It’s six weeks since we went to grans after we were bombed out, and now I am back, the dream I had in those few minutes while I was knocked out, came back to me where it had left off. It was good to see my mates, and I told them about my dream, they thought it was so funny, except for Nutsun, he looked quite shaken. He went home and brought back a bag, inside was an old book. The book looked like it had been in a fire, the cover had been burnt away, Nutsun looked at me seriously.

“Can you remember when I showed you this book Wegsy? I found it laying on the road after the bomb fell. I didn’t know who they belonged to, but because it looked very old and valuable, I took it to the library. The lady said it wasn’t worth anything and I could keep it”.

“There’s a lot about St Anne’s hill that fits your story, especially the bit about the Monk who killed himself, look at this, it’s about the top field, where we were the other day”.

 Then he read the story of the Mulberry Tree. I must say that I always had a nice feeling about the top field. We would sometimes go up there and lay in the long grass just watching the clouds float by. But I always thought that it was a very funny place to have such a big fruit tree, right in the middle of a field, and why did no one ever eat the Mulberries. The bright red fruit would just fall and be eaten by animals, we were told as kids never to even touch them. Nutsun carries on.

“The Mulberry tree is mentioned in the book, so that means it must be hundreds of years old. It says that the fruit never ripened and just stayed green so couldn’t be eaten, but one day a Monk killed himself underneath the tree”.

“The Monk had fallen in love with a Nun, and they would meet under the Mulberry tree, but it was forbidden by the Church, and rather than commit a deadly sin the Nun threw herself down a shallow well that is next to the tree. When he found her lifeless body in the well, he carried her away to the top of the hill and buried her properly next to a crystal-clear spring. Then returning to the Mulberry tree, he sat down, and full of remorse he stabbed himself in the heart. Since then, Mulberry tree has never aged, and the fruit have always been red—blood red”

Author: madeinchertsey

Born in 1932, this is a collection of stories of my childhood growing up in Chertsey, and some stories of my later life.

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