“Will she ask us out to tea, too?” I asked with interest. I liked going out to tea because we always had such nice things to eat.
“If she did, you would have to behave yourself rather better than you usually do,” replied my aunt, and I frowned and wriggled with annoyance. Why should she always spoil even nice, good things like going out to tea with silly remarks like that? Of course I always behaved nicely when asked out to tea! I was far too shy not to, and in any case it was rather fun having grown-ups say how well-mannered we were. Quite a change, too, as far as I was concerned.
When dinner was over, my aunt took me off to the kitchen to help dry the dishes, which I did at lightning speed, and ran off the moment I'd finished. Aunt Margaret called after me to come back and put the cloth away tidily, but I pretended not to hear and scuttled through the front door.
Philip was waiting near the gap, looking rather worried, with the basket in his hand.
“Come along,” he said, “we must get well away before Auntie starts. We might meet her, and we forgot to ask which way she was going.”
“Oh, I think she's going down the town way,” I answered carelessly. “I heard her say something to Uncle Peter about it—someone she was going to see down Beech Road.”
“Perhaps it was somebody else,” said Philip.
“No, no,” I replied, “it was sure to be the same one. She doesn't go and see many people. She's too busy.”
Philip chewed a piece of grass thoughtfully.
“She's always working, isn't she?” he remarked at last. “Sometimes I think we should help her a bit more than we do. After all, it's quite kind of her to have us live with her. We're not her children.”
“Oh, I don't know,” I answered quickly, for this sort of talk was not at all to my liking. “I help with the drying and dusting sometimes, and you do the wood for Uncle Peter, and we both pick fruit in summer and shell peas and things. After all, we're not grown-ups, and children shouldn't have to work during the holidays. We do quite enough work in the school year.”
I could see by the look on Philip's face that he was not quite satisfied, so I changed the subject as soon as possible.
We went down a country road to a collection of rather pretty cottages. At the first four houses everyone bought something, and we earned over two shillings.
It was a peaceful sort of day on which no one would expect anything to happen. So we were taken completely by surprise, never dreaming that the afternoon would turn out as it did.
We wandered up a lane to have tea and sat on a gate looking over a bright buttercup field, where sleepy brown cows chewed their cud and switched their tails lazily. We munched our bread and jam as peacefully as the cows and almost as silently, for Philip was not really a talkative boy.
It was still only four o'clock, so we decided to go back to the road and try some more cottages. We were going to do our best today and then go back to Terry and the woods tomorrow, for we were getting a little tired of flower selling. Still, it was encouraging to be finishing up so well, and on reaching the road we approached the next cottage hopefully enough.
It was a very nice one, long, low, and built of grey stone. We walked up the path and along to the front door; on our way we passed under a window, and heard the clink of china and the sound of ladies’ voices. It sounded as if some sort of a tea party was going on, and ladies at tea parties are usually in rather a good mood, as Philip wisely remarked.
We rang the bell, and the lounge door opened immediately. A young lady came out and stood looking at us for a moment before asking us what we wanted. When we held out the basket and asked her to buy some flowers, she started to smile. “Wait a minute,” she said, instead of answering our question. “I must ask my mother, and then you must come in and show us what you've picked.”
She disappeared back into the lounge, and we heard her merry laugh as she told her mother about us.
“Such a cute little couple, pretending to be flower sellers,” we heard her say. “The boy has a face like an angel, and the girl looks like a little wild thing. You must see them for yourselves. I'll bring them in.”
She came back, smiling, and held out her hand.
“Come in a moment,” she said, “and show my mother and aunt your basket. I'm sure they would like to buy some cowslips. You shall have a biscuit each, too. We're just having tea.”
We trotted in after her, suspecting nothing, and then we both stopped still suddenly in the doorway, struck with horror.
There were four chairs placed around a little table in the window so that the ladies were sitting with their backs to us. In the first chair sat a tall, elderly lady who was evidently the mother, for she was pouring the tea. Next to her sat the aunt, and next to her was the empty seat that was about to be occupied by the young lady.
Next to that was a high-backed armchair with large sides, and from it came the unmistakable voice of Aunt Margaret.
“The little girl is very rough,” said the voice. “I shall be only too glad when her mother comes and takes her off my hands.”
“Run,” I whispered to Philip. “Oh, Phil, run quick!”
But Philip, in his usual slow fashion, had not yet realized what had happened. He stood there blinking as though he were in some puzzling dream. I tried to think of another way to escape.
There was one small hope. If we walked in and stood behind my aunt's chair, it was quite impossible for her to see us, for the chair was very big. If we were asked to speak, she would certainly know it was us. However, it was our only chance.
As the young lady beckoned us to come forward, wondering why we were hesitating, I took Philip's hand and led him to the only safe spot in the room.
The older lady smiled and tried to make us feel at home. She held out her hand for a bunch of cowslips. I took two steps forward, leaned right over, pushed them at her, and scuttled back to my hiding place like a frightened rabbit to its burrow. The girl looked rather surprised, for we had not seemed shy on the doorstep; yet here we were behaving in the most peculiar fashion, and Philip was standing like a stuffed dummy, with his mouth open.
“What beautiful big flowers,” said Mrs. Sheridan, examining them, “We shall have to go exploring and find some, too. Whereabouts did you pick these, children?”
There was dead silence. Neither of us dared speak. I heard a rustle in the armchair, as though my aunt was about to turn around and examine these strange dumb children behind her – and if her head suddenly appeared over the top, I knew I would scream. So I replied, in a hoarse whisper, “In the hollow, by the stream.”
“By the stream,” repeated Mrs. Sheridan. “Yes, I might have known these had grown near water. I shall certainly buy a bunch. Fetch my purse, Isobel, and give these two children a biscuit each before they go.”
The girl held out the plate, but to reach it we should have to walk out in the open. We shook our heads frantically, but she just thought we were being polite.
“Come along,” she said, laughing “They're very nice biscuits.”
Hopelessly I took two steps forward and leaned over as far as I could to grab two biscuits. But as I did so, I saw my aunt's hat move, and I leapt backward. I bumped into a small cake stand and sent it flying.
My aunt's head appeared around the side of the chair and she saw me.
I can only dimly remember what happened next. I heard my aunt shout, “Philip and Ruth, what is the meaning of this?”
Mrs Sheridan said, “Pick them up, Isobel. They are butter-side down all over the carpet. Don't let them get trodden in!”
I saw Philip move back and trip over Isobel, who was picking up buttered buns, and I noticed that her face looked as though she was trying not to laugh. I remember everybody apologizing for everybody, and my aunt saying she could not understand it, a great many times. Mrs. Sheridan was saying it was nothing to worry about, and we were to forget all about it.
The next thing that comes back clearly to me was my aunt turning to us when all the fus
s had died down and telling us she was taking us home to punish us most severely. But before we went we were to come forward and tell Mrs. Sheridan how sorry we were for behaving so badly.
Philip had recovered by now, and he stepped forward immediately and looked up into Mrs. Sheridan's face. He was truly sorry for having spoiled such a nice tea party, especially when Aunt Margaret went to so few, and he said so, so earnestly and politely that everyone was charmed. Even my aunt looked pleased, and if only she could have stopped there, all would have ended peacefully. But now she turned to me and asked me coldly what I had to say for myself.
I don't quite understand to this day why I was so angry, but while Philip was talking, I had decided that my aunt was an idiot. There was no need to have recognized and owned us. We should never have shown we belonged to her, and then no one would have known. Therefore, I argued, she had brought all this trouble on herself, and here we were being told we were naughty, in front of everyone. And we weren't naughty. Why shouldn't we sell flowers? Anyone would think we were stealing!
All this was flashing through my angry little heart when my aunt spoke to me. I stuck my hands in my pockets and stamped my muddy boot.
“I'm not a bit sorry,” I said. “We're not doing anything wrong, and no one called us naughty till we met you. We've earned the money and it belongs to us, and we shall go on doing it if we want. You always spoil everything, Aunt Margaret.”
My aunt went quite white. Never in my worst moments at home had I spoken to her like this, and here I was disgracing us all in somebody else's front room. I suddenly felt terrified and miserable, and ran out into the garden, leaving them all standing looking at each other.
I wanted to dash on, but realized that they might think I was running away, and I was far too proud to run away. So I walked off toward home with my hands in my pockets and my head held very high in the air. I knew my aunt and Philip were coming down the hill behind me, so I pretended to whistle, but I was too miserable to keep it up for long. When I reached home I went and stared out the kitchen window and tried to whistle again. I wanted to look as though nothing had happened and as though I didn't care if it had. Above all, I wasn't going to be sorry.
My aunt came in slowly, as though she was very, very tired. She came and stood beside me, looking out the window.
“Ruth,” she said slowly, “I'm not going to punish you because it doesn't seem to do much good. But I've been thinking it out on the way home. I don't seem able to manage you or bring you up as I should. You have ten days more holiday, and then, if they can take you, I am going to send you to boarding school. Your mother suggested it at Christmas, but I wanted to keep you then. Of course, it will be a big extra expense, but anything is better than have you grow up selfish and stubborn and bad-mannered as you are now.”
She turned away without looking at me, and I went on staring out the window. I felt as though the whole world was falling down around me, and I wanted to run to Philip and bury my face in his sweater and cry, as I used to when I was a tiny girl. But Philip had been sent straight upstairs to bed, and I was alone.
“I shan't go,” I said in what was meant to sound a strong voice, but which only sounded small and shaky.
“You won't be asked,” replied my aunt quietly.
There was a long silence, and I stood perfectly still, thinking furiously. Then I spoke again in the same small, trembling voice that tried so hard to be proud.
“Very well,” I announced, “I shall run away, and I shan't come back.” And with that I ran straight out the door and into the road.
My aunt took no notice. It was very early, and I often rushed off like this in a temper. No doubt I would come back before dark. She sighed heavily and went slowly up to her room.
Running Away
I did not stop for a minute when I got out into the road. I just went on running. It did not matter to me where I went so long as I got away, and in my angry heart I decided that I would never, never go back again. I would get some kind lady to adopt me, or ask someone to let me be their little servant, and then perhaps Aunt Margaret would be sorry. I knew Uncle Peter would miss me when he came home every night, and of course Philip would be dreadfully sad. At the thought of Philip I started to cry, and I went on running and running, with tears streaming down my cheeks.
“You're going away to boarding school.” I kept whispering the horrid words to myself and trying to take it all in. I saw myself going away in disgrace, alone in a train, to a building that I imagined would be rather like a prison. I imagined Terry and Philip sitting in the wigwam together, with the birds singing and the foxgloves sprouting up above the bracken, and I should not be there. Then other pictures seemed to dance before my eyes: Philip kneeling alone at the bedroom window with the sun rising over the hills—and my little bed empty. Philip lying on his tummy in the hayfields, writing his book—and I should not be there to draw the pictures.
It was quiet all around me as I trotted along. I had met no one, and except for the cries of birds going to bed and my own sobbing, the world had seemed quite silent. But now I suddenly realized I could hear children's voices and dogs barking.
I had reached the entrance to a village where I had been once or twice before. It was a very little village—only a few cottages, a school, a village shop, and a church.
I stood for a little while wondering what to do. I was hot and very tired, and my head was beginning to ache. I wanted to sit somewhere cool and quiet where I could rest and think where to go next. I looked all around me and then realised that I was standing by a little brown wooden gate that led into a churchyard, and the church door was open. No one was likely to go into church as late as this, and even if they did I could crouch down in a pew and they would not see me. I went up the path between the rows of quiet gravestones, reading the names as I went past.
One stone interested me especially, and I stopped to read it again. It was a little white cross, marking a garden of forget-me-nots. On it was written, “JANE COLLINS, AGED 9 YEARS, WENT TO BE WITH THE LORD APRIL 5TH, 1900.”
I read it through several times, then shivered at the thought of poor little Jane Collins who had died so young, and in April, too, so she would have left behind the spring sunshine, lambs, and flowers. Death had always seemed a long way ahead, something to be thought about by old people and clergymen, but Jane Collins was only nine years old when she “went to be with the Lord.” What if I, aged nine, had suddenly to go and “be with the Lord”? What would He say to me about all my tempers, and the lies I told, and the times I'd run away instead of helping, and the dust under the carpet? It would be far, far worse than going to boarding school. For the first time in my life I began to feel really frightened about being so naughty.
I walked on into the church foyer, and peeked inside. It was quite empty, so I slipped through the door and began wandering around looking at all the things on the walls. One thing pleased me most of all, and that was the evening light streaming through the stained-glass windows and falling in colored patterns on the stone floor.
As I stood watching, it suddenly came over me how dreadfully tired I was. The church was so quiet and cool and friendly, with its sunset light and its daffodils, that I thought I would lie down and rest a little before deciding what to do next. I collected some footstools, made a little mattress, wrapped myself up in an old black gown that hung near the door, and cuddled down inside one of the pews where I could watch the beautiful patterns and think things out.
I had not realized how sleepy I was. I had been out in the open air all day. I had been very frightened and very angry and very miserable, and I had run nearly three miles on a warm spring evening. All these things were enough to make any little girl dog-tired. In fact, I was so tired that I could hardly remember laying my head down on the footstool before all my cares melted away from me, and I knew I couldn't keep awake any longer.
Just as I was dropping off, I thought I saw Jane Collins standing in the sunset light of the west window,
pointing upward along the golden rays. She was a little girl just like me, with dark plaits and a pinafore and blue socks, and the moment I saw her face I knew I had made a mistake in pitying her, for never before, either in dreams or real life, had I seen a child look so radiantly happy. Her arms were full of Easter flowers, and somehow I knew perfectly well that they would never fade or die. Then the light grew dim and blurred and I fell into a deep, deep sleep.
When I woke up I was lying in the dark, and for a long time I could not imagine where I was. I was very stiff and cold and sore, for the footstools had come apart and I was lying partly on the stone floor. I sat up and changed my position. When I lifted my face I found that a wonderful thing had happened: the day was beginning to dawn, and a grey light was coming through the eastern window on the other side of the church. The darkness had scattered, and with it all my terrors and nightmares. I gave a great sigh of relief and sat quite still, facing the morning light.
As I sat there waiting and listening, the dreadful silence was broken by the clear call of one bird, and I realized with a thrill of joy that the world was waking up again after the terrible night. Then another bird woke and answered, then another, until it seemed as if every bird in Herefordshire must be singing. As I sat listening, the grey light gave place to gold. The sun was rising, and morning had come again.
The relief was so great that I did not want to move. I forgot that I was cold and hungry and only remembered that the night was over and that I was no longer alone, because the birds had woken up. Soon I would slip out of the church and run home to Philip, but for the moment I was content to sit and listen.
But I did not sit and listen for long, for somehow my head fell over onto the footstools and I dropped fast asleep again. When I woke the next time it was very suddenly, for the church was flooded with light and there were heavy footsteps coming up the aisle.
Patricia St John Series Page 15
