The Mulberry Tree

by Allison Rushby

  The tension between the three adults was stifling. Immy began to think Helen would persuade the owners to rent the place just so she could get rid of Immy’s family.

  “Would you like to duck out for a coffee while I call them?”

  “No,” Immy’s mum told her. “We’ll wait.”

  Everyone glanced over at the tiny waiting area only yards to their left. It consisted of the tiniest of coffee tables and four hard wooden stools. It was more for decoration than for waiting.

  “Of course.” Helen smiled the fakest of smiles now. “I won’t be a moment.”

  Immy and her parents moved over to the waiting area and sat down. They didn’t pick up any of the magazines on the table, and neither of her parents got out their phone. Instead, everyone listened in as Helen called the owners of Lavender Cottage.

  “Hello, Jessica. Yes, the family I spoke to you about last night have come back in. They’d like to rent the cottage for a year . . .” Her voice changed to a whisper. “Yes, as I said, I’ve told them everything. . . . Mmm. . . . Eleven in a month’s time . . . I don’t know, they don’t seem to mind. . . .” There was a long pause, as the owner must have spoken at length. “Well, all right, then, if you’re sure.”

  There was the clunk of a phone being put down, then the sound of an office chair being wheeled backward. Immy and her parents all stood as Helen approached, that fake smile plastered across her face again.

  “If you’d like the cottage, it’s yours for twelve months,” she said. “As you know, it includes all the furniture, and the washing machine and fridge are built in, so all you’ll need are the essentials. Our firm has a rental service that can supply linen, dishes and glassware, and so on, if you like. We could deliver by late this afternoon.”

  “That sounds perfect, Helen.” Immy’s mum smiled her own fake smile in return.

  “I’ll print the forms out now.” Helen moved back to her desk, Immy’s mum following in her wake.

  Immy turned to her dad, who rubbed his hands together. “House sorted,” he said. “Next stop, rent a car.”

  By midday, Immy and her parents had gotten their keys to the cottage, rented a car, checked out of their hotel, picked up a few groceries, and made their way to Lavender Cottage.

  “Want to do the honors?” Her dad passed her the key to the glossy yellow front door. Immy stuck it in the lock, turned the knob, and opened the door wide.

  Inside, all was quiet. The threesome moved into the small entryway and looked around. Immy closed her eyes for a moment, wondering if she’d feel that strange sensation she’d felt yesterday. The one that had drawn her toward the garden. If she’d hear anything.

  But there was nothing.

  If anything, it was a little bit too quiet.

  It was her father who moved off first, going to sit in one of the easy chairs in the living room, facing the fireplace. He pushed his hands out in front of himself as if warming them.

  “My own fireplace,” he said. “I can’t wait to get a roaring fire going in there.”

  Her mum laughed. “It’s summer! You’re such a caveman.”

  “Just imagine. Christmas, a fire, roasted chestnuts, some eggnog, the Christmas tree over there.” He pointed to a corner of the room.

  “You’ve got it all worked out,” her mother said.

  “Can I have a puppy?” Immy said.

  Her parents both laughed. “Nice try,” they said at the same time.

  Watching them, Immy’s heart skipped a beat as it remembered how things used to be.

  But then her dad got up. “Dream’s over, sunshine. Time to unpack your suitcase before the truck gets here.”

  Immy’s dad lugged her suitcase up to her bedroom, unlocked it, and undid the zipper. “Have fun!” he told his daughter with a teasing grin.

  Immy waited until he’d gone and slowly looked around the room, taking it all in — the desk, the chair, the chest of drawers, the bed, the mirrored wardrobe.

  And, of course, the tree, casting its long shadow outside. The breeze must have picked up, because the very tip of a branch scraped against the window with a slow and steady screech, the noise making every single hair on Immy’s arms stand on end.

  When the icky feeling had subsided, she strode over to the window, averted her eyes, and drew the curtains. She tried to convince herself that she wasn’t scared of the tree, that she just needed time to get used to it. To its presence. To its noises.

  It was just a tree.

  Screech. The noise came again.

  “Oh, shush,” she told it, sounding a whole lot braver than she felt. She turned her back to the window.

  That done, she was able to concentrate on the room itself.

  The truth was, unpacking was kind of fun. Once the boring bits like putting away toiletries and hanging up clothes had been done, working out where she’d put things like photos and her stationery was nice. She wondered about the girl whose room this had been before her. What was she like? What had the room looked like then? Would they be in the same class at school? Would they be friends?

  “Immy!” her dad had finally called out after an hour or so had passed.

  “Yep?”

  “Sandwiches!”

  It was only then that she realized how hungry she was. She abandoned the few books she’d brought with her and ran down the steep stairs. Rounding the corner, she was in the dining room/kitchen in an instant.

  “Whoa. Slower on those stairs, please,” her mum said as she ferried juices and sandwiches from the fridge to the dining room table.

  “Okay.” Immy’s eyes were on her father, who was standing by the French doors, which were open.

  “Do we dare?” He held his hand out toward her.

  Immy crossed the room. And when she reached her father, she took his hand, even though she thought she was far too old to do so.

  Immy stared at the ground until they were directly under the tree itself. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. It was so loud she was sure the tree could hear it, too.

  Another noise caught her attention. There, woven through the thumping of her heart. Something else. Something higher, almost floating. Like a song. She knew it from somewhere. Remembered it somehow.

  The sound was lost as Immy’s gaze moved up, the sky poisoned by the tree’s branches. The tree smelled strange. Musty and old, like it was stuffed full of decaying secrets.

  A flash of something bright caught her eye, and she saw that another white rose was wedged into the bottom knot. Immy looked around to make sure, but there were definitely no white roses growing in the garden. In fact, there was nothing growing in the garden other than the hedges, some patchy grass, and, near the little wooden gate, one struggling tree that looked like it was trying to run away. It was then that she realized her father had dropped her hand and was over by the thick hedge itself. She ran over to him, not wanting to be alone next to the tree.

  “The hedges need a good trim,” he said, running a hand along them. “Helen said we could pay to get the gardening done, but apparently the family has left all the gardening tools in the shed. I thought I’d do it. Stretch my gardening muscles, you know.” He moved over toward the wooden shed in the corner of the garden. “Ah, the benefits of country living. It’s unlocked.” He opened the door and took a look inside. “Mower, hedge trimmer . . . even an old wooden playpen. Think we can use it to keep you out of trouble?” He glanced back at her.

  Immy gave him a look.

  He closed the door, and they moved on to the very back of the garden.

  “And what do we have here?” he said as they approached the wooden gate.

  Her dad opened it and they passed through.

  “Oh!” Immy said, seeing they were in someone else’s garden now, which was full of green grass, immaculate hedges, and masses of beautiful white roses.

  Realizing they were trespassing, they took a step back again and reclosed the gate behind them.

  “Maybe we can borrow cups of sugar?” her
dad said.

  “Or gardening tips?” Immy suggested, glancing back at their patchy grass.

  “Point taken.”

  Still in the mood to explore, they moved off past the shed again, skimming the hedges once more, and made their way down the side of the house to the front garden.

  Here, an explosion of life met their eyes. The lavender stood to attention, blending purple with the red of the poppies. The fat bumblebees continued to drone lazily above the colorful surface like fish over coral. As she watched them, Immy realized she could hear singing. Up and down the voices went in a sort of schoolyard singsong. Like “Ring a Ring o’ Roses” or “Lucy Locket.”

  That was it — the song she’d heard just before. And last night, too, in her dream. She whipped around, seeking the sound. Directly across the road was a man, watching them. She noticed three girls standing farther down the road, also looking on. But, strangely, they weren’t singing.

  No one was.

  Maybe she’d just imagined the song?

  Immy’s gaze remained on the three girls. There were two fair ones and one with dark hair and dark eyes who stared at her curiously.

  Immy’s dad turned to see what she was looking at. “Those girls are about your age. Surely they’ll be at school with you. Go on over and say hello!”

  Immy wondered if he remembered being a kid.

  “No,” she said.

  “I’ll come with you if you like.”

  Obviously he didn’t remember being a kid at all.

  “Go on.”

  “No.”

  “Go on.”

  “No!”

  “Go on!”

  “You’re not going to give up until I go over there, are you?”

  “No.” Her father stole her own answer, loving every minute of this.

  But before they could continue their argument, the man on the other side of the road beckoned them over.

  “Would you mind?” he called out.

  Immy’s dad looked down at her. “How about we both go?”

  The pair let themselves out the front gate and made their way across the road.

  “Sorry to drag you over here,” the man said with a chuckle as they approached. “It’s just I’m originally from the village myself. It’s an old superstition that you should walk on this side of the road. Because of the tree.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Really?” Immy’s dad finally replied. “What a pity.”

  “What do you mean?” the man said.

  “I mean it’s a pity that no one walks in front of the house. It’s got a beautiful garden.”

  The man laughed. “Yes, I suppose it does. Out the front, anyway.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Mark Godwin. From the Hemingford D’Arcy News.”

  “Andrew Watts.” Immy’s dad shook his hand. “And this is my daughter, Imogen. The local newspaper, eh? We’ve got quite a pile of those at home next to the fireplace.”

  Immy shot her father a look. He liked to talk but sometimes didn’t think very hard before he let the words come out.

  Seeing Immy’s expression, he finally realized what he’d said. “That is . . . I meant . . . I noticed them. I read a couple the other evening. Looks like a top-quality publication. I’m sure it’ll be useful for working out what’s going on in the area.”

  Mark nodded. “Well, there’s not much that we miss. Word gets around fast here. When we heard someone was moving into Lavender Cottage, I thought I could write a piece.” With this, he brought out a little notebook and a pen.

  Immy’s dad looked surprised. “On us? There’s not much to know, really. My wife’s a heart surgeon. She’s over here for a year for a bit of specialist training. And I’m . . . taking a sabbatical.”

  “Right, right . . .” Mark jotted this down in his notebook, but Immy couldn’t help noticing that his gaze kept moving over to her. “You’ll be going to school here, Imogen?”

  “Yes,” Immy answered, glancing at the three girls, who she realized were edging their way toward the group, behind her father, who couldn’t see them from his position.

  “She’s really looking forward to it,” Immy’s dad said.

  “Of course! Er, how old are you, Imogen?”

  Ugh. She knew that’s what he was really after all along. Immy’s mouth set into a fixed line.

  “I see,” Immy’s dad answered for her. “So this is about the tree. I don’t think we want any pieces written about that, thank you very much. It’ll just spread more nonsense.”

  “Nonsense? So you don’t believe in the curse?”

  Immy’s father frowned. “Well, we’d hardly move in if we did, would we?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “It’s ridiculous to think a tree can take a child. Take it where exactly?”

  “Children,” Mark replied.

  Seeing what was coming, Immy’s gaze shot over to the three girls who were now within earshot. “Dad . . .” she warned.

  But it was too late.

  “It doesn’t matter how many! Look — and this is all off the record; I don’t want you quoting me and blackening our name in the village — from what I understand, the first disappearance wasn’t investigated at all. Anything could have happened. The later one was probably one of those bungled investigations. Goodness knows, it’s not like the police had access to decent technology, and there was a war going on. Not to mention that thing about the knots in the tree. Honestly, it’s just as my wife was telling the real estate agent. Any simpleton knows knots on trees are caused by branches dying or pruning or disease. Not by abducted children. Lavender Cottage is a beautiful house with a beautiful garden and a very old mulberry tree, and that’s it. The family is mad to have moved out of it. It’s their poor daughter I feel sorry for. I mean, imagine letting your child grow up thinking a tree was going to steal her away. Her parents must be crazy! But never fear, on the evening of Immy’s birthday, we’ll surround ourselves in a sea of four-leaf clovers and rabbits’ feet and other superstitious knickknacks. You know, just in case the crazies are right.” He finished his long-winded speech with a bark of a laugh.

  Except nobody else laughed with him.

  Immy stared up at her father in horror. She knew superstitious talk was one of his pet peeves, but did he have to go off about it here? Now? That was the thing with her dad. When it came to all things scientific, he could never quite believe that other people might not have the same views as him. He couldn’t understand that people in the village actually believed the tree had taken those girls.

  “Dad,” she hissed. Caught up in his ranting, he still wasn’t aware the three girls were standing behind him. But Immy knew. And as her dad had said exactly what he thought, Immy had been watching the girl with the dark hair closely. Watching as her face turned as thunderously dark as her hair. Now, without a word, the girl turned and stalked off, the other two girls following close behind.

  Her dad turned then, frowning as he saw the girls. “Oh, dear,” he said, realizing they’d heard everything.

  Immy couldn’t find the words to reply, but Mark’s face scrunched up. “‘Oh, dear, is about right. The girl with the dark hair? That was the other family’s ‘poor daughter.’”

  The reporter, realizing he wasn’t going to get anything out of Immy’s dad that he could print, went on his way. Immy and her dad stood in silence for a while, digesting what had happened.

  “The girls went that way,” Immy’s dad said eventually, pointing down the street. “I suppose I should go and apologize.” He started off.

  “But . . . our sandwiches,” Immy said, thinking that wasn’t a very good idea. “Mum made sandwiches.”

  “They’ll wait.” He sighed. “Come on.”

  Immy knew he’d made up his mind. She could argue with him or she could follow him. She trudged behind him, hoping the girls had run home.

  At the end of the street, they turned a sharp right and were immediately met with the sight of a large expanse of very green gr
ass. It looked like a park.

  “Ah, the village green,” her dad said.

  “The what?”

  “It’s like a big park. A meeting spot for the whole community. They probably have fetes here, bonfire nights, witch burnings, things like that.”

  “Witch burnings?” Immy raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, nothing gets the community together like a good witch burning.”

  “Good thing you’re not a witch, then,” Immy said. Either way, she was pretty sure he’d soon be on the village’s burn list. Crossing her arms, Immy inspected the place. There was a playground. Two, actually. A fenced-in one for smaller kids, with baby swings and a slide, and one for the bigger kids, with a huge wooden fort, a zip line, and some larger swings. Unfortunately, the three girls hadn’t run home but had made their way here and were now hanging around at the bottom of the wooden fort. There were also some boys of around the same age sitting high up on the roof of the fort itself, where they shouldn’t have been.

  “Oh, great,” Immy mumbled. Not only were the girls here, but so were the cool kids.

  “I guess I should go over and apologize,” Immy’s dad said, taking a step forward.

  Immy grabbed his arm. “No!”

  “What?”

  “You’ve made things bad enough. Don’t make it any worse. I’ll apologize.”

  “I don’t think . . .”

  “Do you want me to survive past day one at this school?” She glanced over at the girls again. They were huddled together, pointedly not looking at her while sneaking glances at her at the same time. “Try not to make it worse,” she said as she began across the grass.

  As she went, the girls stopped talking and turned to face her. Maybe sensing trouble was coming, the boys inched over to the edge of the fort to get a better view of the scene below. They seemed to be stuffing their faces with something. Something of a deep red that they were eating out of an upturned cap, of all things. It took her a few moments to realize they’d collected some berries from somewhere nearby.