I glanced at Philippa. There was a lonely, wistful little look on her face that filled me with pity. I suddenly had a marvelous idea.
“Auntie,” I shouted, “it’s not very far with a car! Couldn’t Uncle come one day and bring Mrs. Thomas and Philippa to see the camp and come and have tea with us? Oh, Auntie, do say yes!”
Philippa’s face had gone pink with excitement, and her eyes were shining. Both mothers looked quite alarmed for a moment.
“We’d have to ask my husband,” said Mrs. Owen. “As a matter of fact, if you don’t think it’s too tiring for Philippa, I would say it was a wonderful idea.”
“So would I,” said Philippa quickly. “Mummy, if you say yes, I’ll never be naughty again!”
We all burst out laughing at this, and then Mrs. Owen and I hurried home through the dark. It was high time, too, for things had not gone too successfully during her absence. She had the chaotic situation under control in a few moments, then put the kettle on for a cup of tea.
“I should go to see Philippa tomorrow,” she remarked peacefully when we were all sitting around the kitchen table. “Now, here come Daddy and Pete. Let’s have tea.”
It was a pleasant evening, and everyone agreed with my plan of bringing Philippa and her mum to the camp for the day. We could have gone on eating buns and chatting all night if Mrs. Owen hadn’t chased us up to bed.
Before lying down, I stood at the open window a few minutes and leaned far out. The warm summer darkness smelled of lavender, and an owl hooted softly from the beech trees. In Philippa’s house a light was still burning, and I wondered what she was doing. Was she still standing outside, like the beggar boy asking for gifts, or had she gone in through the door to the light and safety of Jesus’ home?
The Camp by the Lake
The great morning dawned at last. Mr. Owen set out with us four older children and the tents at the crack of dawn to pitch camp. It was a perfect morning, and we traveled by the narrow back lanes, singing for miles. The dew still lay on the fields when we started, and the spiders’ webs shone like silver.
We left the lanes after a time and joined a winding road and began to climb toward the horizon. Suddenly we reached the top of the hill, and Mr. Owen stopped the car abruptly and said, “Look!”
I gave a little gasp, for I had never seen the great mountains so close. Now they stretched out in front of us as far as the eye could see. Peter jumped up and reeled off the names of the proud rocky summits. We knew that hidden away in the valleys were the lakes.
Peter leapt back into the car and prodded his father in the back. “Go on, Dad,” he shouted. “Let’s get there!”
So we raced down the hill and through the last little town, over an old stone bridge designed by a famous architect called Inigo Jones, and then we left civilization behind us and were speeding toward the steep mountain rising ahead of us. Ten minutes later, we left the last proper road and turned up a steep, stony path that climbed through larch woods, with a stream foaming down over mossy boulders on our right.
“Will the car really go up there?” asked Janet, clutching the back of the seat nervously. “And what will we do if we meet another car?”
“It would be just too bad!” replied Mr. Owen, pulling down into bottom gear and hooting his horn in warning as we twisted around the corners.
We were breathless with excitement, for we knew that in a few minutes we would see the spot that Peter had described to us. We bumped around the corner and there in front of us, clear as green glass, with the shadows of the hills reflected in it, lay the lake.
Mr. Owen stopped the car, and once again we were silent for a moment. I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful. It was so still and so long. Now and then a gull dipped and ruffled the surface with its wings, but otherwise I couldn’t see a ripple. I felt as though I had reached an enchanted country where everything seemed to have fallen asleep.
“Oh, Daddy, let’s swim,” squealed Johnny. “Look, there’s a little beach! Couldn’t we make camp there?”
“No,” replied Mr. Owen. “We’ve got to get to the other end of the farmhouse. Look, there’s a little white road along the edge of the lake. We’ll get the tents up and camp fixed, and then we’ll have a swim before dinner. We won’t bother about cooking today—just corned beef and bread and butter and plums and lemonade; then I can get back early for Mum.”
We drove along the little track by the edge of the water, and very soon we caught sight of Mrs. Davies’s farm.
There was a sheepfold and a cowshed to one side of it, and a wire run for chickens, and a spring of clear water splashing into a stone trough in front of the door. Mrs. Davies heard us coming and ran out to meet us. She was a neat, dark little woman with rosy cheeks and bright black eyes, with a little girl clinging to her apron and a large sheepdog jumping around her.
“A little friend for Francie,” said Mr. Owen, waving at the child. “And a little friend for Cadwaller,” said Johnny, whistling at the sheepdog.
We tumbled out of the car, and Mr. Owen greeted them in Welsh. Mrs. Davies pointed out the driest spot for the campsite and helped us carry our things. We set to work in earnest, laying the groundsheets and hammering in the tent pegs. Then we went to Mrs. Davies, and she took us around to the barn so we could stuff our mattresses with straw. In the corner was a tiny black-and-white calf, very weak and wobbly, peering out from behind its mother.
We carried big stones up from the lake and built the camp fireplace. We stored our firewood in the barn so it would keep dry.
“We’ll build an enormous campfire to welcome Mum tonight,” said Peter. “We’ll all collect wood while Dad goes to get her. Now, come on, let’s have a swim before dinner.”
We changed in two minutes and raced barefoot over the springy grass to the pebbly stretch of mud that Johnny had already christened “the bathing beach.” After our swim we had dinner, then Mr.Owen glanced at his watch and jumped up.
“I must go to get Mum,” he said, “and we won’t be back till about five o’clock. You can collect firewood and explore around, but don’t get lost and, remember, no one is to go near the lake or light a fire until we get back.”
He jumped in the car and went bumping off along the lakeside track. It was rather exciting being left on our own.
“You girls wash up,” said Peter, “and then let’s build an enormous bonfire for tonight. Then let’s go to the other end of the lake and follow the stream and see where it goes. It says on my map that there’s another big lake over on the other side of the mountain with a stream flowing down that joins this one.”
We tidied up and dug a deep hole for our rubbish, and then scattered to collect firewood. I had never been in such wild, rolling scenery with not a living creature to be seen anywhere.
“Come on,” shouted Peter’s voice from the camp far below me. “You’ve got hardly any wood, and we want to start soon.”
We collected a big pile between us, then started along the edge of the lake, feeling like a party of explorers setting out to discover unknown territory. Peter carried the map and the compass in a leather bag over his shoulder. It was cool and very silent everywhere.
We reached the end of the lake where it narrowed into a rushing white stream. We had our shoes off in a minute and scrambled down the steep banks, then we slipped on the wet stones and went splashing up to our knees in a foaming pool.
“The trees end just ahead,” called Peter. “We’re coming out onto a rocky, stony sort of place. Let’s come out into the open and have a look around, and then we’ll go back.”
We waded on and found ourselves in a very desolate place indeed. It must have been an old stone quarry once, for piles of broken stones rose up around us, and just in front were the blackened walls of an old, roofless stone building.
“Looks as though it has been burned,” said Peter thoughtfully. “Give me a leg up, someone, and let’s see inside.”
“I think we ought to go home. We mustn’t be late f
or Mum,” said Janet firmly. “I don’t like that house, Pete. In fact, I don’t like this place at all. It’s sort of spooky.”
I looked around and shivered a little. The piles of stones hid the countryside, and the air was full of the sound of angry, rushing water.
Peter was wading through the mass of weeds that surrounded the ruin and had pulled himself up on the sill. “I say,” he called back excitedly, “it’s got all sorts of rooms in it, and someone has made a campfire—there are black stones and ashes and an old saucepan. One room is still roofed over, and the window’s stuffed with rags. I think someone lives here. I’m going to try the door!”
He jumped down into the nettles, scratching his legs badly, and picked his way down to the door. It was jammed and stuck, but Peter ran at it with his shoulder, and it burst open so suddenly that he fell forward. He got up quickly and backed out, rather frightened, and stood hesitating.
“Shall I go in?” he asked. “Supposing there’s someone there?”
“I would think he’d have come out by now,” said Johnny rather sensibly. Then he hopped over the nettles and stood in the doorway. “I’ll go in,” he said brightly. “I’m not frightened.”
He skipped into the ruin, poking his inquisitive little nose into one derelict room after another. Then he came tiptoeing back, his eyes round with excitement. “Someone does live here,” he whispered. “There’s a mattress with nice blankets, and some plates and cups, and a box and an old rug on the floor.”
“Oh, Peter,” I whispered, “let’s go home! Supposing they come. They’ll be really cross if they find us in their house, and we will never hear them till they are right on top of us, the stream’s making such a noise.”
“Well, I’d just like to have a quick look,” said Peter uncertainly. “Johnny, you climb on that stone heap and keep a lookout.”
Nimble little Johnny was up in a moment and down again as quickly. “There’s a man coming up beside the stream,” he squeaked, “and he’s got a sack over his back and a dead rabbit in his hand! Come on, everybody, run!” And he was away into the tunnel of trees, leaping from boulder to boulder with Peter and Janet just behind him, and me slipping and stumbling and splashing along last of all. On we went, breathless and wet, with bruised, cold feet and aching legs. We didn’t feel safe till we reached the quiet hills and the gray levels of the lake.
“There’s the car!” shouted Janet, waving her shoes wildly above her head, and the next moment we were all racing along barefoot beside it, with the joyful faces of Frances, Robin, Lucy, and Cadwaller filling the windows and Mrs. Owen calling out greetings. And although none of us would have confessed it, never before in our lives had we been so pleased to see them.
Philippa’s Day
The sun seemed to come out as Mrs. Owen struggled out of the car, her arms full of Lucy and a bursting bag of homemade buns. We all flung ourselves upon her, and the rest of the evening was a great success. Mr. Owen had the fire going and the kettles boiling in no time, and we sat around, warming our chilly legs and drying our wet skirts and trousers. Soon we were all eating buns and drinking mugs of hot, sweet tea that tasted of wood smoke and condensed milk, and discussing what we should have for supper.
“I think we’ll have eggs and bacon tonight as a treat,” said Mrs. Owen, “and finish up with hot chocolate and cookies around the campfire. Perhaps Mrs. Davies and her little girl will join us. Now, let’s unpack the food and—oh, Elaine, I almost forgot! There’s a letter for you from your mother.”
She handed me a thin letter with a French stamp on it, and a funny little cold feeling of fear seemed to rise up inside me, for Mummy hardly ever wrote letters. She sent me postcards every week or so, but they didn’t say very much. I turned away from the others and ran up the hill to where I’d gathered firewood, and sat down on the roots of a larch tree, crumpling the letter in my hand. It was silly to feel afraid, for the last time she’d written she’d sent three pounds for camp.
I tore the letter open and read it through several times, because at first I really could not take it in, and yet I’d known all along that it must come one day. The man Mummy worked for was coming home in the autumn. She would keep her job, but she would find a home for us both in London. “You’d better stay and finish your school term,” she wrote, “but you will be back with me for the Christmas holidays, and we’ll find a school in London after that. I’ve missed you so much, and it will be lovely to be together again.”
The Christmas holidays! Janet had told me all about them: the frosty evenings when they sang carols and left little gifts all around the village by lantern light; the tobogganing and the opening of stockings on Christmas morning; the Sunday school party in the fellowship hall, when Mr. Owen dressed up as Father Christmas—and now I would miss it all.
I gazed down at the campsite. Peter and Johnny were dragging an enormous log up from the barn, and Janet was leaning over a saucepan, cooking something. Frances stood alone on the little beach with her back to everyone. No! I could not leave them. They were my brothers and sisters now. Surely Mrs. Owen would understand and help me explain to Mummy. Of course, I wanted to see her and I would not mind going to London sometimes, but she could come and visit me in Wales. My home was here in the country now, with the Owen family.
I thought about the last few months. How miserable and selfish I’d been at first, and how I’d hated it! Yet somehow I’d been drawn in. What was it, I wondered, that bound us together and made us such a strong family circle? I was beginning to realize even then that the center of that home was the open Bible—that old, wise Book that taught children to honor and obey their parents, and to love one another, and to recognize life’s true values. Who would go on teaching me in London? How could I go on being a Christian all by myself?
“Come on, Elaine,” shouted Peter impatiently. “We’re going to fry the bacon. Everyone has to sit down with a plate.”
A delicious smell came floating up, and I went down to join the family. Mrs. Owen pushed Johnny out of the way and made a place for me, and I snuggled comfortably against her. Perhaps she guessed what was in my letter.
Supper was a great success, and afterward we piled wood on the fire and made a blaze that lit up the dark mountains all around and made rosy reflections on the black lake. Mrs. Davies and her daughter and Tudor, the sheepdog, joined us for hot chocolate and cookies, and we sang campfire songs till we were hoarse. Then Mr. Owen opened his Bible and read to us. As we sat listening, the moon rose over the far end of the valley, flooding the lake with silver light. We slept with our tent flaps thrown back so that the moonbeams could shine down on us all night long.
Every day in camp was so exciting. We swam in the lake before breakfast. Peter was in charge of the fire, and Janet and I were the cooks, with Mrs. Owen giving advice. Sometimes we went on expeditions and climbed the mountains, and sometimes we just explored the near hills or messed around the farm. When the rain and mists came sweeping over the mountains, we played in the barn, and on wet evenings Mrs. Davies made us welcome in her kitchen, which we loved. It had an uneven stone floor and a huge fireplace that took up most of one side of the wall. It was a very cozy place to be on rainy nights when the thunder broke over the mountains. We used to get ready for bed in Mrs. Davies’ room and then dash up the dark slope in the storm and dive into our sleeping bags.
One cloudless day, we climbed Snowdon. Another day, with the help of Peter’s map, we discovered every lake hidden away in the secret folds of the hills and climbed every rocky peak. I was becoming as brown as a berry and as strong as a mountain pony, and I sometimes wondered what my mother would think of me if she saw me.
But to me the great event of the holiday was Philippa’s visit, and on Saturday morning, long before the others were awake, I wriggled out of my sleeping bag and crept to the door of the tent to look at the weather. It was still very early, but the sky behind the mountains was pearly blue, and the morning star was still shining over the highest crag.
> It’s going to be a beautiful day, I thought to myself, shivering a little. There isn’t a cloud to be seen. I pulled my blanket around my shoulders and watched the sky grow brighter and brighter behind the rocks. And because I was too excited to feel sleepy, I stayed there watching until at last the sun appeared, and the grass all around me turned to silver and the waters of the lake to gold.
“Oh, wake up, Janet,” I said impatiently. “Come and swim! The water’s all shiny.” But Janet only grunted and disappeared far down into her sleeping bag, leaving me Cadwaller for company.
Everything seemed to move slowly that morning. No one seemed in any hurry except me, and at last I could bear it no longer. I rushed up to Mr. Owen, who was sitting in the sun listening to one of Frances’s stories, and asked him what time he was thinking of getting Philippa.
“Philippa?” said Mr. Owen calmly, glancing at his watch. “Why, yes, she was coming out to dinner today, wasn’t she? I’d better start now while the weather’s fine and get her out early. It could cloud over later.”
He got up and glanced at the car. “We’ll leave the whole backseat for Philippa,” he said, “but there’s room for three in the front. Like to come with me, Elaine? It would be fun for Philippa to have you on the way back.”
I was thrilled and rushed off to get ready.
It was a lovely drive, and when we arrived we found Philippa had been ready for ages, sitting at the window. Within five minutes we were off again, Philippa stretched out on the backseat, and me sandwiched between Mr. Owen and Mrs. Thomas, leaning over the back to talk to her. Of course, there was an awful lot to tell, and I chattered on without stopping, for Philippa wanted to know every detail of what we’d been doing.
Patricia St John Series Page 41