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— our allies and enemies. Grégoire had convinced me by then, angels and witches played no part in the coming of storms.
    Planted by the farmer in October and November, then nurtured like a baby for seven months, I knew a single rain or hail-storm could destroy the entire crop. I relaxed when I saw the early sky was cloudless — a distant pale blue where the sun was rising; not the slightest hint of a storm.
    We washed our bread down with water, Maman and I caught our hair under our caps and we set off with Grégoire up to Monsieur Bruyère’s farm.
    ‘I don’t care about the hard work, or if the day goes on for hours and hours,’ I said. ‘Harvest time is so much fun, I wish it would last all the year.’
    ‘That’s true, Victoire,’ Maman said, ‘but don’t forget we must still work hard if we are to rebuild our home.’
    I stared at her. ‘Rebuild the cottage? It has been six years, Maman — six winters in that damp church room. I don’t believe we will ever have our own home again.’
    My mother didn’t reply; I knew she had no answer. She merely put her head down and fell easily into the same circular movements as the other adults, all swinging their scythes in perfect rhythm.
    The fields hummed and ticked with insects, and as the morning wore on, the sky turned a sharp blue, the sun slanting in low slices along the dry grass, and forming haloes around the hedges.
    The other girls and I gathered handfuls of the cut wheat, breathing in its familiar summery smell, as we tied it into sheaves others would flail, to remove the grain.
    When sweat plastered our shirts and chemises to our backs, and our throats were parched, we sank down in the shade of the hedges and slaked our thirst with water and wine.
    Small boys chased about ferreting out hedgehogs, which they then burnt to stop them sucking out all the cows’ milk.
    ‘Surely they don’t truly suck the cows’ milk?’ I said to Léon, as he sat beside me, his smell of earth, hay and horse filling my nostrils.
    ‘Do you still believe in silly peasant legends?’ he said with a knowing grin.
    ‘Well those silly little boys will only grow into silly big men,’ I said, feeling a little pulse of something like fear or nervousness, but it was neither of those.
    ‘And how would you women fare without us silly big men?’ he said.
    ‘You really believe we need men, Léon Bruyère? Who, I ask you, are all those earth-coloured figures working in the fields for months on end like a herd of beasts, even when they are sick, or blind, or with child? Women plough, we sow, reap and thresh.’ I swiped the sweat from my brow. ‘We gather firewood, cook and feed families, clear snow, milk cows and fetch water. Who makes the cheese and bread, spins the cloth and washes the clothes?’ I spread my arms. ‘And you men come prancing along at harvest time, pretending to have done all the hard work.’
    Léon smiled. ‘Ah, a man can tell a girl is no longer a girl when she starts complaining about women’s chores.’
    I slapped his arm. ‘Get back to work, you.’
    When the hot sun reached its peak, work stopped again and everybody sat in the shade and munched on bread and saucisson , and raspberries and gooseberries from Monsieur Bruyère’s baskets.
    Afterwards, the young children frolicked about playing hide and seek. The men lay down, covered their faces with their hats and were soon snoring. The women whispered and giggled, apart from my mother, who sat, as always, on her own, her shoulders taut, her gaze rigid on the Monts du Lyonnais.
    ‘Do it to Léon,’ I said to the whispering women. ‘Please, choose him.’
    Several women rose and crept over to the dozing Léon. Three of them held him down while a fourth stuffed his pants with cow dung. Léon was soon wide awake and fighting them off, and we all squealed, tears of mirth streaking our sunburned cheeks.
    I laughed so much it pained my belly. Léon grinned, shook his head and went back to work.
    Grégoire