Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  He sat on the little wall of the well, dangled his bruised feet in the water, and looked around him. The windswept larches leaned toward the south, their crimson tufts jeweling the new green. Far below lay the great plain with its wheat fields, farms, wooded pastures, river valley, villages, and church spires. Francis could see most of the way he had come, and he thought it would not be too difficult to get home again. He had no idea how late it was.

  “Hey, you young varmint, what for you fouling up my spring with your dirty feet? Take ‘em out, I say, before I set the dog on you.”

  Francis leaped up, and the angry shepherd, seeing how very small he was, spoke more gently.

  “Now where be you come from?” he asked. “You don’t be from these parts. And did no one ever teach you about fouling good spring water? Don’t you let me catch you doing that again!”

  “Sorry,” said Francis, keeping his eye on the panting collie. “I didn’t know. I followed the stream all the way up from the river, and I followed the river all the way from Rockleigh. Is this the real true source, and does it belong to you?”

  “Rockleigh?” repeated the shepherd. “That’s a long way for a little chap like you to come all alone.”

  Francis nodded. “Did you find this source,” he said, “or did you dig for it? Did you see clear water bubbling out of the ground?”

  The shepherd chuckled. He was beginning to like this wet, dirty little apparition. The spring was the pride of his life and had been the pride of his father’s life.

  “You’d best come inside,” he said. “My woman’ll tell you all about it. I’m busy. But what I’m thinking is, How do you figure out getting back to Rockleigh tonight?”

  “I left a bike somewhere,” said Francis vaguely. “In the next village along the road. It was called Upper Bowbridge. I just need to get back there.”

  He had followed the shepherd into a stone kitchen where a bright-eyed little woman had just made a pot of tea and a tame lamb lay on the hearthrug. Visitors were few on that lonely hilltop where her husband kept his sheep, and she seemed pleased to see Francis.

  “Look at this, Mother,” said the shepherd with a wink. “Found ‘im fouling the spring with his dirty feet. He’s followed the river from Rockleigh, and what I’m asking is, How’s he getting back?—not more than a couple of hours till sunset.”

  “The mailman’ll take him,” said Mother calmly. “I’ll run him down to the mailbox in half an hour. The truck goes right into Rockleigh. Sit down, sonny, and have a cup of tea.”

  He was very hungry indeed and started off on a package of buns with the best will in the world. The shepherd, gulping down his tea, made his farewells.

  “Mother’ll tell you about the spring,” he said, “but remember this—sheep won’t drink from fouled water—never you foul a spring. Well, I’ll be getting to the sheep. So long, son.”

  Francis sat on the rug beside the tame lamb and asked questions. He learned that years ago the shepherd’s father had climbed the hill in time of drought and found a winding patch of deep green grass at the edge of the wood. “So he knowed it was water deep down tunneling into the ground and a-watering the roots, so he dug down deep. The water was all fouled with mud and dead leaves and roots of trees, but he cleared it and dug the spring a little further down, and the water soon came up clear and clean. Then he built his house and bought his flock and brought up my mother-in-law. My hubby was born here on the hill, and I came here as a bride. There were brothers and sisters, but they’ve gone their ways to the towns. But my hubby and me, we reared our children here among the sheep, and we want nothing different.”

  “Does the stream ever dry up?” asked Francis.

  She shook her head.

  “Not quite. The water comes from deep down. Even in the drought year, when all the fields were yellow, there was always a trickle, and our pasture stayed green. Now we must be going, son, or we’ll miss the mail truck.”

  Francis said a rather sad good-bye to the source, the pet lamb, and the buns, and he and the shepherd’s wife went down the other side of the hill together. It was only a little way to the main road and the mailbox, and Francis was surprised to see the long shadows and the bright evening sky. It seemed such a short time since morning.

  “Look in again, dearie, if you’re ever along this way,” said the shepherd’s wife, as he jumped into the obliging postman’s truck. “It’s been a pleasure. You’ll be home in no time.”

  It was certainly much quicker by the main road, and the mailman went right through Upper Bowbridge and dropped him at the garage. He picked up his bicycle and pedaled home. The sun was setting when he arrived, and the family was in a high state of alarm. In fact, Uncle John was out looking for him. Unfortunately, Kate saw him first.

  “You deserve to be shot, Francis,” she burst out, “frightening Mum and Dad and wasting their time like that! I wasn’t frightened in the least. I knew you’d gone off just to get out of helping, you lazy little horror!”

  “Just a minute, Kate.” Aunt Alison appeared with Martin and Chris, wide-eyed behind her. “Where have you been, Francis? It was very naughty indeed of you to run away like that. We’ve all been very anxious about you.”

  Francis gazed at her. He had had a wonderful day, but he was not going to talk about it in front of Kate—he had not done anything naughty. Later on, when they had all stopped being cross, he would tell Auntie Alison about the source.

  And she, seeing that far-away look of glory in his eyes, decided to let her husband tell him that he was to stay at home next day and do his share of work instead of going to the cattle market. She would find out where he had been first. He certainly did not look as though he had been back with his gang, slashing tires.

  Tea was over, but she had kept him some, and she sat by him as he ate. Uncle John had returned, greatly relieved to find Francis home, and had gone off to the calves.

  “Where have you been all day, Francis?” she said severely. “You must tell me.”

  Francis turned a radiant face toward her. “I found the source,” he said simply. “Not the source of the big river—that’s far away in big mountains, I think—it might take you days and days to walk there—but there was a little stream—and the grass was so green—and I followed it right to the top of the hill, and I found the source, Auntie. I really did. It came up out of the earth, clear like glass, and I put my feet in it, and the shepherd was angry ’cause you must never foul sources, Auntie. Sheep won’t drink fouled water. And then he wasn’t angry anymore, and he took me into his house, and there was a little tame lamb—and she gave me cups of tea and buns—I ate six—”

  “Who did, Francis?”

  “The shepherd’s wife. She feeds the pet lamb. His father found the spring, and it was deep underground but the grass was green—and he cleared away all the mud and muck and dead leaves, and the water bubbled up clean, and they’ve lived there ever since—and it never dries up, not even in drought, and the grass is always green. And I came home in the mail truck. Oh, and the garage man gave me a bag of chips, and I saw a kingfisher and lots of rabbits—and, oh! I forgot! I picked you some forget-me-nots. They are in my bike basket, and I think they might be dead.”

  She smiled and rumpled his hair.

  “You’ve had a wonderful day, Francis,” she said, “but next time you must ask. Your eyes are half shut. You’re nearly asleep. Run up to bed.”

  12

  The Tulip Bed

  But Francis did not get off quite as lightly as he had hoped, because directly after breakfast Uncle John called him aside and explained to him that his share of work was still waiting to be done and that he would have to stay and do it instead of going to the cattle market. “I’m sorry,” said Uncle John, “but there will be other cattle markets, and we are all disappointed. We would have enjoyed it much more with you, but you’ve got to learn some day, haven’t you!”

  Francis was bitterly disappointed, but much too proud to show it, so he shrugged his shoulde
rs and wandered off with his nose in the air. There was one small gleam of comfort. Kate would not get her quiet day now, for he would see to it that there was as much noise as possible.

  Uncle John showed him exactly what he had to do, and then there was a general flurry of departure: sandwiches and thermoses being prepared for the market party and Auntie Alison bustling around the kitchen, straightening up.

  “I’ll see to all that, Mum,” said Kate. “Do hurry, or you’ll miss your bus.”

  “Right,” said her mother, “but don’t bother about lunch. We’ll do something quick when I come in. Oh, and keep an eye on Francis and take him a snack.”

  Kate wrinkled up her nose and locked the living room so that the question of “Chopsticks” would not arise. Francis was a pest! Already his loud, tuneless singing came floating through the kitchen window, and surely his weeding need not involve all that banging about. She tidied the kitchen meticulously, shut the window, and carried her essay to the front of the house where she could be rid of him. She wished she need not take him a snack because he did not deserve it, so she prepared him some weak lemonade and two soft cookies halfway through the morning and marched out to the yard. To her astonishment and indignation, the work was hardly begun, and Francis was strolling up from the river.

  Kate let fly at him. “You lazy lout,” she exclaimed, “you’ve hardly begun! You’d bettter get cracking, ’cause there’s no dinner for you until you’ve finished.”

  Francis sat down on a barrel and stared at her coldly.

  “I shan’t do it at all unless I want to,” he said, “and I’m not doing what you say, anyhow, Big Boss. I’m not your slave, and I shall do what I like. I shan’t stay here at all unless I want to.”

  Kate lost her temper. Her face flushed crimson, and all she had longed to say for the past month came pouring out in a torrent. “I wish you wouldn’t,” she shouted. “Nobody wanted you in the first place. You just invited yourself, and Mum and Dad were kind enough to take you in, and you never lift a finger to help them! You’re ungrateful, Francis, and you’re cruel too. We know all about your throwing stones at the ducks, and you’re a liar too—all those silly stories you told the boys about guns and bombs! Even Chris knew they weren’t true. It’s all a pack of lies, and you are just a show-off, and we wish you’d go back to where you came from!”

  She turned and ran. Francis picked up the mug of lemonade and flung it after her. It just missed her head and broke into bits on the wall. Then he stood very still, breathing hard, his eyes smoldering in his white face. Only one remark of Kate’s had stuck in his mind. “We wish you’d go—nobody wanted you in the first place!”

  Was it true? They had all seemed so pleased to see him, and he had felt so sure of himself and so safe. If it was true, then he was leaving, right now, that very minute. But he had to vent his hatred and misery on something or someone first. It was no good attacking Kate; she was too big. So he looked around and found himself staring at the sun-warmed colors of the yard—wallflowers, polyanthus under the lilac, and Auntie Alison’s prize tulip bed in full flower.

  He went to the weeping willow, broke off a switch, and walked over to the tulips. Standing in front of them, he deliberately switched the head off every stem. Backwards and forwards he went with a fierce,, miserable sort of enjoyment. It took quite a time, and when he had finished there was not a flower left standing.

  Kate stormed her way back to the kitchen and then sat staring out the window. Now that her temper was cooling off she was beginning to feel deeply ashamed of herself. How could I have said that? she thought. I was worse than him! And besides, it’s not true—Mum and Dad did want him. They’d hate it if he went away. She sat thinking for a while and then got up and walked very slowly back to the yard. Perhaps she could tell him that that bit had been a mistake, and they had wanted him even though he was such an awfully lazy, cheeky little liar. But he was not where she had left him. He was standing by the tulip bed, and she saw him fell the last beautiful, crimson head to the ground.

  She rushed at him, but he saw her coming and shot out of the garden gate and dodged behind the house. She did not follow him; it was too late. She knelt beside the ruined tulip bed, trying desperately to lift a few of the bruised stems and leaves, but nothing could be done.

  “And Mum loved them so much,” mourned Kate. “She planted them all herself and was going to pick them for the church. Whatever shall I say to her?”

  She was conscious of the rattle of a bicycle bouncing over the cobblestones. “Francis,” she shouted, “come here!” But he hurled back a rude remark and was gone, so she went into the house and sat down in front of her schoolbooks and wept with frustration and worry. How much of his reaction had been her fault? And what was Mum going to say when she told her all about it?

  Her mother came gaily into the kitchen about one o’clock. “Kate,” she called, “where are you? Come and tell me if you like my new hairstyle. And what a treat the kitchen looks! You are a good girl!”

  Kate came in, and her mother turned, surprised at her silence. The girl stood there crimson-cheeked, and she looked as though she had been crying.

  “Kate,” cried her mother, “has something happened?”

  “Yes, Mum. Francis has gone, and you’d better come and look at the tulip bed.”

  They went out and stood looking at the ruin. Mrs. Glenny gave a little sigh. “Well, that’s that!” she said sadly. “I’m glad that at least we saw them come out. But whatever happened? He must have gone berserk to do a thing like that! And where’s he gone?”

  “I don’t know, Mum. He was so lazy and wouldn’t work—and—well, I said things to him and some of them were true—but some of them weren’t. I really lost my temper, Mum. He was so cheeky!”

  “Let’s eat,” said her mother gently, “and you can tell me then. He’ll come back before dark like he did yesterday. I’ll fry some bacon and eggs, and you make some tea.”

  When they were sitting in front of a hot meal, Kate tried to tell her story, and her mother listened rather gravely. Kate was so dutiful and hard working, but her impatient attitude toward Francis had worried her mother all along. “I told him he was lazy, Mum, and that’s true,” said Kate, “and I told him we knew about him throwing stones at the ducks, and the cows sometimes, and I said he was a liar. That’s true, too—all those stories he told to Martin and Chris!”

  “The bombs and guns weren’t true,” said her mother, “but it probably wasn’t all lies. He really has been involved with a very rough gang, and that’s what worries me when he disappears. Was that all you said to him?”

  “No,” said Kate softly, looking at her plate. “I said he’d invited himself, and we’d never wanted him—and I said we wished he’d go away.”

  “Oh, Kate, what a thing to say! No wonder he wanted to destroy something! Besides, it isn’t true. I wanted him from the moment he rushed in from the river looking like a drowned rat. There was something about him—I was thrilled when he came back. How could you say a thing like that?”

  “But, Mum,” pleaded Kate, “he ought to be punished! You and Dad are too lenient with him. You’d never let Martin be lazy and steal food and tell lies like he does. It isn’t fair!”

  “We do tell him, and Dad punished him this morning, but do you know his story? He told us himself, and his Granny has written twice about it, so we know it is true. Martin has known nothing but love all his life, and he’s never had anything to hate. Francis’s father left him when he was a baby, and the second husband has never wanted him. Now the stepfather has gone off with another woman, and the divorce is on the way, and his mother is in a psychiatric hospital. It’s been jealousy, quarreling, and hating for years on end.

  “Francis needs healing before scolding. We have to go a step at a time. As soon as he feels quite sure that he is loved and wanted just like our own children, then we can start dealing with the other things. And he was just beginning to get there. Something happened to him yesterday
. I don’t quite know what, but finding that spring was really meaningful to him.”

  “And now I suppose I’ve spoiled it all! Oh, Mum, I’m sorry!”

  “Well, there’ll be another chance, I’m sure. The thing is to discover where he is. I wonder if he could have gone back to that shepherd’s wife. I’ve no idea where he found her.”

  “He cycled over the bridge, not along the river road. Could he have gone back to his own house?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. There’s no one there. He’d hardly go to an empty house. We’ll wait till Dad comes home with the car. Francis may easily come back alone. After all, he’s had no dinner, and he likes his food.”

  But Kate was less hopeful. After lunch she wandered sadly out into the yard and stood watching a hedge sparrow dart to and fro and then settle on her bright eggs. Hedge sparrows’ nests are so cozy, thought Kate, and she looked back to the shabby farmhouse where they had all grown up, loved and secure. She had taken it all for granted. She had never quite realized before how rich she was, how much she had to give and share.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, “please bring him back. It was partly my fault, and I want him here very much."

  13

  The River of Life

  Francis cycled madly across the bridge and swerved into the village street. Had any fast car been coming, that would have been the end of him. But the road was almost empty except for a few children playing round the old forge under the chestnut tree, and nobody stopped him. Then the hill outside the village slowed him down, and, for the first time, he started to consider his position.