Give birth as quickly as possible, croaks Grandma Mary, pulling her feet off the mattress.
Mary is in her eightyseventh year, and she has long since forgotten what it feels like, yet her grandson and greatgrandson keep urging her and occasionally jab her with a cane:
Stay home and remember the old days, and youll be too late when the time comes.
Now Mary feels downcast, she no longer gets out of bed, she mutters spitefully at everyone at homeWhat, you lot, have I kept you up until lunch?and the kitchen pots clatter at half past seven in the morning.
The family grows uneasy.
Grandma, asks her fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Emily, why dont you curse us any more?
Its time, dear, its time to go, sighs Mary, speaking of the end either with melancholy for a fading life or with a hope for something beyond the stew you can no longer manage to cook.
Emily darts off to the hidden relatives in the kitchen.
The hedgehog in Marys garden is dead! she announces, reporting the latest reconnaissance.
What hedgehog? the head of the household, also Marys eldest son Victor James, raises his bushy eyebrows. He looks a bit like the Black Forest witch from a folk tale, the kind youd say the wind roams about.
Probably an old one, Emily shrugs. She has no idea what hedgehog shes talking about; Mary never showed it to her.
The elders exchange glances.
The next day a composed, restrained doctor arrives at their cottage.
Somethings off with your grandmother, he declares.
Obviously, Victor slaps his thighs, thats why we called you!
The doctor looks thoughtfully at him, then at his wife.
Its agerelated, he continues unambiguously. I dont see any serious abnormalities. 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 werent right, and now she wont even step into the kitchen, Victors wife, Margaret, says in a defeated voice, herself already sounding like a grandmother.
At the familywide council with the doctor they agree its a worrying sign.
Worn out by worry, they lie down and drift off as if theyve fallen into a deep sleep.
During the night Victor wakes to the familiar scuff of slippers. This time, however, the sound isnt demanding an immediate rise for breakfast and work.
Mum? he whispers as he steps into the hallway.
Hmm, a voice drifts from the darkness, casual.
Whats wrong?
Yes, I think Ill slip off while youre asleep and go on a date with Michael Yates, Mary replies, sounding as though shes coming back to herself. To the loo, where else?
Victor flips the kitchen light on, puts the kettle on, and sits at the table, handclasped around his head.
Hungry? Mary stands in the hallway, watching him.
Yes, Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Mary shuffles to the table.
Its been five days Ive been in my room, she begins, when a pigeon smashed into the windowbang! I thought that was a death omen. I lay down, waiting. Day one, day two, day three, and now I wake in the middle of the night thinking, Would it be better if that omen went off to the woods so I could spend my life under the covers? Bring a strong cup of tea, hotter and stronger. Weve missed three days of proper talk, son; well make up for it.
Victor finally drifts to sleep at half past five in the morning, while Mary stays in the kitchen, determined to prepare breakfast herselfnothing else will feed the children properly if the palehanded ones cant manage it.
