Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  Where was he going?

  He was never, never going back to the farm. That was certain. Nobody wanted him. “We wish you’d go back to where you came from.” That was what Kate had said, and if it was true, then all he had trusted in was an awful mistake. Mums and dads were probably the same all the world over; they just wanted their own children, like his own stepfather. And Mum, to whom he belonged, was in a hospital, and perhaps she would die, and then there would be nobody. “Mum, Mum,” he whimpered, and sat down between the roots of a large chestnut tree to think out the next step.

  The great roots encircled him, and when he looked up into the foliage he noticed that the flowers stood up like lighted candles. Like a Christmas tree, he thought idly, and a great wave of homesickness swept over him. Last Christmas had been a happy time. They had all had presents, and no one had quarreled all day long. They had been too busy playing with their toys.

  He suddenly longed for his toys and his other things—his dinky cars and stamps and football cards. And his set of magic tricks and his Lego. He had not missed them till now because there had been so much to do at the farm, indoors and out. But those delights were his no longer. He suddenly decided to go back to his own house and sit for awhile in his own room and play with his own toys. There might even be a can of something in the pantry, and when he got there he would make up his mind about what to do next. Perhaps when it began to get dark, Mrs. Glengarry would have some suggestions. She always took in stray cats, so why not stray boys?

  He was not worried about getting in. Some time ago he had been locked out, and he had found a secret way in. You climbed onto the roof of the little front porch and scrambled up a drainpipe. There was a loose catch on his own bedroom casement window, and a child’s small fingers could pry those windows far enough apart to reach inside and push up the catch. It had seemed such a convenient secret to possess that he had never told anyone, and no one had noticed.

  He got up and pedaled steadily on, calmed and comforted by the peace of the April countryside. The hawthorn smelled sweet in the sunshine, and the banks were a riot of campions, bluebells, and garlic mustard. He seemed to be pedaling to the rhythm of bird-song. No one noticed him as he reached the suburb of the city and turned into his own road. A moment later, he slipped into his own yard and stood, half afraid, looking round.

  It looked like a wild garden, for April had caught up with it. The grass had grown long, and the small flower bed that Mum had planted was choked with weeds. But the house inside would surely be the same, and he suddenly longed for Whiskers. He would have to get hold of Whiskers somehow, although she had become an excellent mouser and might not at all wish to leave the barn.

  He wandered around the house and garage and noticed, to his surprise, that the kitchen window had been broken and boarded up with wood and nails. He wondered who had done that. Probably Wendy had done it with her ball after he left.

  The kitchen reminded him of food, and he prowled round to the porch where he climbed up onto the windowsill and out onto the porch roof. The next part was harder and much more dangerous because the pipe might break, but it could be done. There were two joints on which to rest his feet, and then a pull across to the edge of the window, and you landed on his bedroom windowsill. Yes, he could still get his fingers through the crack, although they seemed to have gotten much fatter at the farm. A wriggle, and the catch lifted, and then he was letting himself down under the curtains, back into his own little bedroom. He pulled back the curtains joyfully and the light streamed in. Then he stood rooted to the spot, staring, and his heart gave a little lurch of fear.

  Someone had completely vandalized his room. His drawers were overturned, his stamp album torn, his football cards ripped up, his soldiers scattered and mostly smashed. The wheels had been pried off many of his dinky cars, and his precious comics had been torn and trampled on. Whoever had been in had done the job very thoroughly indeed. Francis gave a little cry of grief and terror and shot down the stairs and out the front door. All he wanted to do was to get away from this terrible house as soon as possible.

  Where could he go now? His toys had been his last real link with home, and now there was nowhere. But almost without knowing it, his feet had carried him across the yard to his refuge in the cherry tree. The blossoms were over now, but the leaves would hide him from view, and he could sit and cry as much as he wanted. He seized the bough and stopped again to recover from his second great shock.

  A small pair of brown legs dangled from the bough above, and a cautious brown face peered down at him. “Francis,” whispered Ram, “you come up and I tell you all.”

  Had Francis found Ram in his private tree at any other time, he might have been angry, but just at that point he was overjoyed. He clambered up, and Ram’s huge black eyes scanned him anxiously and lovingly. When he realized that Francis was pleased to see him, he beamed.

  “I saw your bike, Francis, and I saw you climb,” said Ram shyly. His English had improved a lot in three weeks. “So I sit here till you come out. What have they done in your house?”

  “Who?” asked Francis. “Who broke my toys and tore up my stamps and my cards? Everything is torn and broken and spoiled, Ram.” His voice trembled, and he squeezed the bough above to keep from crying.

  “Tyke and Spotty,” said Ram. “When you went away they follow me every day from school. They ask and they ask where you gone. I said I don’t know. And they said they go to beat you up because you tell the police about their little house.”

  “I never did,” sniffed Francis.

  “Then one day I come from school, and I saw them at your gate looking at your house. They point. They talk. I watch round the corner till they go away, and I tell my mother. Then I came and I climb the cherry tree, and I watch till it get dark, and the next day and the next day, and after two days they come.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I watch very quiet. I saw them break the glass and open the window, and Tyke he go in and open the door, and they all go in. Then I drop into that other yard, and I runned and runned, and I phone 999 the police, and I tell them boys in your house.”

  Francis gazed at him in wide-eyed admiration. Here was true adventure! Ram was wonderful. A real hero!

  “They come in three police cars,” said Ram, waving his hands and talking very fast. “And they stop down the street. I watch and I watch round the corner. Then they came back with Tyke and Spotty, and they all went away in the cars.”

  “But what happened? Where are they now?”

  “I haven’t seen them anymore, but the boys say they will not come back to our school. They go to another school where they stay all day and all night, and they never go home. And when I came back here someone had put wood in the window, and now no one more can come into your house. I came every day, Francis, and I climb the cherry tree to see that all is good with your house.”

  They sat talking for a long time, all about Tyke and the broken toys and the fire. It was nearly tea-time when Francis remembered that he had had no dinner. He suddenly decided to go home with Ram, have something to eat, and stay the night. Perhaps Mrs. Ram would adopt him till Mum came home.

  He explained the situation to Ram, who was not quite sure about his father’s reaction. There was no spare bed, and his own was very narrow, but perhaps he could give Francis that bed and sleep on the couch. They climbed down and started home, but just as they reached the gate a car drew up. Auntie Alison jumped out, and not even Francis could mistake the relief on her face, although she greeted him in quite a matter of fact way. “Come along, Francis,” she said. “It’s time to come home, and you must be so hungry. Is this Ram? We’ve heard about you, Ram.”

  Francis scowled at her.

  “I’m not coming,” he whispered. “You don’t want me. You never did want me. Kate said so. I’m going to live with Ram.”

  “But it’s not true. Kate lost her temper, and she knew it wasn’t true as soon as she’d said it. We all want you. We’
ve been looking for you all day and longing for you to come home. Nobody wanted any supper till you were found. Won’t you believe me, Francis?”

  The word “supper” probably did the trick, and anyhow he knew that Auntie Alison always spoke the truth. Besides, he suddenly found that the farm was the one place where he wanted to be. “All right,” he said drearily, “but they broke all my toys. All my stamps and my football cards, they’re all torn up on the floor. Tyke did it. Ram saw him.”

  “And my tulips are all broken and lying oh the ground,” said Auntie Alison. “Francis did it, and Kate saw him. But we still want you.”

  Francis hung his head. “Sorry,” he muttered. He had almost forgotten about the tulips.

  “It’s all right. We’ll talk about it later, and we’ve forgiven you. Will you come home now?”

  He slipped his hand into hers. “Come and see my toys,” he said. “Tyke did it, and Ram saw him and told the police. Ram, when I come home, we’ll play every day. And Auntie, could he come and play at the farm?”

  “Of course. Any Saturday. Uncle John could pick him up sometimes with the cattle feed.” She smiled down into Ram’s eager brown face, and Ram ran home in ecstasy, his faithful heart bursting with pride and joy.

  “You’ll have to wait at the door,” said Francis, and she watched, her heart in her mouth, till his legs disappeared through the bedroom window. The child’s a born burglar, she thought to herself, and then he reappeared at the door and led her upstairs. He pulled her down beside him on the rug amid the wreckage.

  “All my toys!” he mourned, “and my comics and my stamps. All spoiled!” And his tears flowed afresh.

  She put her arm around him and tried to comfort him. “Not all spoiled,” she said. “Lots of the stamps aren’t torn, and if you soaked them off in water, you could stick some of them in a new album. And look! There’s a dinky truck under the bed, not broken.”

  They salvaged what they could, and he leaned against her, worn out and wretched. He had never before seemed so near to her, but how could she make him understand?

  “You know now what it feels like, don’t you,” she said gently, “when people smash and destroy and hurt. I wonder why Tyke did this, and I wonder why you broke all those tulips? It didn’t make anyone happy did it?”

  He thought about it, sniffing sadly.

  “I suppose it’s something bad inside us,” he said at last. “But Tyke’s bad all the time, and I’m not always bad. I wasn’t bad yesterday.”

  The word “yesterday” gave her an idea.

  “I think our hearts inside us are rather like that spring you found,” she said. “It was fouled at the source, full of dirt and dead leaves and the water was all muddy.”

  He looked up, alert and interested.

  “The sheep wouldn’t drink it,” he said. “They’ll never drink water what’s fouled at the source.”

  “No, I don’t blame them. But Francis, I know where hurting and smashing and destroying come from. They come from hearts that are all fouled with hate and selfishness and unkindness, and then streams of hate and selfishness and unkindness flow out, like they did here. And then everyone is miserable.”

  He was listening quietly, so she went on.

  “The shepherd had to clear away all the mud and dead leaves and make a fresh outlet for the spring. And what happened then?”

  “The water came out all clear and ran to the river, and the grass was all green.”

  “Yes. And I’ll tell you something Jesus said about the source of a river. You can learn it by heart at home. Jesus said, ‘If any man is thirsty, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture said, “From his innermost being shall flow rivers of living water.” But this He spoke of the Spirit, whom those who believed in Him were to receive.’ ”*

  “A river of life,” said Francis suddenly.

  “Yes. Where did you hear that?”

  “I dreamed it. And I think they once said it in church.”

  “Well, it just means this, Francis. When we feel sorry about our fouled source of hate and unkindness, we can ask Jesus to forgive it all and to take it away. Then we can ask Him to put His loving Holy Spirit into our hearts—and then there’s a new spring, and clean streams of love and happiness and kindness flow out from Him, and then you become a loving, happy boy.”

  Francis was thinking. If they were all coming home to this smashed-up house, they would need a bit of love and happiness. Could it ever be different? Perhaps it could, if he was different.

  “Would I really?” he asked.

  “Yes. Not all at once, but little by little. Shall we ask Him?”

  So they prayed together, there on the floor, amid all the wreckage of hate and unkindness. Auntie Alison prayed aloud that God would forgive all the anger, that Jesus would come right into Francis’s heart, and that His Holy Spirit would be a new, clean source from which rivers of love and happiness would flow. Francis asked too, quietly in his heart.

  He felt healed and peaceful as they drove home, and no one welcomed him more wholeheartedly than Kate. But his real moment came later, sitting on the rug at prayer time, when he happened to look up and found himself staring at the card on the wall.

  And suddenly he knew. He had found the answer to that first question he had asked over three weeks ago, “Where is God?” For if God came to us in Jesus, and if Jesus had come into his heart, then he had found God. God was right there within him, the source of a beautiful, clean river; for God was love.

  __________________________________

  *John 7:37-38.

  14

  The Swan

  It was a very great relief to Francis, when he went back to school, to be rid of Tyke and Spotty. Their shadows no longer haunted the playground, and his teacher found him quite changed. A month’s freedom from fear and anxiety had made a big difference in him. He had put on weight and was alert and attentive in class. In short, he was happy.

  And night by night he was learning more of those wonderful stories of Jesus, whom he knew had come to live in his heart, although he had not yet discovered what difference that made. He knew he was happier, but then there were other reasons for that. Mum was getting better, Tyke was out of the way, and Kate had become quite friendly and motherly. And over and above all, there was the river.

  His love for the river grew as the days lengthened into summer, and he would wander off after tea, sometimes with Martin, sometimes alone, to launch the little boat or to wade over to the reed islands. On Saturdays Ram would join them, and they would run along to their special swimming place and swim lazily with the current and then scramble out and run back along the bank and dive in again. Martin and Chris, who had lived all their lives by the river, sometimes wondered what Francis found so exciting and would go off and do something else, but Francis spent nearly all his spare time, in, on, or by the river.

  He woke one morning because the sun was shining right through the open window onto his face. It had just appeared over the rising wheat fields, and Francis knew that it must be very early, too early to wake Martin. He stuck his head far out and looked around. Even the cows were not stirring, yet every bird in Warwickshire seemed to be fluting, twittering, or caroling in the apple trees. He thought that if he went very quietly into the yard, he might see them all sitting in rows. He slipped on his clothes and his sandals and let himself out the front door.

  He could not see the birds, and yet they were all around him in the lilac and the apple boughs. The yard lay in shadow, and the grass was cold and heavy with dew and cobwebs. The mists still lay on the river, tangled in the alders and weeping willows. Everything looked strange and mysterious, and Francis walked very softly, almost as though he were afraid to disturb the unawakened world.

  He ran along the bank as fast as she could because he wanted to go a long way. No one would mind his being late for breakfast on a Saturday, but he must not be too late because Ram was coming. The sun soon caught up with him, stealing down
across the fields, turning the dew to silver, setting the buttercups alight and scattering the mists. The shadows of the trees still lay across the river, and he thought he could run for a long, long way, past where the streams met, and not turn back till he reached the bridge in the next village. He had never been farther downstream than that before.

  But the morning was so bracing and the sunshine so golden, that he seemed to reach the bridge in no time, running all the way because he felt so strong and light, and the church clock, rising above the yew trees, only pointed to seven o’clock. He would run on, on, and on, farther than he had even been before, and find out where the river went next.

  The countryside seemed wilder beyond the bridge, and the river was mostly hidden by thick hazel bushes. Woods came down almost to the banks—deep woods where the ferns had sprung up above the dying bluebells and cuckoos called incessantly. He was thinking of turning back when suddenly the banks receded, the river broadened, and he found himself in a reedy, shallow place with little gravel beaches and marshy backwaters where rushes grew. It was an interesting place where gnats danced on the surface of the water and the first swallows skimmed the pools. He sat down under a weeping willow, for the morning was already hot, and looked about him.

  And then he saw her coming—a magnificent white swan, turning her head from left to right, and Francis cowed behind the tree, for he knew that swans can be very fierce. She did not seem to see him, but she scented danger and made a strange hissing sound. Then she floated to the edge of the current in among the reeds, walked across the beach, and into the backwater.

  Francis crept from his hiding place, lay flat on the grass, and peeped over the edge of the bank. There was a nest, roughly built in a hollow in the rushes, and on the nest lay four green-white eggs.

  Francis was thrilled. He had found it, he alone—the nest that Martin had so often talked about. He wanted one of those eggs more than anything else in the world at that moment, and no one need ever know. They would think it a terrible crime at the farm to take a swan’s egg, but he need not tell them. He could hide it under his clothes in his drawer, and on Monday he would take it to school and show his friends. It was a wonderful, rare thing to find a swan’s nest, but unless he took an egg, who would ever believe him?