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up!’ they shouted in unison, just as they arrived back at the road.
    In the evening they fed the chickens, chased off snakes, sewed, and prepared a vegetable soup. They ate dinner, listened to the radio, went to sleep, and were happy. On Tuesdays, they bathed, and so, instead of sewing, they went down to the river at dusk. On Sundays, they didn’t leave the house for even a moment. They cleaned it thoroughly and changed the bed linen.
    Sometimes when they came down from the mountain there would be men in the square, piling up the gorse to make manure, and then they’d walk on with great strides (one pulled the other along by the arm) ignoring the catcalling and taunting — baby, hot stuff — that was directed only towards Dolores.
    When they arrived at the house, on the days that this had happened, Dolores would start making dinner or fetch water from the well. But Saladina would be burning up inside. The muscles in her face would tighten, and her lips, formerly pressed together, would burst open like a flower. She’d roll her eyes and shake with laughter, a waterfall of laughter, and dash into the shed to hide, as quick as lightning.
    She would re-emerge with her gaze fixed on some distant point in the countryside, serious, with a ladder over her shoulder and a set of shears in her hands. The need to repress her feelings had forged the habit of pruning.
    She pruned the fig tree with such vigour that sometimes she even pulled a few tiles from the roof. The branches, the figs, click, click, the leaves and the tiles would fly through the air, and the chickens would run for cover.
    When she had finished, the ground in the orchard would be a mash of figs and foliage. Exhausted, she would go back into the house hunched over, her face covered in snot and tears, her eyes puffy from laughing and crying at the same time. Her sister would bring her the bottle of anise and a glass, and put her feet up. Then she would go out to sweep up the branches and the mangled figs.

10
    The most beautiful time of day in Tierra de Chá was when the sun hung motionless overhead, the river was calm, and the chickens clucked after laying their eggs.
    Tuesday afternoon. Off with the clogs, off with the stockings. It was bath time. Off with the skirts, and the knickers too. Off with the doublets.
    Holding hands, making energetic movements and singing loudly to ward off the cold, the Winterlings would go down to the river, hissing like cats. Once a week, if it was sunny, they lathered up from head to toe.
    They scrubbed each other’s waists, breasts with erect nipples, behinds like mandarin skins, and legs with abundant flesh.
    One day, just as they were rinsing off their hair, pouring water over themselves with a ladle, a nauseating gust wafted over, a rancid stench like gasoline or a wet jumper.
    Sniffing the air, one Winterling said:
    â€˜It’s the priest.’
    Soon they heard what sounded like the creaking of an old cart. The other Winterling added:
    â€˜He’s come for the offering.’
    They ducked down into the water at the same time, leaving only their heads above.
    At first the priest didn’t see them, and passed by, pulling his cart. But when he saw their clothes on a bush, he stopped and turned around.
    â€˜Daughters of God!’ he exclaimed, covering his eyes with his hands. ‘So there you are! In the water …’
    He walked backwards, his eyes shut tightly, up to the riverbank to speak with them.
    â€˜Don’t get out!’ he said, sensing the movement of bodies, then hiding himself behind a bush. ‘What are you doing in the river?’
    The Winterlings explained that they were just having a bath. Water and soap. Was he suggesting that no one in Tierra de Chá ever had a wash? In England, you didn’t need to go outside to wash yourself — you could bathe indoors. Every house had a bath.
    The priest listened to them, perplexed.
    â€˜And do they wash the