Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  “No,” answered Philip, “I haven't. Not proper night. Why?”

  “Oh, Philip,” I breathed, giving his arm a little squeeze, “let's go now, just out through the hedge and up above the quarry. It would be so beautiful. Just you and me and the big yellow moon. Come on, Phil!”

  Philip hesitated. “Do you think it would be very naughty?” he asked. “After all, you know, we were going to try to be good these holidays.”

  “I know,” I urged. “And we really have been rather good, too. I've been cross with Aunt Margaret once or twice, but last holidays I was cross nearly every day. And it isn't really a bit naughty, either. After all, what's naughty in wanting to see the moon? It's not hurting anyone, and it's not even being disobedient, because Aunt Margaret has never actually told us not to go out at night and look at the moon.”

  Philip thought this over for a minute or two. It seemed to make sense to him, for all he said was, “Are you going to dress properly?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, “I shan't bother. I shall tuck my nightie up and put on my jacket. You put on your best trousers, those long ones, over your pajamas, and put on your jacket, too.”

  This was no sooner said than done, and looking rather lumpy down below, with our handkerchiefs stuffed into our mouths because we wanted to giggle, Philip and I tiptoed to the front door and turned the key. It creaked and grated alarmingly, but my uncle and aunt must have been very soundly asleep, for although we stood still for several moments, nothing happened.

  We shut the door silently behind us and stepped out into the open. Then we both stopped and looked around, because the world seemed so strange and different, and the sky with its millions of stars looked so far away. I slipped my hand into Philip's as I always did when things seemed strange, and together we tiptoed through the shadowed orchard toward our gap. The shadows of the apple boughs looked so fierce and frightening that I almost ran back. Philip, having made up his mind, kept going.

  Out through the gap and up the stony track that led to the hills we went without a word. Up the steps behind the clock tower, over the first group of grey rocks, and we were there, standing on the lower slopes by moonlight, with the silver world lying at our feet.

  We climbed in silence until we reached the very top of the North Hill and stood by the little pile of stones that marked the summit. The wind came sweeping up the valleys, clean and pure. A sheep lifted its head at the sound of our footsteps and bleated. Otherwise all was silent and we sat down on the stones to look.

  There was such a tremendous lot to see in spite of the darkness. Behind, there were the black shapes of the hills, and in front of us stretched the plains dotted with points of light, and every river and pond gleamed silver in the moonlight.

  But mostly we looked up because we both loved stars, and tonight they all shone clearly, right across the sky. We pointed them out to each other with eager fingers.

  It felt wonderful to be up there alone with the stars, and we stayed quite a long time, until Philip remarked that he thought we'd better be getting back, as it would soon be morning and we should be tired next day. Actually it was not quite as bad as that, for when we reached the bottom of the hill, the clock on the tower struck one, nearly making us jump out of our skins.

  We sang all the way down because we knew there was no one to hear us, and it was a relief to make noise after being so quiet. We sang all the songs we could remember, jumping over the gorse bushes and leaping from one rock to the other like two mountain goats.

  When we got back to the stony track, we suddenly felt tired and thought how nice it would be to cuddle down into bed and go to sleep.

  “Now,” said Philip, “we must creep very, very quietly.”

  We were right through the gap and well into the orchard when Philip suddenly stopped dead and dug his fingernails into my arm. With the other hand he pointed, and as I followed his finger my heart seemed to turn right over. I only just stopped myself from screaming.

  A tall figure in a dark cloak was moving toward us through the trees, bowed under the weight of a sack. She had not seen us, for we had come very quietly, and we stood hidden in the deep shadows of the apple trees. But the figure was making for the gap, and in a few minutes must pass right by where we stood. I think I would have fainted if it had not been for Philip, who seemed much less frightened than I was.

  “It's a woman stealing apples,” he breathed. “We ought to try and stop her. They're Auntie's apples and she's got a great big sackful.”

  I could not argue or tell him to stop, because I was much too scared to speak. I clung tightly to Philip and was sort of dragged with him when he suddenly stepped out into the open to stop the thief, who was nearly upon us. The moonlight shone full on her face, and we recognized her in a flash. It was Terry's mother!

  She gave a short, terrified shriek and dropped the sack, so that the apples rolled out and scattered in all directions. Then she cowered down in the grass and covered her face with her cloak and began mumbling words very fast, almost as though she was saying her prayers. Neither Philip or I knew what to do, until she suddenly flung back her fierce, proud head and spoke to us.

  “So you'd be spying on me even by night, would you?” she hissed, shaking her fist at us. “And now you'll be sending the police after me tomorrow and they'll take me from my poor dying boy. You with your fine food and your grand clothing, you can't spare the price of a few apples for my laddie what's starving and cold. And him dying before my very eyes, and with me nothing to give him. Oh, Terry, Terry! They'll take me from you.” She hid her face in her cloak again and burst into bitter, loud weeping.

  I looked at Philip, feeling more troubled than I had ever felt before. Philip was frowning, too, as though he was wondering what to do next. Presently, however, he made up his mind, for he suddenly squatted down in the grass beside the poor huddled-up figure and tried to take her hands away from her face.

  “We weren't spying on you,” he said gently. “We were only here by accident because we wanted to see the moon.”

  The woman stopped sobbing and looked closely at Philip, with a gleam of hope in her wild eyes.

  “Little gentleman,” she answered in a trembling voice, taking hold of him, “listen to me! I swear before God I'll never come again. I know I'm a wicked woman and I shouldn't have come, but my Terry's dying, and the doctor, he says to me, ‘You get him extra milk and a warm blanket for winter, and you feed him up proper if you want to keep him a bit longer.’ And my Terry, he's all that I've got.”

  She was kneeling in the grass, clasping her hands almost as though she was praying to us.

  I wanted to tell her that of course we wouldn't tell, and she could have all the apples she wanted, because I felt sorry for her. But Philip stopped me.

  “We won't tell,” he said slowly, “but if you really stop stealing, as you say, I can't see how you are going to get any money. And yet, of course, it is very wicked to steal. Won't anybody give you any money?”

  She shook her head. “If I asked for benefits they'd only put Terry back in the hospital where I couldn't get to him. They'd say our house isn't fit for a sick child to live in, which it isn't, but at least we're together. That's what we want.”

  She looked at us desperately, as though begging us to understand. Philip still seemed to be thinking hard.

  “Listen!” he said at last, in his most serious voice, “I think I've got a sort of idea, but I can't tell you about it now. You go back to Terry, and we'll come and see you tomorrow when we've talked about it. And we promise not to tell.”

  “God bless you, little lady and gentleman,” whispered Terry's mother, “and forgive me for being a wicked woman.”

  She picked up her empty sack and was gone through the gap in the hedge before we had time to say good-night to her. We were left alone, gazing down at the scattered fruit.

  “I wish we'd let her have them,” I remarked.

  “No,” said Philip. “It's Uncle Peter's fruit and it would have bee
n as bad as stealing ourselves if we'd given it to her. I've thought of something else, Ruth, but I'll tell you in the morning. I'm so tired, and I want to go back to bed.”

  I was very tired, too, so I didn't ask him any more questions. We crept upstairs and tumbled into bed. I was just falling asleep when Philip's head came around the door.

  “How much is there in the money box?” he whispered.

  “One pound, seventeen shillings, and fourpence,” I murmured back sleepily, and the next moment I was deep in the land of dreams.

  About Giving

  Of course we both overslept the next morning and were wakened only by the ringing of the breakfast gong and the sound of my aunt's footsteps coming up to see what had happened to us. She was rather suspicious at the sight of us only just waking up.

  “I believe you don't settle down properly at night,” she remarked severely, “or you'd be awake at the proper time. I believe there's a lot of running about when you should be tucked up, and I won't have it. Once in bed, you're to stay in bed, or I shall have to start locking you in.”

  Philip and I looked at each other guiltily out of the corners of our eyes and hoped our aunt would not say any more on the subject. Fortunately she was very busy, so no more questions were asked.

  I was simply longing for a good talk with Philip, but felt that I had really been so naughty the night before that I had better try to be extra good today. So I went down to the kitchen and offered to help, and my aunt was only too pleased to accept. We chatted together in a friendly way while we worked, and I couldn't help thinking how nice it was to have Aunt Margaret talking to me almost as though I was grown up. She never used to do it, and I began to wonder why things were different now.

  “I think it's all to do with the Good Shepherd,” I thought to myself. “It really has been different since Philip and I began to know about Him. I do believe He really is beginning to make me less cross and less lazy, and I do believe Aunt Margaret is getting nicer, too. Perhaps after we've been to see Terry this afternoon we could tell her more about Him, and ask if she has a blanket to spare so he wouldn't be cold in the winter.”

  Aunt Margaret suddenly stuck her head out the window. “Come along, Ruth,” she called. “Think what you're doing. You've been standing there doing nothing the last three or four minutes.”

  I turned very pink and went on with my work in a great hurry. But I was longing to finish and get to Philip and tell him about my plan.

  “You can go now,” said Aunt Margaret, taking off her apron. “You've been a great help this morning.”

  I scuttled upstairs two steps at a time and found Philip lying flat on his bed with all the money from his money box spread out in front of him. I knelt down and we counted it together.

  “One pound, seventeen shillings, and fourpence,” said Philip thoughtfully, “and I saw a camera for two pounds two shillings. If we both saved our pocket money for the rest of the holidays, we could get it by the beginning of school. On the other hand, if we gave Terry ten shillings for extra milk, we could get it around about Christmas.”

  He gave a little sigh, and I knew he was thinking of the squirrels’ dreys and the dormouse nests that we would find when autumn came, and the nests of harvest mice that turned up when the corn was cut. I knew how much he wanted that camera.

  “Oh, but I don't think we need give ten shillings,” I cried. “Seven shillings and sixpence would buy a lot of extra milk, and I think we could ask Auntie if she's got an old rug.”

  Philip fingered his coins. “Well,” he said, “I don't think we really need to decide now. We can think it out on the way. I'll take the whole money box, and then if I want to give her seven shillings and sixpence I can, and if I decide more like ten shillings, I can, too!”

  I agreed it was too important a matter to decide in a hurry, and we put the money back.

  We set off after dinner to Terry's house. I carried my Bible with my picture tucked inside. Philip carried the money box, which was very heavy and jingled as we walked. He was rather quiet, and I thought he must be thinking of the camera and really wanting it, so I longed to cheer him up.

  “Philip,” I said, “I think five shillings might buy quite a lot of extra milk. Let's ask how much extra milk costs.”

  Philip only grunted. He didn't seem to want to talk about it at all, so we walked on in silence.

  We were halfway down the hill toward the hollow when Terry's mother suddenly appeared from behind a tree, where she seemed to have been waiting for us. She looked at us with a very worried look on her face, as though we might have forgotten our promise.

  “I thought we might have our talk out here,” she began nervously, “before you go on down to Terry. You won't tell my Terry nothing about them apples, will you now? I did it for his sake, but he'd get really upset if he knew. He's a good lad, my Terry.”

  “Of course we won't tell Terry,” said Philip. “We promised we wouldn't tell anyone. Let's talk here on the hill, and he won't be able to hear us.”

  We sat down among the flowers and were silent for a little while. Philip looked at me because he was expecting me to begin. I looked at the ground because I was shy, and Terry's mother looked very hard at the money box.

  “We've brought you some money to buy milk and bed clothes for Terry,” he said simply. “It's not much, but it's all we've got,” and as he said it he tipped up the money-box and emptied the whole lot into Terry's mother's lap.

  “It's one pound, seventeen shillings, and fourpence,” he said clearly, so that there might be no mistake about it, “and we hope it will do Terry a lot of good. Now we will go down to the cottage and see him for a little bit.”

  He stood up and started off down the hill, but I stayed behind for a moment. The Good Shepherd had given his life. Philip had given all the money for his camera. And I wanted to give something, too. I suddenly remembered that my most precious possession was in my hands. So I opened my Bible and pulled it out and laid it with the coins in Terry's mother's lap.

  “This is my favorite picture,” I said softly. “And you can have it to remind you that Jesus, the Good Shepherd, wants to find you. Philip and I both belong to Him now.”

  “Thank you, little lady,” she replied, and I left her sitting there counting her coins on the hillside while I ran after Philip.

  “I hope you didn't mind that I gave her all the money,” said Philip as we were walking home an hour later. “After all, a lot of it was yours, really, but somehow I felt we couldn't keep it. I mean, the camera doesn't seem to matter much compared with Terry, when you come to think of it, does it?”

  “No,” I agreed. “And the funny part is, I was thinking the same thing. When I thought about the Good Shepherd giving His life, it seemed awful to be giving such a little, and I was trying to make you look at me, to tell you to give more.”

  “Funny,” said Philip, “I thought I should feel miserable without my money, but actually I feel really happy.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “I thought it would be terrible giving away my picture, but I sort of feel glad she's got it now. Isn't it strange?”

  “We never guessed it would be so nice,” said Philip. “But when you come to think of it, Ruth, I believe it's the first time we've given away anything that we really wanted to keep badly, so we couldn't have known.”

  We walked on in silence, thinking about it.

  Hops and Mushrooms

  The summer holidays were especially exciting that year because my aunt gave us permission for the first time to spend some afternoons in the hop fields, where we earned quite a lot of money. We had given up saving for the camera, and our idea was to earn enough money to buy a warm blanket for Terry. Aunt Margaret had suggested it, as she didn't actually have one to spare herself. But she gave us other little things for him, and mended up Philip's old pajamas, which were thick and warm.

  Mr. Robinson also promised to go and see Terry. On one of our many Saturday visits, Philip and I had told him about Terry and had
begged him to call.

  “You see,” I explained, “I've tried to tell him about the Good Shepherd, but he doesn't want to listen. He says if God loved him He'd make his back better and let him run about again, and when he said that, I didn't know what to say. But if you came, you could explain it all nicely, I expect, couldn't you?”

  Mr. Robinson smiled.

  “No,” he answered, “I couldn't explain it at all. Because when sad things happen in our lives He often doesn't tell us why. If we really love Him we must believe what He says even if we don't understand. That is what ‘trust’ means. In any case, Terry would probably listen to you more than he would to me because you are a child like himself and I'm only a grown-up.”

  “But he doesn't listen,” I insisted. “He doesn't take any notice of me at all. He just tells me to talk about something else.”

  “Well, then,” Mr. Robinson replied, “you must start praying every day that he will listen. God doesn't always answer our prayers at once, but He hears them, and if they are right prayers He always answers them in the end.”

  Philip and I loved the hop fields with the noisy pickers and the strange smell that clung to our clothes and fingers. At six o'clock we would line up for our pay and feel so important and grown up when our money was handed out to us.

  Once, a family from Birmingham invited us to stay to supper with them, and we sat around a glowing fire. They cooked a strange sort of pancake in a big frying pan. It smelled delicious, and when it was tossed on a tin plate and handed to us, we thought we had never tasted anything so good.

  We found another way of earning money, too, which Aunt Margaret thought was better than hop picking.

  One misty September morning, we got up early and ran out into the silver fields where the spiders were covering the grass with their webs. We took off our shoes and socks because we liked the feel of cold dew between our toes, and we were skipping up and down the field when Philip suddenly stopped. He had caught sight of a little white button mushroom and stooped down to look underneath and make sure it wasn't a puff ball.