The Gift

Harold and Mavis Peabody were the kind of grandparents every child dreamed of; the former was a retired British Rail train driver who regaled the young with stories of life on country tracks; the latter spent the weekends baking an assortment of biscuits and cakes sweet enough to alarm even the most liberal National Dentistry Association member.
Harold was seventy-two and kept himself in reasonable shape for his age. His only visible ailment was a limp in his right leg, the product of an old work injury, though this never restricted his volunteer work at the local Salvation Army. He ate only the freshest fruit and vegetables from the Sunday markets, hadn't smoked a single cigarette in over thirty years, and only recently had he limited his intake of alcohol to a thrice weekly pilgrimage to The Hare and Mole, though Mavis was sure- quite sure in fact- that the number of pints actually consumed far exceeded the number of visits to the respected alehouse.
Mavis was a sprightly seventy-six years old. Her thinning white hair, green speckled eyes and radiant cheeks betrayed the image of a loving grandmother to no less than thirteen children (fourteen if you counted the one due in March). The quaint town of Satterly-Downs, some forty miles west of Brighton where the Peabody's resided, was always awash with news of what the extended family were up to, and Mavis Peabody was the medium through which that service was provided. There was the time young Michael Peabody broke his leg falling off his bike ('blame that foreign import rubbish, I do', Mavis chided); the occasion when Annabelle Tyford locked herself in her room all weekend because of a spat with her father ('never liked that man anyway'); and the time Colin Peabody uttered his first words (two syllables comprising of 'da', though grossly misrepresented as a five word sentence); all detailed into the Satterly-Downs community by one house-proud grandmother who had won first prize in the church fete baking competition for an unprecedented seven years running.
Like most grandparents, the Peabody's enjoyed spoiling the children with gifts, but times had been rather hard of late. Harold and Mavis had never been partial to Labor's political offering anyway, but they had even more reason to despise that regime with the economy on the cusp of yet another downturn. Inflation was rife, unemployment had jumped a full percentage point in twelve months, and interest rates were expected to rise for the fifth consecutive time if The Sun were to be believed (not that Mavis read The Sun; it was Harold who relayed this information to her one morning when he was having his cup of tea and crumpet). Yet amongst all this macro-economic babble, the one thing that mattered most to our ageing septuagenarians, the humble fortnightly pension, seemed to remain stagnant. If being a pensioner was considered work, the Peabody's would be two rungs below minimum wage.

Dettagli