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Scrumping
by Paul Brett

The ' kitchen garden' of my childhood, was sumptuous. The front garden was bare by comparison. In Autumn Hazelnuts needed cracking. Walnuts and stained hands had a party. In optimistic Spring, the rubble of the air raid shelter was buried by a mass of yellow daffodils.
The back garden was totally different. black and red currants were delicious. The gooseberries were almost like syrup without any tartness when sunripe golden. The Raspberries were flavoursome; except if eaten too soon; or I had missed a maggot. Most of the damsons became fantastic jam. I ate the rest.
Father jealously guarded his tomatoes, especially when the crop was sparse. He loved the sweet enough fruit doused in vinegar. There was noexcuse for missing tomatoes. Birds in our garden, did not swallow tomatoes, whole; only us. It was not worth the risk.
These events took place; when I was about eleven years old; my sister seven years younger; my brother five years older, than me. Consequently, according to are ages ,… or so I thought … different levels of subterfuge skills accrued. My sister was too young for out work; too dangerous. In the garden we could keep an eye on her, perhaps. The different skill levels revealed themselves, sooner or later. There was, however one mystery, I could not work out.
The facts were these. A lovely reddish sweet apple grew on to conveniently small trees. After ripening the crop, as soon as our backs were turned disappeared. The few left were misshapen and inedible. The yellow cooking apples, I preferred had enough for me, tasty tarts, and out of this world apple pies. I could not understand where all those other apples had gone to; no pies, certainly. Another challenge occupied my brother and I.

Behind a wooden garden shed there was a wall whose red bricks weathered pink. In the sunlight the broken glass; coloured; , crystal, green, and brown, were menacingly, highlighted. Fixed in concrete; battlements to repel invaders; us. Behind this bastion, was a real orchard.
The wall's summit was gained from the wooden shed which stood close to the wall. Sacks found in the shed, defeated the sharp glass. the ' man who shouted ' also had to be outwitted. I believed he had a gun. In my case this was not necessary.

My one and only attempt failed ignominiously. I came up fast, like a scared jack rabbit. The Peaches and Apricots on the other side. The other day, I asked my brother if he had been successful; cagey, even now, he replied warily:
" I think I did, once. "

Victoria plums attracted us both like a magnet. the tree was only just out of reach. Some fell actually in our garden.
This engrossed countless perniciously stinging wasps.
A plum could just not be taken and eaten on trust. A squeeze was enough to confirm ripeness; and no nasty surprises.
I sthought I occasionally, saw my sister picking her way, perilously through wasp territory. Poor girl, she must be after the wasps' plums, I joked. The wall had proved fruitful at last.

My sister turned out, cleverer than I realised. On the anniversary of my mother's birthday, our telephone call, went something like this:


" Hi Jacky, did you like my poem about those custard cream apples in the garden at Mile End Road? "
" I liked the poem butt not those apples. I preferred the sweeter red ones. Did you think I liked wasps? "
Enough said. He who laughs first; does not always laugh last.

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