by Beth Corby
I peel open the envelope and hide my smile behind Donald’s letter.
My Dearest Hannah,
You accepted! I knew you would. How dare that dingbat Sanderson even suggest you wouldn’t! So, let the story of your mysterious Great-Uncle Donald unfold.
I was born in a village not that far from here, near the end of the war in 1944. My mother lay comfortably in bed and was ably assisted by a midwife – such an uninspiring start, don’t you think? No bombs going off, no hunkering down under a kitchen table. My father, unlike those of so many of my friends, was at home due to having had polio as a child. He served his country in every way he could: Home Guard, air-raid warden, etc. etc., but this did not alleviate his feelings of guilt, or the envy of those who lived with the day-to-day fear of telegrams concerning their menfolk.
Betty and I are too young to remember the war, but I remember growing up with my father around, where so many didn’t. Generally, he was sullen and quiet. My mother, while wonderful and loving to us, was wary of other people. I remember her as kind, but distant.
Despite continued rationing and other post-war problems, I believe Betty and I had an idyllic childhood. We played with our friends, ran in the fields and had everlasting summer holidays. We had solid friendships and learned the valuable lesson of who and why to trust and what and when to risk. We saw nature, lived danger and learned how to handle the sharp smacks of contrition.
I don’t expect you to truly understand. Today’s children see television, live computer games and learn how to handle all their affairs though mobile phones. It’s a very different time. I can, however, show you what I mean. And there you have the basis of the tasks. Not only are you going to read about my past, but you are going to experience it – an excellent idea of mine that should both broaden your mind and make you a better writer, while letting you really get to know me. Utterly brilliant, don’t you think?
And so, to your first task – a fond childhood memory of mine and a good way for you to experience a healthy dose of fear: scrumping apples. You must enter someone’s garden, pinch five apples and leave with your booty. Once clear, you must eat one of the apples.
Alec will help you and has his own instructions. Please bear in mind that, if you do not do this, you may not continue on to the next task.
Good luck. Don’t wear black or go at night – that’s just not cricket!
Pilferingly yours,
Uncle Donald
‘Scrumping apples?’ I ask in disbelief, dropping the letter to my knees.
‘Yep,’ says Alec, closing his eyes against the sun.
‘Not tightrope walking, jumping off a moving train or learning to fly, but a criminal act. Stealing.’ I try to keep my tone matter-of-fact, but I can’t help feeling disappointed in Donald.
‘Technically, I suppose, but hardly criminal.’
‘It is, actually. What if I’m caught?’
‘You won’t be caught – I’ll make sure of it.’
Really? Well pardon me for not being reassured.
I stay quiet for a while, picturing a set of increasingly illegal tasks leading up to my drilling a hole into the basement of the Bank of England. ‘Is this the start of a slippery slope?’ I ask. ‘Because if I’m being groomed for a life of crime, I’m out.’
‘You’re not being groomed for a life of crime, you’re just picking some apples!’ he says, exasperation creeping into his voice.
‘That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one doing it.’
‘I still have to come with you.’
I stop myself from saying that’s not the same and try to think calmly. ‘Donald said he left you special instructions?’
Alec laughs and hands me a Post-it note. ‘It was stuck to the envelope,’ he explains.
‘Take Hannah scrumping,’ I read out. ‘Get at least five.’ I sigh heavily.
‘Oh, come on. It isn’t difficult. First we find an apple tree, then you pick some apples and finally we run away.’
I glare at him. ‘What about the owner? What about the stealing? What about the trespassing? This isn’t a nice thing to do and it isn’t even like we have the excuse of being children!’
Alec sits up, and I can feel him struggling to hold on to his patience – so much for our truce. ‘Donald had his reasons for asking you to do this. Does he say what they are?’
I reread the letter. ‘Something about the sins of television and wanting me to experience “a healthy dose of fear”.’ I hand it to Alec to read.
‘Well, there you are then: he wants you to experience moments from his life and . . .’ Alec frowns slightly as he hands it back. ‘. . . fear, apparently. So let’s get it over with and move on.’
I sink back into the deckchair, knowing my mum would be both disappointed and worried. Dad would be furious. I dread to think what he’ll say if I’m caught. I picture him bailing me out, looking livid.
‘Can’t we pick some from a hedgerow?’
‘That would hardly be within the spirit of the task,’ Alec scoffs.
‘So you think we should actually go into someone’s garden, pick fruit they have cared for on trees they have grown from a seed, and then run away?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case we disagree.’
‘OK then,’ says Alec, lying back in his deckchair and closing his eyes again.
‘What do you mean, “OK then”?’ I ask hotly. Isn’t he at least going to call me a ‘chicken’ or something?
‘I’m not going to force you. It seems a shame,’ he says, ‘but if you don’t consider Donald worth a bit of scrumping, then who am I to argue?’
I slouch back and wrap my arms around myself, annoyed. He’s got me, but I still think I’m right: what if someone calls the police? I suppose I could always explain about the will; even show them the letter. Uncle Donald would probably say that ‘isn’t cricket’, but I’m not about to spend the summer doing community service over some stupid apples.
I glance at Alec again, who clearly thinks I’m being uptight. I scowl at a butterfly flitting between the urns and sigh. What annoys me most is that Alec is watching me from between his eyelashes, and it’s like he knows I’ll agree in the end. It’s so irritating. I glare at him and he opens his eyes.
‘Shall we find some apple trees?’ he asks.
Feeling thoroughly outmanoeuvred, I’d love to say something cutting, but nothing springs to mind.
‘I’ll get my car keys,’ I say getting up. And while I’m at it I’ll put away my moral code. Alec props the deckchairs against the wall as I stalk back towards the house, and I get the feeling he’s laughing at me.
As I drive, I am acutely aware of Alec sitting next to me. He’s lounging lazily in the passenger seat, looking out of the open window as the smell of wild garlic and baked grass floods the car. Every so often he calls out directions, and as we approach a village, I catch my forefingers tapping the steering wheel with increasing speed. I stop tapping and hope Alec hasn’t noticed.
We drive into the village, and my fingers start tapping again. Gripping the wheel, I glance at Alec, who is calmly scanning the passing gardens for apple trees.
‘Could you slow down a bit?’ he asks.
I’m tempted to plunge my foot onto the accelerator, but I reluctantly do as I’m told, turning when he suggests we try up a slight hill.
‘Bingo!’ says Alec. ‘Park on the verge.’
I pull onto the grass, muttering darkly to myself as we get out and peak over a garden wall.
In the cottage’s small orchard there are several short, gnarled apple trees and a few taller pear trees, but it’s the enormous tree at the bottom of the slope that catches my eye, with its beautiful strong limbs heavy with giant apples.
‘Now that’s an apple tree,’ I breathe, pointing to it.
Alec gives me a funny look. ‘That’s a Bramley,’ he whispers.
‘A what?’
‘Cooking apples,’ he explains. ‘No good for eating. You want
the little trees.’
I can feel a blush creeping across my cheeks. How embarrassing. Not that I care what he thinks. ‘Now we’ve found them, shouldn’t we go before we’re spotted?’ I ask, but he ignores me.
‘Here’s the plan,’ he says, getting down to business. ‘We get you over the wall, you climb a tree, pick five apples and we leave. If you’re quiet, the owners won’t even know we’ve been. So, be very quick and very quiet.’
I nod. ‘When shall we do this?’
Alec stares at me. ‘Now?’ he suggests, and his sarcasm stings.
‘Or we could come back at twilight or even when it’s completely dark? Or, we could send them tickets to a show or something, so they’re out? Or we could just hang about until they are out.’
‘You want to buy theatre tickets or stalk these people so you can pinch five apples? Yeah, that’s exactly how small boys do it!’ He shakes his head in disbelief and clasps his hands into a makeshift foothold. ‘Get over the wall.’
I glare at him.
‘Hurry up,’ he hisses. ‘This doesn’t look good, you know.’
I glance along the road. It’s true – it looks terrible. Flustered, I put my foot in his hands and feel myself propelled up the wall with more haste than care. I scramble over and land heavily on the grass on the other side. I immediately dismiss the woefully bird-pecked fruit on the ground – there’s no way Alec would let me get away with that – and run to the nearest tree. Just as I reach it, a flock of geese and chickens, which I hadn’t noticed, start gabbling in alarm. The geese, furious at the intrusion, charge across the grass towards me, their wings spread. Shit – I’m sure I heard somewhere that they can break your arm. I’m not sure how – leverage? Teamwork? Or am I confusing them with swans? I clamp my arms firmly to my sides.
‘Hurry up,’ urges Alec, landing on my side of the wall, and despite his tone I’m glad he’s here.
I clamber up the gnarled bark of the nearest tree, grab five apples and a few scabby leaves and shove them down my top for safekeeping, hurriedly tucking in the hem before they fall through.
‘Ow, ya buggers!’ cries Alec, fending off the geese, and no longer quite so sardonic about the whole experience. ‘Jump,’ he calls, holding out his arms.
Just as I’m about to launch myself into the air, the back door of the cottage opens and an old gent steps out. He immediately grasps what’s going on, grabs a stick and makes his way across his vegetable patch. ‘Bloody hooligans!’ he shouts.
‘Jump,’ shouts Alec again, and I jump, feeling him stagger as he steadies my landing, and the apples thump against my chest.
The old man shakes his stick at us. ‘Shame on you, scrumping apples at your age! Go somewhere else to relive your childhood. Better still, buy your own damned apple trees!’
Alec and I run for the wall. ‘It’s not my childhood I’m reliving!’ I hiss. Alec gives me a quick boost over the wall, before vaulting over after me.
I can still hear the man ranting above the noise of the geese as we run for the car. ‘I spray and prune these bloody trees only for you to—’
My hands shake as I try to fit the key in the door lock.
‘You locked it?’ asks Alec incredulously.
‘Yes! Because some other idiot might have a will telling them to go joyriding!’ I snarl.
Alec laughs, seriously testing the bonds of our delicate truce, as I wrench the car door open, and I’m almost tempted to drive off without him. I suppress the impulse and lean over to unlock his side. I’m faster starting the engine and within seconds we’re off. I speed up the hill, my heart beating louder than the engine, and quickly turn the corner.
‘Slow down,’ he says, his voice slightly higher than usual, and I notice he’s clutching the sides of his seat. I glance at the speedometer and am surprised by how fast I’m going on the tiny back lane. I ease my foot off the accelerator and let the car slow.
‘Would you like me to take over?’ he asks, in a way that makes me have to bite my tongue.
I ignore him and carefully assess how I’m feeling. Although my heart’s still running the Grand National, now that we’re out of sight of the house, I think I’m fine. I take a deep breath and the apples shift uncomfortably around my middle.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘But I do want to get these bloody apples out of my top.’
We drive along the lane until there’s a passing place, then I pull to the side and turn off the engine. I untuck my top, letting the apples tumble into my lap and throw them onto the back seat. It seems very quiet with the engine off. I close my eyes for a moment, but my heart’s still racing so I get out and walk around the car, taking some slow deep breaths.
‘That didn’t quite go to plan,’ says Alec mildly as he joins me.
‘Oh, I don’t know. “Take Hannah scrumping. Get at least five”,’ I quote, mimicking Donald with all the derision I can muster.
‘True,’ agrees Alec, leaning against the Volvo and looking out across the fields.
‘Oh God! Do you think he saw my number plate?’ I ask, images of the old man on the phone to the police vivid in my mind.
‘No!’ laughs Alec. ‘There was a wall in the way. And they’re not going to take DNA samples or question the neighbours either. It’s only a few apples. It’s hardly the crime of the century. God, you’re so uptight. Calm down.’
I stare out at the fields, biting back a thousand expletives.
‘Try an apple,’ he suggests, reaching into the back seat and selecting two. He hands me one.
I pick off the leaves, polish its surface and bite. ‘Yuk! It’s not even ripe,’ I say, spitting it out.
‘No, it’s too early for them to be picked,’ agrees Alec, seemingly savouring the bitterness. ‘But that’s the taste of a scrumper’s apple.’
I take another bite, ready for the sourness this time.
‘You’re hurt!’ Alec points at my legs, and I twist and see a raw scrape across my underarm and then feel the surge of hot pain from more scrapes on the backs of my legs.
‘Ow! I wish you hadn’t said anything. They hurt now.’
‘Sorry,’ he says absently, checking the damage. ‘We’d better get something on those. Are you still OK to drive?’
I nod. We throw our apples into the hedge for the field mice and get back in the car.
We set off, but the seat rubs against my scrapes every time I change gear. I can’t believe I didn’t notice the pain before – it’s so sore.
By the time we reach The Laurels, my legs are really stinging and every contact with the seat is torture. Alec, seeing me struggle to get out, comes around to my side of the car.
‘Let me help,’ he says firmly.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, warding him off with one hand and clutching the door frame with the other. But as I pull myself upright my head reels and I clutch at Alec’s hastily proffered arm. He puts one arm around my waist, leaving his other free to open doors, and as he holds me closer so he can unlock the front door, it takes all my self-control not to let my eyes close and my head tuck itself comfortably under his chin. It must be the shock. I try to ignore the heady scent of aftershave and apples, and stay upright as he leads me carefully to a sofa in the drawing room.
Alec leaves me lying on my stomach, gathering my scattered thoughts. I mean, I know he’s attractive, but he’s also judgemental, rude and has shown barely any civility, and since I don’t believe in the old adage ‘treat them mean, keep them keen’, I shouldn’t be acting like a heroine in a Victorian melodrama. But he did smell good . . .
Alec comes back with a first-aid kit, and hands me Donald’s next letter before kneeling down to inspect my grazes.
‘Read this while I clean you up,’ he instructs. His voice is hard but, as I glance back, I see concern in his eyes. He takes out some wipes to clean up my bare legs, and I clear my throat. This all feels oddly intimate, but his calm expression and assured movements give nothing away. I’m probably just over-thinking this. I turn back to the let
ter and tear open the envelope, grateful for the distraction.
My Dearest Hannah,
Bravissimo! You have succeeded. How did you find it? Did you run until your heart pounded in your ears? Did you feel relief flood through you like a tide? I hope you tasted success, guilt and that strange tang of unsweet apple . . .
‘Ow,’ I say involuntarily as Alec cleans my scrapes with something that really hurts.
‘Sorry,’ he breathes.
. . . You should now understand why small boys risked a beating to steal almost inedible fruit. These days, children won’t even look at fruit, but add an element of sport and risk and who knows? Parents have missed a trick here, I feel.
I remember the thrill of scrumping as if it were yesterday. It was so exciting and it engendered a high degree of comradeship when done with friends – television and computer games have nothing on it.
Of course it wasn’t all success and apples. I was once caught by old Mr Rogers. He dragged me home by the scruff of my shirt – a very difficult way to walk, I can tell you – and he told my father to beat me. My father agreed, and thanked(!) Mr Rogers. He smacked me ten times with a slipper. The slap of that slipper came a whole second before the sting. I didn’t scrump from Mr Rogers’ trees again (well, not unless it was a dare and therefore a case of chicken or good egg), but I can’t say other people’s trees were safe.
I acknowledge there is greater guilt associated with doing such acts in later life, and although I needed you to do this task to feel the thrill of fear and danger, let integrity be your watchword from now on. By all means live for adventure, but listen to your moral barometer. I’ve lived by mine, and stand by it, though many may say I have done things I shouldn’t . . .
I think of Grandma Betty’s condemning scowl, and smile even though Alec seems intent on scouring my legs to a sparkling finish.
. . . So, onto the next task. For this one you must build a go-kart. Please construct it out of an old pram and bits of scrap. In other words, properly – none of this shop-bought rubbish. Alec will help you – and make sure he does because it will do him good.