Chapter Ten

 

On a walk in search of the wandering geese, Lucy had noticed fruit on the ground in the old orchard near the clearing. Her shoe had squashed a little green-yellow orb, now rotting and with tiny worms burrowing in and out of its skin.

Speckles on the whitish part, like dark grains sprinkled for decoration. Lucy had never seen them before, not in supermarkets. On the branches above her head, however, they were hanging in clusters, as if the trees were growing some sort of elongated golf ball in bundles.

"Quinces," said Deborah. "They're quite common." She inspected the one Lucy had brought her, which was still pale green and hard. "They make a lovely jam, I jar them as preserves whenever I have a nice harvest. There's a little thicket of them quite close to my house."

"So they're good to eat," said Lucy. They did not look good to her, but looks were not reliable.

"Yes, if you cook them," said Deborah. "I can give you recipes. These are quite an old variety. They probably predate the farm." That was a joke, Lucy thought, because Deborah laughed. "Joseph would have gathered ripened ones, I expect, he used to forage all over the property come ripening season. People always did in the olden days. Berries, crabapples, wild plums, medlars. Anything one could eat was worth the effort."

The trees had once been part of a proper orchard, spaced in neat rows that were broken where trees had died and stumps had gone back to the earth. The rest had turned wild, their branches gnarled, some bowed by ice or stress, some crossing with the limbs of neighboring trees as if battling for space. Not an orchard, more of a grove.

Lucy wandered beneath. The last row was not quince, but some kind of apple. It looked small and pinkish. Perhaps the pink turned into a darker blush when ripe.

She could prune them after the fruiting season was over. In the old shed, a pole saw stood rusting in one corner, which had probably been used on trees. Maybe Joseph had used it to help keep this spot in order. Some farmer must have looked after them when they were first planted. It had been a long time ago.

She gathered up some of the rotting fruits which had fallen off the quince branches. Did it have seeds or stones? She hadn't asked Deborah what color it would be when ripe. Yellow, probably. At present, it was not very appetizing, but smelled like the bottom of the fridge's fruit and veg compartment when she forgot to clean it.

Fewer apples had fallen off. She could not find seeds in the one she picked up, which had been hollowed by some of nature's foragers, leaving the core and part of the top half. Lucy squatted, poking around. Perhaps seedlings came up. The orchard might be growing its own replacements.

Near the cadaverous remains of an old orchard tree, now speckled with ribbon mushrooms, the grass moved from a creature stirring. The hedgehog climbed atop the hoary bark, snout lifted, scenting the area, as if scouting for his teatime meal.

Lucy watched him climb over it, slipping along towards the trees through the summer grass. He detected a patch of rotten fruit, its insects around it being the real draw, Lucy surmised.

The hedgehog nosed the spot. His little quills rose as he detected her nearby, like tiny antenna receiving a signal; his head poked upwards, sniffing the air momentarily, looking for her scent.

Perhaps he recognized it as belonging to a familiar source, because he went back to probing the fruit after a few seconds.

Did he have hedgehog friends? A colony? She didn't know the facts of hedgehog life, but she never saw more than one at a time. It was usually near her compost heap, where lots of insects lived, and old refuse from the garden's clearing provided shelter.

Were hedgehogs lone creatures, possibly? It was not safe to assume it was always the same hedgehog she saw. She pondered this, as the little animal nosed, then pushed and scraped in quest of whatever squirmed just below the surface of grass and dirt.

She could not find any seeds in the ruined quinces; if stones had been in the middle, they had been carried off by wildlife when the ground side had rotted. The internet would answer her question.

She put the ones she carried with her into the compost bin at home. From behind the holly hedge, she heard gabbling noises, and Porgie's snake-like neck poked through, to ascertain who was at the old compost pile. He let out a honk of 'all clear' to the others, who now emerged, waddling along the garden wall.

They didn't like to be herded, but they liked to follow people with food. They happily gabbled to each other as they followed along, until they reached the small poultry shelter where they lived, and which Kenny the rooster had soundly rejected from the beginning.

Their archenemy was scratching around in search of spilled grain, spotting them with a cackle of consternation. The geese babbled and flapped their wings, of which Lucy was glad to be well clear. The rooster flapped his in response, letting out a loud crow.

The small but the mighty, perhaps — at least that's how the geese seemed to take it, because they veered aside with reluctance, and went into their own little yard.

Kenny strutted along the little pen, looking pleased by the outcome. He waited for Lucy to toss him a handful of the geese's dinner, which he pecked at with enthusiasm.

According to the website, hedgehogs preferred certain kinds of vegetables and fruits. Lucy looked at pictures, photos from a sanctuary that raised baby hedgehogs foundlings. They were exploring a pile of turnips and broccoli that had been diced and cooked.

She looked up the national and local guidelines for repurposing a shed as a community center. Health codes, disability requirements, permissions and forms for renovations and alterations. Inspections for timber rot, tests for mold and fungus, rules for placement of emergency exits and wheelchair ramps.

A lot of paperwork was involved, it would seem. Lucy felt daunted. She was in need of help.