Give birth as soon as you can, croaked Gran Gracie, sliding her legs off the bed with a sigh. Gran was well into her 87th year and had mostly forgotten what it felt like to be spry, but her grandson Tom and greatgrandson Sam kept nudging her, occasionally tapping her with a cane.
Stay in your blue stockings and youll end up reminiscing about your own mother, but then itll be too late, theyd chide.
Now Gran Gracie had grown melancholy, stopped getting up, and started muttering under her breath at the householdWhat did I raise you lot for, you lazy lot, that you cant even make it to lunch?while pots clanged in the kitchen at half past seven in the morning. The family took notice.
Gran, asked her fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Poppy, why dont you swear at us any more?
Its my time, love, my time, Gran Gracie sighed, halfheartedly, as if the thought of a final curtain was both sad and oddly hopeful, especially given that their borschtlike stew had turned into a culinary disaster.
Poppy scurried to the kitchen where the rest of the clan huddled. Grans groundhogs dead! she announced, delivering the latest intelligence with the seriousness of a battlefield report.
What groundhog? asked the family patriarch, Tom, who also doubled as Grans oldest son. He raised his bushy eyebrows in a way that reminded everyone of an old fairytale woodcutter.
Probably just an old thing, shrugged Poppy. After all, shed never actually seen the creature. The adults exchanged glances.
The following day a neatly dressed doctor paid a visit.
It looks like shes not feeling well, he said after a quick examination.
Obviously, Tom muttered, patting his own thighs, thats why we called you!
The doctor gave a thoughtful look to Tom, then to his wife, Helen. Agerelated, nothing alarming, he declared. What are the symptoms?
Shes stopped telling me when to make lunch or dinner! Shes been poking me all her life about my clumsy hands, and now she wont even set foot in the kitchen, Helen said in a low voice, already sounding like a granny herself.
The family council with the doctor agreed the signs were worrying. Exhausted by worry, they all lay down as if they could simply fall asleep and be done with it.
In the night Tom woke to the familiar shuffling of slippers. This time, however, it wasnt the urgent kind that demanded a breakfast scramble.
Mum? he whispered as he stepped into the hallway.
A sleepy voice drifted out of the dark. Whats up?
Just thought Id slip out for a date with Mickey Jacobs while you lot are snoring, Gran muttered, as if she were finally pulling herself together. Bathroom first, where else?
Tom flicked on the kitchen light, set the kettle boiling, and slumped into a chair, holding his head.
Hungry? Gran asked from the doorway, eyeing him.
Just waiting for you. What was that about, Mum?
Gran shuffled to the table.
Ive been cooped up in my room for five days, she began, when a pigeon smashed into the windowsmack! I thought that was a death omen. I lay there, waiting for the day to pass: first day, second, third and now its the middle of the night and Im thinking, Why not send that omen off to the woods and burn my life away under the sheets? Brew me a cup of tea, strong and hot. Weve spent three days not talking proper, son, so well catch up now.
Tom finally drifted off around half past five in the morning, while Gran Gracie remained in the kitchen, determined to sort breakfast herselfafter all, those whitehanded youngsters werent going to feed the kids properly without a proper British breakfast.
