Give birth as soon as you can, croaked Grandma Margaret, swinging her legs off the bed.
It was the 87th year for Margaret, and shed long since forgotten what it felt like to be spry, but her grandson and greatgrandson kept nudging her, sometimes tapping her with a walking stick:
Stay as pink as a new sock, or youll end up reminiscing about the good old days, and itll be too late.
Now Grandma Margaret had grown melancholy, stopped getting out of bed, and began muttering at the household in a fit of spite: What, you little devils, did I raise you so you could nap till lunch? Her clatter of pots and pans at half past six in the morning echoed through the kitchen.
The family took notice.
Grandma, asked her fiveyearold greatgranddaughter Eliza, why dont you swore at us any more?
Im about to kick the bucket, love, sighed Margaret, halfheartedly, as if pondering whether her impending exit was a sad farewell or a hopeful ticket beyond this endless pot of stew you lot have forgotten how to make.
Eliza scampered to the kitchen, where the rest of the clan was huddled.
The groundhogs dead! she announced, reporting the latest reconnaissance from her secret mission.
What groundhog? asked the family patriarch, Vladimir James, who also happened to be Margarets eldest son, raising his bushy eyebrows in classic British fashion.
He looked as if hed stepped out of a folktale about a seawolf, the sort of bloke youd expect to have the wind blow through his coat on a dreary moor.
Probably just an old timer, shrugged Eliza.
She had no business knowing which critter it was; after all, Grandma had never shown her one.
The adults exchanged glances.
The next morning a composed, wellmannered doctor paid a visit.
Somethings off with your mother, he declared.
Of course it is, Vladimir snapped, slapping his thighs. What else would we call you for?
The doctor, after a thoughtful stare at him and then at his wife, replied, Its agerelated, nothing alarming. What symptoms are we seeing?
She stopped telling me when lunch or dinner was due! All her life she jabbed me with her nose, saying my hands werent right for anything, and now she wont even step into the kitchen, sighed Eleanor, Vladimirs wife, her voice dropping to a whisper.
At the familydoctor council they all agreed this was a worrying sign.
Exhausted by the worry, they collapsed onto the sofas as if theyd fallen into a soft pit.
In the night Vladimir awoke to the familiar rustle of slippers. This time, however, it wasnt the urgent clatter demanding he bolt to breakfast and work.
Mum? he whispered, stepping into the hallway.
Go on, a sleepy murmur drifted from the darkness.
Whats up?
Yes, I think Ill slip off to a date with Mike Johnson while youre all asleep, Grandma Margaret murmured, sounding like she was finally pulling herself together. Im off to the loo, where else?
Vladimir flicked on the kitchen light, set the kettle boiling, and slumped into a chair, burying his head in his hands.
Starved? the grandmother called from the corridor, eyeing him.
Just waiting for you. What was that, Mum?
Margaret shuffled to the table.
Ive been cooped up in my room for five days, when a pigeon smacked into the windowbang! I thought that was a death omen. I lay down, waiting. Day one, day two, day three and then I woke up in the dead of night thinking, Maybe that omen should have gone off to the woods to meet a goblin, so I could spend my life lounging in bed. Brew a strong cuppa, will you? Three days with you, son, and we barely chattedlets catch up.
Vladimir finally drifted off around half past five in the morning, while Grandma Margaret remained in the kitchen, determined to whip up breakfast herself. After all, the little hands around the house couldnt quite manage a proper feed without a bit of grandmas stubbornness.
