The clique was our gang of kids aged from 7 to 12 who enjoyed as did many in the 1940's the adventure called SCRUMPING (stealing apples) the Apple Orchids around the rural Ancient village of Spondon where I was born. This is a little story from my "family history", I thought you may enjoy.
SCRUMPING
(The Story)
The 'Dragon walls', were constructed of brick and mortar, the tops ovalled to a decorative finish. Centralized along the tops in a single jagged row, coloured pieces of glass protruded, implanted as a deterrent against adventuresome uninvited entry.
In support of the austerity of the glass, steel piquet's, inserted at regular intervals were strung with two rows of rusted barbed wire. The cost to decorate the walls with such ugly finery must have been quite substantial, which seemed a waste, since such deterrents had little effect, against the practiced skills of the determined.
Certainly the Clique did not consider these defences as obstacles. Niches were easily made in the mortar between the bricks with a pocket knife, to allow foot and finger holds, and the piquet's provided ready made grapples to hang from while the glass was forcibly removed by the application of a stone.
These efforts were carried out with intent to invade the estates beyond the walls, which isolated in green seclusion the 'Treasure trees' and juicy morsels!, which of course were the apples. These were not ordinary apples, for they were as large as rock melons, silver green and filled with a fruity substance, literally inundated with mouth watering juices, of a habit forming texture.
Apple Orchards were without doubt cultivated to induce magnetic desire in all fortunate enough to behold them. It could not be by accident that the branches crept alluringly above the walls, to bend enticingly downward from the weight of their delightful fruits, just out of reach, glimmering enticingly in the moonlight in such succulent repose.
It was by design, surely, that they swayed so provocatively to and fro, drawing the eye of desire upon them, despite the most disciplined control to refrain from such quest.
As is the way of life, it seemed, desires were seldom flowers of easy plucking, for to acquire a taste of these juicy morsels much strategy, skill and bravery was required.
The cloak of night is a necessary ally for the brave, who are not folk who demonstrate their courage in the sight of others, indeed the skills of the artist must forever be preserved in secrecy.
Courage is not instant however, a preparatory period being necessary prior to inception. The winter nights were chilling that despite defensive attire one shook from the cold, but perhaps this, on a night of 'Scrumping', was also an event by design, to disguise the external indication of the internal emotion.
Lookouts were posted, a selection of the less brave or the younger recruits, these to protect the minds of the 'scrormers' from delinquent thoughts that might deflect concentration from the job at hand and of course to sound the alarm of any approaching disturbance.
Whisper's organized the order of ascent, that he who was first to scale the 'dragon wall' was very brave indeed. Long before had the dragons tail been deformed by countless prior escapades and the piquet's bent from many grasping hands, held firm as toes and little fingers groped in de-mortared niches.
Wide sparkling eyes bulged upwards in the silver moonlight with excitement and expectancy, saliva decorating the famished lip. The barbed wire hung slack in loose disarray inoffensive to the cotton covered leg which swung over the oval top of the wall.
A brief pause, deafening them all with the sudden silence, each becoming aware of the hideous drumming of his own heart and increased motion of his breath.
Then, Nimble feet despite the dark found vertical balance that soon clever hands were grasping the branch of a tree to swing the body upwards, onto it. A new scurry, as the next assailant scaled the dragon likewise disappearing among the thatch of leaves and abundant treasures.
Wonderful - is the sound of the slap of an apple in a waiting palm!
But first almost a traditional ritual, ones shirt must bulge to capacity before the execution of the wayward fruit which might in passage become bruised or misshapen by impact with the ground. Few ever missed the waiting hands however that were held in fieldsman like fashion, supported by stout agile legs and nimble feet.
Beaming with utter elation those on the ground filled their shirts to explosive proportions.
But greed does have its drawbacks.
With a muffled yell and frantic stumbling Fatties' shirt filled to capacity burst at the seams, buttons flying into the night and the confines of his jacket, which had been opened to allow entry. The apples sprang free like bubbles from a bath, bouncing into the dark depths, some rolling freely down the slope and into the area of the malt shovel.
Alic, the lookout scrambled around on his knees groping for them his vital lookout duties forgotten. He gathered them up as quickly as possible; but some ran passed him, bouncing into the gutter of the Malt Shovel yard.
Fatty managed to save a few, and when the constant string of apples ceased to roll passed him Alic, shirt already half full, decided to move in pursuit, into the pale light of the Malt Shovel, street lights.
As he scrambled into the gutter, he failed to see the silent approach of P.C. Gregory. Only when the pneumatic tire of his bicycle impeded his vision, the shiny chrome spokes, forming jail like bars, blocking access to those apples still pitifully residing in the gutter, did Alic chance to look up into the helmed shadows of the policeman's profile, and the light of his torch.
Shock cemented him to the spot, horror wrenching at his heart, his mind reeled. Fatty wondering what had happened to him staggered, under the weight of his shirt full of apples, arms flung around them to prevent them from spilling again, out into the soft light, immediately halting his eyes aghast as he saw P.C. Gregory peering down at poor little Alic. Fatty threw up his hands in surprise and despair, apples flying every where.
"AH!" He yelled in shock and terror "AH! It's Gregory!! It's Gregory!!"
Fatty's plaintive cry created instant havoc. Smithy fell out of the tree and landed on the wrong side of the wall, Baz the only other tree-bourn, climbed down rapidly to join him and they both scuttled off towards the house at the far end of the orchard. Gaurly, Nip, Binny and Mario, closely followed by Fatty, and then little Alic, fled for their lives along the meandering Twitchel. (an alley)
P.C. Gregory was temporarily prevented from pursuit as he had suddenly become inundated with apples. Also he was a very large man and was not able to move very quickly through the Twitchel, which did not encourage riding a bicycle through it, for it was rather narrow and twisting, and anyway was an illegal way of passage mounted on a bicycle.
As Baz and Smithy approached the house, which was still a considerable distance away, a dog began to bark and the lights of the rear porch were switched on, casting feeble yellow rays across the surrounding lawn.
"Over here" called Baz to Smithy who quickly joined him by the wall. "We can climb up here; there is a couple of bricks missing in the wall"
As they climbed the wall in the dark shadows of the apple trees, a torch beam began to penetrate the orchard searching among the trees. Also the dog which had been freed, a rather large Great Dane, was sniffing about in the underbrush, probably more interested in routing a rabbit than it was in hunting the invaders.
The rest of them had long sped passed when Smithy and Baz dropped from the top of the wall into the twitchel. They crouched in the shadows listening, but only the sound of the dog, and the breeze in the apple tree leaves could be heard. P.C. Gregory knew better than to attempt to run down a gang of fleet footed kids, and anyway he probably enjoyed an apple or too, and had a bit of a chuckle about it all.
Together Baz and Smithy ran from the twitchel, shirts bulging with apples and did not stop until they had sped down crackershaws hill and up the path to the undulations near the allotments where the others waited with great anxiety. Thus the merry band enjoyed a feast of Keswick apples, there being more than enough to go around. They ate until all of the apples were consumed, each eating at least four each.
The Spondon area had several apple orchards of varying size and geographical position. To the "clique" each had its unique and particular element of danger. Most were not guarded by high brick walls, but by thick privet hedges and barbed wire fences. Some were vulnerable to daylight raids, such as the one behind the butchers shop from the alley leading down to the recreation ground. This orchard was open along its entire front, with only a dilapidated barbed wire fence to contain it. This orchard however was not so subject to raids as the others since it offered a low level of danger thus excitement, and the apples were quite small and not as juicy as most others. This was easily assailed in daylight, thus scrumping here was restricted to quick hit and run raids, the shirts of the scrumpers seldom if ever being filled.
At the lower end of the recreation grounds was another orchard, which offered, greater adventure. Although contained only by a privet hedge, the apple trees grew some distance from the perimeter, requiring the scrumper to cross open ground to reach them.
Getting apples was made even more difficult here since those trees closest to the fence had long since been depleted of their fruit, requiring the scrumper to venture well into the orchard to satisfy his desires.
The owner it was said had a shot-gun filled with dried peas, and had been known to use it. The house was at the top of the orchard fronting on Sitwell Street and not very far from groves where the apples grew thickest. These orchards were along the normal routes travelled by the gang from school on their way home, or were targets when the lads had spent time in the village or some function on the recreation ground.
Weekend orchards, were those in the area of the clay fields or along Nottingham road. There were three main ones each being particularly difficult to scrump. The orchard of the Naughty boys home, on Nottingham road, was as much protected by its austere reputation as a home for bad boys, as it was by the surrounding steel barred fences and brick walls. Raids on this orchard were less frequent than most and only the perimeter trees were subject to dismantling. When few apples hung from the perimeter trees, the orchard was by passed for one of the other two.
None of the other two however were simple targets. Indeed one lay at the dead end of an avenue, thus there was only one approach, and the retreat was by the same route. The third orchard was in the grounds of the Catholic Convent. This was a mysterious place, where people in robes and hoods over their heads walked about in silence.
The building was as large as any mansion, grey and forbidding. Often they lay observing the robed ones, moving about in the grounds, it was a very mysterious place. They never failed to get apples here, for they were never chased, yet they never filled their shirts either, for the fear of the mysterious was great, some visualizing ghosts and other imaginary things.
Scrumping was part of their lives. It provided excitement and tested their courage. They also enjoyed the apples. They knew nothing of the Catholic faith. They didn't even know what a Catholic was, other than the fact they were mysterious people who kept to themselves, hidden in the grounds of the great convent building, where they were sure that spirits roamed among the apple trees.