how hard she tried to push the castle and Peter out of her thoughts, they returned again and again, refusing to be forgotten.

How kind Keith Ayres had been, she thought, grateful for a different thought. She had nearly cried, but after he had comforted her, he had changed the subject and even made her laugh. Was-it so obvious? Cindy found herself wondering anxiously. If Keith Ayres could see her love for Peter so plainly, then could ... ?

She squirmed in the narow bed. Was that why Peter was so eager to see them go? Why; he had almost pushed them out of the castle. Because he thought she was after him !

Tears finally helped her and she fell asleep with her cheeks wet. In the morning, she awoke and faced the truth. She had to accept it ! There was nothing else she could do.

She had a warm welcome at the office on Monday when she began work, the girls crowding round to hear what had happened. Cindy hesitated about telling them everything, for she had no desire to cause more trouble.

"The real heir, Mr. Baxter's son, was found," she explained simply.

But the girls weren't prepared to leave it at that.

"What about that article in the papers? Were you really going to get twenty thousand pounds for the castle?" Maggie asked eagerly.

"I knew nothing about that until someone showed me the paper," Cindy could say truthfully. "It was all a hoax."

Maggie looked disappointed. "You mean it wasn't true? There wasn't an American?"

"No, someone did it for a ..

"Joke? Funny kind of joke," Maggie declared, and Cindy silently agreed with her.

Yvonne's 'joke' had lost Cindy the castle; yet Cindy knew in her heart that she could never have kept the castle, for how could she, a girl of nineteen, ever raise the money required? It was different for a man of Peter's age and finances.

Mr. Jenkins was more discerning. As he dictated the letters, he sighed and Cindy looked up. Her boss's face was grave.

"Miss Preston," he said slowly, "I see you have your glasses on today, so that can't be used as an excuse. What have you in mind ?"

Cindy's forehead wrinkled as she stared at him. "I . . . what . . . what have I in mind ?"

He nodded. "Yes, what excuse today have you for the fact that I've dictated for ten minutes and you haven't done a single one of those little squiggles you seem so efficient in reading back," he said drily.

Cindy looked at her notebook in dismay. He was right. She had neither heard nor realised she wasn't listening. She had been thinking of Peter . . . wondering how he was managing with no Mrs. Stone there. Had Johanna taken him under her wing, or was it Mrs. Fairhead ?

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

Mr. Jenkins gave an odd smile. "That's good of you. So am I. Before you went to see your castle, Miss Preston, you were extremly on edge, making foolish mistakes that were unlike you, but which I forgave as I know what heartache can do. Then this excitement about the mock castle and off you go, thrilled. Now you come back, even less aware of what's going on around you than before. We seem to be back to Square One. Just what has happened? You've fallen in love?"

"Yes," Cindy admitted.

' "I see. And he?"

"Sees me as a child and ... and . ."

Mr Jenkins smiled. "Well it's hard not to, Miss Preston. I suppose you'll get over it if I bear. with you ?"

Cindy blinked. "Of course. I have no choice."

"Very sensible of you, Miss Preston. I suggest you type the letters you've got down and maybe tomorrow you'll be feeling better. Meanwhile send Maggie in to me, she can do the rest of the letters."

"Yes, Mr. Jenkins." Gratefully Cindy escaped to

her little office, pausing to tell Miss Point what Mr. Jenkins had said.

That night Cindy
went home, having been to the supermarket and bought a 'meal in a bag' that she could heat up on her gas ring. Her depression was, if anything, greater than ever. The drabness of the room seemed even more stark than before. How could she bear to go on living in this ... this .. . She couldn't find a word to describe it.

As her dinner slowly cooked, she read the evening paper, not really reading, her eyes skimming over the words because it was better to do something than just sit there and think.

It was the word America that caught her eye and made her start to really read the short article about an employment agency which made a speciality of finding efficient British secretaries for jobs in the States. The pay was good, though the qualifications demanded were high.

Was that the answer? Cindy wondered. It was Unusual for her to buy an evening paper—why had she done so that night? Was it to show her a way to escape? A completely new life, different people, a challenge to her?

Wouldn't that be wiser than sitting here in this ... this ... and fretting? Surely the only way to overcome painful memories was to lead so busy a life you had no time to sit and mope? she asked herself.

She made a note of the name and address of the agency. Would she have time to go in her lunch hour? she wondered. Or perhaps they weren't open

at that time? She decided to write
to them and ask when it would b
e convenient to call.

One thing, Mr. Jenkins would give her a good reference, she knew that, and maybe he would be glad to see her go if he was finding her, as he said, `not with it' at the moment. She wrote several letters before she was satisfied with one. Maybe she should have typed it, she thought. Yet she could remember Mr. Jenkins saying that the best way to read a person's character was to look at their handwriting ! Cindy studied hers worriedly, and then went over the spelling carefully. Luckily, she thought, she was a natural speller.

She addressed the envelope and sealed it. In the lunch hour next day she'd get a stamp and post it.

Her dinner was bubbling 'fiercely. She only hoped it was not overdone. Eating it, she found herself looking ahead . . . Suppose she was sent to New York? What would it be like? Salaries were very high there, but so was the cost of living, she reminded herself, but it would be nice to meet new people.

She pushed the empty plate on one side, flung herself down on her bed and wept. There was one person she could not fool. Herself !

Next day she was determinedly bright at the office. Mr. Jenkins made no comments, but she got through all his letters in record time. In the lunch hour she posted the letter to the employment agency.

It was absurd how miserable she felt. Yet she knew she was doing the right thing. If von couldn't overcome pain, ignore it; fill your life so full, she told herself sternly.

Mr. Jenkins sent for her that afternoon.

"Miss Preston, full marks for your behaviour today," he said with a smile. She smiled back. "Now as a reward, how about having dinner with me tonight ?"

She was really startled. Perhaps it showed in her face, because he chuckled.

"My eldest daughter is about your age. She's meeting me with her latest boy-friend. I thought four would be a more comfortable group than three."

"It's very kind of you," Cindy began, and suddenly knew she could not go. Mr. Jenkins' eldest daughter and her latest boy-friend, both probably looking gooey-eyed at one another, which would only make everything much worse. "I'd love to, but ... but I have a date."

Mr. Jenkins smiled. "Good—so long as you're not sitting at home alone weeping. It makes your eyes swell, you know."

"Does it ?" Cindy's hand flew to her glasses.

Back at her desk, she was busy filing when the phone rang. It was a private call for her.

Peter, she thought instantly, her heart seeming to leap with joy.

But it wasn't. It was Keith Ayres.

"How are things going, Cindy ?" he asked, his voice concerned. "I guess it must 'be pretty tough." Actually he had told her at the lunch they shared that he felt guilty about her unhappiness and that he should have waited until the three years were up before telling her of the castle.

'Cindy managed a little laugh. "It's not exactly easy, Keith, but . ."

"I know. Look, I've got tickets for a concert at the Festival Hall and wondered if you'd care to come."

Music ! Cindy swallowed. That would be the last straw. She could just see herself, sitting by Keith's side, the tears running down her cheeks. If anything could make her cry, it was music.

"I'm awfully sorry, but I've got a date," she lied.

"I see. Another time ?" he spoke cheerfully and she wondered if he knew she wasn't telling the truth. "Be seeing you," he added, and-rang off.

She put down the telephone slowly. Was she being stupid? she asked herself. Should she have accepted one of the invitations? It was no good, just sitting in that awful little room . . . Funny, because until she'd been to the castle, the little room hadn't seemed awful—it was as if the castle and Peter had changed her entire outlook on life.

On the way home, she was tempted to go to a cinema, yet felt that would be just as bad. Just give herself a few days and everything would be better, she tried to comfort herself.

The hall door was always left unlocked. She walked up the steep stairs wearily, thinking of the long lonely hours ahead, and then, as she turned the corner for her last flight, she stopped dead.

It couldn't be true, she thought. It must be a dream. But it wasn't.

Peter was sitting on the stairs, reading a newspaper. He must have heard her gasp, for he put it down and smiled at her.