“Well,” replied my aunt, “you are fond of Shepherd verses, so I'll tell you how I thought of it. It was the morning I went to visit Terry for the first time. As I walked through the woods I remembered a verse I had forgotten for years. It was what the Lord Jesus said to one of His disciples just before He went back to heaven. He said, ‘Feed My lambs.’ That's why I wanted Terry to come to us so badly. Then, when he died three mornings ago, I said to myself, ‘This lamb doesn't need me anymore, but there are plenty of others …”
She stopped and stared into the fire. I held my hands out to the blaze, and we all sat thinking our own thoughts—sad thoughts about Terry, but all mixed up with happy thoughts about Christmas and the future.
The phone ringing startled us all, and Aunt Margaret went to answer it. She was gone some time, and when she returned she was laughing, and her face looked most mysterious.
“Another piece of news,” she announced, “and this is the very nicest piece of news we've had for years.”
We both stared at her in astonishment. Then suddenly Philip jumped to his feet and made a dash at her.
“I know,” he shouted. “I can guess! Mummy and Daddy are coming home!”
“Yes,” she answered, “you've guessed right first time. They will be here in time for Christmas.”
Philip's face, flushed with the firelight, was full of joy. I stayed perfectly still with my hands clasped on my knees. I suddenly felt miserable and all my old fears came back to me. I remembered Aunt Margaret's words of long ago, and how she had said that I would be such a disappointment to my mother, and I didn't want to meet her. She would like Philip better and I would be cross and unhappy and jealous again. And things were just beginning to get comfortable. I turned my head away and looked gloomily at the coal scuttle.
Philip gave me an impatient little shake. “Aren't you pleased?” he almost screamed. “Why don't you say so?”
I gave a little shrug of my shoulders. “Yes,” I replied, because that was what everyone expected me to say. Then I got up because I wanted to get away from them. “It's bedtime,” I said coldly. “Good night, Aunt Margaret.”
But it wasn't really good night, for half an hour later Aunt Margaret came softly to where I lay in the dark, and knelt by my bed.
“Ruth,” she whispered, and her voice sounded all troubled, “why aren't you glad, like Philip?”
I wriggled uncomfortably and buried my hot face in the pillows, but my aunt did not go away. She waited patiently, and seeing that she really expected an answer, I whispered back.
“You said she wouldn't like me, and I don't suppose she will.”
“Oh, Ruth,” cried my aunt, “I never said that. I said she would be disappointed when you behaved rudely and selfishly, but that was a long time ago. I know you have been trying hard to be good, and something has certainly made a difference in you. I have felt much happier about you lately, and of course your mother will love you dearly.”
I stopped wriggling and lay quite still. I had suddenly stopped feeling shy. “I know what it is,” I answered quietly. “It's my picture. It's knowing the Shepherd that's made the difference.”
“Yes,” agreed Aunt Margaret, “you're right. Your picture, and learning about the Shepherd, has made a tremendous difference to all of us.”
A Perfect Christmas
It was Christmas evening. We had had such a happy day that I kept having to stop and tell myself that it was all really true.
Mum and Dad had arrived just a fortnight before, and Philip and I had missed school and gone to Liverpool with Uncle Peter to meet the boat. We had been on an escalator, and we had stayed in a hotel where we had chicken and coffee ice cream for supper, and we had gone up to bed in a lift, and the lift man had let Philip work it. Then we had been wakened early and gone down to the Merseyside in a wet, windy dawn. We had watched the passengers streaming down the gangway of the great liner, and Uncle Peter had suddenly said in quite a quiet voice, “Here they come,” and there were Mum and Dad showing their passports at the barrier.
Philip, absolutely trustful and joyful, had flung himself straight into Dad's arms, and had then turned to Mum and hugged the hat right off her head. But I stood still, because I wanted to be quite sure of everything first. When Mum ran toward me I looked up into her face and suddenly knew that I had found something I'd been wanting all these years, without knowing it. I was so amazed by it all that I just went on staring up at her, and she didn't hurry me. She waited, looking down at me, until I was ready and held up my arms to kiss her. Then she bent down and put her arms around me. And there on the quayside, with the rain falling and the crowds jostling and the fog horns wailing, she told me in a whisper how much she loved me. I made up my mind, then and there, that I was never going to be parted from her again.
With one hand in Mum's and one in Dad's, and with Philip prancing around us like an excited puppy, we made our way back to the hotel, had kippers and toast and marmalade for breakfast, and nearly missed the train home.
Now it was Christmas evening, and the great moment of the day was approaching. We had opened our stockings, and been to church, and eaten Christmas pudding until we all felt as if we would burst. We had been for a walk on the hills in the afternoon with Dad and Uncle Peter, and had come back as hungry as ever. We had had tea by candlelight, and Dad had cut the cake with his Indian dagger and we had all pulled firecrackers. Little Minnie, one of the London children, didn't like the bangs and had been carried out screaming and fed with chocolate biscuits in the kitchen by Terry's mother, whom she adored.
Now Auntie was saying, “Run away for five minutes, children,” and Mum was saying, “Go into the kitchen and see how Minnie is getting on.” Philip pinched us all in turns and said, “Come on, everybody, now's our chance.”
When the lounge door was safely shut on the grown-ups, we slipped on our coats and tiptoed out the front door. The world was quite silent and the starlight lay silver on the snow. Philip looked hard at us and hummed the note, then we all threw back our heads and started singing the carol we had learned to sing to the grown-ups.
While I was singing, I kept thinking that the Baby Jesus was now my Shepherd, who was going to look after me day and night and carry me home some day to where Terry was. I knew that I was perfectly safe forever and ever.
When the carol was over, Alfie hammered excitedly on the door. It was flung open, and there in the hall, under the mistletoe and holly, were Mum and Auntie in paper hats and Dad and Uncle pretending they didn't know it was us, and Terry's mother with tears in her eyes and little Minnie clasped tightly in her arms. We flung ourselves wildly upon them.
“Did you like it?” we shouted. “Did you really think it wasn't us?”
We tumbled inside, took off our coats, and gathered around the Christmas tree, which we had dug up from the Cowleigh woods. It was now beautifully decorated. The candles were alight and shed a rosy glow over the room.
It was so pretty that we stopped shouting and sat down quietly, cross-legged on the floor, while Dad started giving out the presents. The little Londoners were thrilled with their gifts, and soon it was our turn.
Dad took a square parcel from the pile at the bottom of the tree and handed it to Philip. “Open it carefully, Phil!” he warned. “It's very fragile.”
Philip annoyed me by taking a long time over the unwrapping, but he always liked to make his pleasures last as long as possible. At last it came to light, and Philip made a funny noise in his throat like something trying not to explode. It was a black Kodak camera, just like the one we had so often gazed at in the windows of the chemist's shop.
“Philip,” I squealed, “you've got it!” Then I stopped short, for of course it was my turn now. Dad had chosen a flat, hard parcel and was holding it out to me.
Everyone crowded around to watch as I, unlike Philip, tore the wrappings off as quickly as possible and gave a little gasp of delight and went pink all over.
It was my own picture, but not a cr
umpled, torn postcard one. It was a big, beautiful copy in a carved wooden frame for me to hang over my bed and keep forever. In fact, it was just like the one in Mr. Robinson's study.
The grown-ups opened their presents after that, and seemed as pleased as we were. They were mostly homemade things and we were very proud of them: wooden bookends for Uncle Peter, a purse for Aunt Margaret, a blotter for Dad, and a hot water-bottle cover for Mum. Terry's mother was presented with a highly colored, embroidered handkerchief case, which she admired very much indeed. Of course, there were other presents, too, but these were the main ones. By the time everyone had opened everything, Minnie was fast asleep in Terry's mother's arms, and Lizzie in her new green dress was nodding against the wall. So they were carried off and tucked in.
Philip and I helped clear up, and then Philip and Dad sat down on the sofa and looked at the bird book together for about the tenth time. But it was different now, because the camera lay in Philip's lap and they were planning the photos.
I wandered off by myself with my picture in my arms and climbed the stairs. I wanted to curl up behind the curtain on the landing windowsill and look out at the Christmas stars and snow, and listen to the bells that were ringing from the church nearby. But when I reached my hiding place, I found that Mum had got there first, and that was even better than being alone, so I climbed onto her lap and held up my picture because I wanted us to look at it together.
“Isn't it beautiful?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied Mum, “but what made you love it so especially, Ruth? Tell me about it.”
So I told her, rather shyly, and she listened, looking out over the snow, until I finished.
“And it's not only me,” I ended up. “He found me first, but after that He found Philip and Terry's mother, and He found Terry, too, and carried him right home Mummy, sometimes I wonder if he found Aunt Margaret, too. At least, I think she had forgotten about Him a bit, and when she saw the picture it reminded her of Him again.”
“Yes, I think it did,” answered Mum. “Do you know, Ruth, I also want to learn about Him? Sometimes, far away in India, I used to pray that somehow you would get to know about Him, but I never felt I knew enough to teach you myself.”
I looked up quickly. “Did you really?” I exclaimed. “Then I suppose that's why it all happened. You sort of sent Him to us. I'm glad it's like that, because it makes it even nicer than it was before.”
I laid my head against her shoulder, and we sat quietly looking out. I think I nearly fell asleep, and in a half-dreaming way I saw us all found, and following through the green fields in Terry's picture. Mum and Dad, Auntie and Uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Robinson and the twins, their tiny feet stumbling through the daisies. Old Mr. Tandy with his flock behind him. Terry's mother, Philip, and me. Alfie, and Lizzie, and Minnie, because I had promised to tell them all about my picture in the morning. And, in front of us all, the Good Shepherd with the wounded hands leading us on to a land far away where Terry was, perfectly strong and happy.
©PATRICIA M. ST. JOHN 1977
FIRST PUBLISHED BY SCRIPTURE UNION 1978
THIS REVISED EDITION FIRST PUBLISHED 2001
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
All Scripture quotations are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-8024-6579-X
ISBN-13: 978-0-8024-6579-5
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Contents
1. Awkward Questions
2. Guide Camp
3. A Letter Arrives
4. A Shocking Discovery
5. Making Friends with Don
6. Badger Watching with Don and Mr. Smith
7. The Adventure Begins
8. A Shock—and a Mystery
9. The Most Amazing Day
10. Spain—and Important Conversations
11. I Find an Answer
12. A Trip to Gibraltar
13. An Unforgettable Day
14. “Jesus in My Heart”
15. Grandpa Arrives in Spain
16. “All Bright in Front …”
Revised Edition
It is over twenty years since the first edition of Patricia St. John's The Mystery of Pheasant Cottage was published. It has been reprinted many times and has become a classic of its time.
In this new edition, Mary Mills has sensitively adapted the language of the book for a new generation of children, while preserving Patricia St. John's skill as a storyteller.
Awkward Questions
I can clearly remember the first time I really began to wonder about the mystery that surrounded my early life. I was at kindergarten, sitting with my friends under the apple tree in the playground. It was a perfect morning in May and we were drinking mugs of milk at break time.
“Lucy, why do you live with your gran? Why don't you live with your mum and dad, like everybody else?”
Harvey Chatterley-Foulkes fixed his goggle-eyes on me as he asked his question.
I had to think of an answer quickly, and looked around hopefully for Miss Hunt, my teacher, thinking she would help me, but she had gone to look for someone in the cloakroom. I stared at Harvey, thinking he looked like a fat frog, and said, “Because I don't. Wipe your mouth, Harvey. You've got a milk mustache.” I thought this would make me sound grown up and confident, but Harvey took no notice.
“But why not?” he insisted. “I mean, where are they? You must have been born from someone.”
There was silence. If I said, “I don't know,” they would all laugh at me, and I might cry. Now, all eyes were fixed on me, waiting for my answer.
“Perhaps they're dead,” said Mary cheerfully.
“Or perhaps they've run away and left you,” breathed Janie.
“Or perhaps they're divorced,” broke in Billy, who seemed to know all about it.
I looked around desperately and breathed a great sigh of relief, for Miss Hunt was coming across the playground. I went over to her and felt safe, but Harvey was still determined to find out about my private affairs.
“Miss Hunt,” he squeaked excitedly, “why does Lucy live with her gran? I mean, why hasn't she got a dad and—”
Miss Hunt's clear voice silenced him.
“If I had a gran like Mrs. Ferguson, I wouldn't mind too much if I had parents or not; she's as good as a mum and dad rolled into one. You're a lucky girl, Lucy. My gran died when I was a baby. Now, wipe your mouth, Harvey; you've got a milk mustache. And now, everybody listen. Since it's the first of May …”
Everyone immediately forgot about me being parentless as we fixed our eyes on Miss Hunt, wondering what delight she was going to surprise us with because it was the first of May.
“Because it's the first of May,” she repeated, “instead of going back in the classroom for math, we're all going for a walk up to the wood on the hill to pick kingcups—they're just out.”
There was a shout of joy as sixteen happy children raced toward the meadow. Miss Hunt walked behind, and I trotted quietly beside her, still feeling rather shaken.
I knew now that Harvey's question had been there for a long time, buried deep and never asked. Now, all of a sudden, everyone had asked it; and there was no answer.
I knew that I had not always lived at Pheasant Cottage with Gran. A long time before that there had been somewhere else, where a very t
all man had carried me in his arms, and I remember very clearly that he had once gone down on all fours and let me ride on his back. As I grew older, I used to wonder if he could have been my father, but, strange to say, I had never asked.
I'll ask Gran today, I said to myself, and then forgot all about it in the delight of the outing. Miss Hunt was in front now, because the hill was steep for small legs. She looked like the Pied Piper with all her class puffing and hurrying behind her, while she called back exciting instructions.
“See how many different kinds of wildflowers you can find … not all dandelions, Sally! Look very quietly in the hedges—you might see a nest. Harvey, stop chattering! We want to listen to the birds, and you are frightening them all away. Now, stand still, everybody … you, too, Lizzie; stop jumping up and down! Now, be very quiet. Can anyone hear that thrush singing?”
Then we plunged into the oak wood, and I was the first to spot a gleam of gold in the shadows and shout, “Kingcups!”
Everyone broke into a charge through the undergrowth, but Miss Hunt shooed us back onto the path so that we didn't get stuck in the swamp. But there were plenty of flowers to be reached from the path, and we returned home later with muddy feet and pollen-powdered noses.
Parents were waiting by the schoolroom door, and one by one the children went home, clasping their golden bunches. I lived a long way out, and it was four o'clock before Miss Hunt put me on the school bus.
Gran was standing at the bus stop with Shadow, our black Labrador, who was straining at his lead and barking for joy because he knew I was coming. We usually chased each other madly home, but Shadow must have been disappointed that afternoon because I did not feel like playing. I walked quietly beside Gran, hugging my kingcups, and then, suddenly, I asked my question.
Patricia St John Series Page 23
