Give birth as soon as you can, croaked Gran Margaret, letting her feet slip from the bed. She was eightyseven winters old, and the feeling of a newborn had long escaped her memory, yet her grandson and greatgrandson kept urging her, sometimes tapping her with a wooden cane.
Stay a blue stocking, and youll be dreaming of your own old age, but itll be too late then, they warned.
Now Gran Margaret fell into a gloom, refusing to rise, muttering at the household, Why did I raise you viperbodies, so you could sleep till noon? Her pots clanged like distant thunder at half past six in the morning, rattling the kitchen.
The family grew uneasy.
What, Gran, why dont you scold us any more? asked fiveyearold Primrose, her eyes wide like storm clouds.
Im about to go, dear, about to go, Gran Margaret sighed, half in sorrow for the slipping years, half in hope for something beyond the watery pea soup your mother cant even stir any more.
Primrose darted to the cramped kitchen where the rest of the clan huddled.
The groundhogs dead! she announced, delivering the latest intelligence from the reconnaissance of the night.
What groundhog? asked Victor Hill, the family head and elder son, raising his bushy eyebrows as if he were a darkhaired wizard from an old tale, the kind for whom the wind itself seemed to dance along the lane.
Probably an old one, shrugged Primrose, not knowing why a groundhog mattered when Gran had never shown her any.
The elders exchanged glances.
The following day a composed, measured doctor arrived at the cottage.
Somethings wrong with Gran, he declared.
Obviously, Victor snapped, slapping his own thighs, otherwise what would we call you?
The doctor stared at Victor, then at his wife Helen, before speaking in a flat tone. Agerelated, nothing severe I can see. What are the symptoms?
She stopped telling me when to make lunch and dinner! Helen, her voice a wilted whisper, complained. All her life she poked me with her nose, saying my hands werent meant for work, and now she wont even step into the kitchen.
The family council, with the doctor present, marked it as a worrying sign. Exhausted by the anxiety, they lay down as though they could sink into the floor.
That night Victor woke to the familiar clatter of slippers on the hallway floor, but this time the sound was soft, not demanding, not urging him to jump up and rush to breakfast or work.
Mum? he whispered as he stepped into the dark.
A hushed voice drifted from the gloom. Well?
Whats the matter?
Yes, think while youre asleep, Ill slip off to meet Mister James Yates, a little rendezvous, Gran Margarets voice seemed to say, as if she were just beginning to find herself again. Im off to the loo, where else?
Victor flicked the kitchen light on, boiled a kettle, and sank into a chair, clutching his head.
Hungry? Gran stood in the doorway, eyes halfclosed.
Yes, Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Gran shuffled to the table. Ive been sitting in my room for five days, when a pigeon smashed into the glassbang! I thought it was an omen of death. I lay down, waited. Day after day, and now I wake in the dead of night thinking, Would that omen rather wander the moor to the forest spirit, so I could spend my life under the sheets? Pour me a pot of tea, strong and hot. Three days with you, son, we havent spoken properly; well make up for it.
Victor finally fell asleep at half past five in the morning, while Gran Margaret lingered in the kitchen, determined to cook breakfast herself. She would have to do it allno one else could feed the children properly with their tiny white hands.
