The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

Writing my last post reminded me of the sense of derring do and adventure I felt sneaking through the orchard at the end of my friend’s garden. Suddenly, instead of a cellulitic librarian wheezing his way over a garden fence, I was the Dread Pirate Roberts off on some piratical escapade to champion the cause of romance and defy traditional property rights.

I therefore planned to launch a full-scale investigation into the history of scrumping as soon as I got home, only to discover that Stan, my beloved cat, had decided to up sticks and go missing. Much of the rest of the week was spent wandering the streets of Lincoln trying to convince innocent homeowners that I wasn’t mental and just wanted a look in their shed in case he was wedged in a partially opened window or had found a sustainable sauce of tiny defenceless rodents.

He’s gone missing before so the emotional trauma wasn’t an entirely new experience for me but, as he’s become older, fatter and possibly blinder (I’m not sure about the last bit but his incredible lack of depth perception has started to worry me), I’ve grown increasingly sceptical of his ability to navigate his way home. The ongoing cat-hunt consumed all my time and emotional energy and the blog had to go on hold.

After a few days he returned, slightly thinner, slightly wetter but sadly no more affectionate. The blog was back on track but had missed a week. You can thank him later. He accepts fish-based payment but don’t expect a thank you letter.

Right. Scrumping. The first scientifically verifiable episode of apple grabbing came in the years of Greek myth. In order to put off would be suitors, the huntress Atalanta challenged them to beat her in a foot race. Win, and she’d marry them. Lose and they’d be put to death. Not to be deterred, a local youngster called Hippomenes decided it was worth a punt and challenged her. Atalanta scoffed at the scrawnoid’s running prowess but, unfortunately for her, Hippomenes had sought outside help from some random goddess and been furnished with a handful of Golden Delicious that he proceeded to drop at strategic points in the race.

As soon as Atalanta saw the first one, she whipped out her Bag for Life and stopped to pick it up. Again and again she paused her sprinting in favour of a quick spot of scrumping. Hippomenes took full advantage and by the end of the day he had his bride.

Apple thievery continued to blight history both real and imagined but the word scrumping did not appear in the English lexicon until 1866. Of its several (admittedly very similar) definitions, this is my favourite; “to illicitly appropriate apples from a tree or orchard that is not your own.” If I have to appropriate things, I’d much rather do it illicitly. Whatever that means.

I searched the Lincolnshire Archive for the first use of the word scrumping itself but found very little outside of copies of Lincolnshire Life magazine from the late ‘60s. I did, however, discover a contemporaneous (check that out) crime concerning the behaviour of a humble charwoman called Susan Nicholson. In that same year, 1866, Susan nicked 4 apples from a certain Charles Cargill and was promptly grassed up by his wife and daughter. For the crime of scrumping, Susan found herself incarcerated for 14 days. Not a particularly long time, to be sure, but for 4 apples it’s a bit steep.

Scrumping continued unabated, with the common man risking all kinds of ludicrously disproportionate sentences for the sake of a few Peasgood Nonesuchs. Eventually, though, as more fashionable crimes like drug dealing and rick rolling stole the limelight, the humble scrumper was reduced to comedy villain status.

And so we come to me. Specifically, a 7ish year old me, staying with my Grandma for various school holidays. It was the long summer break that presented the greatest challenge and opportunity, so she came up with an amazing plan to combine giving me something to do, getting me out of the house and securing a supply of apples for subsequent baking.

Every morning I was handed a load of plastic bags and pushed off towards a nearby bicycle with strict instructions not to return home until every bag was full of apples. Even in my youth I was striking blows against the local aristocracy. Sort of.

Inspired by promises of pies and crumbles galore, I’d pedal off along Ings Lane and hare off down Heck Dyke towards the unsuspecting nearby villages. Misterton, Gunthorpe, even Owston Ferry and Walkeringham quaked with fear at the sound of my rusty bike approaching. In my mind’s eye I could see ruddy cheeked local toffs releasing Baskervillian hounds to patrol their orchards as I approached but fortunately for all concerned, the beasts never appeared in front of my actual face’s eye. After propping my trusty steed against a suitably out of sight piece of wall, I’d clamber into their garden and wander around picking up anything that looked vaguely promising and required no tree climbing aptitude.

I never got into trouble. I think they all saw me but I only took about 5 fallen apples a day and none of them really cared. My grandma was a local celebrity who every farmer everywhere welcomed into their fields to help herself to some prime organic veg. She was the sort of unassuming hive of industry and soul of Methodism that even worked hard at hiding how disappointing my scrumping was. I love her and miss her still.

And the blackberry and apple pies she produced with those illicitly appropriated apples! My mouth is watering even now. If only I could cook. Maybe they tasted better because I knew deep down that without my intervention, those apples would have been eaten by some local landowner instead of freedom fighters like me and my Grandma. Maybe they just tasted better because my Grandma was amazing. It was definitely one of the two. Or perhaps both.