Give birth as soon as you can, croaked Grandma Mary, sliding her legs off the bed. Mary was in her eightyseventh season, and shed long since forgotten what that felt like, but her grandson Victor and greatgrandson James kept urging her, tapping her with a walking stick now and then.
Dont linger on the blue stocking, dear, or youll end up reminiscing about your own old age when its too late, theyd say.
Now Mary had grown gloomy, refused to rise, and muttered at everyone in the house as if they were insects. Why did I raise you lot, you little pests, to be still asleep till lunch? shed shout, while the kitchen pots clanged at half past six in the morning. The family grew uneasy.
Grandma, asked her fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Ethel, why dont you swearing at us any more?
Its my time, love, my time, Mary sighed, speaking of the coming end with a blend of sorrow for a life slipping away and a faint hope for something beyond the stew you lot have forgotten how to make.
Ethel fled to the kitchen where the relatives were huddled. Grandma Marys groundhog is dead! she blurted, delivering the latest intelligence from her covert recon.
What groundhog? asked Victor, the head of the household and Marys eldest son, raising his bushy eyebrows. He looked as though hed stepped out of a folk tale, the sort where the wind roams the streets.
Probably an old one, Ethel shrugged. She had never actually seen the creature; Mary never showed it to her.
The elders exchanged glances.
The next day a composed doctor paid a visit.
Somethings off with your grandmother, he declared.
Obviously, Victor snapped, slapping his own thighs. What would we be calling you for otherwise?
The doctor gave a thoughtful look to Victor and then to his wife, Margaret, who was also a grandmother in her own right.
Just agerelated, he replied, matteroffactly. I see no serious abnormalities. What symptoms are you observing?
Shes stopped telling me when to make lunch and dinner! All her life shed poke her nose in my business, saying my hands werent meant for cooking, and now she wont even step into the kitchen, Margaret said in a strained voice.
The family council with the doctor agreed that this was a worrying sign. Fatigued by worry, they collapsed onto the sofa as if they might fall through.
That night Victor was roused by the familiar shuffling of slippers, but this time it wasnt the urgent clatter that demanded he spring up for breakfast and work.
Mum? he whispered, stepping into the corridor.
A husky, indifferent voice drifted out of the darkness.
Whats the matter?
Listen, while youre all still asleep Im slipping out for a date with Mick Thompson, Mary muttered, sounding as if she were finally pulling herself together. I need the loo, where else?
Victor flicked on the kitchen light, set the kettle boiling, and sat down, clasping his head with both hands.
Hungry? Mary asked, standing in the hallway, eyeing him.
Yes, Im waiting for you. What was that about, Mum?
Mary shuffled to the table.
Its been five days Ive been cooped up in my room, she began, when a pigeon smashed into the windowbang! I thought that was a death omen. I lay down, waiting. Days passed, the second, the third, and now Ive woken at night thinking, What if that omen had gone off to the moor with the goblin, and Id be burning my life away under these covers? Bring me a strong cup of tea, hot and robust. Weve not spoken properly for three days, son; well catch up.
Victor finally fell asleep around half past five in the morning, while Mary remained in the kitchen, determined to see the breakfast through herself. She knew she had to do it, for otherwise those tiny hands wouldnt be able to feed the children properly.
