The Mulberry Tree

by Allison Rushby

  “Hi,” Immy said, reaching the three girls. The girl with the dark hair and deep brown eyes stood half a step in front of the other two girls, just like she’d done on the street before. She was the ringleader, Immy realized.

  Not surprisingly, the girl didn’t answer.

  “I’m, um, sorry . . . about before. My dad. He says things without thinking. A lot.”

  “You’re really not scared? About the tree?” came a breathy voice. It wasn’t the dark-haired girl but one of the others.

  The dark-haired girl turned and frowned at her.

  Above, one of the boys snorted. “Is that so hard to believe?” He had an American accent. “Why should she be scared?”

  Uh-oh. Immy froze. She didn’t like how this was going.

  The boy swung himself down the two levels of the wooden fort and landed, with a thump, in front of the dark-haired girl. “News flash: not everyone’s scared about living with your big old tree.”

  “I’m not scared,” the girl snapped back.

  “You moved out, didn’t you?”

  “We needed a bigger house, Riley.” She practically spat out his name.

  “Interesting timing on the move, Caitlyn.”

  If it was even possible, the girl’s expression was now even more thunderous-looking than before — her cheeks red and her jaw hard. She took a step toward Immy, her eyes filled with fury. “So you’re saying my family’s stupid? We’re mad. Crazy?”

  “No!” Immy held her hands up. “It’s just . . . my dad says things like that all the time. He didn’t mean it. Honestly. He just has this thing about superstitions and . . .” She trailed off, realizing Caitlyn wasn’t listening.

  “What would you know?” Caitlyn said. “What would you know about anything? You’ve been here for five minutes. You think it’s just an ordinary tree? You wait. You’ll see.”

  Immy’s mouth hung open. She didn’t know what to say.

  “Let’s go.” Caitlyn turned and flounced off, the other girls following her.

  The boy Riley turned to Immy. He had a smirk on his face that looked like he thought all of this was funny. “This is what happens when you never leave this place.” He raised his voice so the departing girls could still hear him. “You spend your whole life crossing the road to avoid a tree.”

  Caitlyn ignored him.

  Meanwhile, Immy wanted to dig a hole and bury herself in it.

  “She really couldn’t be more annoying if she tried. She’s always going on about that tree. Everyone is. This whole village is insane. So, did your parents come here for work?” Riley asked.

  Still in shock, it took Immy a second or two to register his question. “Um, yes. My mum. At the hospital.”

  “Yeah, mine, too.” He clambered back up the wooden fort to his friends and their stash of berries.

  Immy’s eyes tracked his journey upward. “Well, see you . . .” she said. He honestly didn’t seem to realize he’d just wrecked her whole life. He and her dad.

  Busy with his friends again, Riley didn’t answer, and after a moment or two, Immy dragged her heels back across the green to her dad, who was sitting on a bench.

  “How did it go?” he asked her.

  “Oh, great, thanks,” she replied. “We’re all the best of friends. We even made plans to meet up at the witch burning tonight.”

  The delivery truck with all of the linen and dishes came, and the family spent the rest of the afternoon attempting to find places to fit everything, which wasn’t easy in the tiny cottage. All evening, Immy found herself humming the tune of that strange song in her head over and over again. She worried she’d have horrible dreams about the tree, and she shut the curtains as tightly as she could. However, she was so tired that she fell into a deep sleep in no time. When she woke, she couldn’t remember having any dreams at all and the song was gone.

  After a late breakfast, Immy and her parents sat around the kitchen table, planning a massive grocery list. It was around ten when Immy caught sight of something moving in the garden out of the corner of her eye. She craned her neck to take another look. It was an old lady with silvery-white hair and a peach-colored cardigan. She closed the little wooden gate behind her that Immy and her dad had gone through yesterday — the one that led into the adjoining garden with the beautiful roses. Immy could see she was holding something in her hands.

  “There’s someone . . .” Immy began to say, but she stopped, her mouth remaining open, as she saw the woman approach the tree. She watched as the woman reached out, touched the lower knot on the tree, and then took a moment to tuck a white rose in it. Another white rose. Just like the one that had been stuck in the knot yesterday. “. . . in our garden,” Immy finally finished her sentence.

  Her parents stood, and Immy’s dad went over to open the French doors.

  “Hello?” Immy’s dad called out.

  “Oh, hello there!” The woman continued toward them. Immy could see now that she carried a plate and a little porcelain jug. “I’m Jean, from the house behind yours. I’m sorry for barging in, but I wanted to bring you a cake as a housewarming gift.”

  “Oh, how kind of you!” Immy’s mum beamed. “I’m Katie, and this is Andrew and our daughter, Imogen.”

  “Immy,” said Immy.

  “Do come in,” Immy’s mum said. “We were just going to make another cup of tea. Would you like one? A slice of cake would be perfect.”

  “Tea would be lovely, thank you,” Jean said, stepping in through the French doors.

  “We were just admiring your garden yesterday,” Immy’s dad said. “Stunning roses you have there.”

  Jean nodded. “Thank you. They do come up well this time of the year if you look after them properly. Now, Immy. Let me show you how this cake works. It’s a bit of a special one. I’ll get you to do it. I’m a bit shaky at eighty-two, I’m afraid, and it’s best done with a steady hand!”

  Jean placed the cake on the table and handed the little blue-and-white jug to Immy, who wondered if she should pass it to her mother. As a surgeon, she surely had the steadiest hand of anyone in the room. But Jean seemed to trust her with the jug.

  “You simply need to pour the syrup on very slowly,” Jean told her, watching her closely.

  Carefully, Immy leaned over and began to pour the syrup from the jug onto the top of the cake. She thought it would simply pool around the bottom. It didn’t. Instead, the cake began to drink up the clear liquid thirstily.

  “It’s warm, you see,” Jean explained. “It sucks all the elderflower syrup into itself.”

  “Oh, how special!” Immy’s mum said, and as Immy finished pouring the syrup, she glanced up and could see how happy her mother was. She was getting everything she wanted. The warm, cozy cottage in the picturesque village, the elderly neighbor who grew gorgeous roses and made fancy cakes. Pity about the horrible tree and the fact that half the village probably hated them already. “I’ll just put the kettle on and grab a knife and some plates.” Her mother moved off, smile still wide on her face. Immy watched her go. Things could be worse, she thought. Jean could have brought banana bread. She couldn’t stand banana bread.

  The elderflower cake was duly devoured and washed down with tea.

  “This is simply divine,” Immy’s mum said, staring at her fork as if she couldn’t believe her luck.

  It really was. The cake was sticky and crumbly and delicious.

  “The elderflowers are from my own garden,” Jean said. “I can give you some if you like, along with the recipe.”

  Immy’s dad laughed. “I don’t think there’d be any point in that!”

  Jean looked a bit shocked, but Immy’s mum only chuckled. “It’s true. I don’t bake.”

  “And Dad sometimes bakes but shouldn’t,” Immy added.

  Her father made a face at her before turning back to Jean. “However, if you need some excellent heart surgery, pop over anytime and Katie will surely oblige.”

  “Oh! You’re a heart surgeon? I find surgery fa
scinating! I used to assist in surgery myself sometimes for my husband, though his specialty was animals. He was a vet, you see.”

  After all this talk of jobs and cooking, Immy couldn’t wait any longer. “You’re the person who puts the flowers in the tree. The roses. You stick them in there. Why?”

  Everyone turned to look at Immy.

  “Sorry,” she continued. “I just . . . had to know.” She could barely believe anyone was brave enough to touch that tree.

  Immy’s parents went to protest, but Jean only waved a hand. “I hope it’s all right. I do it every day. I have for . . . oh . . . seventy-one years now, it would be. I’ve hardly ever missed a day. When there are no roses to be had, I use holly.”

  Immy’s mum looked confused.

  “They have told you? About the two girls?” Jean said.

  “Not much.” Immy spoke for the three of them. “Not enough.”

  Jean nodded. “It’s why I put a flower in the tree every day. To remember both those girls, but particularly the one that was taken last. Elizabeth her name was. My friend Elizabeth.”

  “You knew her?” Immy’s mum asked.

  “Oh, yes. She was a lovely girl. My dearest friend. She had the greenest eyes. Quite mesmerizing, they were. She came when the bombing started in London — to live with her aunt and uncle in Lavender Cottage. The cottage has been in the family for generations, you know. Ever since it was first built. Anyway, they couldn’t have children of their own, but they loved having Elizabeth with them. They doted on her, and Elizabeth took to the village like a duck to water — she adored not being cooped up like she had been in London. She and I were as thick as thieves almost instantly. I should think the gate nearly came off its hinges, we were in each other’s garden so often! But then she was taken. On VE Day.” Seeing Immy’s blank expression, she explained. “Victory in Europe Day, Immy. The day the Nazis surrendered. May 8, 1945, it was. I’ll never forget it. For so many reasons.” She looked wistful.

  “It must have been awful. Having a child in the village disappear,” Immy’s dad said. “I can’t imagine.”

  Jean nodded. “It makes my heart clench just to think about it. As a child, to lose my friend was bad enough, but now that I’m a mother . . . oh, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  Immy’s parents both nodded.

  Jean took a deep breath. “Still, it’s why I’ve come. To warn you about the tree.”

  “Now, I’m not here to fill your head with nonsense. I just want you to know the facts. Elizabeth was here. So here. Young and very alive. I can vouch for it. And then, the evening before her eleventh birthday, she simply . . . disappeared. In exactly the same way as we’d always been told the other girl had. Bridget her name was. She was taken on the evening before her eleventh birthday as well.”

  “So the two girls who were taken were related?” Immy’s mother said.

  “Yes, they were.”

  Immy’s mum pushed her plate away from her a little. “I’m sorry, but surely you don’t think the tree really took your friend? It must have been someone who lived here. Statistically, I would say that it was someone known to her.”

  “I know it’s not possible, and yet”— Jean glanced outside —“I believe it’s true.”

  “The knot,” Immy spoke up. “Did it really appear just like that? Overnight?”

  Jean nodded. “It most certainly did.”

  A shadow passed over the room, which darkened considerably. Immy gulped.

  “News gets around here, so when I heard you’d moved in and had a daughter with a significant birthday coming up . . . I was worried. But then I told myself things are different. The house, well, it’s nothing to do with your family, is it? And you’ll have been here such a short amount of time when . . .” Her eyes moved to Immy. It was obvious everyone was thinking about her upcoming birthday. “Oh, I’ve said too much. It’s not my place, is it? I had to tell you, though. I had to make absolutely sure you knew.” Jean’s hands, with their large knuckles, twisted worriedly.

  Immy had expected her parents to be angry, but they weren’t. Instead, her mother nodded as if she were taking Jean’s advice to heart. She glanced at Immy’s dad. “To tell you the truth, we’ve been thinking about a weekend trip to Paris. Maybe we’ll go for Immy’s birthday. So Immy doesn’t worry. And to keep everyone in the village happy.”

  Jean brightened with this, sitting up straighter, her face lightening. “What an excellent idea. You’ll love Paris, Immy! The museums, the street cafés, just wandering around. Not to mention it would be a nice break after the first weeks of school. You’ve got one more week off, don’t you?”

  Immy nodded.

  “Back to school next Monday. I know that because my daughter Claire works at the village school. But I’ve kept you all too long.” Jean stood. “You’ve just moved in, and you’re a busy family with things to do.”

  “Only groceries,” Immy said, thinking she’d much rather hear anything else Jean had to say about the tree. She wanted to know more. So much more. Like what had happened when everyone realized Elizabeth had gone missing. What the police had said. Who the police thought had taken her. Who the village thought had taken her.

  “Ah, but you’ll be wanting your dinner tonight, Immy, which is why you need to help your parents with the groceries now,” Jean told her. “It was lovely meeting you all. Thank you for the tea.”

  Immy’s parents stood as well.

  “No, thank you for the cake, Jean,” Immy’s dad said. “It really was delicious.”

  Jean was already at the French doors. She didn’t stop but simply waved a hand over her shoulder and was gone.

  The threesome watched her go. As she passed by the tree, she reached out and touched the knot again — the one with the rose in it.

  Immy’s mum waited until Jean had finished crossing the garden and the little gate had closed behind her. Then she shook her head. “It’s not some silly story to her, is it? She really believes it’s true. She really believes the tree took those two girls.”

  The next morning, Immy woke to the sound of the shower and creaking on the stairs. She tried to go back to sleep, but now that she’d been wrenched from her dreams, she couldn’t. All she could think about was the curtains covering the window and, behind the curtains . . . the tree.

  Without warning, the song entered her head again, and she realized she’d heard it in her dreams, too. She tried to push it away, but it remained there, going around and around in circles. What was it? Where had it come from? She must have heard it somewhere for it to have stuck like this.

  After a few more minutes, Immy got up and made her way downstairs. She found her father sitting at the kitchen table and her mother whirling around like a tornado, getting ready for work. She’d almost forgotten it was Monday morning.

  “Ah, there she is,” her mother said, a triangle of toast in her hand. “An email came in last night. You can get your uniforms this morning. They’ve sent a list.” She pointed the toast at Immy’s dad. “What did we decide?”

  He fished around on the table for a piece of paper and read from it. “Three skirts, three shirts, one sweater, and as many socks as the washing machine can possibly eat. They’ll be in the school hall starting at nine this morning.”

  Immy groaned, thinking about all the trying on of clothes she was going to have to do.

  “You’ll get to meet some of the other kids, I expect,” her mum said.

  Immy looked at her dad. Thanks to him, she already had. Obviously he hadn’t said anything to her mother.

  “Well, I have to run,” Immy’s mum said, pausing to down the last of her coffee. “Sure you don’t need the car?”

  “No, we’ll putter around here today. Get uniforms and so on. Search the internet for ways to poison trees without being detected . . .”

  “Dad!” Immy said.

  Her parents both laughed.

  “I’ll see you tonight.” Her mother picked up the car keys off the table, blew the
m both a kiss, and was out the door in a flash.

  Her dad stood. “You get yourself some cereal. I’ll have a shower and we’ll be first in line at the school, okay?”

  “Okay,” Immy said, heading for the kitchen.

  She waited until she heard her dad’s footsteps on the stairs. And then she went back over to the table and grabbed his phone.

  His comment about the internet had given her an idea.

  Keeping one ear out for the sound of her father’s footsteps, Immy began to tap out letters on his phone. Her fingers felt slow and awkward as she tried to type quickly. It wasn’t that her father would mind her using his phone; it was more what she was using it for. She knew her parents wouldn’t like it if they thought she was too worried about the tree. Every so often, she glanced out the French doors. It felt like the tree was watching her.

  The first search term she entered was “evil trees.” It wasn’t very helpful. All that came up was information about some sort of online role-playing game and silly pictures of trees with red eyes and flailing branches for arms. After a few minutes she gave up and tried something else. This time she typed the name of the village and the names Bridget and Elizabeth. She expected pages and pages of information to come up, but there wasn’t much at all. A few newspaper articles popped up on historical blogs to do with the area. There was some basic information about Elizabeth and how she had gone missing on VE Day, in 1945, and not much else. There was only the vaguest mention of Bridget, one article saying that the village locals recalled the story of a girl who went missing at the same age in 1795.

  With her next search, Immy tried to be more specific. She typed “ancient tree England.” Something came up about sacred Celtic trees, and she skimmed the information as fast as she could. The site spoke about ash, oak, apple, elder, hazel, yew, and alder trees at length, but it didn’t mention mulberry trees at all.

  Frowning, Immy put her dad’s phone back down on the table. She looked outside at the tree, which didn’t need evil red eyes to glare back at her. As she stared at it, her heart thumping away in her chest, she heard the shower turn off upstairs. She jumped up and ran to the kitchen to get her cereal.