Mr. Tandy Explains

The path to the wood was almost overgrown with yellow bracken and tree branches, but I pressed on because I wanted to get right into the heart of it, far away from everybody, where I could sit and think about the strange things that had happened since Terry died.

I walked a long way—just wandering, kicking at the damp leaves, brushing aside the yellow bracken, and trying to forget that we had left Terry alone in the earth. But I could not forget. When at last I came to a clearing where a great chestnut tree spread out its branches, I lay down on the roots, and resting my head against the trunk I began to cry, and my tears fell thick and fast on the moss.

I was so tired and so miserable that I never heard slow, heavy steps rustling through the leaves. I jumped when a well-known voice above me spoke to me.

“Ruth, Ruth,” said the voice, “what is all this about? You'll catch your death of cold lying there on the ground.”

It was Mr. Tandy. He stooped down and wrapped his big, rough coat about me just as if I had been one of his own stray lambs. Then he sat down on the root, and I snuggled up against him and gave a very big sniff.

I had not seen Mr. Tandy for several months because he had left our district to go and work at the Cradley folds. I was very pleased to see him, and very glad to have someone to talk to after my lonely walk. I told him all about what had happened. “I prayed so hard Terry would get better,” I said sadly, “but it didn't do any good. God didn't listen, and he died.”

“Ruth,” replied Mr. Tandy slowly, “if you come to me and say, ‘There's a little lame lamb over there that can't run about because the pasture is too steep and the stones sharp,’ and I come down and pick up that little lamb and carry him in my arms to another pasture where the grass is sweet and the ground easy to run about on, you wouldn't tell me that I hadn't taken any notice of you, would you, now?”

I gazed at him dumbly. I was beginning to understand.

“Ruth,” he went on, “the Shepherd took His lamb home, that's all. You've no need to worry.”

“But,” I cried, my eyes once more filling with tears, “it didn't seem like that at all. They buried Terry in the earth and we left him there, and it seemed so sad and lonely. How can Terry be with the Shepherd when we left him lying in the earth?”

The old man did not answer for a moment, and then he started scraping about with his hands in the leaves as though he was looking for something. His search was rewarded and he held out a shiny brown chestnut in one hand and an empty seed shell in the other—a withered old thing with green prickles turning brown.

“Now tell me,” he said in his slow, thoughtful voice, “what's going to happen to the chestnut, and what's going to happen to the seed shell?”

“Oh,” I answered, “the shell will get buried in the leaves and then I suppose it will just wither away. It isn't needed any more. But the chestnut will grow roots and leaves and turn into a chestnut tree.”

“That's right,” said Mr. Tandy encouragingly. “You couldn't have said it better. Now tell me this, Ruth. When you see the young chestnut tree waving its little new leaves in the sunshine next spring, with the birds singing around it and the rain watering it, you're not going to worry anymore for that old seed shell that's crumbled away under the leaves, are you?”

“No,” I answered with my eyes fixed on his face. Once more I thought I understood.

“Well, then,” said the old man joyfully, “you stop worrying for what you laid below the ground. It was just the shell. Terry's growing strong in the sunshine.”

His kind old eyes lit up with joy as he spoke. He threw down the chestnut and seed shell and rose stiffly to his feet, because his knees were “full of rheumatics,” as he had once told me. Then he took his coat off me and told me to go home.

“If I don't get along,” he said, “I shan't get that gap mended, and my sheep will be straying out again. Good-bye, Ruth, and God bless you.”

I watched him as he moved off into the golden shadows of the wood, and then I stooped down and picked up the chestnut and its shell. Clutching them tightly in my hands, I set off for home rather fast, for I was cold and tired and dusk was falling. When I reached our fields again, the sky was aglow with orange light, and against the sunset stood a little black figure. It was Philip, and he had come to look for me.

I ran to him and slipped my hand into his, and we walked along in comfortable silence. As we climbed the stile, he glanced at my other hand.

“What are you holding so tightly?” he asked curiously.

I opened my hand and held out my new treasure.

“It's a chestnut and its shell,” I said shyly, “and it's like Terry. Mr. Tandy told me so.”

“Why?” asked Philip.

“Because,” I answered, finding it difficult to explain, “what we put in the earth is like the shell. It doesn't matter because Terry didn't need it anymore. The inside part that's alive has gone with the Shepherd, so I'm not really sad about it now. Mr. Tandy said it was like a lamb being taken to another field where the grass is nicer.”

Philip nodded understandingly. “I see,” he said, “and I'm glad you're not sad anymore.”

When we got home, we found that Aunt Margaret had lit a fire in the nursery, and she, Terry's mother, Philip, and I were going to have supper. It was a lovely, picnicky sort of supper with hard-boiled eggs and treacle, gingerbread, rosy apples and pears, and hot chocolate. I had been for a long walk, and Philip had been playing football, so we were both starving! We wriggled nearer the blaze and rubbed our shoulders together to show how much we were enjoying it. Even Terry's mother smiled faintly.

When we had eaten all we possibly could, Aunt Margaret, holding out her hands to the blaze, said softly, “Terry's mother and I have been making plans.”

“Have you?” we asked, very interested. “Will you tell us?”

“Yes,” said my aunt, “because it's a plan that you can both help with. In fact, I shall need your help a great deal. You see, now that little Terry has gone, we want to do something in memory of him. Terry was weak and ill, and we couldn't help him get better. But there are other weak, ill children whom perhaps we could help to get better. Now that I have Terry's mother to help me in the house, and Ruth is getting so handy, I was thinking we'd try to find some of these children and have them here during the holidays. I used to know someone who worked in a prison in London, and I think he could help us. I thought I would write to him and ask him to find two or three little children who needed good food and country air, and invite them here for Christmas. We would give them as lovely a time as possible. Would you like it, Philip and Ruth?”

We thought it was a wonderful idea, and both of us began to talk at once, eagerly planning what we would do to make it a happy Christmas for them. It was a great relief, for somehow, since Terry died, we had almost felt as though we should not talk about other things. Now we could talk freely and happily about this, for it was all because of Terry and somehow part of Terry.

So we planned about Christmas stockings and Christmas carols and Christmas dinners and Christmas trees, and our cheeks got redder and redder in the firelight and our eyes grew brighter and brighter.

“Auntie,” I cried at last, cuddling up against her, “it is a good idea. How did you think of it?”

“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.”