The Mulberry Tree

by Allison Rushby

  “Ah, I see,” Jean said.

  There was something in her voice that made Immy look over at her.

  “That happens sometimes, you know, with medical people. It’s the same with vets. There are some patients who are different. Special. Who stay with you forever. I don’t think it matters if they’re people, or horses, or cats, or dogs. Maybe even hedgehogs. My husband once cared for a dog that was particularly special. It belonged to a woman in the village whose son was a soldier. It had been his dog, and when her son died, the dog was all she had left of him. The day my husband had to put the dog down, oh, it was awful. Just awful. It was no one’s fault. It was just . . . life. But it was awful just the same, and he retreated inside himself for some time. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that sometimes people who care can care so much that it affects their own lives. Their own families. Do you understand?”

  Immy nodded. But the truth was, she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand why her dad couldn’t help with the hedgehogs because Bob had killed two people.

  She didn’t understand at all.

  Immy tried to remain composed as she helped Jean with the heating pads, and then she left. She closed the conservatory door gently. The rain had started now, and the wind whipped around her. She zipped up her school sweater and walked as normally as she could to the little gate in case Jean was watching. The gate clicked shut behind her.

  And then she ran.

  Immy was as furious as the wind, which was battering the garden this way and that. She sprinted across the garden, heading straight for the French doors of Lavender Cottage.

  She was almost at the doors when it happened — one of the tree’s branches strained in the wind, bent down, and whipped her on its way back up again.

  “Oh!” Immy grabbed at her arm, where the tree had clipped her. She stopped and, slowly, looked up.

  The tree towered above her, its branches thrashing about violently. It looked almost as angry as she felt. Well, that meant that each was as angry as the other. “He didn’t mean to do it,” she yelled up at the tree. “It was an accident!”

  The tree didn’t listen. It continued to hurl its branches around above her, making Immy angrier still.

  “It’s all about you, isn’t it? I don’t know what your problem is, but other people have problems as well, you know. It’s been . . . it’s been hard for him. Not that you care!”

  She took off then, bursting through the French doors, leaves flying everywhere.

  Her father was in the kitchen, and it looked like her mother had just arrived home, because she was standing with her handbag still on her shoulder, the car keys in her hand.

  Immy didn’t even close the French doors behind her. Instead, she stood there, the wind hurtling past her into the house.

  “You didn’t even try!” Immy yelled at her dad. “You hurt the hedgehog, and you didn’t even try to help her! A tiny little hedgehog. Bleeding! On our lawn. You cut her head open, and you just stood there. What is wrong with you?”

  Both her parents stood stock-still.

  When it became clear that neither of them had any idea what to say, Immy burst into tears. She ran past the table and bolted for her room. She made it halfway up the stairs before her parents moved into action, her father crossing the room in an instant.

  “Come back here, young lady,” he said to her, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Immy stopped where she was on the stairs, her back to her father.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Immy turned. Her mother had followed and was hovering behind him, looking uncertain. She was still holding her bag and her keys. She looked like she’d love nothing more than to open the front door, get back in the car, and drive off. Probably back to work.

  “You do not storm out of the room like that.” Her father continued to lecture her. “That is not who you are.”

  Immy stared down at her dad with cold eyes. “How would you know?” she said. “How would you know who I am? You don’t even know who you are anymore.”

  And then she ran the rest of the way to her room and slammed the thick wooden door behind her.

  The tree wailed and scratched at her window all night.

  Immy finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning. When she woke, her mum had already gone to work. Ignoring her dad as much as she could, she had a quick breakfast, then took herself off to Jean’s to help out with feeding and caring for the hoglets and their mother. Immy loved feeding the hoglets. She picked each one up carefully — their little spines like a spiky toothbrush in her hand. Cradling them in a soft blanket, she then fed them their special milk in a syringe. They nibbled away on the end of the syringe hungrily. In that short time, she forgot what was going on at home. She forgot about her dad, who couldn’t work. She forgot about her mum, who worked too much. And she forgot about the tree, which obviously hated her and was probably plotting to do something terrible to her on the eve of her birthday.

  It was after she got home from Jean’s on Saturday morning that she felt that the long afternoon was looming. She couldn’t stop thinking about how the tree had lashed out at her last night.

  And what it might do next.

  She started to think about Riley’s offer to go into town to the library. Immy got Riley’s phone number on its scrunched-up piece of paper out of her desk drawer and held it in her hands. Her heart raced even considering making the trip. If her dad found out she’d done something like that . . . well, he’d absolutely lose it. But the more she thought about it, the more she shrugged her feelings of guilt away, telling herself that she wouldn’t have to be so secretive if he had bothered to take her into the city when she’d asked. Once upon a time, her dad would have jumped at the chance to take her into Cambridge to the big library. This dad couldn’t be bothered. He couldn’t be bothered to do anything ever.

  When she was sure her dad was busy in the kitchen making lunch, Immy made her way to the dining room table but no farther. Then she called out to him.

  “Would it be okay if I went to my friend Riley’s house this afternoon?” she asked casually. In reality, she had to pause to take a deep breath first because her heart was jumping around so much in her chest. “We, um, might hang out there a bit and on the village green as well.”

  Her dad’s head appeared around the corner from the kitchen. “Riley that I met at your allotment club?”

  Immy nodded.

  “It’s okay with his parents?”

  “He asked me earlier this week, but I said I wasn’t sure.” Immy avoided the question.

  “Well, I don’t see why not. It’s good you’re making friends.” His head disappeared again. “As long as you’re back by five o’clock on the dot.”

  Immy gulped. “Can I call him to tell him I can come? He gave me their number.” She looked at it, damp in her sweaty hand.

  “Of course.”

  Immy picked up her dad’s phone off the table and left the room. She took a seat on the stairs because her legs felt so shaky. She called Riley’s number. His dad answered, and she asked if she could speak to Riley. Then, within seconds, there he was.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Immy couldn’t speak.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” she said. “Immy. I . . . that is . . . could we go?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “This afternoon?”

  “Sure.” He didn’t even hesitate, his voice breezy, as if she’d asked him for nothing more than to borrow a pencil at school. “How about we meet at two? There’s a bus that comes ten minutes after that from just outside the village shop.”

  After eating her sandwich, Immy rushed up to her room, grabbed her backpack, and packed and re-packed it as if she were planning an expedition rather than a quick trip to the library. She ended up deciding on a notebook and two pencils and her purse, which had a fifty-pound note in it — a present from her parents to soften the blow of moving.

  At two o’clock precisely,
Immy went to say goodbye to her dad, who was reading a book in the living room.

  “I’m going,” she said. “He’s in the yellow house, just up the road.”

  Her dad looked up over the top of his book. “And you’ll be back at five o’clock?”

  Immy nodded.

  They stared at each other for a moment or two, so much unsaid between them.

  Finally, her dad sighed. “All right. I’ll see you at five.”

  Immy turned left out of the front gate and made her way up the street. She stopped at the village shop and watched as Riley exited his house. He waved to her cheerfully and then crossed at the crosswalk and met her at the bus stop.

  “I can’t believe how calm you look,” Immy said. “Do you do this all the time?”

  “Sneak off to the library?” Riley gave her a look. “No. Though my parents would probably be ecstatic if I did.”

  “You know what I mean. Anywhere.”

  “You seriously need to calm down. What do you think’s going to happen? We’ll get on the bus, we’ll get off at the library, we’ll find out stuff about the tree, we’ll get back on the bus, we’ll get off the bus back here. It’s no big deal.”

  “You’re braver than I am.”

  Riley laughed. “Hey, you’re braver than, like, pretty much every single person in this village. No one else would have dared to live in that house. Look, here’s the bus now.”

  Immy checked that the coast was still clear and that her dad was nowhere to be seen. She fumbled with her backpack while getting her purse out, then dropped it and picked it up off the ground. “Do we have to hail it or something?”

  Riley stuck his arm out. “Yes. That’s how they know to stop. Listen, you’re not going to puke or something, are you?”

  “No!”

  The bus doors opened, and Riley went to get on. “I’ll pay for us,” Immy said. “I’ve got some money.” She stepped in front of him and pulled out her fifty-pound note. The bus driver sighed when he saw the large note. Immy panicked. “It’s all I’ve got!” she told him.

  “Two children round-trip to St. Isles, please,” Riley said, counting out the correct change.

  Two tickets spat out of the machine, and the driver said nothing else about it.

  “I’ll pay you back,” Immy said as Riley swung into a seat in the middle of the bus. She sat down next to him and put her head in her hands as the bus pulled away. “I’m never doing this again.”

  “You haven’t even done it yet!” Riley burst out laughing. “Look, it’ll be fine. After you called me, I called Mrs. Marsh at the library to tell her we were coming. Trust me, she is crazy overexcited. She’ll probably have looked everything up by the time we get there, and we’ll be back here within an hour.”

  When the pair entered the small library, Riley immediately pointed out a woman behind the returns desk.

  “That’s Mrs. Marsh,” he said.

  Immy saw that she was busy talking to a man with a pile of books.

  “We’ll catch up with her later. Come over here,” Riley said, beckoning her to follow.

  He walked past a couple of large desks and then past an area with some armchairs to the other side of the library.

  “These are the photos I was telling you about.”

  “Wow.” Immy looked over the large wall, which was covered with framed black-and-white photographs. Up on the top, painted on the wall, were the words st. isles historical SOCIETY. Immy stepped forward and began to inspect the photographs more closely. There was a group of three young women with long, straight skirts, high collars, and their hair piled loosely on top of their heads, which read TEACHERS, ST. ISLES INFANT’S SCHOOL, 1907. Next was another group, this time of men: returned soldiers of St. Isles celebrating Peace Day, 1919. Immy noticed that one of the men in the front row had only one arm. Next was a happier photo of a group of laughing women who looked like they were throwing small hoops over glass bottles. It read ST. ISLES CARNIVAL, 1926. Immy stared at the photographs in wonder. It was strange to think that these were once real people. People who’d wondered what clothes to wear that day, made plans with their friends, decided what to have for lunch at the carnival . . . all those everyday sorts of things.

  The next photograph was a busy one. It was of a street filled with tables and bunting and flags instead of cars — a street party. “Oh, look!” Immy said when she read the label on the photograph. “It’s VE Day in St. Isles — to celebrate the end of the war in Europe. That’s the day that Elizabeth disappeared,” she told Riley as he came over.

  He took a look. “I’ve found something, too,” he said. “Over here.”

  Immy followed him over to inspect another photograph. “It’s our street,” he said. “And look — there’s your place.” He pointed to a house at the end of the street. “You can even see a bit of the tree.”

  Immy stepped in as close as possible to the grainy photograph. Riley was right. There was the village green, and up the street was Lavender Cottage and the black tip of the tree threatening the thatched roof.

  They both stared at it.

  “That tree could really do with some therapy,” Riley finally said.

  “Ah, here you are, Riley!” A voice came from behind them, making them both jump. “You must be Immy.” The woman stuck her hand out. “I’m Susan Marsh.”

  Immy shook her hand and introduced herself.

  “How interesting that you’re living in Lavender Cottage. It has a long history, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “I know a bit about it,” Immy said. “I’d like to know more. People don’t want to talk about it much.”

  Mrs. Marsh nodded. “Yes, well, it doesn’t surprise me. Memories last a long time around these parts. I booked you in for some computer time. In fact, I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t stop myself from doing a bit of research for you after Riley called.”

  Riley threw Immy an “I told you so” look.

  “Now, there’s not a lot of information — barely anything on the first girl, Bridget, and only a little on the second. . . .” Mrs. Marsh paused.

  “Elizabeth,” Immy said.

  “That’s it! Thank you, it slipped my mind. Anyway, come and take a look at what I found. I’ve put all the newspaper articles up on two computers for you so you can read at the same time.”

  Immy and Riley sat at their computers and read as fast as they possibly could, stopping only now and then to point out to each other things of interest. While there were quite a few articles about Elizabeth’s disappearance, they pretty much all said the same thing and came to the same conclusion: the police thought Elizabeth had run away. Being an evacuee from London, she was assumed to have simply run home. However, when she didn’t turn up there within a week or so, they began to delve a little deeper, especially as she’d apparently not taken any of her belongings with her and was dressed only in a nightgown.

  One longer article with the headline “Hemingford D’arcy Prowler?” claimed to have fresh news about the case. It talked about how, on the day she disappeared, Elizabeth had told a friend that she had seen something in the tree the day before. The police seized upon this information, and because there was no sign of a struggle in Elizabeth’s room, they came to the swift conclusion that someone had persuaded her to run away with them. The article also made it quite clear that no one from the village believed that this was what had happened. Everyone quoted said they knew the truth: the tree had taken a second girl from the same family.

  “One thing we know for sure,” Riley said, as they finished up their reading.

  “What?”

  “No one in this village ever changes their mind about anything.”

  “What do you think Elizabeth saw in the tree?” Immy replied.

  “Don’t know. A person, I guess. Do you think she ran away?”

  Immy wasn’t sure how to answer, or how much to tell Riley. “Who runs away with nothing but their pajamas?”

  “I think the police were right,
and someone persuaded her to leave with them. They had clothes and stuff for her.”

  “Maybe,” Immy said. But she didn’t sound sure.

  After they told Mrs. Marsh what they’d read, she gave them a few more photo albums that she’d dug out. They held mostly old photographs of their own village. The pair pored over these, Mrs. Marsh coming over to comment occasionally between her duties.

  They’d just been looking at a bunch of old photos of the mill where Immy and her parents had viewed an apartment when Mrs. Marsh glanced at her watch. “Oh!” she said. “It’s almost five o’clock. I should be closing up.”

  Immy’s eyes shot to meet Riley’s. “Five o’clock? Quick! We’ve got to go!”

  Immy thanked Mrs. Marsh, and the pair raced for the library door.

  “We need to cross at the crosswalk and catch the bus going back in the other direction,” Riley told her. “It should be here in the next ten minutes.”

  They crossed the road and made their way to the bus stop that Riley had pointed out. As they waited, Immy bounced from foot to foot, her eyes trained on the traffic and the nonexistent bus.

  “It’s not coming!” Immy glanced back at Riley, who was sitting down.

  “It’s not supposed to be here yet,” he said. “Five more minutes. Don’t panic!”

  But Immy was panicking.

  She was panicking a lot. Finally, the bus came.

  They were the first ones on, but they had to wait for everyone else to get on, too. Immy’s legs jiggled up and down, impatient. “Come on!” she said, over and over again, under her breath.

  Finally, they pulled away from the curb.

  It took another fifteen minutes to get back to their village, and by the time Immy caught sight of their street and Riley pushed the button so they could get off, it was five twenty.

  She knew she was already in trouble. She just knew it.