Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

I was about to ask another question, but he suddenly held up his hand and stood perfectly still, listening.

  I had heard nothing, but his shepherd's ear had caught the sound at once—the faint cry of a tired lamb, calling for help.

  “That'll be him,” he said simply, “in those bushes.” And he made straight for the sound.

  It was a wonder to me, when we saw him, how the little creature had ever got in. The hedge was so tangled and the briers so thick. It was a still greater wonder to me that the shepherd ever got him out. But we started off, parting the branches, and as he worked he spoke to the lamb as a mother might speak to a frightened little child.

  I don't suppose the lamb understood the words, but he knew the voice at once, and knew in a flash that he had been searched for and found and loved, and at the sound of it he stopped struggling and crying. He gave one joyful bleat and then lay still and waited.

  It took a long time to reach him. I stood and watched as the old man patiently worked at the tangle, thorn by thorn, brier by brier. When he finally picked up the little rascal, his hands were dreadfully scratched and bleeding, but he didn't seem to notice. He just held that trembling lamb close and let it nuzzle its black nose trustfully into his pocket.

  “Are you ready to come home?” he whispered, playfully lifting the little smudged face to his own.

  “Baaa,” said the lamb, and put its nose back into the shepherd's pocket.

  We walked home quietly together with the lamb lying in the crook of his arm. Mr. Tandy seemed to be thinking deeply and his face looked very happy. When we reached the field, the sun was setting and the sky behind the bluebell slopes was the color of pink shells. We laid the lamb among the others, and he gave a bleat of contentment and fell fast asleep.

  “Well,” I said slowly, “I suppose I'd better be getting home now. Thank you for letting me help, and I hope I'll see you again soon.”

  He sat me down beside him on the wooden bench that ran around the outside of the sheepfold. “Before you go, I'll read you a bit of a story about another sheep that strayed,” he said. As he spoke, he took a small, worn Bible out of his pocket and opened it to Luke, chapter fifteen, in the New Testament. Then he began to read in his slow, kind, country voice.

  I suppose I had heard the story before, but it had never interested me. Tonight it was different, and I listened with all my heart.

  “When he finds it, he is so happy that he puts it on his shoulders and carries it back home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says to them, ‘I am so happy I found my lost sheep. Let us celebrate!’ In the same way, I tell you, there will be joy in heaven over one sinner who repents.”

  He closed his Bible and I looked up at him.

  “Good night, Ruth,” he said.

  “Good night,” I answered, “and thank you very much.”

  I walked slowly home through the buttercups.

  A Brilliant Idea

  I never told Philip about the shepherd—at least, not about the last bit—because I was afraid he would laugh and think it strange, and I should not have liked that. In any case, I almost forgot about it next day, because I had one of my brain waves, and when I had a brain wave I could never think of anything else until I had carried it out.

  It came about next day, when Philip was hobbling around the garden, not yet being able to walk to the woods. We had played all our usual games and were lying under the apple trees wondering what to do next. As there wasn't anything much to do, we just lay and chatted, and Philip started talking about his book again.

  “It's getting very fat, Ruth,” he said, “and it's full of useful information about birds. All I'm waiting for now is the camera to take the pictures, and I shan't get it for years. Just think,” he went on dreamily, “what a beautiful picture that baby owl would have made when he sat on our hands!”

  “Never mind,” I said comfortingly, “we've got one shilling and ninepence more than when we last counted, so we're getting close!”

  “But it's so slow,” sighed Philip. “I shall soon be nearly grown up, and I expect I shall be sent to boarding school and there won't be much chance to take pictures. I wish Auntie would let me be a delivery boy and earn some money in my spare time.”

  I interrupted his thoughts by pouncing on him suddenly and slapping him violently on the back. “Philip,” I shouted, “I've had the most marvellous idea!”

  “What is it?” he asked doubtfully. He was a bit suspicious of my good ideas—they often turned out badly and ended up with punishments.

  “It really is a good idea this time, Philip,” I urged, “and Aunt Margaret could never find out. We'll pick flowers, like Terry's mother does, and sell them; we'll earn pounds and pounds. Do say yes, Phil! It would be such fun!”

  Philip still wasn't at all sure about it.“But Terry's mother wouldn't like it,” he said. “If people bought our flowers they wouldn't buy hers as well, and then she wouldn't get so much money.”

  “Oh, but we won't go to the same places,” I assured him. “She sells hers in the street in town. We'll go to people's back doors, and we'll dress up a bit to look like poor children.”

  Philip's eyes sparkled. He was beginning to agree with me, as I knew he would sooner or later.

  “Let's go to the big houses halfway up the hill where they have big iron gates and drives,” he said. “We'll dress up in our oldest clothes and we'll make our faces a bit dirty and wear our muddiest shoes. You tie your plaits up in your red hanky, and we'll get pounds and pounds. Let's start soon!”

  I always liked to carry out all my plans at once, and leapt to my feet immediately. Then I remembered Philip's ankle and tried to slow myself down.

  “You'll be able to walk tomorrow, won't you?” I pleaded. “Although even if you couldn't, a little limp would be quite helpful. It would make people feel sorry for you. We could say, ‘Pity the poor lame beggar’ and hold out a hat, and you could put a big white hanky around your ankle and look as though it hurt you. Only you wouldn't have to do it too much, because it would make me laugh.”

  Philip's ankle was much better the next day, and we escaped early and made for the woods with a wicker shopping basket. We were going to pick all morning and sell all afternoon. We had no idea of prices, which rather worried us, but we decided to guess and hope for the best.

  “Where are you going?” I asked Philip as we reached the stile.

  “Down to the swamp in the hollow,” he replied. “I'm going to pick lots of cowslips, and there are some late kingcups out.

  “We can get some wild cherry blossom, too,” I added, “and I'm going to pick little bunches of wood sorrel and violets for tiny pots. We'll sell them very cheaply to the people who don't want big bunches. Oh, Phil! What fun it will be!”

  I was dancing down the sloping path that led to the swamp and nearly collided with a swinging bough of cherry blossom swaying low across the path. I stopped to pick some, and Philip caught up to me. He did not help me, but stood quietly staring up at the pure clusters.

  “Isn't it beautiful?” he remarked slowly. “It's like great snowdrifts up there. Isn't it a pity that it doesn't last? It will all have fallen in a few days, and the blossom will be all brown and ugly. Nothing beautiful really lasts, does it?”

  “Oh, there'll be some bird cherries later on, I expect,” I answered quickly. “Stop staring, Philip! It's silly to think about things like that. Get on and pick some flowers. I'm doing all the work!”

  Philip stooped down and started gathering large late violets, but his blue eyes were serious. I marched on rather crossly, for I didn't like Philip in these moods. Although I tried to forget them, his last words kept ringing in my ears: “Nothing beautiful really lasts, does it?”

  It was quite true. All the nasty things like tempers and rows with Aunt Margaret went on and on, and you couldn't get rid of them. They might stop for a time, but you knew they would always come back, but beautiful things like holidays and blossoms and sunsets and birds singing faded and
died and left you feeling empty. Certainly other beautiful things came and took their places, but it didn't comfort you for the ones that had gone.

  We picked hard all morning and filled the shopping basket with our bunches of golden cowslips, vivid purple orchids, and lacy white woodruff. The white blossom we left by itself, as we felt it looked perfect on its own. We hid all our flowers in the orchard and went in to dinner, inwardly bubbling over with excitement but outwardly quite calm.

  Aunt Margaret looked hard at Philip, who was gobbling his dinner very fast. She wondered why we wanted to be off again so quickly.

  “Philip,” she said rather sharply, “I think you should rest that foot this afternoon. You've done enough walking on it this morning.”

  “Why, Auntie,” he assured her in his most polite voice, “I've been standing nearly all morning. I just went to the swamp and stayed there and picked a few flowers. I think, too,” he added seriously, “that a lot of exercise makes it feel better. It stops it from getting stiff. In fact, I plan to walk on it as much as possible this afternoon.”

  Philip, as usual, had his way, as he always did with Aunt Margaret.

  “Very well,” she agreed, “but don't overdo it. And keep out of that swamp. Your sister's shoes are a perfect disgrace.”

  Philip looked at my shoes and sighed. He, of course, had remembered to change his before Aunt Margaret noticed them. I, of course, had not. How much easier life would be, I thought, if I had been born like Philip!

  Aunt Margaret went into the kitchen to wash up after dinner. She did not ask me to help her, and I certainly did not offer. I was always full of excuses and arguments when asked to help, and my aunt was rather tired today, so she left me alone.

  Once the door was firmly closed, I fled upstairs. I untwisted my plaits, and my hair fell dark and loose to my waist. Then I tied up my head in my Indian handkerchief that Mum had sent me and put on a dirty apron. My muddy shoes needed no touching up. I looked a perfect little vagabond. Philip wore his bird's nesting coat and Wellington boots and looked just the right companion for me.

  “Don't let Aunt Margaret see us,” he whispered as we slipped out the door. “She'd have fifty fits! We'd better go through the gap.”

  We climbed the hill that led to the big houses rather slowly, for the day was hot and the basket was heavy. Also, Philip's ankle hurt quite a bit, although he would not admit it. What really worried us was the fact that the flowers were drooping so much. Of course, we should have put them in water straight away.

  Although we hadn't been able to wait to sell the flowers, when we actually reached the first pair of iron double gates we seemed in no hurry to go in.

  “What are you going to say?” asked Philip rather nervously.

  “Me?” I replied. “I'm not going to say anything. You've got to say it. You're much better at all that sort of thing than me.”

  “Oh, well,” replied Philip peaceably, “perhaps we shan't have to say anything. Perhaps the person who lives here will come to the door and say, ‘What beautiful bunches of flowers! I'll buy two.’ And then we shall just smile and hand them over, and she'll give us some money and we'll go away.”

  This thought cheered us up a lot, and we walked rather quickly until the path divided. The left-hand path ran around the front between beautiful lawns, flower beds, and cedar trees; the right-hand one ran around to the back.

  “Do we go front or back?” I asked.

  “Back, I think,” said Philip. “After all, we mustn't forget we're flower sellers.”

  Our timid knock at the back door sounded dreadfully loud—so loud that we both jumped. The door was flung open by a very grand housemaid with dyed, curly hair who smelled of perfume.

  “Well?” she asked sharply.

  I turned away from Philip with shaking shoulders as I couldn't stop laughing, but not before I had seen that he was feeling as bad as I was. He pulled out his handkerchief and pretended to sneeze into it.

  “Well?” she asked again. This time she sounded really angry, so Philip controlled himself and answered in a very shaky voice. “Would you like to buy some flowers?” he squeaked.

  “Good gracious, no!” replied the girl. “What in the world would we be buying flowers for here? Anyway, those that you've got in the basket are all dead.”

  “Oh, they'll be all right in water …” I began, but she had already slammed the door in our faces, and we were left giggling weakly on the steps.

  The next house certainly looked less grand. The garden was smaller, and we could see the front door from the road. We stopped a minute to read a notice on the gate. It said, “NO HAWKERS, NO CIRCULARS” in large capital letters.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “I don't know,” answered Philip. “It sounds like a man who sells hawks. Anyhow, it couldn't mean us, so come on!”

  We walked on up the path, holding the basket between us. “Whatever happens, we mustn't laugh this time,” said Philip.

  We rang the bell much louder than we should have. An old lady with an eye-glass and a very straight back opened the door and stood looking down at us as though she didn't like us much.

  We were so determined to get it right this time that we both started talking at once, very fast and loud.

  All the time we were talking, the old lady stood staring at us in astonishment. She took no notice of the withered bunch of cowslips that I was trying hard to push into her hand, and asked in a cold voice, “Little boy and girl, did you not read the notice on the gate?”

  “Yes,” admitted Philip, rather puzzled, “but I'm not a hawker.”

  “And I'm sure I'm not a circular,” I added rather cheekily.

  “Little girl and boy,” went on the old lady in a very posh voice, “if you're too young to understand the English language, you are certainly too young to be doing this sort of thing. Go home to your mother!”

  And for the second time that day we found ourselves standing on the steps with the door shut in our faces.

  Philip was fed up and disappointed and suggested going home, but I wasn't ready to give up yet.

  It was at this point that a man came around the corner and nearly bumped into us.

  Philip was watching a skylark.

  “Are you interested in birds?” asked the man suddenly.

  “I'm extremely interested in them,” replied Philip. “Are you?”

  “Very,” answered the man. “I have all sorts of birds nesting in this garden. I'll show you some if you like.”

  Philip walked away with the man, already chatting seriously about birds, and I followed with the flowers.

  We had a very happy half hour, for he showed us four or five rare nests and Philip was in seventh heaven. Then, when we had been all around the garden, he took us on the verandah and gave us each a glass of lemonade. As we drank it, he suddenly remarked, “By the way, why did you come?”

  Philip had quite completely forgotten the real reason for our visit and looked quite startled for a moment. So I answered for him, holding out the basket. “We came to sell flowers,” I explained, “Would you like to buy some?”

  He chose three bunches of dying cowslips.

  “Is this how you earn your living?” he asked.

  “Oh no,” I replied, “not really. We wanted to earn some money for something very particular, so we thought we'd sell some flowers. But nobody seems to want them.”

  “Nonsense,” said the man. “Cowslips are my favorite flowers. I'd pay a lot for a scent like that.” He pressed two shillings into my hand.

  Philip went rather pink. Then, laying his hand on the man's sleeve, he said earnestly, “We should like to give them to you. You have given us such a lovely afternoon, and … and … we are very grateful to you.”

  The last words came out with a rush, as though he was reading a speech. The man's eyes twinkled, but he spoke seriously. “Not at all,” he replied. “It's been a pleasure to meet you, and I should like your little sister to keep the money. You have
an excellent knowledge of birds for someone so young, and I should like you to come again.”

  I put the two shillings in my pocket in a great hurry. I was afraid the man would do as Philip had said, but he didn't. He walked to the gate with us, and we all shook hands and said thank you. Then he turned back up the drive and we stood once again in the road.

  “Let's go home,” said Philip.

  “All right,” I agreed. “Two shillings isn't bad for a first day, and we will try again tomorrow.”

  But Philip did not answer. He was walking down the road in a happy dream. He had been in Paradise.

  An Unfortunate Tea Party

  We went out flower selling nearly every afternoon after that for a week and earned nearly fifteen shillings. We never again met anyone quite so nice as the bird man, but quite a lot of people seemed pleased with our flowers and bought bunches. We told Terry what we were doing, and he did not mind at all. In fact, he helped us quite a lot because he knew just what colors to put together and how to arrange them.

  So that Aunt Margaret should not see the flowers, we kept the bucket by a gap in the hedge, and Terry would sometimes arrive there late in the evenings and add a few of his flowers to ours. We had shown him our private gap as a sign of friendship, and he used to creep in and out and leave notes for us. His spelling was bad, but that did not worry us at all.

  Most mornings we found a scrap of paper that said, “Cum to bring ooooo.” This meant that Terry would be waiting for us at the wigwam and would need some food.

  It was toward the end of the week, when we were sitting at dinner, that my aunt remarked, “I'm going out to tea this afternoon, Philip and Ruth, and I shan't be back till about six. You may take your tea out and not come back till supper if you like.”

  We both did like very much, and we kicked each other joyfully under the table.

  “Who are you going out to tea with, Auntie?” asked Philip, who always took a polite interest in what other people were doing.

  “With an old friend of mine who has come to live here just lately,” answered my aunt. “Later on, I should like to introduce you to her. She is very fond of children and has often asked about you. She knew your mother, too.”