We reach the clearing of the forest when I see Mama hanging out washing. She notices me, turns her back, and returns inside the house. I push against the door and there she is – busy as ever, making tea, blowing on the embers to keep the fire alight. It’s smoky and silent, and unbearably hot.

‘Sorry, Mama, I got lost.’

She has her back to me, and I notice her shoulders are moving up and down jerkily, like her whole body is hiccupping.

‘Sit down, Mama, I’m all right now. Let me make you tea.’

She turns towards me, her jaw set, and she wipes away the wet on her face. ‘You sit down. I’ll make you a drop of warmth.’

My insides are boiling. Can’t you see this, Mama?

‘Did the man come?’

‘Not yet.’

She comes over and wraps her arms around me, pressing my face against her soft bosom so I can barely breathe. The dog is whinnying now. Mama kisses the top of my head over and over, so much I think she might rub away my hair. ‘You’re the best girl, good girl, good girl …’ The dog thinks she’s praising it, and does something I’ve never seen before – it rolls onto its back, paws in the air. I see that it’s a girl and I am glad. I rub her tummy. Mama joins in and says, ‘Filthy thing,’ and we both laugh until we sense a shadow in the doorway.

Papa is hovering, blocking all the light. ‘Are you going to clean yourself up?’ he says, still without looking directly at me.

‘Put on your pretty dress,’ Mama says.

I go to my room and open my window wide, sit on the ledge and try to drink in air, although the sky is sitting on the ground and there’s not even a whisper of wind. I think of Maria and wonder did she go to Luca at break and ask where I was, or would she be happy now that it’s only the two of them?

‘Hurry up in there,’ I hear Mama’s voice with a new crack in it. ‘You don’t want to be late.’

I open the wardrobe and take out my best blue dress. It’s tight under the arms, pinching me, and too warm for weather like this.

When I return, I see that Mama has put on her Sunday-best headscarf, the one she would normally only wear to church. The pretty green flowers cast a sickly sheen on the high, wide planes of her face, accentuating the bulrush colour of her eyes. She brushes my hair hard and scrapes it back with a new blue suede ribbon, which matches my dress. I wish I could loosen the pull on my scalp and stick my head under cold running water. Papa is outside in the yard, smoking.