Apples swell on the trees but are still too small and sharp to eat. The old ones are all gone. I work most days. No one comes to look for me, or Nadimah. We spread nets over the fruit bushes to stop birds from eating the berries. On the light evenings, we read. Mrs Babcock gives me old books from her daughter’s room. “Penny doesn’t need them,” Mrs Babcock says. “She has no children. She’s a member of the county council.” “But she can’t stop bad smells,” I point out. “That’s true,” Mrs Babcock replies. “Aren’t these stories a bit young for you?” “They’re for someone else.” “A younger sister?” Mrs Babcock “Sort of.” “Are you OK, Aazim? If I can help you in any way, I will.” “Thank you, but I’m all right.” At the weekend, Stefan invites us in to his allotment.
