Paper Faces by Rachel Anderson Page A

words wouldn’t come out.
    â€œShe’s too hot, poor little scrap, in that tight coat,” said the woman in the sacking apron. Loopy Lil clucked anxiously around like a pigeon.
    Mrs. Hollidaye led Dot outside. “Of course it’s not your coat. You keep your coat on if you want to. It’s eating. That’s the trouble. We’ve got all the wrong food for you, and you’re just not used to it, are you? But I daresay you like apples. Come along, we’ll go and find the very nicest apple there is for you.”
    â€œI ain’t never met a German before,” Dot said. “Not close up.”
    â€œPoor boys. Little more than children when they first arrived. They’re just yearning to be home.”
    This wasn’t how Mrs. Parvis used to speak of the enemy.
    â€œOne of them plays the piano most beautifully. They used to let him up here to practice from time to time.”
    The apple room was dim and scented with a mysterious sweetness like the breakfast honey. Apples of many shades of yellow and red, brown and gold, were laid out on yellowed newspaper, line after line, row upon row, on broad-slatted shelves.
    â€œDon’t they give such a lovely smell!” said Mrs. Hollidaye. “They seem to get better and better.” She picked over the nearest of the apples, taking out three that had small brown marks.
    â€œThose’ll do nicely for the compost,” she said, then chose a dark gold one for Dot. “We call this one a russet. Have a try. They do seem to be lasting awfully well. Even better this year than last, though maybe that’s just an illusion. For I heard such an interesting talk on the wireless. It seems we’re all losing our taste for sweet things because of the shortages. What do you think?”
    Dot bit through the taut and burnished skin of the apple into juicy flesh. The crunchy texture was like a raw potato she had once stolen from Mrs. Parvis’s vegetable rack. But the taste was refreshingly sweet. She wondered if this might be anything like the bananas that Mrs. Parvis said were so exceptional.
    But when she swallowed, the first mouthful of crisp apple hurt her throat so much, she almost cried.
    Mrs. Hollidaye had already warned about plum trees growing inside you. Could the same thing happen with a single bite from an apple?

9
    St. Michael and All Angels
    Mrs. Hollidaye said, “Would you like to come with me, Dorothy, to help with the flowers?”
    What did she mean by that? Flowers didn’t need helping. They just were.
    â€œFor a little run in the Ford.”
    â€œDunno about that,” said Dot. She was used enough to being left behind while Gloria went off, but it seemed more dangerous to do it the other way around, for her to leave Gloria behind.
    â€œSleep,” said Mrs. Hollidaye. “That’s the best thing for her.”
    Dot clutched at the cuffs of her coat, but even the familiar softness of worn velvet was not reassuring.
    â€œDunno if I’m allowed. See, we don’t go about in cars, not up London.”
    Then, in case she had given an impression that London was not as good as here, she added, “But there’s plenty of cabs.” She couldn’t remember having actually been in one, and anyway they rarely came past Mrs. Parvis’s lodgings. “Buses too. We have lots of buses up London. And Shanks’s pony.”
    â€œIt isn’t far, just down to the village and back. I have to take Mrs. Squirrel. For her legs. Nurse Willow, that’s our district nurse, lovely lady, member of our Mother’s Union, holds surgery in the village hall. We have a special petrol allowance for that. It’s not unlike a Red Cross run. So I always take my flowers for the altar at the same time. And pick up the groceries. Saves Mr. Bob making the trip with the cart.”
    â€œNo, I ain’t leaving her behind all on her own,” said Dot. “You got to understand, if anything