Give birth as soon as you can, croaked Granny Martha, swinging her legs off the bed.
It was Marthas eightyseventh year, and shed long since forgotten what that felt like, though her grandson and greatgrandson kept urging her on, occasionally tapping her with a walking stick.
Stay here with your blue stocking, and youll be mourning the old days, but itll be too late, they warned.
Now Martha grew sullen, refused to rise, and snarled at everyone in the house, What, you lot, am I keeping you up till noon? The clatter of pots and pans erupted in the kitchen at half past six.
The family stiffened.
Grandma, asked fiveyearold Ethel, her greatgranddaughter, why dont you scold us any more?
Martha sighed, Im near the end, darling, the end, her voice trembling between sorrow for a life slipping away and a thin hope for something beyond the stew you cant even manage to make any more.
Ethel fled to the cramped kitchen where the rest of the relatives were gathered.
The groundhogs dead for Granny Martha! she announced, spilling the details of the latest reconnaissance.
What groundhog? asked the family patriarch and Marthas eldest son, Victor Hargreaves, raising his bushy eyebrows. He looked as if hed stepped out of a folk tale, the sort where the wind roams the streets.
Probably an old one, Ethel shrugged. Shed never seen the creature; Martha never showed it to her.
The older generation exchanged glances.
The next day a composed, reserved doctor arrived.
It seems Granny isnt well, he declared.
Obviously, Victor snapped, slapping his thighs, or what would we call you?
The doctor looked thoughtfully at Victor, then at Victors wife, Margaret.
Its agerelated, he said bluntly. I see no serious abnormalities. What are the symptoms?
She stopped telling me when lunch and dinner should be ready! All her life she poked me with her nose, saying my hands werent right, and now she wont even step into the kitchen, Margaret said, her voice dropping.
The family council with the doctor agreed the signs were alarming.
Exhausted from worry, they collapsed onto the sofa as if theyd fallen into a sinkhole.
In the night Victor woke to the familiar shuffling of slippers, but this time it wasnt the urgent demand to rise and go to work.
Mum? he whispered, stepping into the corridor.
A casual voice floated back from the darkness, Yes?
Whats the matter?
I think Ill slip out for a date with Mick Jacobson while youre all asleep, Martha murmured, sounding as if she were finally pulling herself together. The bathrooms my only refuge!
Victor flicked the kitchen light on, set the kettle boiling, and sank into a chair, clutching his head.
Hungry? the granny asked from the hallway, eyes on him.
Yes, Im waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Martha shuffled to the table.
Its been five days Ive been cooped up in that room, she began, when suddenly a pigeon smashed into the windowbang! I thought it was a death omen. I lay down and waited. Day one, day two, day three and now Ive woken in the dead of night wondering, Should that omen have gone wandering to the woods with the sprites, so I could have spent my life under bright sheets? Bring the tea, hotter and stronger. Weve barely spoken these past three days, son, well have to make up for it.
Victor finally drifted off at half past five in the morning, while Martha remained in the kitchen, determined to prepare breakfast herselfthere was no other way, for those palehanded children wouldnt be fed otherwise.
