I remember it as if it were a foggy morning in the old cottage near the Thames, when Grandmother Martha, at the ripe age of eightyseven, would leant out of her bed and hiss, You ought to be delivered at once, you know. She shuffled her feet off the mattress, the creak of the floorboards echoing the sound of her own breath.
Martha had long since forgotten what it felt like to be truly young, but her grandson, John William, and his little son, Thomas, would nudge her with their sticks and mutter, If you linger, youll turn blue as a sock and well have to remember you as a relictoo late then. The old woman, feeling the weight of their words, stayed in her chair, scowling at the household as if to say, What, you lot, have I kept you awake till noon just to watch you waste away? The kitchen boiled over with clattering pans at half past six, and the whole family grew uneasy.
Grandma, asked little Ethel, the fiveyearold greatgranddaughter, her voice as bright as a robins, why dont you scold us any more?
Martha sighed, Its my time, dear, my time, her voice trembling between a mournful farewell and a faint hope for something beyond the stale stew that the children could no longer manage to stir.
Ethel darted off to the kitchen where the rest of the clan huddled. Grandmas badgers dead! she announced, reciting the latest bits of gossip shed gathered from the hearth.
What badger? asked John William, the eldest son and de facto head of the household, raising his brows in that solemn, storytellers way that made him look halflike a character from a Dickens novel.
It must be an old one, Ethel shrugged, who cares what it was, if Grandmother never showed it to me?
The elders exchanged glances, and the following day a respectable, measured doctor arrived, his coat buttoned up against the chill.
It seems the old lady is not well, he declared.
Obviously, John William snapped, slapping his own thighs, thats why we called you!
The doctor, calm as a church clock, turned his gaze to Johns wife, Margaret, who, with a voice that had lost its former vigor, replied, She no longer tells us when to make lunch or supper. Shes spent her whole life poking me with her nose, saying my hands were the wrong kind, and now she wont even step into the kitchen.
The family convened with the doctor, deeming the matter grave. Exhausted by worry, they lay down as if their bodies might sink into the earth itself. In the deep of night, John awoke to the familiar shuffling of slippers. Yet this time the sound was not a command to rise and make tea, but a soft murmur.
Mum? he whispered, stepping into the dark hallway.
A hushed voice answered, Yes?
Whats the matter? John asked.
Think, dearwhile you all slumberIm slipping away to meet Mick Young, she said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as if she were finally finding herself again. Ill be off to the loo, what else is there?
John flicked on the kitchen light, set the kettle boiling, and sat at the table, his hands clasped around his head. Hungry? Grandmother Martha asked from the doorway, her eyes still bright despite the years.
Im waiting for you. What was that, Mother?
She shuffled to the table, her voice trembling. Ive been in my room for five days now, when a pigeon smashed into the windowbang! I thought it a omen of death. I lay down and waited. Days passedfirst, second, thirdthen, in the dead of night, I woke and thought, Wouldnt it be nicer if that omen went off to the woods, to the sprites, rather than keep me here under these sheets? Bring me a strong cup of tea, make it hot and hearty. For three days weve barely spoken, son, but we shall catch up.
John, his eyes heavy, drifted back to his bed at half past five in the morning, while Grandmother Martha remained in the kitchen, coaxing the breakfast into being. She knew she had to do it herself, for the palehanded servants could not properly feed the children. And so she kept at it, the memory of that night lingering like the scent of rosemary on the wind, a reminder of the fragile thread that ties us all to the hearth and the home.
