‘Bien fait, chérie,’ she would say, nodding at my efforts. Philippe was a good son, but I think she must have enjoyed having a girl in the house. At first we could hardly exchange a word, but with raised eyebrows and smiles and gestures we still managed a conversation that satisfied us both. After a little while I acquired a few French words and stock phrases, and whenever I used them she would puff out her red cheeks in admiration and reinforce my feeble efforts with a voluble response.

In the afternoon heat, she used to sit in her armchair in the coolest corner of the kitchen and listen to music on her radio. I preferred to wander outside and marvel at the sensuous ripple of the sun on my skin and hair. I used to sit with my back against the house wall and my legs stretched out in front of me, idly watching the lizards run over the stones and the butterflies settling briefly on the rosemary bushes. I turned brown and stood taller because I wasn’t hunched up inside myself in anticipation of the next surprise I would have to deal with. With the exception of Sundays every day at the Leserts’ was exactly the same, purposeful and yet tranquil, even down to the never-ending sunshine.

On Sundays there was no jasmine picking. We put on neatly pressed clothes instead of everyday ones and went to mass in the little church in the village. Madame and Philippe knew every single person in the congregation, and the ritual of handshaking and kissing afterwards seemed to go on even longer than the service itself.