Give birth as soon as you can, grumbled Grandma Mary, swinging her legs off the bed.
At eightyseven, Mary had long stopped feeling the ache of old age, but her grandson Jack and greatgrandson Sam kept nudging her with a cane, tapping out:
Stay on your blue stockings and youll be remembering this old hen when its too late.
Now Mary had sunk into a sour mood, refusing to rise, snarling at the housefolkWhat, you snakes, I raised you to snooze till lunch?and letting pots clatter at half past six in the kitchen.
The family grew uneasy.
Grandma, asked fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Poppy, why dont you swear at us any more?
Just waiting for the end, love, the end, Mary sighed, halfmournful, halfhopeful that something bigger than your overcooked stew might be waiting.
Poppy bolted to the kitchen where the relatives were huddled.
Grandmas groundhog died! she announced, reporting the latest intelligence.
What groundhog? asked the patriarch, Jacks older brother, Victor, raising his bushy eyebrows in that BlackbeardoftheNorth way that makes the wind seem to howl around him.
Probably an old one, Poppy shrugged. Shed never seen the creature; Mary never showed it to her.
The elders exchanged looks.
The next morning a composed doctor dropped by.
Somethings not right with her, he said, diagnosing.
Bloody obvious, Victor clapped his hands on his thighs. What would we call you otherwise?
The doctor eyed him, then his wife, before declaring, Agerelated, nothing serious I can spot. What are the symptoms?
She stopped telling me when to make lunch or dinner! his wife, Helen, croaked, already feeling like a granny herself. All her life she jabbed me with her nose, saying my hands werent meant for work, and now she wont even step into the kitchen.
At the familydoctor council they agreed it was a worrying sign.
Worn out from the worry, everyone drifted off to sleep as if theyd fallen through the floor.
In the night Victor woke to the familiar shuffling of slippers, but this time it wasnt the urgent kind that yells you out of bed for breakfast and work.
Mum? he whispered into the hallway.
Ay? came a casual voice from the dark.
Whats up?
Honestly, Im thinking of slipping off to meet Mick Yates while you lot are still snoring, Mary muttered, sounding like she was finally pulling herself together. I need the loo, what else?
Victor flicked the kitchen light on, set the kettle boiling, and slumped at the table, head in his hands.
Hungry? Mary asked, standing in the corridor, eyeing him.
Waiting on you. What was that, Mum?
Mary shuffled to the table.
Its been five days Ive been cooped up in the sitting room, then a pigeon smacked into the windowbang! I thought that was a death omen. I lay down, waited, day after day, and now Ive woken up at midnight thinking, Why not send that omen off to a fairytale meadow and burn my life in the sheets instead? Pour the tea, make it strong, and give it a good stir. Weve gone three days without proper chat, son, lets catch up.
Victor finally collapsed onto the couch at half past five in the morning, while Mary stayed in the kitchen, determined to stitch together breakfast herselfafter all, these palehanded kids wont manage to feed the little ones properly otherwise.
