«Give birth as soon as possible,» croaked Gran Martha, swinging her legs off the bed. Gran Martha was 87, and shed long since forgotten what that felt like, but her grandson and greatgrandson kept urging her, occasionally tapping her with their canes: If you stay on that blue stocking, youll be recalling your old days, but itll be too late.
Now Gran Martha grew gloomy, refused to rise, muttering at the household (What, you lot, did I raise you to snooze till lunch?), and the kitchen pots clanged at halfpast six. The family grew uneasy.
Gran, asked her fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Poppy, why dont you swearing at us any more?
Im about to kick the bucket, dear, Im about to sighed Gran Martha, halflamenting the slipping years, halfhoping for something beyond the shepherds pie you all seem to have forgotten how to boil.
Poppy darted to the kitchen where the rest of the clan lingered.
The groundhogs dead! she announced, reporting the latest intel from her covert reconnaissance.
The groundhog? asked the family patriarchand, incidentally, Gran Marthas eldest son, Victor Laceyraising his bushy eyebrows. He looked like a character out of a folk tale, the kind youd say the wind likes to stroll through.
Probably just an old bird, Poppy shrugged. Shed never seen the creature; Gran never showed it to her.
The elders exchanged glances.
The next day a neatly dressed, restrained doctor paid them a visit.
Seems the old ladys not feeling well, he diagnosed.
Obvious, Victor slapped his thighs, what would we call you otherwise!
The doctor glanced thoughtfully at Victor, then at his wife.
Agerelated, he said bluntly. I see no serious ailments. What are the symptoms?
She stopped telling me when to make lunch or dinner! All her life she poked me with her nose, saying my hands are useless, and now she wont even set foot in the kitchen, murmured Victors wife, herself now a grandmother.
At the familydoctor council they agreed this was a worrying sign. Wearied by worry they collapsed onto the sofa as if theyd fallen through.
That night Victor woke to the familiar shuffling of slippers. But this time it wasnt the urgent demand to get up, have breakfast, and get to work.
Mum? he whispered into the hallway.
Well, came a disinterested voice from the dark.
What now?
Right, I think Ill slip off to meet Mick Jacobs while you lot are still in bed, Gran Martha seemed to be pulling herself together. Off to the loo, what else!
Victor flicked the kitchen light on, put the kettle on, and slumped at the table, hands around his head.
Starved? Gran Martha stood in the doorway, eyeing him.
Waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Gran Martha shuffled to the table.
Its been five days Ive been cooped up in my room, she began, when a pigeon smacked a windowbang! I thought that was a death omen. I lay down, waited. Day one, day two, day three, and now I wake in the dead of night thinking, Maybe that omen shouldve gone off to the woods to haunt a goblin, instead of me rotting under the sheets. Bring me a cup of tea, make it strong.
Three days with you, son, we havent spoken properly; well catch up.
Victor finally drifted off around halfpast five in the morning, while Gran Martha stayed in the kitchen, determined to sort out breakfast herselfafter all, these little hands couldnt feed the children properly otherwise.
