The Money Tree

A Chinese legend is the focus of this inspiring short story.

- Ann Mortimer

MUM would be cross if I was late, but if I raced down Market Hill I might inadvertently run across a cracked paving stone – a “broken biscuit” as we called them at school.

I thought that we’d had our share of bad luck, so instead of running I hopped carefully from stone to stone, avoiding the place where three lay broken in a row.

Two years ago I would have believed that avoiding the broken biscuits would bring me good luck, but I’d grown up a lot and now I was doubtful, although I thought it was still worth a try.

I’d reached the bottom of the hill before I landed on a broken biscuit, its cracked edge almost hidden by the tangle of fresh mint spilling from it.

There would be no Sunday lunch for us today because Mum was working, cleaning the rooms where the nurses lived at the back of the hospital.

She couldn’t afford to turn down the extra hours because Sunday rates meant double pay.

Our neighbours had been lucky, Mum said, when they’d won the football pools, which paid for a whole fortnight’s holiday on the Costa Del Sol in Spain.

Mum could have done with a holiday. She was always working, whereas I’d been on a day trip to Scarborough with the Sunday school and I knew that I should count my blessings.

“Life isn’t always fair, Molly.” Mum had sighed.

It wasn’t fair that Dad had been knocked off his bicycle on his way to work. Her eyes were sad and wet, the way they often were when she spoke about him, so I knew that she was thinking about the accident, too.

I knew that she missed him. I missed him, too. My friends all still had their fathers.

Even though Mum seemed to work all the time, we never had enough money and she often told me that money didn’t grow on trees.