I’m wearing the new dress that Mama bought for me the day she went to the village. It’s navy blue with polka dots and long sleeves. My hair is tied up in the same ribbon as on the day I was presented to my new husband. I am outside of myself looking in, dizzy from holding my breath.

All the men of the house are there, sitting around the table, drinking tea, talking about the fat clouds, the fact that rain is on its way, and about time too. The rabbits and chickens are dehydrated, they’re too scrawny and need to be fattened up, Papa says. Like me. A good soaking will do the ground good and put some moisture back into the fowl. Mama is bustling about. She has baked a cake with flour, sugar, eggs, crushed walnuts and sour cream borrowed from the Petrans. I wonder how Mama is going to pay them back; she must have spent every penny in her secret jar on this new dress for me.

She managed to get me a suitcase that doesn’t close properly, so Papa tied the handle with string. My black patent school shoes were polished by Mama this morning with her spit and a cloth. They were given to me by my cousin Olga at the beginning of school last year and pinch my toes badly now. Inside the case there is one other pair of shoes: an old pair of Mama’s that are two sizes too big for me, as well as a jumble of trousers and jumpers all either falling off me or too tight. Mama says it might be colder in England, she couldn’t be sure, but not to worry because as soon as I get there my new rich husband will buy me lovely clothes. There is grit in her voice.

‘How will I change and clean my dressings when I’m there?’ I asked Mama in private that morning as she pulled my hair back into a high ponytail, her tongue sticking through her teeth in deep concentration. She told me the bleeding would happen again, every month, until I was with baby.

‘You’ll just have to be careful not to let your husband see.’

I told her I wanted to see Maria, to say goodbye, and she couldn’t stop the cloud from passing over her face as she said, ‘We cannot let anyone know. The school might try to stop your papa.’

So this is why the whole thing has happened so fast.

The dog is sitting on my feet, nuzzling her head into my skirt. ‘Get that filthy thing out of here,’ Papa says. ‘We don’t want you smelling of dog and we don’t want Petre to think you’re dirty.’ He kicks her, and instead of slinking away like she normally does, she bares her teeth and growls. This makes Papa kick her even harder.