Still, it makes her laugh. It’s good to see her sister messing about, her shoulders glowing with light, in the middle of the crowd. A saving grace. It makes her feel like everything can still be spared, summer and its consequences.

Rue Gambetta is echoing with the sounds Johanna despises, while dozens of groups cross paths, size one another up or merge on an afternoon that promises to be festive despite musical schisms and the bad blood between gangs who at present are casually eyeballing each other. Here, people still put on their Sunday best when they get the opportunity. Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, on the last day of July, and the corso fleuri is on, with boats parading along the river to the cries of the residents. Long barges manoeuvred with poles, unstable Nego Chin fishermen’s boats buckling under the weight of flowers.

When Jo, Céline and Saïd were children, dozens of century-old plane trees had lined the river Sorgue in the very heart of the town. A nasty plant disease had forced the council to uproot every tree; the shores were then turned into esplanades. Nowadays, the walkers standing on the edge of the water to watch the boats go by quietly roast. Isle-sur-la-Sorgue is small, but not as shabby as Cavaillon. Perhaps it’s the river, which crosses the town and displays its translucent shallows and its bed of soft algae, that gives it its old-fashioned charm. Or else the second-hand market and its tourists. Still a few squares with cobbles and high schools of a level not quite as low as those in Cavaillon. Two sister towns and yet there’s no comparison. Even Jo knows that – the setting matters, nothing new in that. The kids yell, naked legs in the stream, whenever a new boat drifts by. There are themes, just like with floats, only on the water. One year, the girls took part. They were on an Egyptian boat, their eyes darkened, triangles at the corners of their eyelids like fake prepubescent Cleopatras. At first it was good fun but after a while it got boring, playing mini figureheads on that rather unsteady barge. The following summer, they chose to stay on dry land, alternating applause and mockery at the drifting floats displaying different countries’ colours or a theme. One summer after another, they’ve chosen to chill out with their mates, with cans and giggles under the disapproving eyes of the riverside residents.

Besides, the three of them are now heading towards the barge that welcomes the gang every year. It’s not deliberate, just a reflex. The village lot and a few hangers-on from the technical college, most of whom live in Cavaillon, will be there.