Scrumping by Holly Barratt

It’s August, the moon is full, and the sound of the waves bothering the rocks half a mile away is insistent. The orchard smells of father: apple and salt. Cider-soaked and sea-preserved, he was so well pickled he could never have grown old if he lived a thousand years. Jenna and Menna, dresses tucked in… Read more Scrumping