Give birth as soon as you can, Granny Margaret muttered, swinging her legs off the bed. She was 87 now, and shed long forgotten what it felt like to be young, but her grandson and greatgrandson kept nudging her, sometimes tapping her with a stick.
Stay put, youll end up with blue stockings and be reminiscing about the good old days, but itll be too late, Victor Hargreaves, the eldest son, would say, raising an eyebrow.
Now Margaret was feeling down, refusing to get up, snapping at everyone in the house What, you lot, why am I keeping you all up till tea? and the kitchen was clanging with pots at half past six in the morning. The whole family got on edge.
Grandma, asked her fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Poppy, why dont you swore at us any more?
Just waiting for the end, love, the end, Margaret sighed, halflaughing, halfcrying, as if she were both sad about her dwindling days and hopeful for something beyond the stew youve all stopped knowing how to make.
Poppy bolted to the kitchen where the rest of the clan was gathered.
Grandmas groundhog is dead! she announced, reporting the latest intel from her covert recon.
What groundhog? asked Victor, arching his bushy eyebrows. He looked a bit like a Black Forest ranger from a storybook, the kind of bloke youd expect to have the wind blowing through his coat on a bleak day.
Probably an old one, Poppy shrugged. She never really knew what groundhog Victor meant, since Granny never showed it to her.
The adults exchanged glances. The next day a composed, polite doctor dropped by.
Somethings not right with her, he said, delivering his diagnosis.
Clear as day, Victor replied, slapping his thighs and chuckling, otherwise wed have called you sooner!
The doctor gave them a thoughtful look, then turned to Victors wife.
Its just agerelated, he said, without a hint of doubt. I dont see any serious issues. What symptoms are you seeing?
Shes stopped telling me when its time for lunch or dinner! All her life shes been poking me with her nose, saying my hands arent right, and now she wont even step into the kitchen, Susan Hargreaves said, her voice dropping.
The family council with the doctor agreed it was a worrying sign. Exhausted from the worry, everyone fell asleep as if theyd fallen into a deep well.
In the night Victor woke to the familiar scuff of slippers on the hallway floor, but this time it wasnt the urgent clatter that usually makes you bolt up for breakfast.
Mum? he whispered as he stepped out.
A lazy voice drifted from the dark, Whats up?
Just thinking of slipping out for a date with Mick Yates while you lot are asleep, Granny Margaret muttered, sounding halfawake. Im off to the loo, where else?
Victor flicked the kitchen light on, set the kettle boiling, and slumped into a chair, his head in his hands.
Hungry? Margaret asked, standing in the doorway, eyes on him.
Just waiting for you, he replied. What was that about, Mum?
Margaret shuffled to the table. Ive been stuck in my room for five days, she began, when a pigeon smacked into the window bang! I thought that was a death omen. I lay there waiting, day after day, and then I woke up in the middle of the night thinking, Maybe that omen should have gone off somewhere else so I could live my life out of these sheets. Put the kettle on, dear, make it strong and hot. Weve barely spoken these past three days, son, so well catch up.
Victor finally drifted off around half past five in the morning, while Margaret stayed in the kitchen, determined to finish breakfast herself. She figured someone had to get the food on the table, otherwise those little hands wouldnt get fed properly.
