The Things I Know(3)
‘It’s different . . .’
The two sat in quiet contemplation for a second or two. It was the words he didn’t say that rang out the loudest. Because I have the chance, because I’m not flawed, because Mum and Pops will let me go but they don’t like you being out of their sight, because it’s just the way it is . . . She mentally filled in the depressing blanks.
His look of concern, coupled with this rare moment of undivided attention, increased her desire to open up to him, to someone. Digging her nails in her palms, she spoke quickly before the hatch of opportunity closed and she was once again submerged in the darkness of her secret frustrations.
‘I love Mum and Pops,’ she began, ‘but I don’t know if this life is enough for me.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Despite his solemn tone, his eyes lifted in a half-smile, as if waiting for the punchline, and she understood: what other life could there be for her, for them?
‘I . . . I . . .’ she stuttered. It was so much easier in her head.
I didn’t choose to farm; our great-grandparents did! But why does that mean my life has to follow the same path? I like bits of it, but not all of it, and I kind of feel like I’m running out of love for the life and the place, but I don’t know what else to do or where to go . . . Who’d give me a job? Who’d want me? And I know Mum and Pops act with love but I feel so caged in that it’s suffocating me . . .
‘I—’ she began, struggling.
‘I’m moving away,’ he blurted. ‘I’m going to America. That’s my secret. I’m getting out of here. I’m leaving, Hitch.’ He stared at her, eyes bright with excitement.
She felt his words hit her brain like a thump to the chest. ‘Leaving?’
‘Yeah, going to the States.’
She was breathless, winded by news so big it put her revelation of discontent firmly in the shade. She placed the words she had been about to voice back in the bottle and tamped them down with the stopper, so they rattled around in her thoughts. It was almost unthinkable – a life on Waycott Farm without her little brother? She tried to imagine what this might mean for her parents, who would not only miss him but, on a practical level, would now be a pair of hands short. And what might it mean for her? Jonathan was the sharp snort of laughter over the kitchen table, the one who got her jokes, who played pranks, who sang along loudly to the radio as he worked, the person she locked eyes with when her parents were being unreasonable, her support network and the background noise to her life. The thought of it falling silent was jarring in the extreme.
‘Well, say something!’ he prompted.
‘America?’ she managed. ‘It’s a long way away.’
‘Yep, it’s a long way away. The good ole U S of A!’
‘Are you serious?’
He nodded.
‘But . . . but what will you do over there?’
He threw his head back and laughed. ‘What do you think I’ll do? I have farming in my blood. I’m a farmer! And Carter has told me all about some of the farms out there, Hitch – they sound amazing! Acres and acres of glorious wheat, farms as big as our whole county, and big, blue skies! And neat ranches with horses so beautiful they’d take your breath away.’
‘I’m sure they would.’ She tried to picture them but could only see the fat ponies belonging to the little girls who lived further along the lane who, led by their mum, trotted along the road with their horses in a slow clip-clop that to her sounded a lot like boredom.
‘How long are you going for, do you think?’ she whispered, thinking ahead to the farming year and trying to suppress the image of a silent Christmas, eight months away, an empty chair at the dining table and one pair of hands short for cracker-pulling. Her parents snoozing in front of the fire, and her without her backgammon partner and no one to lob sweets at across the room . . .
‘I don’t know,’ he said, shrugging and turning his palms up, ‘but that’s what’s so exciting.’
For you, maybe . . .
With a heavy heart she pictured the copy of the Gazette, currently folded over and pushed under her bed, with adverts for flat-shares and rooms to let within a five-mile radius of the farm ringed around in red felt-tip. Hitch had chosen them carefully – places that offered her the freedom she craved but were close enough that she would be able to commute comfortably to work each day on the farm. She’d been trying to come up with a plan, not wanting to admit to herself that it was little more than a pipe dream – her wages might just be adequate to cover a small rent, but there would be zero left for food, petrol or anything else, for that matter. Plus, she was pretty certain her parents would veto the idea, hinting again at the woeful, unimaginable events that might bring her harm, were she to flee from under the wing of their protection.
In truth, she’d been aware over the last couple of years that her parents had been treading water, as if everything were on hold, all of them silently waiting for the day Jonathan finished his course and came home for good – meaning also that she could finally, finally, hand over the supporting reins to him and start to live a little. It would be a relief to keep more regulated hours, letting him help out with the early starts, the late finishes and any emergencies, but if he wasn’t going to be there, how on earth would her parents manage?
They’ll manage because you will help, Hitch, just like you always have . . .