Its time you get yourself a baby, and fast, croaked Gran Mary, swinging her legs off the bed.
At eightyseven, Mary had long stopped remembering what it felt like to be in any hurry, but her grandson Jack and greatgrandson Tom kept nagging her, sometimes tapping her with a wooden cane:
Stay here with your blue stocking and youll be thinking of your old age, and itll be too late.
Now Gran Mary was feeling a bit down, refusing to get up, muttering at the whole household (What did I raise you lot for, so you can snooze till lunch?), and clanking pots in the kitchen at half past six in the morning.
The family took notice.
Grandma, asked fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Poppy, why dont you swear at us any more?
Just waiting for my curtain call, love, Mary sighed, as if she were mourning a life slipping away or perhaps hoping for something more than the stew you lot can barely manage these days.
Poppy bolted to the kitchen where the rest of the clan was gathered.
The groundhogs gone! she announced, delivering the latest intelligence from her covert reconnaissance.
What groundhog? asked the family patriarch, William Hayes, who also happened to be Marys eldest son, raising a brow that could have been plucked from a fairytale bog.
He looked as if a wind might blow through him any second.
Probably just an old thing, Poppy shrugged. What would I know about a groundhog that Gran never showed me?
The adults exchanged glances.
The next day a tidy, measured doctor paid a visit.
Somethings not right with Gran, he stated.
Obviously, William scoffed, clapping his thighs together, or why would we be calling you?
The physician glanced at him, then at his wife Helen.
Its agerelated, he said bluntly. No serious abnormalities that I can see. What are the symptoms?
She stopped telling me when to make lunch and dinner! Helen said, her voice dropping. Shes spent her whole life poking her nose into everything, warning me that my hands arent proper, and now she wont even set foot in the kitchen.
The family council with the doctor declared the signs worrying enough to merit a night of sleep, as if they could simply drift off and forget.
In the middle of the night William woke to the familiar shuffling of slippers, but this time it wasnt the urgent stomp ordering him to breakfast or work.
Mum? he whispered, stepping into the hallway.
A husky voice drifted from the darkness.
Whats the matter?
I think Ill slip out for a date with Mike Yates while you lot are still snoring, Gran Mary replied, sounding halfasleep. Im off to the loo, where else would I go?
William flicked on the kitchen light, set the kettle on, and perched at the table, clutching his head.
Hungry? the old woman asked, standing in the doorway.
Yes, Im waiting for you. What was that about, Mum?
Gran Mary shuffled over.
Ive been holed up in my room for five days, she began, when a pigeon smacked into the window bang! I thought that was a death omen. I lay there waiting, counting days, the second, the third and then I woke up in the dead of night thinking, Wouldnt it be nicer if that omen went off to the moor and I could just burn my life away under the sheets? Put the kettle on, dear, make it strong and hot. Weve gone three days without a proper chat, son well catch up now.
William finally collapsed onto his bed at half past five in the morning, while Gran Mary stayed in the kitchen, determined to whip up breakfast herself. After all, if the youngsters cant manage a proper fryup, someones got to keep the kettle boiling.
