«Get on with having the baby as soon as you can,» Gran Martha muttered, swinging her legs off the bed. She’s 87 now, and shes long forgotten what that feels like, but her grandson Tom and greatgrandson Harry keep nudging her, sometimes tapping her with a cane. If you linger, youll end up with blue stockings and be reminiscing about the old days, and itll be too late.
Gran Marthas mood went down, she stopped getting out of bed, started snapping at everyone at home Why did I raise you lot, you lot of slugs, so you can sleep till lunch? and the kitchen was full of clanging pots at half past six in the morning. The family got on edge.
Gran, asked her fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Blythe, why dont you curse at us any more?
Just waiting for the end, love, Martha sighed, sounding half sad about her life slipping away, half hopeful for something beyond the stew youve all forgotten how to make properly.
Blythe darted off to the kitchen where the rest of the clan were huddled.
Grans badgers dead! she announced, reporting the latest intel from her covert reconnaissance.
What badger? asked the head of the family, also the eldest son Victor Irving Harper, raising his bushy eyebrows. He looked like the old folktale Blacksmith, the sort of character youd expect to have a wind blowing through his hair.
Probably just an old thing, Blythe shrugged. She hadnt seen the creature Gran never showed it to her.
The older folk exchanged glances. The next day a composed, nononsense doctor paid a visit.
Somethings off with Gran, he said, making his diagnosis.
Obviously, Victor snapped his hands on his thighs. What else would we call you?
The doctor gave them a thoughtful look, then turned to Victors wife.
Its agerelated, he said, matteroffact. I dont see any serious abnormalities. What symptoms are you seeing?
She stopped telling me when to make breakfast or dinner! Shes been poking her nose into everything all her life, saying my hands arent right, and now she wont even step into the kitchen, Victors wife replied, her voice dropping. She was a grandmother herself now.
The family council with the doctor agreed it was a worrying sign. They were so wound up they all fell asleep as if theyd collapsed.
Middle of the night Victor woke to the familiar shuffle of slippers, but this time it wasnt the urgent rattling that demanded breakfast and a headstart on the day.
Mum? he whispered, stepping into the hallway.
A sleepy voice drifted from the dark. What now?
Look, Im thinking of sneaking off on a date with Mike Yates while you lot are still asleep, Gran muttered, sounding like she was just pulling herself together. I need the loo, where else?
Victor flicked the kitchen light on, put the kettle on, and sat down, holding his head in his hands.
Hungry? Gran called from the hallway, watching him.
Yeah, Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Gran shuffled to the table. Ive been holed up in my room for five days, and then a pigeon smashed into the window bang! Thought that was a death omen. I lay there waiting, day after day, and tonight I woke up thinking, What if this omen just wanders off to the woods and I keep burning through life under these sheets? Put the kettle on, make the tea stronger, keep it hot. We havent really talked properly for three days, son. Well catch up.
Victor finally collapsed onto the couch around half past five in the morning, while Gran stayed in the kitchen, mumbling about making breakfast herself because those dainty hands of hers wont manage to feed the kids properly otherwise.
