The Things I Know(7)

Hitch placed the loaded breadboard, milk jug, cups, saucers, cutlery and a small green earthenware bud vase holding the single marigold bloom on the table and rushed back to the kitchen.

Her mum came through the back door, fresh from sorting and distributing feed for the limited number of livestock. ‘Breakfast on, my love? They want an early start.’ Her mum, always too busy for small talk, cut to the chase.

‘Nearly done,’ Hitch replied, as she reached for the jewel in the breakfast – two fat, freshly laid eggs, still slightly warm, in the base of her palm.

‘That’s a good girl.’ Her mum scrutinised her from the table, looking up occasionally as she scribbled a list.

Hitch took a clean pan and drizzled oil into it before cracking the eggs, watching the shiny yolks gleam like orbs of golden sunshine as they bubbled and cooked against the gloom.

She loaded up two plates with the gargantuan feast and walked through to the dining room, where Mr and Mrs Silvioni had taken seats and were admiring the fire, each with a cup of coffee in their hands.

‘Good morning,’ she said with a smile.

‘Good morning, dear. That’s great coffee!’ Mrs Silvioni lifted the cup towards her as if in congratulation.

Cworfee . . .

‘Do you need a hand with that?’

The woman made as if to stand and Hitch shook her head. With her twisted foot and the fingers on her right side permanently crooked, it was a common misconception that she might need help by those with feet of the correct design and fully flexing digits. Hitch didn’t doubt that it came from a place of kindness and a willingness to assist, but it rarely occurred to people that this was her normal, and that since her first breath on earth she had more than figured out how to overcome and adapt.

‘I can manage, but thank you.’

‘Oh, my goodness, will you look at that breakfast! It’s a feast is what it is! That’ll keep us goin’ till dinner!’

Hitch liked this moment the best, placing the lovingly cooked breakfast in front of guests, watching their eyes widen in desire and their smiles break. It felt nice to be appreciated.

‘We’re here visiting our daughter. She’s at Bristol University, studying Biology.’

Dawtah . . . Their dawtah, a lucky girl who got to go to college and to travel to the other side of the Pond . . .

‘She’s staying in Wills Hall. Do you know it?’

Hitch shook her head.

‘It’s fancy! Isn’t it, Tony?’

Mr Silvioni nodded. ‘Uh-huh, real fancy!’

‘It is! Like something out of Harry Potter. Do you know it, Wills Hall?’ she asked again.

Hitch wished she could give a different answer, as it was clearly of importance to the woman. She shook her head. ‘I don’t go into Bristol.’

‘What, neh-vah?’ Mrs Silvioni questioned in her nasal twang, and sat back with her hand on her chest, her flame-red nails grasping at the wool of her jersey. Hitch couldn’t tell whether this was in shock or in pity.

‘No, but I’d like to go and see it. I’d like to go to lots of places. I’d love to travel around, especially to New York. One day. I’ve seen it on TV and in the movies.’

‘Morning, all. Sorry about Hitch – she does like to stand and chat, don’t you, love?’ Her mum placed her hand briefly on her shoulder and it made her feel like a naughty child who’d inadvertently done or said the wrong thing. Maybe she had?

Her mum continued: ‘I’m sure you want to be left alone to eat your breakfast.’

Hitch felt her cheeks flame at the exchange. Despite the sing-song nature of her mum’s tone, it still felt like a public scolding, the kind you might give a kid, and not a twenty-five-year-old woman who was capable of looking after a beautiful batch of hens and collecting their magical eggs.

Mr and Mrs Silvioni gathered their cutlery and began to tuck in, but were now a little subdued, as if they too felt suitably admonished at having inadvertently broken the rules.

Hitch walked through to the kitchen sink and ran it full of hot, soapy water before submerging the skillet and pan into its fragrant depths. Grasping the scourer, she plunged her hands into the foam.

‘They said they wanted an early start, Hitch. I thought it best to come and grab you.’

‘We were only chatting.’

‘I know, darlin’.’

Hitch hated the way her mum used a pitying tone, making her feel as though she had once again missed the point.

She heard Mrs Silvioni shout out, ‘This is the best – just dee-lish-us!’

Hitch smiled. She had made Mrs Silvioni happy and this made her happy.

She studied her reflection in the mottled glass of the windowpane and thought that in the early morning light, with her reflection a little smudged, she looked quite normal, pretty even. Her hair sat over her shoulder in its thick, shiny braid and her chin looked a good shape, her neck in nice proportion to her broad shoulders. But what you couldn’t see clearly was the thick, puckered line that ran from the top of her lip to the bottom of her nose, a rather jagged cut where her lip had been stitched by an amateur or impatient surgeon, and her nickname arose because of the resulting hitch to her mouth.

‘When they’re done, start on the bedroom, can you? We’ve got a family of three coming in tonight, the MacDonalds, and they’ll need the trundle bed brought in for the little ’un,’ her mum instructed. ‘Can you manage?’