Relatives from the countryside decided to pay us a week-long visitfive of themall descending on our cosy one-bedroom flat. I greeted them covered head to toe in green dotsmy chickenpox disguise.
My Saturday morning didnt begin with a cup of tea, but with the shrill ring of my mobile. The screen flashed, Aunt Margaret (relative).
Elizabeth, my dear, brace yourself!Aunt Margarets voice boomed with a cheeriness that could put any alarm to shameWere already on our way. Well be round tomorrow morning! Thought wed surprise yousee the capital and check in on you as well. After all, were family!
I sat bolt upright in bed, struggling to digest what she’d just declared. The scariest part? That tiny word, *we*.
Er, who exactly makes up we, Aunt Margaret? I ventured cautiously, at the same time nudging Tom under the duvet to wake him, fast.
Who else! Me, Uncle George, Susan with her husband, and our grandson! Dont fret, darlingwere not fussy. Just a place to kip, well be out sightseeing all day anyway!
Five of them. On top of Tom and me. In our thirty-three square metre, one-bedroom London flat where the only free space was the doormat in the hall and a narrow gap between the sofa and the telly.
I ended the call in silence and stared at Tom, sheer panic etched in his eyes, as if he was plotting his escapeabroad, or at least on a week-long errand for a loaf of bread.
As Simple as Trouble Itself
Instantly I recalled their last visit, three years ago. Thered been only three then, yet I still have nightmares. Uncle George chain-smoked on the balcony, tapping ash straight into my plants claiming, Trust me, its good for them. Aunt Margaret taught me how to make stew in my broom-cupboard kitchenYoure doing it all wrong, love, let me show you. Tom and I slept on an airbed that always deflated overnight, so by morning we woke practically on the floor, while our guests sprawled regally on our sofa.
This time, thered be five. Susan and her husbandloud as an engine, and their son, little Jamieseven years old, a one-boy hurricane whose response to Dont! is to do it twice as boldly.
We have to tell them no, Tom said firmly, staring at the ceiling.
How? I sighed. Theyre already on the train. Am I supposed to say turn around? You know Aunt Margaretshell start on about family bonds, how she used to babysit me, then accuse us of being London snobs. Next thing you know, the whole village is talking about us shutting out our ownand Mum will be reaching for her valerian drops in shame!
When Diplomacy Fails
We sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea, going through options, each one worse than the last. Book them a hotel? Out of the question; after we fixed the car, the bank account was gasping for breath. Give them the flat and stay at friends’? Surrendering. Whod take us anyway, for a week? Not open the door? Theyd bang it down or call the fire brigade.
And then it hit me. We needed a reason no one could argue withone thatd send them fleeing.
Chickenpox, I whispered.
Sorry? Tom looked baffled.
Chickenpox. Quarantine. For adults, its a nightmarehigh fever, complications, scars.
Tom wavered. But what if theyve had it?
Aunt Margaret and Uncle George definitely havent. Mum told me. Dont know about Susan, but theyd never risk it with Jamie.
Operation Green Dot
Four hours before their train arrived, we set the stage. I dug out a bottle of green food dye from the medicine box.
Be generous, I ordered, presenting my face, forehead, cheeks, neck, armsthe more alarming, the better.
Tom, barely containing his laughter, dabbed me with big, splotchy green spots. In the mirror, I looked like something from a childrens paint-by-numbers book. To complete the look, I donned a threadbare dressing gown, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and messed up my hair.
What about me? Tom asked.
Youre a contact casean incubator. Even scarier.
We rehearsed our story: I came down with it suddenly, temperature soaring to forty degrees, the doctor came, declared strict quarantine, warned about a nasty new strain.
Maybe Just a Quick Cuppa?
The doorbell rang right on time. On the other side: clattering bags, chattering voices, and Jamie whining. I put on my dying-swan act, while Tom cracked the door and blocked the way.
Tom, lad! Why didnt you meet us? Uncle George tried to squeeze past.
Stop! Tom barked. Dont come in. Weve got a crisis.
Just then, I appeared, shuffling in slippers, clinging to the wall and wheezing for effect.
Hello I croaked. Sorry. Ive got chickenpoxa nasty bout. Doctor said its contagious even through the vents.
Silence fell in the corridor. Five pairs of eyes fixed on my green spots.
Chickenpox?! Susan recoiled, automatically shielding Jamie. At thirty?
Weak immune system I groaned. High temp complications
I could almost see Aunt Margarets mind warring between free accommodation and imminent plague.
George, did you ever have it?
Dont think so maybe not Uncle George was already edging towards the lift.
I never had it! Susan yelped. Mum, hotel, now!
And Tom? Aunt Margaret eyed him suspiciously.
Im next, Tom said hopelessly. Just a matter of timewe share a bed.
That was all it took. The thought of squeezing into our flat with two contagious invalids sobered everyone up instantly.
Best get well, Uncle George muttered, hitting the lift button. Well take our thingsmight need them at the hotel.
The lift doors closed, taking their bags, jars, and our problem with them.
Problem Solved
We shut the door, and Tom slid down the wall in helpless laughter. I caught sight of my reflection and burst out giggling with him.
They found a hotel easily, it turned outthey had the money, they just didnt want to spend it if they could stay for free.
A few days later Mum called:
Liz, why didnt you say anything? Margaret told us youre green and on deaths door!
Im on the mend, Mum, I chirped. Modern medicine is miraculous.
I never told her the truth. Better they think Ive got a frail immune system than a cold heart.
The green washed off, and Tom and I spent a peaceful weekend together, ordering takeaway and savouring every inch of our tiny but blissfully empty flat.
