Relatives from the countryside decided, quite suddenly, to descend upon our one-bed flat in London for a week, five of them at once. I greeted them completely covered in green dotsmy performance of supposed chickenpox.
My Saturday morning didnt start with the ritual of coffee but instead with a ringing phone. On the screen appeared that familiar, slightly ominous: Aunt Margaret.
Sarah, dear, were nearly there! Her voice thundered from the speaker, energetic enough to make any alarm clock look lazy. Were on our way now, will be at yours tomorrow first thing! We thought wed surprise you. Wanted a nose around the capital, and what better time to catch up! We are family, after all!
I sat bolt upright in bed, trying to process what Id just heard. The most terrifying part was the word we.
Who precisely is we, Aunt Margaret? I asked, nudging my half-asleep husband under the duvet with my foot to wake him as quickly as dignity allowed.
Why, darling, me, Uncle George, Rebecca and her husband, and our grandson. Dont fretwere not fussy, just need a roof for the night. Well be out most days exploring!
Five people. Plus the two of us. In our thirty-three square metre one-bed, where the only free spot is the doormat and a skinny aisle between the sofa and the telly.
I hung up in silence and glanced at my husband, his eyes wide as saucers with the pure terror and a not-so-secret longing to either flee the country or at least disappear out for bread for the next week.
Misplaced Generosity
Memories of their last visit flared upthree years ago, and there were only three of them then, but that one week still crops up in my nightmares. Uncle George smoked on the balcony, flicking ash right into my geraniums: Dont fret, love, its fertiliser. Aunt Margaret took over my cramped kitchen to instruct me on a proper stew, elbows tangled with mine: No, no, let me show you. My husband and I ended up on the inflatable mattress, which half-deflated by dawn, leaving us effectively on the floor, while our guests assumed the sofa as their throne.
Now there would be five. Rebecca and her husbandloud and louderand their seven-year-old, Harry, a walking whirlwind who treats the word no as a personal challenge.
Weve got to say no, my husband said firmly, staring at the ceiling.
How, exactly? I sighed. Theyre already on the train. Tell them to turn around? You know Aunt Margaretshell unleash a speech about family ties, how she changed my nappies, how weve gone all city and high-and-mighty. Next, the whole village will be muttering about how I slammed the door on my own kin, and my mum will need a stiff drink for the shame of it.
When Diplomacy Fails
We sat in the kitchen, nursing tepid tea, weighing hopeless options. Rent them a place? Not with our budget battered by the car repairs. Move in with friends while they take over? Capitulation, and anyway, whod house us for a week? Pretend not to be home? Theyd knock until the police or fire brigade arrived.
Then inspiration struck. We needed a reason no one could argue withsomething that would have them running for the hills.
Chickenpox, I whispered.
What? My husband looked baffled.
Chickenpox. Strict quarantine. Dreadful for adults: raging fever, complications, scars.
He hesitated. And if theyve already had it?
Aunt Margaret and Uncle George certainly haventMum told me. No idea about Rebecca, but theyll never risk the boy.
Emerald Disguise
We had four hours until their train pulled in, and so began preparations. I fished out a bottle of green antiseptic from the first aid kit.
Go on, be generous, I instructed, holding out my face. Forehead, cheeks, neck, armsthe more ghastly, the better.
With visible effort to keep a straight face, my husband gave me spectacular green splotches. The reflection in the mirror looked back like something out of a childrens picture book. For effect, I put on a dreadful old dressing gown, wrapped a scarf about my neck, and mussed my hair hopelessly.
What about me? my husband asked.
Youre the close contact. A walking incubator. Terrifying.
We rehearsed our story: I fell ill the night before, high temperature, doctors visited, strict quarantine, warnings of a mutated virus.
Sure you dont want to come in for a cuppa?
The knock came sharp on the dot. Bags thudded, excited voices echoed, Harry whined. I staggered to the hallway, my husband blocking the doorway heroically.
George! Why didnt you meet us at the station? Uncle George was already eyeing the inside.
Dont come in, boomed my husband. Weve had a catastrophe.
Then I shuffled out, slippers scraping, clutching the walls, breathing heavily and painting tragedy.
Hello I croaked. Sorryweve got chickenpox. Awful bout. Doctor says you can catch it from the corridor air.
A hush. Five faces stared at my green blotches.
Chickenpox? At your age? Rebecca scuttled backwards, clutching her son.
Weak immune system I moaned. Temperature, risk of complications
I could see Aunt Margarets mind waging warfree accommodation versus dread of disease.
George, did you ever have it?
No, I dont think so Uncle George edged towards the lift already.
Nor have I! Rebecca squeaked. Mum, hotel! Now!
And your husband? Aunt Margaret eyed my husband suspiciously.
Ill get it any day, said my husband gloomily. We sleep togethernot a matter of if, but when.
That did the trick. The prospect of sharing a cramped flat with contagious invalids drained all enthusiasm instantly.
Get well, then, grunted Uncle George, pressing the lift button. Well just take the giftswell need em at the hotel.
The lift groaned away, taking bags, jars, and all our troubles with it.
Relief
We closed the door; my husband slid down the wall, breathless with laughter. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and howled too.
They found a hotel within hours, it turns out. The money was there all alongwhy spend your own when you can bunk with family for free?
A few days later, my mum rang: Sarah, why didnt you mention anything? Margaret says youre green all over, at deaths door!
Im on the mend, Mum, I answered cheerfully. Modern medicines a marvel.
The truth stayed unspoken. Better they believe I have a feeble immune system than a poor disposition.
The green washed off, and my husband and I celebrated the weekend in blissful peace, ordering takeaway and relishing every inch of our tiny, gloriously empty, flat.
