Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  “Mushrooms, Ruth,” he called. “Let's see if we can find some more!”

  We found lots more. In fact, the field was full of them, big ones and little ones, and we heaped them up until we could have filled a whole basket, only we had no basket.

  “There's only one thing to do,” Philip remarked. “You must take off your vest and tie the sleeves in a knot so that it makes a bag. We must get these mushrooms home somehow.”

  When my vest had been filled up with mushrooms it began to stretch, and by the time we reached home it had grown so long that it almost touched the ground. We were going to give some to Aunt Margaret to cook, and we were going to ask whether we might sell the rest to the greengrocer up the road.

  Aunt Margaret was pleased with the mushrooms, but she was not at all pleased with my vest. She said it was enough to give me a bad chill, and it was ruining good underwear. So I was given a dose of medicine in case I should catch a cold, and made to wash the vest, which made me sulky all breakfast time.

  But I cheered up later, because when we asked Aunt Margaret if we might sell the rest of our mushrooms to Mr. Daniels the greengrocer, she said she did not mind at all, as long as we took them in a proper basket. So we set out, highly excited, marched up to the counter, and asked to see Mr. Daniels personally.

  Mr. Daniels was fat and bald, and wore hornrimmed spectacles on the end of a large, red nose. He liked Philip and me, and beamed at us over the counter. When he saw our mushrooms he threw up his hands in admiration.

  “Dearie me,” said Mr. Daniels. “I'll weigh them out and pay you the same as I pay the farmers, and if you find any more, you bring them along to Mr. Daniels.”

  We did find lots more, and by picking mushrooms and hops, the money box began to get really heavy again. We were beginning to talk about the color of the blanket we would buy, when a wonderful thing happened.

  We had wandered over the hills in the heat to take Terry some plums, and we found him alone. The house was more stuffy than usual, and Terry looked hot and flushed. His dark hair lay in damp locks on his forehead, and he had thrown all his bedclothes back. He did not notice us come in because he was staring so hard at the wall opposite, where his mother had hung the picture I had given her.

  “Hello, Terry,” we greeted him, sitting ourselves down on the bed. “Is your mother out?”

  “Mm,” answered Terry wearily. Poor Terry! He seemed so exhausted that even our arrival didn't cheer him up. “She's been gone a long time.”

  “Where to?” we asked.

  “I don't know,” replied Terry. “She wouldn't say.”

  There was a pause, then Terry spoke again in a fretful voice.

  “Take that picture away with you,” he commanded. “It really bothers my mum. The last few days she's sort of cried when she's looked at it. She was happier before you brought it and we don't want it.”

  “But I can't take it away,” I objected. “It's your mother's. I gave it to her. It would be sort of stealing to take it away.”

  Terry passed his hand wearily over his forehead and turned his face to the wall.

  “I wish I was dead,” he muttered.

  We had never seen Terry quite so unhappy before, and we longed to comfort him. But what could we say to comfort a boy who had to lie in this hot, cheerless gloom all day long? Even when we offered him a plum he pushed it away.

  “I'm feeling sick,” he explained. “Maybe I'll eat it later.”

  We left very soon, because he seemed too tired to want us. His mother had not returned, and we felt very depressed as we climbed the hill.

  “Philip,” I said, “do you still pray every day that Terry will get better?”

  “Not every day,” answered Philip, “because sometimes I feel sure he won't. I mean, perhaps God thinks he'd better not get better. The doctor said he wouldn't, you know, and doctors are usually right.”

  “But God could do a miracle,” I insisted, “like He did in the Bible. It seems too awful, doesn't it? Terry seems sadder every time we go.”

  “It isn't really being ill that's the worst part,” Philip said seriously. “It's that awful little house. It's so hot and dark, and there's a nasty smell about it, and it must be so dull and boring. If he could be ill somewhere nice it would be different.”

  I could find no way out of this difficulty at all, unless we prayed that someone with a nice house would adopt Terry. When we thought about it a bit more, we decided not to pray for that after all, as Terry would hate to leave his mother, and his mother would hate to lose him.

  We were talking so seriously about it all when we reached the gate that we did not look where we were going and nearly bumped into Aunt Margaret, who was coming down the path talking to a tall woman in a dark cloak. We looked up quickly into the visitor's face, and to our utter astonishment we saw that the tall woman was Terry's mother, and her dark eyes were red with weeping. Stranger still, my aunt was talking gently to her and had laid her hand on her arm.

  Neither of them took any notice of us, and we went indoors quickly because we somehow felt that Terry's mother hadn't really wanted to meet us at all. Once inside we looked at each other in astonishment. What could Aunt Margaret and Terry's mother have been saying to each other?

  “Perhaps she's asking for things for Terry,” I suggested.

  Philip shook his head. “I don't think it's that,” he said, “because Auntie was being so nice to her. Usually she's rather cross with beggars.”

  If we had hoped that my aunt would explain things, we were disappointed. She came back into the house a few minutes later and went upstairs to her bedroom. When she came down she was very quiet and took no notice of us at all. I thought her face was sadder than usual and she seemed to be thinking hard.

  Next day at breakfast another surprise awaited us. Aunt Margaret laid down her knife and fork and looked at her watch.

  “Ruth,” she announced, “I am going out for the morning. It is very important and I shall probably not be back for some hours, so I am going to let you get the dinner. The potatoes are peeled, and there is cold meat, so you will only have to wash the lettuce and peel and stew the apples and make some custard. I showed you how to make custard the other day, so it will be a good chance to try.”

  Philip and I stared at her in astonishment. Never before, that we could remember, had our aunt gone out for the morning, or missed cooking the dinner. It must have been very important business that called her, and we really wanted to know what it could be.

  Aunt Margaret was as good as her word. She got up from the breakfast table, put on her hat, and walked straight out the front door. And that was the last that we saw of her until dinner-time.

  Philip and I, left by ourselves, went to work with a will. I really liked the idea of being mistress of the house for the morning, and we carried the breakfast things out and started to wash up, feeling very important. I began by tipping nearly a whole jar of soap flakes into the bowl and whisking until the foam stood up nearly as high as the taps. After that, of course, we had to spend ten minutes or so scooping it up with our hands and blowing soap bubbles all over the kitchen.

  The morning passed very happily. Philip and I peeled enough potatoes to feed an army, and although I burnt the saucepan badly while making the custard, it didn't taste much. We caught three little slugs in the lettuce and carried them carefully back to the lettuce patch in case their mothers should be missing them. When we felt the dinner was prepared properly, we started on the housework. We took all the rugs into the garden and danced up and down with them, smothering ourselves with dust. Yes, it was certainly great fun being left in charge of the house. The morning went very fast and it seemed only a very short time before Aunt Margaret walked in the gate. It was dinnertime.

  I made a dive for the potatoes, which were boiling merrily, and the dinner was served up by a very flushed, untidy little cook who had to be sent away from the table to brush her hair the minute grace had been said.

  However, my aunt see
med pleased with my efforts. She praised the potatoes and salad and said nothing about the burnt flavor of the custard. She looked happy, too—much happier than she had looked at breakfast—and now and then we noticed her smiling to herself as though she had some very nice secret.

  “I hope you enjoyed this morning, Auntie,” said Philip politely.

  Aunt Margaret's eyes twinkled, and a little smile turned up the corners of her mouth again.

  “I've enjoyed myself very much indeed, thank you, Philip,” she replied seriously. After a moment she added, “Tonight, when Uncle Peter comes home and I've talked to him, I'm going to tell you about it, but till then it's a secret.”

  Philip and I were very interested. When evening came we kept running out into the road to see if Uncle was coming. When at last we saw him approaching we dashed madly into the kitchen.

  “He's coming, Auntie,” we shouted. “Now, the secret, the secret!”

  She shooed us both out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon. “Get along with you,” she said. “I can't make fish cakes and talk secrets at the same time. You tell your uncle to come here, and then you run out into the garden.”

  So Uncle Peter went in and shut the door.

  The Secret

  Now for the secret,” we exclaimed, and settled ourselves really comfortably on the stools at my aunt's feet.

  We were sitting in the early summer evening just outside the French windows. The air was sweet with the scent of roses, and bats fluttered past on restless wings. Aunt Margaret leaned forward in her chair while she talked, and as the story went on, we crept closer and closer until our heads were resting against her knees.

  “Well,” she said, “before we start talking about secrets, I want to know what you were doing in the orchard at one o'clock in the morning a few weeks ago.”

  We both jumped and went very red. This was most unexpected. But strange to say, Auntie didn't sound particularly cross. In fact, there was a tiny shake in her voice that might have meant that she was trying not to laugh.

  After a very uncomfortable silence, Philip answered in a small voice. “We couldn't go to sleep that night,” he explained, “and we wanted to see the stars close up. So we put some clothes on and went up to the top of the hill, and then—”

  “You went up to the top of the North Hill alone in the dark?” interrupted my aunt, sounding very shocked.

  “You've never actually told us not to,” I chimed in quickly.

  “Ruth,” said my aunt solemnly, “there are a great many things I have never actually told you not to do, but which you know in your heart I wouldn't like, so don't make silly excuses. Now, before we go any further I want you to promise me that you will never go out alone again at night as long as you live with me.”

  We both promised most earnestly.

  “Very well, then,” continued my aunt. “As long as you understand that, we will say no more about it. Now, perhaps you are wondering how I came to know about it.”

  As a matter of fact, we thought we could guess, but we did not say so.

  “Yesterday,” said my aunt, “just after you went out, Terry's mother came to see me. She had a long story to tell me. She told me that some weeks ago she was in despair about earning some extra money to buy a blanket for her little boy, and when she saw those big rosy apples you took to Terry, she decided to come at night and help herself. She did this once or twice, taking a few pounds from each tree so that your uncle wouldn't notice, and earned quite a lot of money by selling them to the green grocers in the villages around Tanglewoods. Then one night she met you in the orchard.”

  We looked guiltily at each other and wondered whether my aunt would be very cross with us for not telling. We weren't enjoying this secret much!

  “You promised not to tell,” went on my aunt, “which wasn't very sensible of you, because if you had told me all about it sooner I might have been able to help her sooner. But still, I know you meant it kindly. Then she told me that you went to see her and took her all your money. And you, Ruth, gave her your picture and told her the story of the Good Shepherd.”

  I blushed again. I was rather shy about my picture.

  There was a long silence and we sat quite still with upturned faces waiting for Aunt Margaret to go on.

  “She came to see me and brought me the money from the apples she had stolen. She said she felt as though Jesus, the Good Shepherd, was calling her, and she could get no rest until she had answered Him. And then we had a long talk and she told me all about that little boy of hers, who seems to be dying in that dark hovel of a home. I went to see him this morning and it's all true. She can't leave him to go to work, and she won't be parted from him to let him go back to the hospital, and they are as near starving as one can be nowadays.”

  My aunt stared out into the twilight. She seemed to have almost forgotten us.

  “When she left last night, Philip and Ruth, I think the Good Shepherd spoke to me, too. I have not thought about Him much for a long time, but last night He showed me a lot of things.”

  My eyes were fixed on my aunt's face, and I had drawn so close that she put her arm around me.

  “He showed me a great many things I can't tell you about now, but I will tell you about two of them. He showed me a lot of money doing nothing in the bank, and He showed me an empty room all covered up with dustsheets, but with a beautiful window looking out over the plain with the sun shining in through it every morning, and the beech tree just outside.”

  I gave a little jump. “The best spare bedroom,” I whispered.

  My aunt nodded. “Yes,” she agreed. “The best spare bedroom that's been empty for such a long time. But it's not going to be empty any longer, because we want to use it for the Good Shepherd. The day after tomorrow, Terry and his mother are coming to live here with us for a time. Terry's mother is going to help me in the house, and Terry is going to lie by the window in the spare room and get some color into his cheeks. It will be his very own room, and you and Philip shall help arrange it and get it ready tomorrow. Would you like that?”

  Should we like it? We were both so glad that we couldn't speak one word, but I think our faces must have shown our joy, for Aunt Margaret laughed a little and seemed to understand.

  Philip's eyes were quite starry with happiness.

  We sat and talked until the moon had risen high in the sky, then Uncle Peter came and stood in the doorway and we flung ourselves upon him.

  “Do you know?” we shouted joyfully. “Do you know?”

  “Of course he knows,” said my aunt, laughing. “You don't think I'd turn the house into a hospital without asking him?”

  We were hustled off to bed and were told we needn't even wash, except for faces and hands, because it was so late, which was certainly a perfect end to a perfect day.

  We spent most of the next day getting the room ready for Terry. We spring cleaned it ourselves and made up the beds, one in the corner for Terry's mother and one by the window for Terry. We collected our nicest books and toys and arranged them where he could see them, then hung up our brightest pictures on the walls. We picked the rosiest apples and the yellowest pears and put them in a dish by his bed. Then we stood and looked around and decided that it was quite perfect.

  Terry at Home

  Terry arrived in an ambulance, at teatime, and his mother came with him, carrying their few belongings in an old tin box. Aunt Margaret had arranged for the ambulance, and Terry had been lifted and carried as gently as possible, but even so he was tired out. When they laid him in his bed by the open window and his dark eyes turned sadly to the beech tree, his small face looked as white as the pillow beneath him.

  “It's smashing,” he whispered, with tears rolling down his cheeks.

  The rest of the summer holidays passed quietly. Terry seemed perfectly happy, and would lie for hours looking out of his window with his arms thrown over his head. His mother cared for him tenderly and I thought how much nicer she looked when she was doing things for Terry. H
er whole face seemed to grow gentle.

  While Philip spent his evenings at the dining room table with his schoolbooks spread out in front of him, I would sit upstairs with Terry. Sometimes I would read aloud to him, but sometimes I would perch on the bed, and leaning my elbows on the sill, I would stare out into the dusk and talk.

  We talked about a great many things, for Terry, now that he was too ill to do much else, thought a good deal. We often went back to those happy days in the wigwam, and talked about nests and animals. Sometimes we talked about the accident and about the hospital and the long, dreary days in the dark hut. Sometimes about my mother and father and how pleased they would be to see Terry when they came home.

  “Ruth,” said Terry suddenly as we sat in the twilight one evening, “what's dying like?”

  I shuffled my feet uneasily. “Oh, I don't know,” I answered, “but I think it's very nice. At least, I think it's just like going to a beautiful place where Jesus is, and where everyone is happy. Why, Terry?”

  “Because I heard the doctor in the hospital say it,” said Terry, looking around to see that no one else was going to come in the door. “I told you once. He said ‘It's all up with him, poor little chap!’ That means dying.”

  “That was a long time ago,” I said.

  He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I ain't got no better,” he replied. “Ruth, does everyone go there?”

  “I'm not sure,” I answered slowly. “I think perhaps you have to ask the Shepherd to find you. I think you have to belong to Him. But that is quite easy, Terry. You only have to ask to be found, like the sheep in the picture.”

  He frowned. “I was a bad boy,” he admitted doubtfully. “I pinched ever such a lot of things whenever I could lay hands on them. The cops nearly got me once.”

  “I think it would be all right, all the same,” I assured him. “But, Terry, I'll ask Mr. Robinson to come and see you. He could tell you about it ever so much better than me.”