Relatives from the countryside arrived, five of them, all set to stay a week in our little one-bedroom flat in London. I met them all covered in green polka-dotssort of like chickenpox, I told them, though really it was just the stuff of dreams.
My Saturday didnt begin with tea, but with the shrill ring of my phone. On the screen, a foreboding: Aunt Margaret.
Charlotte, open up! Were on our way! My aunts voice was so boisterous and jolly it could rouse the dead, let alone my sleeping husband. We thought to give you a surprisea peek at the capital, and a good family catch-up! After all, were family!
I sat up in bed, trying to piece myself together. The scariest word in that declaration was we.
Whos we, exactly, Auntie? I asked carefully, nudging my husband James out of his dreams.
Who do you think? Me, Uncle Peter, Lizzie with her husband, and our little Charlie. Dont you worrywere not fussy. Just need somewhere to kip, well be out and about all day!
Five extra bodies, plus the two of us. All in our thirty-three square metre cosy flat, where the only spare space was a doormat in the hall and a narrow crawl between the sofa and telly.
I cut her off and stared at James. His eyes radiated pure, undiluted terrorthe look of a man plotting escape, whether to another country or just to the shops for a week.
Simple folk are the hardest
Vividly, I remembered their last visit, three years past. Only three relatives then, but it was a week embedded in my nightmares. Uncle Peter smoked on the balcony, ashes tumbling into my window boxes with a wink: Bit of fertiliser, love. Aunt Margaret loomed over me in the miniature kitchen, teaching me how to make a proper stew: Not like that, darling, let me show you. James and I slept on an inflatable mattress that wilted to the floor by morning, while our guests claimed the sofa as their throne.
Now there would be five. Lizzie and her husbandlouder than a festival crowdand their son Charlie, a seven-year-old hurricane who thought dont was a personal dare.
We have to say no, said James, gazing at the ceiling.
How? I sighed. Theyre on the train already. What am I supposed to do, tell them to turn around? You know Aunt Margarettherell be speeches about family ties, how she used to mind me as a baby, how posh and ungrateful weve become. Then the village will hear I turned them away, and mum will collapse with embarrassment.
When diplomacy goes out the window
We sat in the kitchen, sipping tea and running through hopeless options. Renting a place for them was outafter fixing the car, money was tighter than ever. Letting them stay and escaping to friendsunlikely, since no one would house us for a week. Keeping the door closed? Theyd bang and bang till the fire brigade came.
Suddenly, inspiration struck. We needed a reason nobody would argue witha reason so terrifying, it would have them fleeing.
Chickenpox, I whispered.
What? said James, lost.
Chickenpox! Quarantine. Adults dread it: raging fever, scars, dire consequences.
James looked unconvinced. Suppose theyve all had it?
Uncle Peter, Aunt Margaretcertainly not, my mum told me once. Lizzie, who knows? They wont risk Charlie, either way.
Green disguise
With four hours until their train arrived, I went to work. Out came an old bottle of green food colouring from our medicine box.
Be generous, I ordered, offering my face. Forehead, cheeks, neck, armsthe more ghastly, the better.
James, struggling not to giggle, painted on great blotches. The mirror showed me a creature from a childs nightmare. For effect, I donned a saggy housecoat, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and mussed my hair.
What about me? asked James.
Youre a contact case: a biohazard. Even scarier.
We practised our script: Id caught it last night, fever nearly to forty, doctors orders for total quarantine, and scary news of a mutated virus.
Arent you coming in for tea?
Right on cue, the doorbell rang. Beyond the door: chattering bags, booming voices, and little Charlies whinge. I performed my best swan-on-its-last-legs walk as James cracked the door, blocking entry.
Oi, James! Why didnt you meet us at the station? Uncle Peter tried to wedge in.
Dont! barked James. Were in trouble.
I appeared, scuffling in slippers, clinging to the wall and wheezing.
Hullo I rasped. Sorry. Ive got chickenpox, and its a nasty one. Doctor said its contagious even through the pipes.
Silence swooped over the landing. Five pairs of eyes locked onto my green-spotted face.
Chickenpox?! Lizzie stepped back, shielding her boy. At thirty?
Weak immune system I groaned. Temperature complications
I could see Aunt Margarets soul split in two: craving free lodging, terrified for her health.
Peter, have you ever had chickenpox?
Cant remember dont think so Uncle Peter shuffled toward the lift.
Nor me! Lizzie cried. Mum, were off to a hotel.
And James? Aunt Margaret glared, suspicious.
Im next, James said stoically. We share a bedits just a matter of time.
That did it. The vision of sharing our flat with ill, infectious hosts sent them scurrying.
Get well soon, muttered Uncle Peter, jabbing the lift button. Well take our snacksmight come in handy at the B&B.
The lift doors closed, whisking away the bags, the jars, and our troubles.
Cleansed with laughter
We closed the door. James slid down the wall, roaring with laughter. I caught sight of my ghoulish green face and joined in.
They found a hotel quickly. Turns out, they had plenty of money all alongwhy pay if you can squeeze in for free?
A couple of days later, Mum called.
Charlotte, why didnt you say anything? Margaret says youre green and at deaths door!
On the mend, Mum! I chirped. Miracle of modern medicine.
I didnt share the real story. Better for them to think Ive a feeble immune system than a mean streak.
The green washed off easily, and the weekend passed in delicious quietJames and I, sharing pizza, relishing every inch of our tiny but blissfully free London flat.
