I shuddered and shook my head violently. I couldn't be left alone. I was much too frightened. I clung to Philip sobbing, and begged him to let me go instead. But Philip wouldn't hear of it.
“You see, Ruth,” he explained urgently, “he may die very soon, and if the doctor came in time he might be able to do something to make him better. I shall get there much quicker because my legs are so much longer. You must let me go at once, and try and be brave and stop crying.”
He freed himself from my grasp, gently enough, and made off like the wind. I lay and listened to his footsteps crackling over the dead leaves and twigs until the sound died away and only the murmuring of the pigeons broke the silence of the woods.
Now that I was left alone, I realized that I must make myself look at Terry. I clenched my teeth and my fists and sat up.
What I actually saw was a great relief to me. I had never seen anyone badly hurt or unconscious before, and I had imagined that it would be a very horrible sight. But Terry, lying on his back with his arms spread wide, might have been asleep, except that his lips were too pale and he breathed so lightly. He did not look hurt or frightened, only strangely peaceful. As I sat there staring at him, I began to feel strangely peaceful myself, as though he must soon wake up refreshed by such deep sleep and we should all be happy again.
The minutes seemed like hours and Terry did not move. Still I sat watching and wondering. Perhaps Terry was already dead. The thought made me feel cold and sick, and once again my eyes filled with frightened tears. If only Philip would come back!
What was death, anyway? If Terry were dead, where had he gone? We should bury his quiet little body under the ground in the churchyard, but I knew that that was not really Terry. Terry, I supposed, had gone to heaven, like we sang about in hymns in church, but would Terry be happy? One grubby, rather naughty little boy amongst all those golden streets and white wings!
Then I suddenly remembered Jane Collins, who had gone “to be with the Lord,” and the joyful face of the child in my dream. Perhaps dying just meant going to live with the Good Shepherd—hearing Him speak with our proper ears and seeing Him with real eyes, instead of just inside our hearts. That would be lovely, I thought. No wonder the little girl had looked so happy. Perhaps that was why Terry looked so peaceful.
But Terry did not know about the Good Shepherd, so perhaps he might not be so pleased to go and live with Him. I was sure Terry had never heard anything about it. If only I'd had a chance to tell him! If he didn't die, I should tell him at once, and then Philip and he and I would all belong together. But anyhow, even if he were dead, I was sure that the Good Shepherd would see that he was happy. Because, after all, it wasn't Terry's fault that he had never asked to be found and forgiven. It was really mine, because I had kept the secret to myself instead of sharing it.
So I sat hugging my knees, with my eyes fixed on Terry's still face, torn between hope and fear. Every few minutes I thought I heard Philip coming back, but each time it turned out to be only a rabbit or a bird or a gust of wind in the trees. The sunshine streamed through the thin, bright leaves of the larch trees and rested in a bright patch on Terry's hair; almost as though God was touching him, I thought to myself. I remembered how in the gospel of Luke, which I read every morning, Jesus had touched men and women and children who were hurt or ill, and they always got well again at once.
“Oh, God,” I whispered, looking up through the branches, “please make Terry better. Don't let him die. We want him here so much. Amen.”
It was then that I heard Philip's voice through the trees and some men's voices talking, too. A moment later a little procession came into sight with Philip leading the way. Behind him came Uncle Peter, who was always at home on Saturdays, and kind Dr. Paterson who had come to see me when I had measles; behind them came two men in dark uniforms carrying a stretcher; I heard later that these were the ambulance men.
Dr. Paterson knelt down at once and put his fingers on Terry's brown wrist. He held it for a long time and then passed his hands over Terry's head, drew back his eyelids, and bent his legs and arms backward and forward very gently. Then he turned to me. “Has the boy moved since he fell?” he asked.
“No,” I answered. “He's been as though he was fast asleep all the time.” Then I gave his coat a little tug. “Is he dead?” I whispered.
Dr. Paterson put his arm around my shoulder. “No,” he answered gently, “he's not dead, but he's very badly hurt. You were a good girl to stay here and look after him. Now, we'll take him along to the hospital as soon as we can, and I'm going to see what I can do for him.”
Very gently and carefully, Terry was lifted onto the stretcher, and the men set off through the brambles with the precious burden between them. Uncle Peter, seeing how white and scared I looked, stooped down and picked me up in his arms like a baby. I snuggled up against him and laid my head on his shoulder and felt greatly comforted. I had always been good friends with Uncle Peter.
I noticed Philip's face only when he glanced toward me, for he had walked with his head turned sideways. He said nothing, but his lips were pressed tightly together and his eyes looked very upset. His cheeks high up were scarlet, but the rest of his face was quite white. I longed to run and comfort him, but knew there was nothing I could say or do. Nothing would comfort him except Terry getting well.
We all walked very slowly so as not to jolt the stretcher, for the ground was rough and uneven. When we reached the road, the ambulance was waiting there, and Dr. Paterson climbed in with Terry while the men sat in front.
“When will you tell us if he's better?” I asked, just as he was about to shut the door.
“I shall be passing your house tomorrow,” said the doctor, “and I'll drop in and let you know.”
The door was shut and the engine started up. The ambulance sped off in a cloud of white dust, and Uncle Peter, Philip, and I were left to trudge home. Uncle asked us a few questions about Terry on the way, but otherwise we were very silent. Nobody felt like talking.
It was a long, wretched day. We hung about the garden unable to settle down to anything, and with no appetite for our meals. Aunt Margaret felt sorry for us and read aloud to us after tea, but we were both glad when bedtime arrived. She came upstairs and kissed us good night, but as soon as her footsteps died away I hopped out of bed and ran over to Philip. He was lying huddled up in bed, and I think he had been crying, for his voice sounded sniffy and his pillow was damp. I got under the rug at the bottom and curled myself up in a ball like a kitten.
“Ruth,” whispered Philip rather shakily, “do you think he'll die?”
“No,” I answered firmly, “I don't.”
“Why not?” inquired Philip, rather surprised at me being so sure of myself. “Did Dr. Paterson say anything to you when I wasn't listening?”
I wriggled my bare toes up and down under the rug, as I always did when I was shy. It was difficult to explain, but I thought now was the moment to try and tell.
“Well, you see,” I answered, “when you went to get the others, I prayed to God very hard that Terry would get better again, so I expect he will.”
Philip stared at me over the top of the sheet.
“So did I,” he admitted slowly. “I said, ‘Oh, God, please don't let Terry die’ all the way home, but I don't know whether it was much use. I'm not a very good boy and I usually forget to say my prayers altogether, and nothing much happens when I do.”
“But Philip,” I said, uncurling myself and sitting up straight because I was so serious about this, “you don't have to be an especially good person to say your prayers. You just have to belong to the Good Shepherd. That's what my secret was, that I was going to tell you about today. I didn't make it up. The clergyman told me when I ran away, and it's in the Bible, too.
“When we're naughty, we're like sheep that run away and get lost and can't find the way back. But Jesus is the Shepherd. He comes to look for us, and when we ask Him He finds us. But He always waits till we ask. T
hen we belong to Him and He listens to everything we say, and He speaks to us back and tells us how to be good. Mr. Tandy told me that bit, and He spoke to me last night and stopped me from losing my temper with Aunt Margaret when she wouldn't let me have a chocolate biscuit.”
I could see Philip staring at me, his face pale in the moonlight. “Go on,” he said.
“There's not much more to say,” I went on, “except that when Terry was lying on the ground, the sun suddenly shone through the trees right onto his hair, and I thought perhaps it was God's way of touching him and making him better, like Jesus touched people in the Bible. After that, I was almost sure he wasn't going to die.”
There was a long silence, broken at last by Philip.
“Did you ask Him to find you?” he asked curiously. I nodded. “I did it on the way home,” I said, “in the primrose woods, under a tree. I asked Him to forgive me for being naughty and to find me and make me one of His lambs as the clergyman said. Oh, Philip, I wish you would come with me and see that clergyman, because he'd tell you about it much better than me, and I do so want you to belong to the Shepherd, too.”
“I wish I did,” said Philip in a rather serious voice. “Do you think I could?”
“I'm sure you could,” I answered very firmly. “I should think you'd be much easier to find than me because you're so much gooder. I don't think you'd take much finding at all.”
Philip shook his head. “You don't know,” he said sadly. “You only see me outside. I'm not good at all inside.”
“Well,” I argued, “it doesn't matter. I'll show you my picture and you'll see. The sheep there is nearly falling over a precipice he's got so lost, but the Shepherd is going to find him all the same.”
I tiptoed across the passageway and returned with my precious picture in my hand. We both went over to the window and could see it quite clearly because the full moon was shining right in the window. Philip went on looking at it for a long time.
“Could I ask now, Ruth?” he said at last, rather worriedly.
I nodded.
“Then you must go away,” he explained, “because I shall have to be alone. We'll talk more about it in the morning.”
So I left him, with his elbows on the windowsill, looking at the hills. I snuggled into bed and stared up at the millions of stars and thought about everything that had happened, until I fell asleep.
A Visit to the Vicarage
The rest of the holidays passed too quickly because there was so much to do. The doctor came to see us the next day, and as soon as we heard his car stop, we flung ourselves out of the gate and nearly knocked him over in our eagerness to hear the news.
“Steady,” exclaimed Dr. Paterson, catching us both by the collar. “If you knock me out I shan't be able to tell you anything.”
Terry was alive, he told us, but he had hurt his back and head very badly indeed and would be in the hospital many weeks. His mother was with him nearly all the time now, but as soon as he was a little better he would probably be moved to another hospital—a special hospital for people with broken bones. We could not go and visit him because it was too far away, but we should probably be able to write to him in a few weeks' time.
This was quite enough to stop us worrying and make us happy again. Terry was alive and being looked after. He would certainly get better soon, we told ourselves, just as we had always got better in time from measles and colds and tummy aches. So we settled down to enjoy the last few days of the holidays as much as we could.
We decided that we must pay one last visit to each of our friends, so Philip went to call on the bird man and was taken down to see a moorhen's nest, and I paid a visit to Mr. Tandy in the sheepfolds.
The last day of all, we had decided to visit Mr. Robinson, and we set out at about half past three, because I'm afraid we thought it would be rather nice to arrive about teatime.
The village lay at the bottom of the hill, and we marched in at the vicarage gate very sure of a welcome. Mr. Robinson was in his shirtsleeves, mowing the lawn, and recognised me at once. He seemed delighted to see us both. He did not even ask us if we would stay to tea. He simply said, “You've both arrived just at the right moment.”
We had a lovely tea. Mr. and Mrs. Robinson sat in deck chairs and we sat on a rug and ate a tremendous lot, and then we both told Mr. Robinson all about our special secret while Mrs. Robinson went in to see to the twins. He was so pleased. His face looked just like Mr. Tandy's when I told him. He then talked to us about the importance of reading our Bibles.
“We'll do it together,” I said eagerly. “I think it will be fun to choose the verses, don't you, Philip?”
At that moment Mrs. Robinson appeared at the window wearing an apron. “Twins' bedtime, Ruth,” she called. “Do you want to come and watch?”
I jumped up. “Will you excuse me, please, Mr. Robinson?” I inquired, a little worriedly, for I did not want him to think I was being rude.
“Certainly,” he replied. “You go and help Mum. She'll be glad of a helper. Philip and I will stay here a little longer and do some more talking.”
I ran across the lawn and into the vicarage. The twins were crawling about on the carpet while their mother collected their night things. They were ten months old and very lively, and I, who had never had anything to do with babies, thought I'd never seen anything so wonderful.
I spent a wonderful half hour. Once they were safely in the big bath, Mrs. Robinson let me soap their plump little bodies and then pour the water all over them. Then we sailed a yellow sponge duck, and the twins screamed with laughter and beat the water with their fat hands. I was allowed to sprinkle baby powder over them, and when they were safely in their nightclothes, I was given a soft little hair brush with which I brushed their hair up on end.
It was not till their mother was tucking them firmly into their cots that I noticed the picture that hung on the wall behind them. It was another picture of the Good Shepherd, but it was different from mine. This Shepherd was standing by a lake, at evening time, with His hands stretched out to bless the little lambs that stood beside Him and lay asleep at His feet.
“Why,” I cried joyfully, pointing up at it, “I've got a Good Shepherd picture, too, but it's not like that. My sheep is on a precipice.”
“I know your picture,” answered Mrs. Robinson, “and I love it very much. Later I shall show it to the twins, but they are not old enough to understand anything about precipices yet. I like to think that all through the night, when I'm asleep, the Good Shepherd is looking after my babies for me. So I put that picture there to remind me, and whenever I look at it I remember they are certainly safe.”
I stared at the twins. They had both fallen asleep instantly. Janet had curled herself up and stuffed two fingers into her mouth. Robin lay on his back with his arms thrown out on the pillow, his cheeks all warm and pink. I nestled up to Mrs. Robinson and looked up into her face. She was quite young, with pretty hair and sparkly eyes, and I thought secretly that I should like her to be my mother.
“Can I come again?” I whispered.
“Of course you can,” she replied. “You can come the Saturday after next if your aunt will let you. I'll write and ask her. I expect you have a holiday on Saturday. We'll take them out in the pram, and then you can help me give them their supper and put them to bed. It's a great treat for me to have a nanny, and I can see that you're handy with babies.”
I blushed with pride and slipped my hand into hers. I couldn't exactly have Mrs. Robinson for my mother, but perhaps in time I might become a sort of older sister to the twins.
I went back to the garden and found Mr. Robinson and Philip still talking seriously. I wanted to get back and ask my aunt about Saturday, and I was extra pleased when the vicar said that Philip could come, too, and help him in the garden, and we'd all have tea together.
We got back in good time for supper, and I ran straight off to my aunt.
“Auntie,” I cried, hopping about on one foot, “Mrs. Robin
son has invited me to tea with her next Saturday—her and the babies and I can push the pram and put them to bed. I can go, can't I? Do say yes!”
My aunt looked rather annoyed. “Who is this Mrs. Robinson, Ruth?” she asked rather coldly. “You're not to visit people without asking me first. I have never heard of the lady.”
“Oh, she's quite all right, Auntie,” I assured her anxiously. “She's a very nice lady indeed, a clergyman's wife at Fairways. She's going to write to you.”
“I should hope so,” said my aunt, “but I'm afraid the answer will have to be no this time. Miss Montgomery called this afternoon to say that her little niece is coming to stay, and I said that you would go and play with her that afternoon. I'm sorry you should be disappointed, but perhaps this Mrs. Robinson will invite you another day. If she really is the wife of the vicar of Fairways, I don't mind you going. I have heard they are very nice people.”
I flew into a rage at once. “But Auntie,” I stormed, “you know that I hate going to tea with Miss Montgomery. And I hate Juliana Montgomery. She's like a little white mouse. She doesn't know how to play anything nice, and we have to sit indoors and play dominoes, and I hate dominoes. Oh, please, Auntie, say I needn't go. I told Mrs Robinson I could come!”
“You had no business to tell Mrs. Robinson,” replied my aunt sharply. “I have never heard such nonsense! You are never to accept invitations without my permission. And stand still while you talk. You are making me quite dizzy.”
I'd thoroughly lost my temper by this time and was nearly crying with disappointment.
“I won't go,” I shouted, “I shall go where I like. I told Mrs. Robinson I'd come, and I shall jolly well go, and you won't stop me!”
Patricia St John Series Page 18