No rays of light sneaking long fingers across the pale skin of morning. Not at this time. Beyond the window glass the stars shone precision silver, dew casting a silvery skeen across thirsty grass. I’d lie awake in the darkness waiting to hear the cough of the Toyota bring the catch home and him with it. I’d learnt to wait for the fluorescent light to cast diamante warmth through the white double doors windowed by an earlier deco-age of artistic privacy. When opened, conversations drifted like song, bounced by high ceilings and slick laminate floors. But closed, sound muffled and could just be waves brought on the breeze from the beach to the east. Shoulders alert, chin lifted, I’d listen for the soft clang of tin pots and the fwooosh of running water, the throw of the salt, the patient silence of the boil, the frenzied clicking of the first batch thrown to fat bubbles.

That was the time to creep with exaggerated slowness from my bed, through the darkened womb of the house where shadows lurked in corners deep. I’d keep my eyes on the kitchen light, focused on the lift of fear that came as I stepped into its brilliance, where I could watch him work from the last chair, the one that skirted kitchen light and living womb. There was no talking in this time—or not that I can remember. If the night was especially brisk he would pause in his work to throw me a blanket. I’d wrap it around myself, a little bird with wings tucked tight for warmth.