The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

There’s nothing worse than children starving. Except children singing. That’s much worse.

Way back in the year 1827, Goodman Thomas Stevenage found himself stuck with several famished children (I imagine) on his hands and could think of only one way to stop them wailing. Food. Specifically, because Thomas was a man of remarkably good taste, apples.

But what to do? Apples cost money then as now, and Thomas had none. He lived hand to mouth and the hand in question was at that point very much empty.

So it was that Thomas found himself creeping nervously around a local orchard at dead of night before attempting to make off with two bags of apples. Tragically for our hero (long term blog victims may recall that I’ve mentioned this before, but I’ve actually researched it now), Thomas was apprehended and found himself pleading for mercy from the landowner, the Reverend Henry Houston. Unfortunately, instead of giving the poor bloke a break and maybe even sending him on his way with a bit of grub, the vicar sent Thomas before the local beak, Edward Fane, who committed him to a calendar month’s imprisonment and hard labour. Thomas’ children went hungry, his ailing wife (again, I’m making this bit up) slept alone in her sickbed, and the law of the land was unchallenged.

I know this story is almost entirely true because I’ve sat in the Lincolnshire archive holding the actual court report in my own two sweaty hands. Admittedly the wife and children bits are all made up but the basic facts regarding the clergymen of 1827 are correct. They were law abiding, as honest as the day is long and as tight as a gnat’s chuff.

Fast forward nearly 200 years, and the memory of what can happen if you’re caught scrumping has faded from popular consciousness, helped by the fact that hard labour isn’t really the punishment du jour. Bereft of wisdom and hindsight, I had therefore spent my last two months’ allotment of text messages pestering a friend of mine to show me round an orchard at the bottom of his garden.

Unfortunately, when he eventually gave in to my relentless mithering it turned out that the orchard is actually just past the bottom of his garden and very much in the midsection of some other bloke’s garden. Nevertheless, I was not to be deterred. Risking life and liberty for the sake of the historical record, we made our way towards a ramshackle gate clearly decorated with a sign saying Private Property. Normally, as a timorous lightweight and habitual law-abider, that would see me off but beyond the gate appeared to be an alluring patch of dappled forest with, my guide assured me, an absent landowner.

The gate turned out to be designed for trespassers of significantly slighter build than me. I felt it creak and sway as I lifted my trailing foot off the ground but by then it was too late to go back (ethically if not practically) so I took my life and dignity in my hands and swung my cataclysmic bulk upwards. The ancient timber protested but held and, with only a minimum of clumsiness, I landed on the weed strewn ground beyond. There before me lurked an orchard fully laden with baby apples.

I took a moment to catch my breath.

All told, there appeared to be about eight or nine apple trees, a couple of pears and a plum. Plum trees and me have recent history so I avoided eye contact and hurried past in case this was a relative of the branch I’d just killed.

The apple trees, though, appeared ignorant of the danger they were in. I took photos of the fruit on the overhanging branches. I even touched a couple. Surrounded by apples, my senses steamed off on romantic and unlikely flights of fancy.  I imagined an orchard of my very own but five times bigger than this and without waist high tick-laden weeds. Maybe even a bench in the centre where I can smoke pipeweed after my second breakfast.

Our time in the secret orchard was regrettably short. Looking back, I could have taken a cutting while I was there and no-one (else) was looking but I’ve recently become nervous about vandalising branches. I feel like I should do some proper learning before I start hacking more off in case they die as well. Also, I’d forgotten my rucksack and shears.

So, as it turned out, whilst there was an awful lot of trespassing going on, there was no actual scrumping. We squashed a few weeds but otherwise left the land unharmed and unsullied. The gate might never recover its confidence but even it remained mostly intact.

How does this relate to the story of Thomas Stevenage, you may ask? Good question. Here’s the shocking answer. Much like the 1827 story with the bawling children I made up, this story involves a vicar. The difference is that in this case, the clergyman in question was the geezer leading me through the trees.  I know. It’s an outrage.

Instead of berating me for trespass, this new-fangled vicaring type strolled casually along, not a care in the world, pointing out the various points of interest and indicating which tree gave the best crop come Autumn. Worse still, the dog-collared sky pilot genuinely suggested I return when they are in full bloom to nick some for my orchard.

Honestly, is there any wonder the church is in the state it is when its leaders have abandoned all respect for the law of this sceptered isle? Isn’t it basically their job to lead us along the proverbial straight and narrow and protect Her Maj’s law? Even the weird bits about shooting people on Thursdays from a castle in Wales and leading your donkeys through the streets of Leicester.

To be fair, the other difference was that this vicar laid on a slap up dinnery feast, feigned interest while I droned on about orchards and gave me a lift home afterwards. Maybe there’s some hope for the church yet.