Give birth as soon as possible, croaks Gran Mary as she slides her legs off the bed. Mary is eightyseven now; shes long since forgotten what it feels like, but her grandson Arthur and greatgrandson Henry keep urging her, occasionally tapping her with a walking stick. If you stay in your blue stocking, youll end up remembering us when its too late, they say.
Now Gran Mary is downcast. She refuses to get out of bed, swears at the housefolk for making you lot snore till lunch, and lets pots clang together at half past six in the kitchen. The family grows uneasy.
Grandma, asks fiveyearold Ellie, why dont you curse us any more?
Just waiting for the end, dear, Mary sighs, halflamenting the waning of her life, halfhoping for something beyond the broth you lot cant even manage to simmer any more.
Ellie darts to the kitchen where relatives linger. Gran Marys rabbits dead! she announces, reporting the latest reconnaissance.
What rabbit? asks the head of the clan, Victor Brown, who also happens to be Marys eldest son, raising his bushy eyebrows. He looks like a character out of an old English folk tale, the sort youd say the wind strolls around.
Probably an old one, Ellie shrugs. Shed never seen the rabbit, so how could she know?
The elders exchange glances. The next day a composed, restrained doctor drops by.
Somethings not right with Gran, he says, diagnosing.
Obviously, Victor slaps his thighs, otherwise wed be calling you for nothing! The doctor eyes him, then his wife.
Its agerelated, he continues bluntly. I dont see any serious deviations. What are the symptoms?
Shes stopped telling me when to make lunch or dinner! Victors wife, already a grandmother herself, says in a broken voice. Shes been poking me all her life, saying my hands werent meant for work, and now she wont even step into the kitchen.
At the familywide consultation they all agree its a worrying sign. Exhausted by the worry, they lie down as if they might slip into sleep.
In the night Victor wakes to the familiar scuffle of slippers, but this time the sound isnt frantic, it isnt demanding him to jump up and start breakfast.
Mum? he whispers in the hallway.
A hushed, indifferent voice replies from the darkness.
Whats that?
Yes, I think while youre asleep Ill sneak off on a date with Mike Jones, the voice says, as if Gran Mary is finally pulling herself together. The loos fine, where else would I go?
Victor flicks the kitchen light on, turns on the kettle, and sits at the table, hands wrapped around his head.
Starving? Gran Mary stands in the hallway, watching him.
Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum? he asks.
Gran Mary shuffles to the table. Ive been stuck in my room for five days, then a pigeon smashed into a windowbang! I thought it was a death omen. I lay down and wait. Day after day. Tonight I woke up thinking, What if that omen went off to a forest spirit so I could burn my life away under the sheets? Brew a strong tea, hot and hearty. We havent talked properly for three days, son; well make up for it.
Victor finally drifts off around half past five in the morning, while Gran Mary stays in the kitchen, determined to cook breakfast herselfno one else will manage to feed the kids properly.
