Give birth as soon as you can, croaked Grandma Margaret, swinging her legs off the bed.
It was Margarets eightyseventh year, and she scarcely remembered what it felt like to be young, but her grandson and greatgrandson kept urging her on, tapping her with their walking sticks now and then. If you linger any longer, youll be left with a blue stocking and the memory of your old age will be too late, they warned.
Now the old woman grew melancholy, stayed in bed, and muttered spitefully at everyone in the house, What have I done for you lot, you snails, to keep you asleep till noon? The clatter of pots in the kitchen rang out at half past six in the morning, and the family took notice.
Grandma, asked fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Alice, why dont you curse us any more?
Just a little while longer, dear, just a little while, Margaret sighed, speaking of the time left to go, half in sorrow for a life slipping away, half in hope for something beyond the stew they could no longer manage to brew.
Alice darted off to the cramped kitchen where the rest of the kin were gathered. Grandma Margarets badger is dead! she announced, reporting the latest intelligence from her brief reconnaissance.
What badger? asked the head of the household, Margarets eldest son William Henry, who raised his bushy eyebrows in a manner that recalled the folktale Blacksmith of the moors, the sort of man the wind seemed to stroll with.
Probably an old one, Alice shrugged. She had never seen the creature; her grandmother never showed it to her.
The adults exchanged a glance. The next day a composed, measured doctor paid a visit.
The old lady seems unwell, he declared.
Obvious enough, William Henry snapped, slapping his thighs. What else would we call you?
The doctor looked first at William, then at his wife, and said, Agerelated, nothing alarming. I see no serious deviations. What symptoms do you note?
Shes stopped telling me when to start the lunch and supper! his wife, already a grandmother herself, replied in a weary voice. All her life she poked me with her nose, saying my hands werent right, and now she wont even step into the kitchen.
The family council, with the doctor, agreed that this was a worrisome sign. Fatigued by worry, they lay down as if they might fall into the earth itself.
That night William Henry awoke to the familiar shuffle of slippers, but this time it was not the urgent patter that demanded he rise for breakfast and work.
Mum? he whispered, stepping into the corridor.
A husky voice answered from the darkness, What now?
Thinking Ill slip off to meet Michael Yates while youre still asleep, the old woman muttered, as if she were just beginning to pull herself together. Off to the bathroom, where else?
William flicked on the kitchen light, set the kettle boiling, and sat at the table, clutching his head.
Hungry? the grandmother asked, standing in the doorway, her eyes fixed on him.
Yes, Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Margaret shuffled to the table. Ive been cooped up in my room for five days, she began, when a pigeon slammed into the windowbang! I took it as a omen of death. I lay down and waited, day after day, and tonight I woke in the dead of night thinking, Would that sign have gone off into the woods to the goblin, so I could have spent my life out of these sheets? Pour a strong cup of tea, hot and sturdy. For three days you and I barely spoke; well make up for lost time.
William finally drifted off around half past five in the morning, while Margaret remained in the kitchen, insisting on preparing breakfast herselfthere was no other way, she said, or the palehanded servants would never feed the children properly.
