On Monday, when the weather was fine, my mother washed the linen. All the girls at home had to pitch in. We hated the chore, but Mama laughed, and sang, and soon we’d be smiling, our sleeves rolled up, our hands cold and raw, as we joined in with the songs on the wireless.

On occasion we’d get so carried away we’d start dancing, and Mama would clap her hands as we spun around the kitchen.

Then she’d shake her head, turn off the wireless, and we’d hum and tap our feet as we finished up. After we hung the wet clothes on the line, we’d drink lemonade, and sit on the grass as the sheets snapped in the breeze.

I love the smell of clean laundry that’s been hanging in the summer’s sun.

Match the story (and the number) to the face at Mirrors.