Relatives from the village descended on us for a full weekfive of them squeezing into our one-bedroom London flat. I greeted them covered in green dotsmy impersonation of having chickenpox.
My Saturday didnt begin with a nice cup of tea, but instead, a jolting phone call. The screen flashed: Auntie Margaret.
Sarah, love, get ready for us! Auntie Margarets voice boomed so loudly the alarm clock could have taken the morning off. Were already on the train, well be at yours first thing! Decided to surprise you, see the city, and catch up. Family, after all!
I sat up in bed, trying to process. The most worrying word in her sentence was we.
Whos we, Auntie Mags? I asked nervously, nudging my husband Tom under the blanket to wake him up, fast.
Who dyou think? Me, Uncle Peter, Lisa and her husband, plus little Harry. Dont fret, love, were not fussy. Just need a place to sleepwell be out sightseeing all day!
Five people. Plus us. In thirty-three square metres, with free space limited to a tiny entry mat and a narrow stretch between sofa and telly.
I silently hung up and looked at Tom. The horror in his eyes was pure and deep, like he was plotting an escape to France or at least to pop out for bread and return a week later.
Last time, it was worse than daylight robbery
Memories of their last visitthree years ago, only three of themflooded back like a bad dream. Uncle Peter stubbing out ciggies in my window planter, insisting, Its good for the soil. Auntie Margaret crammed in my kitchen, teaching me proper stew techniques: Give it here, youre doing it wrong. Tom and I spent the week on a blow-up mattress that deflated every night, while our guests claimed the sofa like royalty.
Now thered be five. Lisa and her husband were loud enough for a rugby match, and seven-year-old Harry was a whirlwind, treating the word dont like a dare.
Weve got to say no, Tom muttered, gazing at the ceiling.
How? I sighed. Theyre already on the train. What am I meant to do, tell them to turn back? You know Auntie Magsshed go on about family ties, all those years she looked after me, and how we Londoners have “gone all posh.” The whole village would be gossiping, Mum would be mortified.
When diplomacy fails
We sat in the kitchen, clutching mugs of coffee, brainstorming hopeless solutions. Renting them an Airbnbno chance, not after the car repair bill drained the account. Letting them crash here while we hid out with friendssurrender, and who would take us in for a week anyway? Dont answer the door? Theyd bang until the council came round.
Then inspiration struck. I needed an excuse no one would dare argue with. Something theyd run from themselves.
Chickenpox, I whispered.
What? Tom blinked.
Chickenpox! Quarantine. For adults, its a nightmarefevers, scars, complications.
Tom hesitated.
What if theyve all had it?
Not Auntie Margaret or Uncle Peter, Mum told me. Not sure about Lisa, but they wont risk it, not with Harry.
Operation green spots
Four hours till their train arrivedwe swung into action. I dug out an old bottle of green antiseptic.
Go wild, I ordered, presenting my face. Forehead, cheeks, neck, arms. Make it as frightening as possible.
Tom, holding back his laughter, dabbed fat green dots everywhere. The mirror reflected a creature from a childrens TV show. To complete the look, I grabbed a baggy dressing gown, wrapped a scarf round my neck, and messed up my hair.
What about me? Tom asked.
Youre exposed a walking carrier. Worse than me, if anything.
We rehearsed our story: sick just last night, fever near forty, doctor slapped us under strict quarantine, terrified of some new variant.
Just come for tea, maybe?
The doorbell rang right on cue. On the landing: bags thumped, voices echoed, Harry was already whining. I staggered into position, putting on my best dying swan act, while Tom cracked the door and blocked the entrance.
Oi, Tom! Why werent you waiting for us? Uncle Peter charged forward.
Hold it! Tom barked. Dont come in. Bit of a crisis.
I appeared, shuffling in slippers, clutching the wall, breathing heavily.
Hello I croaked. Sorry. Ive got chickenpox. Bad case. The doctor said its catchingeven through the air vents.
Silent panic on the stairs. Five pairs of eyes stared, horrified, at my green speckles.
Chickenpox?! Lisa shielded her son, gapingly. At your age?!
Weak immune system I moaned. Fever complications
I watched Auntie Margarets mind battle between the lure of a free stay and pure dread.
Peter, did you ever have it?
Not sure dont think so Uncle Peter was already shuffling backwards to the lift.
Nor me! Lisa cried. Mum, thats it, were going to a hotel!
What about Tom? Auntie Margaret squinted suspiciously.
Im next, Tom sighed. Sleep together, after all. Bound to catch it.
That was it. The prospect of sulking out their visit in a contagion site was enough to send them packing.
Get well soon, Uncle Peter grunted, jabbing the lift button. Well keep the food gifts. Might be handy in the hotel.
They vanishedbags, jars, and allsolving our problem as swiftly as they’d arrived.
Relief, at last
We closed the door. Tom slid down the wall, breathless with laughter. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and joined in, helpless.
They found a hotel instantly. Turns out, they had plenty of cashit was just easier to freeload off family if they could.
A few days later, Mum called.
Sarah, why didnt you say anything? Margaret says youve turned bright green and nearly popped your clogs!
Im on the mend, Mum, I chirped. Modern medicine works wonders.
No point telling the truth. Better for them to mutter about my dodgy immune system than my scandalous London heart.
The green dye washed off, the weekend arrived, and Tom and I sprawled out in blessed silence, pizza boxes piled up, loving every uncluttered, peaceful inch of our tiny but blissfully empty flat.
