The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

Another day, another alarming photo on WhatsApp prompting a rescue mission back to Louth. Something or someone has taken some bites out of a Broadholme Beauty and I mean to find out who. You can’t expect animals to be aware of the intricacies of property law so I’m not angry, but I might have to take action if they’re going to keep leaving their miserable bordering fields and settling down in my orchard paradise. Maybe a wall of some kind. Nah, that would never work.

Rain falls as I trudge through the hospital grounds on my way to the bus stop. Fortunately, my shoes haven’t quite worn out yet and some bits of my feet stay almost dry. Well dry-ish. It’ll soon be time to replace them with a new pair of the same model. It’s a Christmas tradition in our household.

At least the bus stop is sheltered. I watch a magpie hopping around on the grass outside, looking for worms brought to the surface by the hammering storm. How did the old rhyme go? One for sorrow. There’ll be sorrow aplenty when I find out who’s been scrumping my apples.

The bloke in the shelter next to me unravels a cold Sausage and Egg McMuffin and starts chewing his way through the gristle, oblivious to the nearby entertainment. We eventually strike up a conversation and I learn that he has dropped his car off at the mechanic’s for some reparative shenanigans. I’ll confess that my ears glazed over when he started banging on about camshafts and gear ratios. In return, I regale him with all manner of useful information about the bus to Louth. When it fails to turn up on time, he rings the Traveline helpdesk but I know it’s just some old dear in Alford with dial-up access to the Stagecoach website and nothing more. Seconds later he tells me that she didn’t know why it was late and I try to act surprised.

We’re getting along like a house on fire by the time the number 50 emerges from the drizzle. I hope he doesn’t sit next to me on the bus. I don’t want him to see me scribbling snarky comments about him in my notebook. In the end he heads upstairs without even a farewell nod in my direction. So much for that bromance.

The only people out in the rain as we drive towards the Wolds are dog walkers clutching tiny plastic bags and awaiting their master’s convenience. Sometimes I wish I had a dog. Stan just sleeps all day so he’s got plenty of energy left to ruin my evenings. Bless.

I like Lincolnshire in the rain but it’s nigh on impossible to see anything through the bus windows, so I end up reviewing my notes instead. I cobbled them together during an intensive ten minute session of internet scouring last night. There are, as I see it, five likely suspects: rabbit, fox, horse, badger or deer. Furry malcontents the lot of them. I bet it’s the horses. They’re always eyeing up my greenery despite having acres of lush grassland to chow on.

Mum’s arthritic friend Nigel/Roger/Clive hails the bus in East Barkwith as per. A lady holds out her hands behind him as he ekes his painful way to the priority seats. Maybe she thinks a bit of non-invasive wafting will help him on his way. Either that or she plans to catch him if he falls. He won’t fall though: I’ve seen him take on this walk a thousand times and he always wins. He’s wearing a mask today instead of his visor, but his moustache forces it about a foot from his face. What a boy. Once he’s sat down, he nods and thanks the lady who did basically nothing to help him. He speaks with a gentle West Midlands brogue and impeccable manners. Just like I knew he would.

The rest of the journey passes uneventfully, and I head off to the field following a brief coffee-based detour in Louth. It’s a solemn walk from the gate to the orchard, notes clutched against my chest. I glare at the horses as I walk but they avoid eye contact. I’m looking for two clues: the nature and location of the bite marks, and the distribution of poo around the crime scene.

The victim hangs from a low branch on the orchard side of the tree, dragged earthwards by the previously hale and hearty fruit it carried. Even so, the animal responsible needs to have teeth that are about twenty inches off the ground. Unless there’s something sinister going on in the nearby rabbit genetics lab, rabbits are not the culprit. Which is a shame, because there’s rabbit poo everywhere and it would’ve been convenient to tie things up so easily.

The location of the branch means the criminal approached from the trees rather than the horse paddock. Jack and Daffy are also in the clear, unless they turn out to be a lot more cunning than they look. There’s still something sinister about horses though.

Next to be ruled out is Bambi. Muntjac deer have been spotted in the hereabouts and the damage has been done at an appropriate height. However, the internet says deer only have incisor teeth on their lower jaw and there are obvious marks to the top and bottom so they’re out too. Badgers tend to eat windfall apples and even then only to root out grubs that might be lurking within. At this early stage in proceedings, I’m left with a fox as the most likely crim. I’d honestly rather it was a badger. I’d love to have a badger nearby.

The bite mark has told me all it can. It’s time to look for corroborating bum products.

As I’ve already mentioned, you can’t put your hand down in the field without finding at least seventeen pellet-like rabbit doings. I’m looking for stools that stand out from the crowd though. The Woodland Trust allege that fox poo is dark, long and squiggly and tapered at one end. Should be easy enough. Crouching down, I start to brush my hands through the grass, hopeful that soon my fingers will be covered in the backside emissions of Renard the Fox. Either that or my scatological wanderings bring deer (black, cylindrical and pointed at one end) or badger (musty smelling and located in shallow pits) back to the table.

My search is fruitless, even when I mooch over to the Hawthorn hedge and start ploughing through the undergrowth. I encounter a few gribbly insects and get some rabbit poo under my nails, but that’s my lot. If there’s been a fox shitting in my woods, he’s done it discreetly.

I’m stumped. I lean against the stable rail and consider my options. What would Bernie Gunther do? Bernie Gunther is the best detective ever and I’ll fight anyone who disagrees. He would probably have a smoke and begin an unlikely romantic liaison. Neither of those are in my idiom so instead I just shrug and decide to arbitrarily blame foxes. I leave the ravaged apple on the branch in case they come back for seconds. In fact, I leave all the apples on their branches. I’ve got plenty at home already and if there’s wildlife scoffing my apples between meals, I’m pretty happy for them to crack on. They were here first. I’m a tiny bit offended that after a brief nibble whoever it was decided to leave the rest of the apple alone but there’s no accounting for taste. Investigations concluded, I head back to Lincoln where the ongoing monsoon manages to soak through the remaining bits of my shoes. Barb messaged me later to say she’d seen a squirrel lurking near the trees so I was probably completely wrong about foxes. I’m not sure why I’d forgotten about squirrels. They’re everywhere. Ah well. Enjoy your scran, Mr Squirrel. There’s no hard feelings on my part. Frankly, I doubt you care anyway. Nut hording gitbag.