Relatives from the countryside decided to pay us a week-long visit, five of them squeezing into our one-bedroom flat. They arrived just as I was covered in green spotslets call it supposedly chickenpox.
My Saturday morning did not begin with a warm cup of tea, as is tradition, but with the shrill ring of my mobile. On the screen, the words Aunt Margaret flickered with foreboding.
Emily darling, open the doors! Aunt Margarets voice was so buoyant it put my alarm clock to shame. Were already on our way! Well be at yours in the morning. Thought wed surprise yousee London a bit, and visit you. Were family after all, arent we?
I sat up in bed, lost in the foggy logic that often follows dreams. The most alarming word in her sentence was we.
And who exactly is we, Aunt Margaret? I asked cautiously, slinking my foot over to nudge my husband awake beneath the duvet.
Who else, love! Me, Uncle Richard, Sally with her husband, and our little grandson Harry. Dont you worry, were not fussyjust a place to kip at night. Well be off exploring all day!
Five people. Plus me and my husband. In our matchbox flat, barely thirty-three square metres, where the only unoccupied spot is the doormat and the thin path between the sofa and the telly.
I ended the call silently, glancing at my husband. His eyes sparkled with pure, undisturbed dread and a secret desire to flee the countryor just pop out for a loaf and not return for the week.
Foolishness Is Worse Than Theft
My mind spiralled back to their last visit, three years prior. There were only three then, but that week still haunts my sleep. Uncle Richard smoked on the balcony, tapping ash into my petunias, winking, Good for them, love, bit of fertiliser. Aunt Margaret loomed over my tiny cooker, showing me the proper way to make shepherds pie: No, no, not like thatlet me. My husband and I took the blow-up mattress, which deflated by dawn, leaving us sprawled on the floor, while our regal guests commandeered the sofa.
Now there were five. Sally and her husbandloud and brashand their whirlwind son Harry, age seven, for whom dont touch is a personal dare.
We have to tell them no, my husband declared, gazing at the ceiling.
How? I sighed. Theyre already on the train. Tell them to turn round? You know Aunt Margaretshell summon speeches about family, how she rocked me as a babe, call us big city snobs. Then the whole village will whisper, Emily turned her own away. Mum will be on the phone in tears, heart palpitating.
When Diplomacy Fails
We sat at the kitchen table, clutching mugs of tea, brainstorming escape routeseach one more hopeless than the last. Renting them a place? Impossible, after our car repairs, our budget was stretched to breaking. Let them stay while we moved in with friends? Surrender, and besides, who would take us in for a week? Ignore the door? Theyd knock until the fire brigade arrived.
Suddenly, inspiration glimmered at the edge of dream logicI needed an excuse irrefutable, a hazard that would send them running.
Chickenpox, I whispered.
Eh? frowned my husband.
Quarantine. For adults, its direfevers, complications, scars.
He hesitated. What if theyve had it?
Aunt Margaret and Uncle Richard, definitely notMum told me so. Sally, Im not sure, but they wont risk it with the boy.
Emerald Camouflage
With four hours till they arrived, we prepared our masterwork. I found an old bottle of brilliant green antiseptic.
Lay it on thick, I commanded, holding out my face. Forehead, cheeks, neck, armsmake it look ghastly.
Husband, barely containing his laughter, planted enormous green blotches on me. The mirror revealed some sort of creature escaped from a childrens picture book. I draped myself in a baggy dressing gown, swaddled a scarf around my neck, and tousled my hair to chaotic abandon.
What about me? asked my husband.
Youre the contact casehighly contagious but symptom-free. Even worse.
We rehearsed our story: I fell ill yesterday, fever at 104, doctor visited, strict quarantine, warned of a mutant strain on the rampage.
Perhaps just a cup of tea?
The doorbell rang, right on schedule. Suitcases rattled, voices blared, and Harry whined on the landing. I mustered my best dying swan, husband cracked the door, blocking entry.
Richard! Why didnt you meet us at the station? Uncle Richard tried shouldering his way inside.
Stop there! barked my husband. Were in trouble here.
Then I lurched forward, shuffling in slippers, bracing myself on the wall, panting like a war victim.
Hullo I croaked. Awfully sorry. It’s chickenpoxsevere form. Doctor says it’s contagiousairborne, even through the vents.
Silence fell down the stairwell. Five faces gawked at my green splotches.
Chickenpox?! Sally recoiled, shielding Harry. At thirty?
Weak immune system dreadful fever complications I moaned.
I could see the struggle in Aunt Margarets eyes: the lure of free accommodation warring with mortal fear.
Richard, did you have chickenpox? she hissed.
No ideathink not, Uncle Richard was already edging toward the lift.
Nor did I! Sally blanched. Mum, lets just go to a hotel.
What about your husband? Aunt Margaret squinted suspiciously.
Im doomed, he declared gleefully. We sleep together. Only a matter of time.
That was enough. The threat of sharing a shoebox with plague carriers snuffed out their enthusiasm.
Get well, Uncle Richard mumbled, thumbing the lift button. Well keep our gifts, might need them in the hotel.
The lift swallowed their bags and our problem, rumbling downward.
As If By Magic
Door closed. My husband slid to the floor, howling with laughter. I stared at my wild green reflection, joining him, giddy with relief.
They found a hotel at onceas it turns out, they had plenty of money. Why spend your own when you can sponge off a distant relation?
A few days later, Mother called me.
Emily, why didnt you say anything? Margaret called, said you were covered in green and at deaths door!
Im almost mended, Mum, I chirped. Modern medicineabsolute marvel.
I didnt bother with the real tale. Easier to let everyone think I have a frail constitution than a cold heart.
The green spots washed off. My husband and I spent the weekend alone, ordering takeaway and cherishing every blissful inch of our tiny, newly liberated flat.
