Give birth as soon as you can, croaked Granny Margaret, sliding her legs off the bed.
Margaret was in her eightyseventh year, and the feeling of youth had long slipped from her memory, yet her grandson and greatgrandson kept nudging her, occasionally tapping her with a cane:
Stay in your blue stocking, and youll end up recalling your old selfonly when its too late.
Now Granny Margaret grew gloomy, refused to rise, muttering at the household for no reason (What did I raise you lot for, you snakeaters, to keep you sleeping till lunch?), and the kitchen pots rattled like thunder at halfpast six in the morning.
The family grew wary.
Grandma, asked fiveyearold Lily, her greatgranddaughter, why dont you curse us any more?
Its time, dear, time to go, sighed Margaret, halflaughing at the notion of a final departure, halfhopeful for something beyond the stew you all seem to have forgotten how to simmer.
Lily darted to the hidden relatives in the pantry.
Grandmas groundhog died! she announced, spilling the latest intelligence from her covert reconnaissance.
What groundhog? the head of the family, and also Margarets eldest son, Victor James, raised his bushy eyebrows. He looked like a Blacksmith from an old folk tale, the kind of man the wind might wander with down the lane.
Probably just an old one, Lily shrugged. Shed never seen the creature; her granny never showed it to her.
The elders exchanged glances.
The next day a composed doctor, all restraint, paid a visit.
Somethings off with the old lady, he declared.
Obviously, Victor thumped his thighs, otherwise wed have called you!
The doctor studied him, then his wife.
Just age, he said bluntly. No serious anomalies I can spot. What are the symptoms?
She stopped telling me when to make lunch or dinner! All her life she poked her nose into everything, saying my hands werent meant for chores, and now she wont even set foot in the kitchen, whispered Victors wife, herself already a grandmother, her voice dropping like a wilted leaf.
The family council, with the doctor, agreed this was a worrying sign. Exhausted by worry, they lay down and seemed to slip into the floor.
That night Victor awoke to the familiar scuffling of slippers, but this time it wasnt a frantic summons to breakfast or work.
Mum? he whispered into the corridor.
Yeah, a voice droned from the darkness.
Whats that?
Right, Im thinking, while youre all asleep, Ill slip off to a date with Mick Yates. Im off to the loo, what else?
Victor flicked on the kitchen light, boiled a kettle, and sat down, cradling his head.
Hungry? the granny stood in the hallway, watching him.
Waiting for you. What was that, mum?
Margaret shuffled to the table.
Its been five days Ive been holed up in my room, she began, when a pigeon crashed into the windowbang! I took it as a omen of death. I lay down, waited the day, the second, the third, and now Ive woken in the middle of the night thinking, Wouldnt it be nicer if that omen went off to the woods to meet the forest spirit, so I could burn my life away under the sheets? Pour me a strong cup of tea, hotter if you can. Three days weve barely spoken, son, well have to make up for it.
Victor drifted off around half past five in the morning, while Margaret lingered in the kitchen, determined to brew the breakfast herselfno one else could manage the whitehanded chores or feed the children properly.
