Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  They burst into Mr. Owen’s study, but I hung back uneasily. I’d often heard them speak of Philippa. She was a child from the village who had had polio,* and she’d been in a hospital all winter. But where did she live, and when was she coming back?

  Mr. Owen looked at me over the heads of his excited children. “You found this on the beach, Elaine?” he asked in a puzzled voice. “It’s a most extraordinary find. It looks like real mother-of-pearl. Either someone dropped it, or it’s been washed by the tide right across the world. It’s nice of you to lend such a treasure to the museum.”

  “Yes, thanks, Elaine,” said Peter in a hurry, in case I decided to keep it. “It really is very good of you. We’ll go and see where we can put it. It’s our star exhibit.”

  They tumbled through the door and up the staircase to the attic. Mrs. Owen smiled kindly at me, and I gave her a sad little smile back. Then instead of going with the others, I followed her into the kitchen.

  “Auntie,” I asked, “where does Philippa live?”

  “Why, at the cottage, just up the hill,” answered Mrs. Owen. “We’re hoping she’ll be back soon. I heard from her mother that she was better.”

  I turned away and went out into the garden, and Cadwaller came up and rubbed his kind old head against my legs, as though he smelled that I was in trouble.

  I knelt down on the path and buried my face in his shaggy coat and flung my arms around his neck, for Cadwaller didn’t care what I’d done. I might have stolen and told lies and all the rest of it, but to Cadwaller I was just an unhappy little girl needing comfort. He put out his tongue and licked me.

  *Polio is an illness that can leave people unable to walk properly. Today, most people are immunized against it.

  In the Beech Wood

  Exams were over, and we woke up one rainy morning to the first day of the Easter holidays. Everyone was full of outdoor plans, but an absolute downpour at breakfast time put an end to them, and we all settled down to a day at home. Mrs. Owen found jobs for all the older ones, which kept us busy for some time, and the little ones tumbled about with Cadwaller. At eleven, work was over and we all got together for hot chocolate and cookies.

  Peter was making a large map of the district to hang at the back of the museum. He liked to work with it all spread out on the floor, but Lucy kept trying to stagger across it.

  “I don’t suppose one of you girls would do something about Lucy, would you?” he said, lifting a flushed face from his work. “Oh, look! There’s a policeman coming up to our front door! I wonder what he wants. Perhaps Cadwaller has killed another hen. Quick, Cadwaller! Hide. Good dog!”

  Everyone, including Cadwaller, crowded to the window to look at the policeman, so fortunately no one was looking at me. I had suddenly gone very white and cold, and there was a strange, sick feeling inside me. Just supposing it wasn’t Cadwaller. Just supposing they had found out something, and it was me they were after. Just supposing Philippa had come back and noticed that her shell was missing, and Elwyn Jones had said something. I stopped supposing and slipped into the kitchen and out the back door. Whatever it was about, I felt safer out of the way.

  “Where are you going without your coat, Elaine?” called Blodwen from the sink, but I took no notice. All the fears hidden away in my heart for nearly a week were rising in front of me. I ran up the hill as fast as my trembling little legs could carry me, and I did not know where I was going but kept clear of Philippa’s house. I took the upper path that ran across the sheep pastures, forgetting that on that high path I could be seen from the windows of Mr. Owen’s study.

  I had reached the level highlands above the farm, and it had stopped raining. Wherever I looked, there were hills and valleys and steep, sheep-dotted fields. To the south I could see the purple crests of the Snowdon range of mountains. But, even in my panic, I knew that I could not reach them. I had to find a nearer hiding place than that, and I looked around furtively. To my right was a wood where we were not allowed to go, for it was a pheasant reserve. But nothing mattered now; if the police were after me it did not matter if I was trespassing or not.

  I slipped between the bars of the padlocked gate, for I was a thin little girl for eleven, and I trotted along the path, too out of breath to run anymore. In spite of my fright, I could not help noticing what a beautiful wood it was. The air was full of gentle sounds. Arched boughs met overhead, and it felt almost like being in a church.

  I reached a little clearing in the heart of the wood where someone had made a pile of logs, and here I sat down and tried to think. If I went too far, I knew I would come out on the road again, and I didn’t want to do that. The more I thought about it, the more I felt I could not go home.

  I would have to face the policeman and the shocked faces of Peter and Janet, who never told lies. I couldn’t do it! They would think me wicked and terribly silly, and anyhow, what would the policeman do? I didn’t know whether they sent children of my age to prison or not, but I was sure they did something to them. And what would my mother say? And Mrs. Moody?

  I sat there on the logs for a long time. It must have been long past dinnertime, but I was not hungry. I was sitting so still in my fear that a squirrel began to play on the tree in front of me. A bright-eyed baby rabbit bounded through the bluebell leaves, and birds darted to and fro. Everything seemed happy and busy and fearless except me.

  One thing I noticed and never forgot. It was the beauty of a little clump of wood sorrel springing out of a piece of rotten bark beside me. I broke off the piece of bark and held the whole clump in my hand. Then suddenly the silence was broken by the bark of a dog and the sound of quick, steady footsteps coming through the forest.

  The police! I seemed to freeze with fear. Perhaps they were hunting me with bloodhounds and police dogs; I had read about them in a comic. I think I gave a little scream, for there was a loud answering bark of joy, and Cadwaller leaped through the trees and put his paws on my shoulders and started licking my face in welcome, and behind him came Mr. Owen. I looked up at him, gave a great sigh of relief, and burst into tears.

  He sat down beside me on the log. Then he said very gently, “Why did you run away, Elaine? Were you frightened of that policeman?”

  I nodded and sniffed.

  “But why were you afraid, Elaine?” asked Mr. Owen. “He only wanted to ask you a few questions. But I will ask you instead, and then tomorrow we’ll go and tell him the answers.”

  “What will he do to me?” I whispered.

  “Why, nothing, Elaine,” he answered in a puzzled voice. “I don’t suppose you’ve done anything wrong. Only, you see, there’s been a robbery in Mr. Thomas’s house, and Elwyn Jones says you’ve been playing in that garden. The police want to ask you whether you’ve seen anyone about, and whether you’ve noticed how long ago the window was forced open, and also whether you’ve been into the house, because there were little muddy footprints on the sill that belonged to a child.”

  I sat very still, my mind in a whirl. Was I the robber or was there someone else as well? Who had opened the windows and searched the drawers? Not me, or did they perhaps think it was me?

  “Tell me about it,” said Mr. Owen at last.

  “I didn’t open the window,” I blurted out. “Honestly, I didn’t. I just went in to look at the shells . . . and I just took one. I thought shells didn’t matter much, because they were free and you picked them up for nothing. And they all said I was stupid, and no one wanted to go with me, and I always get left behind. And I don’t know anything about birds, and I thought they’d like me if I found a shell, so I said I’d found it on the beach. And Peter was so pleased. They’ll think I’m awful now. I didn’t know it belonged to Philippa . . .”

  I trailed off miserably. It was all out, and what would happen now I couldn’t imagine, yet I felt much better.

  “Please, please, Mr. Owen, don’t make me go back to the police,” I whispered. “Make Mummy come and take me home. I’m so miserable, and now it will be worse.
” I looked up at him timidly, pleading. He was looking rather sad.

  “You needn’t be so afraid, Elaine,” he said gently. “The police didn’t come to ask about the shell. They don’t know about it, nor need they ever know about it. It was quite a big robbery—blankets and curtains and silver and all sorts of things. It wasn’t anything to do with you. They only thought you might have seen someone hanging around the house and be able to explain about those little footmarks. There’s nothing to be frightened of at all. You and I can deal with that shell between us.”

  “There was a man,” I murmured, “once, early in the morning, looking in at the window.”

  “Well, then, you’ll be able to help the police a lot,” said Mr. Owen encouragingly. “Peter will be quite jealous of you having seen a real burglar. We’ll go to the police station tomorrow, you and I, and you must tell them what the man looked like, that’s all. Now let’s forget about that, and let’s talk about the shell. You took it because you wanted them to think that you’d found something nice for the museum, and you said you’d found it on the beach?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  There was a little silence. “Did it make you happy?” asked Mr. Owen at last.

  I shook my head. “I kept being afraid you’d find out,” I said.

  “That wasn’t the only reason you were unhappy,” said Mr. Owen. “You were unhappy because you’d stolen and told a lie. Do you remember the story we read the other night, about Adam and Eve?”

  “Yes,” I answered rather vaguely. “They were in a beautiful garden too. But I only went there to make it grow. I didn’t mean to be naughty at first—there were snowdrops, and it was all quiet and beautiful and the birds sang. I didn’t even pick flowers.”

  “Of course not,” said Mr. Owen. “Mr. Thomas wouldn’t have minded you playing in his garden at all. You loved it, and you were happy until you took that shell, and then you were afraid. Doing wrong always comes between us and God, just as a cloud comes between us and the sun. The sun is still there, but we can’t enjoy it. The cloud has blotted it out, and everything is cold and dark. And there is only one place in the world where we can find real happiness, what the Bible calls ‘fullness of joy.’”

  I jumped at hearing the familiar words and looked up quickly. “I know that verse,” I whispered. “Janet taught it to me—‘In heaven is fullness of joy.’”

  Mr. Owen laughed. “Then Janet taught it to you all wrong,” he replied. “It’s far, far better than that. It’s like this: ‘You will show me the path of life; in Your presence is fullness of joy.’ That means that anywhere in the world, here in this wood or at home in the vicarage, if you are walking along the path of life close to God, you can be perfectly happy. And doing wrong is the only thing that separates you from God. When you find out how wrongdoing can be taken away, you’ll know the secret of ‘fullness of joy.’”

  I sat very still, for I felt I was about to make a very big discovery. I even forgot my misery for a few minutes.

  “How?” I asked.

  “It’s a long, long story, Elaine,” said Mr. Owen, “and it’s the most beautiful story in the world. Jesus came to this earth as a human being just so that He could take away all our wrongdoing, which is called sin. When He died on the cross, He was punished for it in our place. If there is something between two people, and someone comes and takes it away, what is left?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Nothing between,” said Mr. Owen. “Just an open way for people to come to God, because Jesus died. Nothing to stop you anymore. You can come right into His presence and find ‘fullness of joy.’”

  My eyes were fixed on his face. What did it mean? What did I have to do next?

  But I could not ask these questions aloud; I could only wonder. Cadwaller had laid his head on my knee, and I fingered his silky ears in silence.

  Mr. Owen pulled out his New Testament and opened it. “Do you want to hear how wrongdoing can be taken right away?” he asked. “It’s all here, written down for you.”

  I sniffed and nodded. I wanted to know so badly, but I still couldn’t say anything. So he read some verses aloud slowly—verses written by an old man whose eyes had actually seen Jesus hanging on the cross.

  “These things we write to you that your joy may be full. . . . If we walk in the light as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanses us from all sin. If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”*

  * 1 John 1:4, 7–9

  Into the Light

  “What does confess mean?” asked Mr. Owen.

  “Saying you did it,” I whispered, feeling ashamed.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he answered. “It’s telling God about the wrong things you can remember and asking Him to forgive all those you can’t remember, and then believing that Jesus died on the cross and took the punishment for them instead of you. And then, because there is nothing between you anymore, you can come straight to God and give yourself to Him, and His Spirit will live inside you, helping you to obey Him. Would you like to do that, Elaine?”

  I nodded again.

  “Then tell God about it now,” said Mr. Owen. “Tell Him you believe Jesus died so that you might be forgiven, and then thank Him for making you clean inside and leading you into the light.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I whispered.

  “Then I will pray,” said Mr. Owen, “and you can say it with me in your heart.” So we closed our eyes, and he prayed out loud. “Dear Lord, I want to tell You about the shell I stole and the lies I told and all the things I was so afraid and unhappy about. I am coming to You because Jesus died and You promised to forgive. Please wash me whiter than snow and make me Your own little girl. Come into my heart and make me brave and truthful, so that I can put right what I did. For Jesus’ sake, amen.”

  I opened my eyes and looked around, half expecting to see Jesus standing nearby. The wood was all aglow with sunset as we got up and set off for home, with Cadwaller bounding ahead of us.

  Walking in the light, I thought to myself, that’s what it’s like—with nothing hidden. I felt brave and strong and joyful for a few minutes. But it didn’t last, for soon the vicarage came into view below us, with Peter and Janet waiting for our return, and I knew what I had to do. If only Mr. Owen would not walk so fast. I hung back, and he looked down at me.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked kindly. “Are you afraid?”

  I nodded dumbly.

  “Then you know what you’ve got to do to put it right?” I nodded again. He gave a little smile and held my hand very comfortingly.

  “Let’s tell them about it together after tea,” he said reassuringly. “You’ll be much happier when it’s all over, and you can start again. Anyhow, it won’t be as bad as you think. Peter and Janet have got a lot to put right, too, as far as I can see.”

  The children looked at me curiously when I came in, but asked no questions, for Mrs. Owen had told them not to. Tea would have been a silent, uncomfortable meal if Mr. Owen hadn’t announced that I had almost certainly seen the burglar who had broken into Philippa’s house. To my surprise, I suddenly found myself the heroine of the hour. Everyone wanted to know what he looked like, and Peter made complicated plans for catching him ourselves. After tea, Mr. Owen called from his study that he wanted to see Peter and Janet and me.

  He was sitting back in his easy chair, and Peter and Janet hurried forward and sat down. I hung back, silent and afraid in the doorway, but Mr. Owen called me over. When I, too, was curled up on the rug, he said quietly, “Elaine wants to tell you something.”

  There was nothing for it. With a bent head I blurted out my story.

  “The shell . . . I didn’t find it. It was Philippa’s. I wanted something for the museum. It wasn’t true.” Burying my crimson face in
my hands, I burst into bitter tears.

  “Just a minute, Elaine,” Mr. Owen said. “You haven’t quite finished yet. Why are you telling us about it and putting it all right?”

  “Because,” I sobbed, “I asked God to forgive me, and I want to start again.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Owen. “Now you need not be unhappy anymore. We are not going to punish you, because you are sorry without any punishment. You can go now and start all over again, but . . .” and here his voice changed and became rather stern, “I want you, Peter and Janet, to stay with me. I want to tell you just why Elaine took that shell.”

  I crept away, not daring to look up. To my relief, the little ones had gone to bed, and Mrs. Owen was sitting alone by the fire. She smiled at me, and I sat down close beside her, too exhausted to speak but longing for her kind, motherly company.

  Perhaps Mr. Owen had already told her all about it, for she asked no questions. She just began talking about all the fun we were going to have over the Easter holidays. I would have liked to stay beside her, but I did not want to be there when Peter and Janet came out of the study. So after about five minutes I went up to bed, and Mrs. Owen came up a little later and tucked me in and kissed me good night.

  It seemed a long time before Janet crept softly into the bedroom. I shrank down under the bedcovers, pretending to be asleep, but I think she must have known I was pretending, for she suddenly flung herself down beside me.

  “Elaine,” she whispered, “don’t be asleep! Listen! Pete and I are really sorry; honestly, we are.”

  “Whatever for?” I asked, coming up from my burrow in astonishment. This was not at all what I had expected.

  “Because Daddy said it was partly our fault that you took that shell,” said Janet. “He said it was all because we were selfish and only wanted each other and didn’t want to share. And he read us a story in the Bible that made me cry, and I think even Pete did a bit too.”