Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  Then there was Philippa. The children all did their best to cheer her up but, strangely, she seemed to prefer my company to that of anyone else. Perhaps it was because we were both only children, or perhaps it was because I was less energetic than the others and found it easier to sit still. In any case, I was pleased to be the favorite for the first time in my life, and to begin with I visited Philippa every day. I went on working in the garden, too, and Mrs. Thomas gave me a patch all to myself in which to grow flowers. I loved it, and used to putter about in it with Philippa lying on a rug on the grass nearby.

  One day we all went out for a picnic, and the day after that Peter, Janet, and I bicycled along the coast to look for gulls’ eggs. So, what with one thing and another, it was only on the evening of the third day that I went back to Philippa.

  She was lying by her open window, and I hopped nimbly in over the sill and sat down on her couch. But she didn’t seem at all pleased to see me, and at first wouldn’t answer when I spoke to her.

  “Whatever’s the matter?” I asked rather crossly. “If you won’t speak to me, I’ll go away.”

  She turned her face toward me, her big blue eyes full of tears. “Why didn’t you come?” she whispered. “I’ve waited two whole days all by myself, and you just forgot about me. You don’t care about me a bit.”

  “I do!” I answered rather impatiently. “I didn’t forget about you at all. We were just busy. I’m sorry, honestly, I am, Phil, but we went to the caves and down to the sea, and Peter and Janet wanted me to go with them, and . . .” I stopped, for she had buried her little white face in the pillow and was sobbing bitterly.

  “And I can’t ever do anything again,” she gasped. “I expect I shall never walk again, and no one will ever go on being my friend! Oh, I wish I could die!”

  I was feeling really sorry for her now, and I flung my arm around her shoulders.

  “I will go on being your friend, Phil,” I said in real distress. “Only I must go with the others sometimes. I’m really sorry you can’t walk, and I’ll come whenever I can. But you mustn’t be cross if I don’t come some days because soon it will be school, and I shall have homework and things. I promise I’ll do my best.”

  “Don’t you like coming to see me?” asked Philippa, turning over and sniffing pathetically.

  “Of course I do,” I answered, “but I like doing things with Jan, too, sometimes.” I was beginning to think that Philippa was rather selfish.

  “Oh, I know you like Jan far better than me,” replied Philippa, and she disappeared again under the bedcovers. Because I had never been ill myself, and because no one had brought me up to care much about other people, I soon got impatient and went home, saying that I’d come back when she was in a better mood.

  The summer term started soon after that, and I was busier than ever. I stopped enjoying Philippa’s company very much because she usually spent most of the time grumbling and sulking because I hadn’t been there the day before, and we often quarrelled. I had quite forgotten that I, too, had once felt left out and sorry for myself, and because I wasn’t used to making myself do things that I didn’t like, my visits became fewer and fewer.

  “You’d better go today,” said Janet rather anxiously one afternoon as we cycled home from school. “She likes you much better than me now.”

  “I don’t see why I should,” I answered crossly. “She’s so spoiled and selfish. All she does is grumble and ask why I don’t come every day. She can’t expect me to do nothing but sit with her.”

  Janet was silent. Then she sighed. “It must be pretty awful,” she said thoughtfully, “never being able to run about. I sometimes think, Elaine . . . I wish we could tell her about Jesus. She’d be much happier then. Daddy’s talked lots to Mrs. Thomas, but she said that if there really was a God, why did He let this happen to Philippa? So she couldn’t be bothered with religion. I heard Daddy telling Mummy about it.”

  I felt rather uncomfortable because I had thought the same thing. But I knew it was no good trying to tell Philippa about Jesus if I quarrelled with her and got impatient and didn’t bother going to see her.

  Well, I would have to think about it, but not just then, because we were reaching home and I was hungry. I bounced into the kitchen, where tea was laid, and ate five thick slices of bread and jam and drank four cups of tea. Mrs. Owen laughed at me.

  “Elaine,” she said as I got up to go, “we’ll have to weigh you. You’ve put on so much weight over the holidays that I don’t believe your mother would recognize you. I think you’ll have to stay with us forever.”

  I smiled at her and skipped out the door, feeling strong and alive and happy. Yes, Mrs. Owen was right—the country suited me, and I never, never wanted to go back to London. I would like to see Mummy again, but she could come and visit me here.

  I arrived all rosy and breathless at Philippa’s window and came down to earth with a bump at the sight of her pale, cross little face. A delicious tea with a plate of iced cakes lay untasted beside her. I sat with my back to them because they made my mouth water.

  “Why didn’t you come yesterday?” began Philippa as usual. “I waited for you all evening.”

  “Too much homework,” I answered shortly. “And I can’t stay long tonight. We only got in from school at half-past four; we were late coming up from games. Do you know, Philippa, we’ve started playing tennis. It’s great fun!”

  “I wish I could play tennis,” sighed Philippa, “or even go to school! It’s really boring always doing lessons alone. I’ve been trying today, but it’s no fun. Tell me what lessons you do, Elaine. I wonder if they are the same as mine.”

  For once she seemed willing to listen to me instead of talking about her troubles. We were getting on much better than usual, and I wondered if I could possibly tell her about the Bible and Jesus.

  “What lessons do you like best?” she asked.

  “Well,” I answered rather hesitantly, “what I like best isn’t a school lesson at all. It’s a sort of lesson Jan and I do together before breakfast. We read the Bible together and choose a verse for the day and write it down, and it sort of helps us all day. Do you ever read the Bible, Phil?”

  She shook her head but looked at me rather curiously. “Mrs. Owen once talked to me about it and gave me a book of Bible stories,” she said, “but Mummy says the Bible isn’t suitable for children, and I used to think it was really boring when we read it at school prayers. Do you really like it, Elaine?”

  I nodded. “I used to be like you,” I said, “and my mum never told me anything about it. I thought it was just a big, black, dull book full of long words, until I came to the Owens’. But then, one day, something happened to me.”

  “What?” asked Philippa, her blue eyes very big and serious.

  “Well,” I answered slowly, not quite knowing how to explain, “I did something very wrong, and I was all miserable and frightened, and I ran away into a wood. Mr. Owen came to look for me, and we stayed talking in the wood for ages. He told me that if I told Jesus about the wrong things I’d done, He would forgive me, and after that I’d always belong to Him.”

  “And what happened then?” asked Philippa.

  “Well,” I answered slowly, “I did it, and now I do belong to Him.”

  “And what difference does it make?” asked Philippa. There seemed to be an almost mocking look in her big blue eyes that I couldn’t quite understand.

  “Well,” I said hesitatingly, “I’ve been ever so much happier since. You see, if you belong to Jesus, it’s like having a friend you can tell things to. I don’t get all miserable and frightened like I used to. You sort of feel safe.”

  “And what else?” Philippa went on. “Is that all?”

  “Well, it’s quite a lot,” I answered rather crossly, “but of course there are other things as well. Jesus teaches you to be good.”

  “And are you good?” demanded Philippa.

  “I’m better than I used to be,” I replied. “I was always
getting angry and losing my temper and being horrid, and now I don’t—at least, not so much.”

  “Oh,” said Philippa in a voice I didn’t like at all.

  I glanced at the clock. “I must go!” I cried, jumping to my feet. “I’ll never finish my homework. Shall I bring you my Bible the next time, Phil? Then you can see for yourself.”

  “All right,” said Philippa rather coldly. “You can bring it if you like. I want you to come to tea the day after tomorrow—Saturday. Will you promise to come, Elaine?”

  I was halfway through the door in a hurry to be off. “OK,” I answered. “I expect I can come. I’ll do my best.”

  “No, no,” shouted Philippa. “You’ve got to promise. It’s very special this time. You will come, won’t you?”

  “Yes, all right,” I called back rather impatiently, because Philippa often said things were special when I couldn’t see anything special about them. “I said I’d come, so don’t worry.”

  As I ran down the hill, Philippa’s words rang in my ears, although I didn’t want to think about them. “What difference does it make? Are you good?”

  I was certainly happier, but was I really nicer? Or was it just Peter and Janet were much nicer to me? What was I like with selfish, spoiled people? What was I like with weak, ill people? Was I really patient and kind? And why had Philippa looked at me like that?

  “Jan,” I said that night, “do you remember that part your dad showed you in the Bible the night I ran away? Something about hungry people and ill people?”

  “Yes,” said Janet, “I underlined it in red; it was in Matthew 25. I was going to show it to you, but I forgot.”

  She found the verses and read them slowly, and I listened to them all, but certain words stayed specially in my mind: “I was . . . sick . . . and you did not visit Me. . . . Inasmuch as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to Me.”

  A Birthday Remembered

  Saturday was another beautiful day, and as we gathered around the dinner table, Janet suddenly looked out of the open window and said, “Mum, could we take tea to the river and swim this afternoon?”

  A joyful roar greeted this suggestion, for we had not been swimming that year. Mrs. Owen glanced rather doubtfully outside, but the still-golden sunshine reassured her, and she agreed it would be a very good idea.

  “Come with us, Daddy,” coaxed Johnny, climbing onto his father’s knee. “You said you’d teach me to swim.”

  Mr. Owen was a very busy man, and his company was a rare treat, but he shook his head sadly. “Got to get into my best black suit and marry someone,” he said with a sigh. He looked out to the sparkling blue sea in the distance. “Fancy wanting to get married on an afternoon like this when you could be splashing in the river!”

  “Never mind, Dad,” comforted Peter. “You’ll get a lovely tea.”

  “Maybe,” said his father, “but I’d rather eat buns in the mud with you. Never mind! I’ll keep next Saturday free and take you all to the beach—mums, babies, prams, dogs, and all!”

  He scattered the children and went off to get ready, and we rushed in all directions collecting fishing rods, sandwiches, lemonade, Cadwaller, and towels.

  Mrs. Owen was rather worried about Francie going, too, but Peter promised to look after her really well.

  “The river’s so shallow, we couldn’t drown her if we wanted to,” he said.

  “Which we don’t,” added Johnny.

  “Remember, Francie is very small. Dry her properly, Janet,” said Mrs. Owen. “And don’t sit around in wet swimming things. And Elaine, don’t stay in too long, and don’t forget—”

  “No, Mummy. Yes, Mummy. We won’t forget anything, we promise,” we shouted, all kissing her good-bye at once and dashing off up the hill. The countryside, bathed in sunshine, was beautiful. We all went mad and pushed one another around and laughed over nothing at all till we couldn’t stop, as happy children will when spring has got into their blood.

  When we reached the top of the valley where we could see the river below, I suddenly remembered something and stood stock-still.

  “Whatever’s the matter?” asked Janet, turning around to see why I’d stopped. “Have you swallowed a fly?”

  “I’ve just remembered,” I answered slowly, “I promised I’d go to tea with Philippa.” There was a long, dismayed silence. Then Janet spoke.

  “You’d better go back,” she said flatly. “Or . . . I suppose I could go back instead. I mean, if it was a promise, I suppose someone had better keep it.”

  “Come on, you girls,” shouted Peter. He had reached the bank and had already changed into his swimming trunks. Johnny and Frances were struggling with their buttons.

  I stood thinking deeply. I had said I’d go back and take the Bible. If I failed, she’d never believe that the Bible made any difference to anyone. I stared again at the inviting little path, and it reminded me of my special verse: “You will show me the path of life; in Your presence is fullness of joy.” And suddenly I knew very clearly what path He was showing me that afternoon—not the one that led down to the cool river, but the one that led back over the fields to Philippa—the path of unselfishness and kindness and keeping one’s promises. That was where I would find Jesus.

  I drew a long breath and turned back. “I’d better go,” I said. “Good-bye. Have a nice time.”

  “Good-bye,” answered Janet, much relieved. “We’ll come again another time—there’ll be lots more chances to swim.” She rushed off down the valley, unfastening her dress as she ran.

  It seemed a long, hot walk home, and I tried hard not to think of the others splashing in the river. Yet I was not really as unhappy as I thought I would be. I think it was the first time in my life I had given up doing something I really wanted to do for the sake of someone else, and it was a strange, rather pleasant feeling. I reached the house at last and retrieved my Bible. When I reached Philippa’s house it was half past four, and Mrs. Thomas was standing at the gate looking rather anxious.

  “Oh, Elaine,” she said in a relieved voice, “I’m so glad you’ve come. You see, it’s Philippa’s birthday, and I was going to have a party, but she wanted you all by yourself, and she said you’d promised to come. She was getting in such a state, thinking you’d forgotten.”

  She led me into the garden, where Philippa lay in a deck chair by the rockery with tea spread out beside her, and a beautiful pink birthday cake with ten candles. She looked very pretty in a new blue summer dress she had received as a present, and I, hot and crumpled, in my oldest clothes and muddy shoes, felt rather ashamed of myself.

  “Where have you been?” asked Philippa. “I thought you’d forgotten. You didn’t know it was my birthday, did you?”

  “No,” I answered, “or I’d have brought you a present. Happy birthday, Philippa! I’m sorry I’m late, but the others went swimming in the river, and I went some of the way with them and then came back by myself.”

  “Oh,” said Philippa, looking at me curiously, “and why did you do that? Did you forget you were coming to tea with me?”

  “Well, yes,” I replied truthfully, “I did at first, because Pete thought of swimming only at dinnertime, suddenly, and we all got rather excited. But as soon as I remembered, I came back quick.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Philippa. Then she added, “Do you like swimming?”

  “Yes, I do,” I answered. “But it doesn’t matter. Mr. Owen’s going to take us to the sea next week. We’re not allowed to swim alone in the sea, but the river’s shallow. Even Francie went.”

  Then Mrs. Thomas arrived with the teapot, and we had a very happy tea party. Mrs. Thomas told us funny stories, and I stuffed myself with cakes and cookies and sandwiches. Then we lit the candles, which didn’t show at all in the sunshine, and Philippa cut the cake.

  When I could eat no more, Mrs. Thomas picked up the tray. “I’m going to wash up the tea things now,” she said, “and leave you two together. Philippa, do you want to show
Elaine your presents?”

  “Later,” said Philippa. “We’ll stay here for a bit now, because we’ve got a secret.” She waited till her mother had disappeared, and then she turned to me eagerly. “Have you brought your Bible, Elaine?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, rather surprised, for she had not seemed particularly interested before. “It’s here under my chair. I’ll show it to you.”

  “It’s like this,” said Philippa. “I’ve been thinking. You said that when you know Jesus, it makes you good, and I think I’ll believe you now, because you came back from swimming when I know you wanted to go. If you hadn’t come back, I’d have thought it was all silly pretending. And you said it was like having a friend you could tell things to, and I just wondered—if I read my Bible and prayed, do you think Jesus would make me walk again?”

  I hesitated. “He could make you walk again,” I said simply. “He did heal people lots of times. He was always making people better. Mark’s Gospel is full of stories about people who were ill and got healed.”

  “Well, read me one,” commanded Philippa.

  “I’ll read what I read this morning,” I said confidently. “It was about a man who couldn’t walk at all, so his friends let him down through a hole in the roof, and first of all Jesus said, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ and then He made him walk. Here it is, I’ve found it.” I read her the story of the paralyzed man in Mark 2, and she listened intently, her eyes fixed on my face.

  “It said in the notes,” I remarked thoughtfully, “that the most important thing is to have your sins forgiven. Then you can start asking for other things.”

  Philippa frowned. “I don’t think I’ve got an awful lot of sins,” she said. “How could I, lying here? I couldn’t really be very naughty if I tried.”

  “You can be bad-tempered,” I answered, “and you do grumble a lot. I think that counts as sin. I used to get terribly cross before I loved Jesus.”

  “You still are, sometimes,” retorted Philippa. “But never mind, let’s not quarrel today. Tell me how you get your sins forgiven.”