“Gran, why do I live with you and Grandpa? Didn't I ever have a mum and dad? Most of the other children have them.”
It seemed very quiet after I spoke. I could hear a bee buzzing in the lilac tree and a blackbird singing. At last Gran answered.
“Your mummy was our dear daughter Alice, Lucy. She died when you were a tiny baby, and there was no one else to look after you, so Grandpa and I took you as our own little girl.”
“But didn't I have a daddy?” I persisted. “And why didn't he look after me? Is he dead too?”
There was a long silence while I waited confidently for the answer, because I knew Gran always spoke the truth.
“He went right away,” said Gran slowly, “and we never saw him again. He would not have looked after you properly, Lucy. You belong to us now, and always will, just as though you were our own little girl. Look, there's Grandpa! He's seen us.”
We had reached our garden, and by the way she changed the subject and pressed her lips together, I knew that I was not expected to ask any more questions ever again. I did not mind. A delicious smell of baking came from the cottage, and Grandpa waved from his vegetable patch, his rosy face beaming a welcome. Home was a perfect place. What did I want with a father? I really didn't need one!
Yet somehow that old faraway memory puzzled me and wouldn't go away. For if that tall man had been my father, then he could not have been completely bad, or he would not have held me in his arms, nor would he have gone down on all fours and let me ride on his back. But it was a puzzle without an answer, and for five whole years I never mentioned it again to anyone.
Guide Camp
Those five years passed very quickly, and life was happy and exciting. I loved living in the countryside, watching the changing of the seasons. I never much minded being an only child, or not doing the things that the other children did.
Sometimes, when the girls at school laughed at me because I'd never seen the sea, I would grow restless and wonder whether I would ever travel or do anything different from going to school, coming home, and going to church on Sundays. I did not see how I could, really, because my grandparents were growing older every year, and Grandpa, who had been head gardener at the castle on the nearby Eastwood Estate for thirty years, only had a small pension. They were perfectly content to remain in their cottage, and, apart from occasionally visiting relatives in Birmingham, they had no wish to take holidays, and could not, in any case, because of having to look after the chickens. And, except when my friends made fun of me, I was content, too, content to play in the woods and climb the hills, to read, and to scribble stories about children who went on long journeys and travelled to all the countries I learned about in geography lessons. I had my own jobs to do in the cottage and garden, too, and the days never seemed long enough.
Sometimes my best friend, Mary, came to spend the day, and I would take her onto the estate. But Mary was a sturdy, practical child who preferred to arrive somewhere than just to wander. She would often say, “Where are we going, Lucy?” which really annoyed me. My unchanging reply probably annoyed her too. “We're not going anywhere; we're just walking!” And after a time we would turn back and play games in the garden. I really liked Mary, but she belonged to my school world, and my woods and countryside bored her.
But from all my happy childhood memories, one event stands out, clear and unforgettable, and that is the Whitsun Guide Camp in the Cotswolds when I was eleven years old. When Gran told Captain I could go, I was so excited that I hardly slept for two nights. And when we actually set off in the bus with our knapsacks and bedding, I could hardly speak. I sat squeezing my clasped hands between my knees, bottling up my joy, because living with elderly people had made me rather a quiet child. But gradually, as we traveled for hours through leafy lanes, I relaxed. We sang, we chattered, we giggled, we ate sandwiches and drank lemonade out of bottles; and then we were there, high on a hill at the edge of a great beech wood, overlooking the Gloucester plain, and Captain and Lieutenant were showing us where to put up our tents and how to light a fire.
That holiday was everything I had hoped it would be. I shared a tent with Mary, and every waking hour was thrilling, from the moment we crawled out into the sweet-smelling morning to the moment we snuggled into our sleeping bags in the dark, shrieking in pretend terror when the owls hooted in the woods behind us. But I remember most vividly the early morning when I woke before anyone else and, slipping on my jumper and shoes, crept out into the waking world. The sun had not long risen; a cuckoo called from the beeches. Captain was up and wandering about, and she saw me.
“Lucy,” she said, “would you like to dress and take a message to the farm for me? Straight through the wood and climb over the stile and cross the hay field. You'll find the farmers milking the cows. Ask them to save us fifteen fresh eggs, and we'll fetch them later.”
I was slipping on my dress when Mary's tousled head appeared out of her sleeping bag. She blinked at me.
“Where are you going?” she yawned. “Shall I come too?”
“No, no,” I replied hurriedly. “I won't be long. I've got to go to the farm with a message. I've got to go now, at once. You can come and meet me if you like.” I shot outside, for this was my special expedition and I had to go alone. I ran through the sunlit wood, climbed over the stile, and saw the hay field—a tangled mass of wildflowers, all sparkling with dew.
I went mad! I flung my shoes backward over the stile and leaped and danced barefoot along the path, the flowers tickling my legs. I laughed and clapped my hands, carried away with the joy of being alive on such a morning, loving the feel of the cold grass between my toes. Then, having delivered my message, I turned back and walked more slowly, wanting this hour to last and last. But it was not to be. Mary was trotting toward me, and by the look on her round face, I knew she had a secret to tell me.
“Lucy,” she began mysteriously, “do you know what?”
“What?” I answered.
“Well, I came to meet you through the wood, and Captain and Lieutenant were standing by the stile.”
“So what?”
“Well, they saw you!”
“I don't care.”
“Yes, but Lucy, they talked about you; I heard them. They didn't see me, 'cause I waited behind a tree, and I heard them, Lucy.”
I was silent, desperately curious to know, but I wasn't going to show it!
“Lucy, shall I tell you what they said about you?”
“What, then?”
“Captain said”—and here Mary's voice changed to sound like a grown-up's—“‘Fancy good little Lucy going all wild like that! There's more in that child than meets the eye.’ And Lieutenant said, ‘Oh, Lucy's got plenty in her. Her teacher says her essays are brilliant. She needs to get away from those grandparents of hers occasionally and start living.’ That's what they said, Lucy. There was more, but I can't remember it all; and anyhow they turned around and saw me.”
“How silly,” I replied rather crossly. “I live just as much as they do.” But somehow the sparkle had gone out of the day, and all that morning while we ate breakfast and tidied up and swam in the river, I puzzled over their remarks. What was wrong with being good? And what was wrong with my grandparents? And what had I been doing all these eleven years except living? I supposed that they said it because I hadn't done all the things the others had done, and because I'd never been to the sea. But, after all, they knew nothing about my real life, and they'd never even set foot in the Eastwood Estate. I felt rather cross all day, and they must have wondered what was the matter with me, until the delight of cooking sausages on the campfire drove the whole thing out of my mind.
But it had stirred up all the old questions. I was different.
That night I lay awake for a long time, with Mary snoring beside me, and listened to the owls and the rustle of the beech leaves, and tried to remember the face of the tall man who had gone down on all fours. But it was no good. It had gone forever.
A Lette
r Arrives
Whitsun camp was over, but time sped on so fast that I seldom looked backward or forward but just enjoyed each new day. Once again summer blazed into autumn, and this year I moved up into secondary school.
Once again the snow fell as a white blanket over the hills. Again I collected fir cones and roasted chestnuts and made secret Christmas presents. Again I heard the bleat of the first lamb at twilight and smelled the warm south wind stirring the buds and knew that spring was on the way. The countryside was a picture of green and gold and blossom.
And then it was the last day of the Easter term. Proper lessons were over, and everyone was fidgety and longing for the holidays. Miss Bird, our English teacher, was reading us a poem, but the window was wide open. We could hear the doves cooing and the sheep calling their lambs, and no one was really paying attention.
Miss Bird closed the book, stepped to the blackboard, and wrote “SUMMER HOLIDAY” in large letters. There was a stir of interest; a few heads looked up.
“You will be planning your summer holidays soon,” she announced, “so this is a competition for you to try during this holiday; next term there will be a prize for the best entry. You can write a story, or tell about what you did last year or what you plan to do this year. Anything you like, but try to get the feel of summer into it.”
She looked around at our blank faces. “The feeling of summer seems to be rather a sleepy one,” she said with a smile. “Let's collect some ideas and write them on the board. Mary, when I say ‘summer holiday,’ what do you think of?”
Mary jerked to attention. “Er …” she began. “Hot … and … ice cream …”
“Yes, all right. Somebody else? Jennifer?”
“Swimming … the beach … donkeys.”
“Punch and Judy show … bingo.”
“Tennis.”
“Camping in our trailer.”
“Riding my pony.”
Miss Bird was writing rapidly. She turned and faced the thoroughly awakened class.
“Yes, that's right, but what about the places you go to? Anna, where did you go for your last summer holiday?”
“We toured Scotland in our car.”
“And what was Scotland like in the summer?”
“Oh, mountains and lakes; it rained, and the car broke down. We saw some castles and battlefields and things, and we watched for the Loch Ness Monster all one day, but no luck!”
Miss Bird gave a small sigh and looked at me. “Lucy?” she asked.
Somebody gave a little titter, and Mary sprang to my rescue. “Lucy never goes away,” she explained. “Her grandparents can't take holidays because—”
“That will do,” interrupted Miss Bird. “Summer is here at home, too, not just in the holiday places. Besides, Lucy did go on holiday. She went to the Whitsun camp. Can you tell us about summer in the Cotswolds, Lucy?”
I closed my lips tightly and scowled at my teacher. Why should she ask me? She knew I never went anywhere. Then I glanced at her face and realized she was not making fun of me at all. She really wanted my help. She and I felt the same about summer. I stared out the window and tried to remember. Summer in the Cotswolds!
“The smell of honeysuckle and new-mown hay,” I began slowly, “and that sort of shiny light coming through the beech leaves at sunset so all the leaves look separate … seeing stars through a hole in the tent … the dew on the flowers in the early morning all sparkly … and swimming in the river. Kingfishers came out of a hole in the bank, and we swung on the willow branches.”
Memories were flooding up, and I could have gone on forever. Then I suddenly noticed the astonished faces of the other girls gaping at me, and I went red and stopped. Miss Bird had her back to us, and I had never seen her write so fast before. The silence was broken by the bell announcing it was time for break.
“You really did save the situation,” said Mary admiringly as we drank our milk. “I couldn't think of anything but ice cream. I can't think how you manage to be so poetical, Lucy! I should think you'd get the prize easily.” I doubted it, for how could my Cotswold experiences compare with touring Scotland by car, or even going to the sea? I felt restless as I wandered home from the bus stop that afternoon. I had recently been reading a poem called The Forsaken Merman, all about the sea. I wished I could see the sea! What did “wild white horses” look like, and where did the great tides come from? I felt a strange stirring at the heart of me, a reaching out for change.
I was thinking so hard as I walked up the path that I failed to call out my usual greeting. I stepped quietly into the passage and was about to go into the room where my grandparents were sitting with their backs to me, and I could not help hearing what they said. And having heard, my heart seemed to miss a beat, and I stood as though turned to stone.
“But Elsie,” said my grandfather gently, “she will have to know soon. She is twelve years old, and after all, he is her father.”
“But not yet, not yet,” cried my grandmother. “There are still almost two years to go. Anything may happen in two years.”
I stepped back very softly and crept out through the front door. They must not know that I had heard. I wanted to run away and hide in the wood, and think and think, but Shadow saw me from the kitchen and came charging to meet me, slobbering on my feet, wagging his tail, and jumping up to greet me. There was nothing to do but step back inside, just in time to see Gran fold a letter and slip it into the top drawer of her writing desk. But they greeted me as usual and I helped to get tea ready, and we sat down to my favorite meal of pork chops. The sun streamed in through the window, and it should have been a happy, chatty tea as we caught up on the news of the day, but somehow we were all strangely silent. It seemed as though some shadow had come between us, and I was almost glad when the meal was over.
“Any homework tonight?” asked Gran.
“No, Gran,” I answered. “Tomorrow's the last day of term so we don't do proper lessons. Can I go out for a bit when we've washed up?”
She looked at me with a strangely tender expression.
“Grandpa and I will see to the washing up tonight, love,” she answered. “You run along now, with Shadow. It's a beautiful evening. But come back before sunset.”
Grandpa walked to the gate with me and asked where I was going, but I just pointed vaguely up the hill. I wanted to get away by myself, and I sped up the steep slope to the left of the house and flung myself into an old grassy trench where the ancient Britons were said to have made a last stand against the Romans. Shadow came and rested his nose against my arm. In front of me, over the rim of the trench, lay the great plain. Every road was lit up by the light of the sunset and seemed to run purposefully to the horizon. Every river was a shining ribbon. It looked like a bright, clear map, and I suddenly realized what a vast place the world was! So many roads leading away from the safe shelter of my little home—such far, far distances!
What was I to do? If I asked, they would probably not tell me; and, anyhow, they didn't want me to ask. But I had to know, because he was my father and I was his daughter. Besides, I was twelve years old—old enough to be trusted. Even Grandpa recognized that, but Gran always had the last word, so that didn't help. Then as I lay there, chewing a bracken shoot and watching the sun sink toward the far Welsh mountains, an idea came to me—an idea so wicked that I gasped and felt my face flush crimson.
I would stay awake until my grandparents were asleep, and then I would creep down, find the letter in the drawer, and read it. I would see the address and find out where my father was and what it was all about. Of course, I knew perfectly well what Gran thought about people who eavesdropped and looked at letters that didn't belong to them, but I decided it just couldn't be helped. After all, I argued with myself, this letter, in a sense, does belong to me because it's my father. Then I realized that the sun was sinking below the rim of the world, and I jumped up and raced down across the slippery grass, scattering the sheep in all directions. Grandpa was at the gate, peering shortsi
ghtedly down the road.
Evenings at the cottage were cozy times. We sat around the fire in winter, but on warm spring evenings we sat by the open window. Gran read aloud—mostly from the shabby old books she had loved as a child, such as Heidi or The Secret Garden. At this time we were halfway through David Copperfield, and Dora and Steerforth and the Peggoty family had become part of my life. I could hardly wait from evening to evening to hear the next chapter.
But tonight I did not want to sit quietly with my grandparents in the soft circle of light as though there was nothing the matter, and even little Em'ly's troubles seemed small and unimportant in comparison with my own. I felt outside the circle, a deceiver, and the loneliness of it was almost more than I could bear. To their great surprise and disappointment, I pretended to be sleepy and crept miserably up to my bedroom.
A Shocking Discovery
How was I going to keep awake? This was my big problem. If I could have stayed dressed it would have been easier, but I had to get into bed, because Gran always came in to say good night to me. I had been taught to say my prayers before I went to sleep, and I usually rushed through them without really thinking what they meant. But tonight I found it really difficult—how could I ask God to forgive me for the things I had done wrong when I was just about to do something very, very wrong? In the end, I gave up.
When Gran came in, she put her hand on my forehead and asked if I felt all right.
“Yes, thank you,” I answered.
“Are you sure, Lucy?” She lingered, as though she didn't want to leave me. “Have you got a headache? How about a drink of hot chocolate?”
This was supposed to be a big treat, but my stomach seemed tied in knots, so I just smiled and shook my head and closed my eyes. She went away slowly, and I knew she was watching me from the door. But at last I heard her footsteps going downstairs, and then I sat up and looked around.
Patricia St John Series Page 24