‘And I’ll shut your mouth for you,’ repeated Bachisia, fuming. She got to her feet and raised a hand as if to be as good as her word, but there was no need, because, seeing her mother-in-law cross the yard, Giovanna fell silent.

Martina was spinning as she walked. She came slowly up to the two women. ‘Enjoying the fresh air?’ she said, her eyes on her turning spindle.

‘It’s so lovely and fresh and we’re dying of heat,’ Bachisia said. ‘But it’ll rain tonight.’

‘It certainly will. I hope it doesn’t thunder. I’m so afraid of thunder. It’s the devil unloading sacks of walnuts. Let’s hope Brontu will be back soon. What shall we make for dinner, Giovanna?’

‘Whatever you like.’

‘Do you want to stay here? You might harm yourself. Don’t do that.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘The evening air is always harmful. It’s better to be inside now, and you can always make the dinner. There are eggs, my girl, eggs and tomatoes. Prepare them for yourself and your husband. I don’t feel hungry,’ she went on, turning to Bachisia. ‘I hardly ever feel hungry. It must be the weather.’

It’s the devil, who’s prodding you in the backbone and your meanness that stops you eating, Bachisia told herself. Giovanna said nothing. She sat motionless, sunk in a heavy dream.

‘The Assumption Day sermon’s at eleven tomorrow,’ Martina said. ‘Such an inconvenient time. It used to be at ten o’clock. Are you going, Giovanna?’

‘No, I’m not,’ replied Giovanna, her voice dull. She was too ashamed nowadays to go to church.

‘Yes, it’ll be hot by then. You’d better not go. If I’m not wrong, it’s raining already.’ Martina held out a hand. A large drop of dirty water fell on it, spreading over the back. More drops fell on the almond tree and on the ground, pitting the sandy yard. Then a glow lit up the sky. Across the grey background, a huge yellow cloud passed by, laden with water like an enormous sponge.

The women went inside. Torrential rain began to fall, straight and violent but without either wind or thunder. The shower only lasted ten minutes but it flooded the village.

‘Oh God and Saint Costantino, Oh Holy Assumption,’ groaned Martina. ‘If Brontu is on the way home he’ll be wet as a day-old chick.’ She looked anxiously at the sky, but she did not stop spinning.