Janet said, “I’m not quite certain, but I think it’s ‘In heaven is fullness of joy.’ In fact, I’m sure it is; I think I remember. Now—it’s time for breakfast. Come on!”
She danced away to help carry in the porridge bowls, but I stayed behind, slowly changing my shoes. I was disappointed in Janet’s answer, for heaven was far away, and I wasn’t sure that I’d ever get there. Mrs. Moody had told me that good people went there when they died, but I didn’t know if I was good or not, and I’d never thought about it much. I thought I was better than Janet, for I didn’t forget things and I wasn’t so noisy and untidy.
Yet Janet cared about people in a way I did not. I had not realized that I cared for no one but myself, but I did wonder what made Janet different. I wandered about after breakfast still thinking about it, and stood looking down curiously at the unmade bed and open Bible with the shabby little notebook inside it. What did she see in it, and what did she write down carefully every morning? I stooped down to peep at what she had just copied out in her round, clear writing.
“Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God in Christ also forgave you.”*
* Ephesians 4:32
Through the Open Window
We had a week of sunshine after the snow, and spring arrived with a rush. Every day we hurried home from school, flung down our schoolbags, gobbled down our tea, and went off up the hill to play. Mrs. Owen had great difficulty making us do our homework.
The Owen children skipped and ran because they liked it, and I ran behind them because I had nothing else to do. Yet I was beginning to change. My garden had taught me the beauty and magic of the country, and scatterbrained Janet and sturdy Peter were beginning to teach me that life was more fun if you thought of other people as well as yourself. I knew now that the Bible was not just a dreary Book for grown-ups; it was about Jesus, who spent His life making sad people happy and bad people good. Sometimes I wished I could come to Him, but I did not know how, and I was much too shy to ask.
Perhaps, strangest of all, I now really wanted to be like the other children and no longer thought them stupid. Yet, although they tried to be patient, I knew quite well that they thought me stupid. My fear of cows, my slowness in climbing trees, my ignorance, and the time I took getting over a gate amazed them—I was so slow and clumsy.
At the end of March, Peter’s class was taken for a day’s trip by coach to the Natural History Museum in Liverpool. It was pouring when he came home, and we were all indoors. Peter burst in on us, dripping and joyful.
“Mum,” he cried, “I’ve had a brilliant idea. I’m going to start a Natural History Museum here in the house!”
“Are you, darling?” replied Mrs. Owen, carrying on with what she was doing. “Have you had a lovely time? And have you changed your shoes?”
Peter flung wet arms around his mother’s neck. “Mum” he shouted, “I’m serious! We would need a room and dozens of jam jars. Could we have the ones in the kitchen cupboard? And clear out the attic?”
“But I need them for bottling fruit,” replied Mrs. Owen. “And where would we put the things from the attic? Now change your shoes and get out of that wet coat, and we’ll talk about it at supper. We want to hear all about the museum.”
We did hear all about the museum; we heard of nothing else and talked of nothing else for days and days and days. We cleared all the things in the attic over to one end, leaving half the room free, and Peter put up shelves. Then one rainy Saturday afternoon, a Very Important Meeting was announced in the living room. Peter stood on a box with his hand raised for silence.
“We shall have sections and departments in this museum,” he announced grandly. “There’ll be the birds’ egg section, and the wildflower section, and the shell section, and the skeleton section . . . and . . . fossils and butterflies and anything else interesting anyone can collect. We shall work in teams—two and two, and—”
“I’ll go with Pete,” yelled Johnny, flinging himself at the box and upsetting the speaker.
“Me and Jan!” shouted Frances, clutching her sister’s skirt.
Peter and Janet looked at each other. “If Elaine took the little ones, Jan and I could go together.”
But the little ones burst into tears, and I felt angry too. Nobody wanted me; the little ones wanted the big ones, and the big ones wanted each other. I flushed red with loneliness and hurt, and marched to the door.
“I’m not having anything to do with this silly old museum,” I shouted. “It’s just a baby game. I’m sick of it.”
I slammed the door behind me, and seizing my coat I ran into the garden. I heard Janet come out and call after me, but I didn’t stop. Tears of self-pity were running down my cheeks, and I wanted to get away from them all. I hated them.
The rain had nearly stopped, and everything smelled of wet earth and fresh growth. I had not been to my garden for over a week—there was no time with this silly museum craze—but I would go now, quickly, before all the children came tumbling out of the house and saw me.
I was up the hill and over the wall in a few minutes, and once again the peace of the place seemed to cast a spell over me. My stormy little heart became quieter, for wonderful things had happened in the garden. The almond tree was covered in pink blossom, daffodils flowered in a golden ring around its roots, and the birds sang here as they sang nowhere else. The seeds I had planted on my rockery were beginning to sprout bravely, and little honeysuckle tendrils were creeping against the stone walls.
I explored every nook and cranny. I did not know what all these things were, but I stood looking at them wonderingly, and as I did so a brown bird with a white-and-speckled breast darted from the lilac bush beside me and made me jump. And then suddenly I drew in my breath, for the hours spent with Peter and Janet had taught me that birds darting in and out of bushes sometimes meant nests.
Surely I wouldn’t find a nest on my own! With a hand that almost trembled I parted the boughs and peeped in. Yes, there was a nest, carefully woven from twigs and moss and mud, and down at the bottom of it lay two turquoise eggs speckled with black markings.
I looked and looked, holding my breath, my temper all forgotten. How could I have thought nests boring and stupid? Now that I had found one myself, I knew they were the most precious, beautiful things in the world. Of course, Peter and Janet would want to see it if I told them, but I wasn’t going to tell them. It was my own secret, and I wasn’t going to share it with anyone.
Then as I sat watching, the thrush with the speckled breast started singing from the top of the almond tree. I imagined it looking straight at me.
“It’s our own secret,” sang the bird, “me and you . . . me and you . . . we’ll keep it together . . . me and you . . . fullness of joy!”
I laughed out loud and then sat down quietly on a stone to wait for the bird’s return. I stared at the daffodils and the clumps of primroses against the house. If only I could stay here forever, where I felt good and happy! If only I didn’t have to go back to those hateful children who didn’t want me! Tears of self-pity ran down my cheeks again at the thought of them, and I suddenly found myself longing for my mother—my pretty, careless mother, who had never seemed to want me very much either. In fact, no one really wanted me. All my life I would be lonely and unhappy, and I felt so terribly sorry for myself that I forgot all about the bird and just stared in front of me. Then suddenly I noticed something so interesting that I forgot to feel sorry for myself and got up to investigate.
I ran toward the house to see better. One of the locked windows on the ground floor had been broken and opened and the curtains taken away. Where I had only peeped before, I could now look right in, and everything was different. The chest of drawers was open, and things were spilled all over the floor. It looked as though someone had been searching for something in a great hurry.
But what caught my attention most of all was something I had not been able to see when the curtains were drawn. It was a chin
a cabinet in the corner full of beautiful shells. I longed to see them more closely, and then suddenly realized that there was nothing between me and them. The window was open at the bottom, and I had only to give a little jump and a pull and I’d be inside. But what if anyone found me? That would never do. With a pounding heart I tiptoed all around the house, peeping into the other ground-floor windows. But they were all locked as before, with the blinds pulled down.
I tried the back door and the front door. They were locked, and cobwebs straggled across the cracks. No one had been in, and the gate was locked. I was safe to do as I pleased, and yet I did not feel safe. The garden suddenly seemed lonely.
Very cautiously, and with many backward glances, I pulled myself up and planted my muddy shoes on the sill. Then I gave a jump and landed with a frightening thud on the boards. Picking myself up, I tiptoed over to the glass cabinet and opened it, fascinated by the shells.
I put out my hand and picked them up, one by one, and turned them over. They were rare, foreign shells and corals, but I did not know that. There was one not quite so big as the others, which seemed a different color every way I turned it. I laid it down and tiptoed into the dark passage. I stood listening for some time, then, getting bolder, I crept up the staircase.
I was going to explore!
The Rainbow Shell
I peeped into the first bedroom and was amazed at its untidiness. A case was open in the middle of the floor with clothes hanging over the side, and there were open, messed-up drawers. Only the last bedroom I peeped in was in any sort of order, and that was a child’s room, for there was a doll’s house in the corner and a family of dolls on a cot. I examined them with interest. Janet didn’t like dolls, and I had missed them.
Then suddenly I realized what I was doing and decided to get out. I crept back into the room with the open window and stopped opposite the cabinet of shells. If only I could find a shell like the one with all the colors for the museum. Peter would think me cleverer than anyone and would never call me stupid again.
And then suddenly a terrible thought came to me, because I was so unhappy and so wanted to be liked. There were so many shells in the cabinet . . . if I took just that one and moved the others up a bit, no one would know. And it wasn’t really actual stealing, I told myself, because shells were free; anyone could pick them up on the beach. And then Peter would be sorry he’d said I was stupid, and Janet would think I was so clever. And no one would miss it or notice it, because it was an empty house anyway.
For nearly five minutes I stood with the shell in my hand, trying to persuade myself that it really would not matter. Then I slipped it into my pocket, crossed to the window, and climbed out into the garden.
It was very still. The flowers had closed their petals, the birds had stopped singing, and I wanted to escape and run home as fast as I could. I ran up the ladder and swung myself over into the wet grass, but when I picked myself up, I almost screamed because Elwyn, the shepherd boy, was standing looking at me.
“What are you doing in that place, Elaine?” he asked slowly. “That is Mr. Thomas’s house, and he did not say you could go in.”
I was terrified; I felt as though Elwyn’s round eyes were piercing holes in my pocket. I clutched the shell tightly and turned my scarlet face up to him.
“I’m . . . I’m allowed to,” I faltered. “I’m allowed to look after the garden, that’s all. I never go to the house, only the garden. Oh, please, Elwyn, don’t tell.
He stared at me. He was a slow boy and would probably have believed me if I had not looked quite so guilty. He shook his head slowly. “Mr. Thomas said I was to keep an eye on the place,” he remarked. “You are not to go there anymore, or I’ll tell Mrs. Owen about you. It’s not the first time, either—I’ve seen you before.”
“No, no,” I cried, trembling. “I’ll never go there again, Elwyn. I only went in the garden.” I ran past him down the hill with a pounding heart, but before I’d reached the house I’d calmed down a bit. Elwyn was such a stupid boy that he’d be sure to forget all about it, and anyhow, I’d told him I’d only been in the garden. There were dozens of shells, and no one would notice one missing. I would not dare go back and play in the garden for a time, but somehow I did not mind that, for it had suddenly become a strange and frightening place.
I stopped and stood still to think. I had to decide what I would do about the shell. It was no good giving it to them tonight, as they would know I hadn’t been on the beach. I would wait till after school on Monday and slip down to the shore when Janet was chatting with her friends. I would come home later, alone, with my pockets full of shells as a gift for the museum, and the rest was easy. So I pretended to be in a very good mood when I wandered into the house, and Janet came running up to me and begged me to come with her and Peter next day. I nodded coldly and said that I had ideas of my own and would probably go alone.
But I was very silent at supper, and Mrs. Owen glanced once or twice at my pale, troubled face, and when Peter bounced out of his seat and opened the Bible in front of his father, I felt as though I wanted to run away. I was beginning to get quite interested in the Bible, but tonight I did not want to listen.
“Let me see,” said Mr. Owen, “where did we get to? It was Genesis 3 last night.” “We got up to where Adam and Eve stole the apple,” said Janet eagerly, “and they hid from God.”
“Ah, yes,” replied her father, and he read on in his beautiful voice that made the story live. A sad, sad story of a man and a woman sent out of a beautiful garden where they had been so happy—all because they did wrong. Why had they been so happy in the garden? Because God was with them. Very simply Mr. Owen explained it, and the children sat with their eyes fixed upon their father. But I sat looking at my plate, half listening and half lost in my own thoughts. When he finished, I said I had a headache and asked if I could go to bed.
Mrs. Owen came upstairs when I was in bed and took my temperature and gave me a tablet. She stayed talking to me in her kind, motherly voice as though I was her own child, and I longed to fling my arms around her neck and tell her about everything. But of course if she knew I was a thief she wouldn’t love me anymore, and she might send me away. So I just lay still and let her talk, and when she kissed me good night I half turned my head away, and she went downstairs, puzzled and sad.
But I lay awake in the dark thinking about the story, and in my sleepy mind I thought it must have been written about me. Perhaps, somehow, God had been waiting for me among the flowers, waiting to make me happy, like Adam and Eve, but I had spoiled it all. And then I remembered I would never see the eggs hatch. The rockery flowers would all grow up, but I would be shut outside and never see them. I buried my face in the pillow and wept, but when Janet came up, I pretended to be asleep.
The next morning the sun was shining and I felt better, and all Sunday I tried to be very good and helpful to make up for the night before. On Monday morning I tried to help by getting Lucy dressed, but she wouldn’t let me help her. The more she kicked and gurgled, the crosser I got, until at last I slapped her. She started screaming and then suddenly stopped as Janet came into the room. She flung herself into Janet’s arms and clung to her for dear life.
“You mustn’t slap Lucy,” said Janet indignantly, slipping her clothes on without any difficulty. “She’s only a baby. Besides, she’ll catch cold if you let her lie on the floor with nothing on. You really don’t know much about babies, Elaine.”
I didn’t, and I didn’t want to. I went down to breakfast hating all babies from the bottom of my heart. They were so unreasonable and sticky and noisy. I was glad to get off to school and leave them, but school wasn’t very successful either. I felt restless and frightened. The moment we were let out I slipped away from the noisy group that always gathered around Janet and made for the beach.
It was not a very good place for shells, but I collected a few ordinary ones and put them into my pocket with my treasure. Then I took it out and held it in the sun. It l
ooked lavender-colored, but when I tilted it toward the sea, it turned green. Once again I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, but I did not want to stop and think about it. I ran across the pebbles and pedaled after Janet, who had already started for home.
“Where’ve you been?” asked Janet.
“Down to the beach,” I answered rather breathlessly. “I’ve got some shells for the museum, and I found one beauty. I’ve never seen one like it before.”
“Show me,” said Janet, putting on her brake.
I shook my head and pedaled on. “When we get back home,” I called, “I’ll show you and Peter together.”
We raced rather recklessly along the main road and turned up the lane that led to the vicarage. I was feeling rather nervous.
Peter was home already. He was busy making a new box for his birds’ eggs and only grunted as we came in.
“Come on, Elaine, show us!” said Janet eagerly. “Peter, she says she’s found a very special, rare shell on the beach. Bring it out, Elaine.”
“That beach is no good for shells,” answered Peter, barely looking up. “You have to go a long way farther—Oh, wow! Elaine, you didn’t really find that one on our beach, did you?”
“I did,” I said defiantly. “If you don’t believe me, ask Janet. She knows I went down after school.”
“All right, keep your hair on,” replied Peter, glancing at me in some surprise. “Nobody said you didn’t; only it’s a strange thing. It must have been washed miles and miles from some other coast. We must have a very special place for it in the museum. Well done, Elaine!”
Janet was holding it in her hands, turning it around and around to the light. The little ones gathered around, standing on tiptoe to see.
“It’s like Philippa’s shells in the cabinet,” said Janet wonderingly. “It’s beautiful, Elaine. Look, first it’s pink, now it’s blue, now it’s mauve. We must show Daddy.”
Patricia St John Series Page 36