Love in Lockdown

by Chloe James

  ‘No surprise there then,’ I remark but get off the phone hurriedly in any case.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, I arrive in the scrubby little car park at the flats. Thank goodness the parking has got a little easier since the lockdown – fewer people coming in and out and at least the idiots who sometimes park in our lot so they can walk to the shop are stuck in their homes. I guess we have to be grateful for any positives we can find in this situation. I unpack the car and trudge past the bin bags, piled against the rusty garage fronts. One of the bags has spilled open and half the rubbish is scattered all over the ground, including some condom wrappers and an empty box of Viagra. How embarrassing, everyone seeing the contents of your bin. I’m relieved it’s not mine – there would be far too much alcohol for one thing.

  I carefully balance a beautiful picture of a rainbow one of the children insisted on my bringing home, on top of my shopping, delicately so as not to damage it, and trudge on up to the second floor. I am not risking the lift, which has broken more times than I can remember. I figure they won’t have any repair men free to come and fix it in the current crisis.

  I thump on our door and, after a pause, Erica opens it with her elbow, tying her hair high on her head in a neat ponytail.

  ‘Couldn’t give us a hand could you?’ I pant as I blunder in, spilling packets of salad, veg, crisps and sweets in that order. I always figure a balanced diet means a treat every time you have something healthy.

  ‘Just let me finish my hair, so I don’t have to wash my hands again. The skin’s beginning to peel off,’ Erica tells me, disappearing back into her room.

  I begin the usual procedure of hand scrubbing. I already used the obligatory antibac on leaving the shop, but you can’t be too careful. Then begins the rigmarole of unpacking the shopping on a certain area of the table, which will be carefully wiped once it’s all put away.

  Erica reappears, looking smart in her blue uniform, make-up and hair immaculate. ‘Have you got enough tissues here?’ She laughs, unpacking five boxes. ‘Are you getting a cold?’

  ‘No, they’re to deal with the current loo roll crisis,’ I explain, ‘at least until I get online to order some.’

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ says Erica. ‘I might take some to work; we’re running short of supplies.’

  ‘As well as midwives?’ I ask ironically.

  ‘It is a problem … Jenny has underlying health issues so she’s having to self-isolate and I think there are a couple of others in the team who aren’t going to be able to work at all.’ She pulls open a packet of crisps and starts munching.

  ‘Hang on a minute, they’ve got to last all week.’ I laugh.

  ‘Onto wartime rations now, are we?’ asks Erica with a grimace.

  ‘At the rate we get through snacks, yes.’

  ‘Okay, well I won’t eat my usual two packets at once then. What’s this rainbow?’ She indicates the painting I’ve carefully propped on the sideboard.

  ‘This?’ I lift it gently and hold it up against the wall. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? I need to put it up on the balcony.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ replies Erica, finishing the crisps in one last enormous mouthful. ‘Did one of your pupils create that or did you do it?’

  ‘No it’s better than I could do. We’ve been hard at work all day – the kids did an amazing job. This was Freya’s. It’s sweet isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes I love the bright colours, although I’m not sure about the orange, red and neon green right next to each other. It’s cheery though. How old is she?’

  ‘Eight,’ I say, carrying the artwork onto the balcony. ‘Have we got any string?’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking …’ She pauses. ‘Might have some wool or something, in your old sewing basket? Not that you’d know, because you’ve never used it!’

  ‘I did, years ago. Anyway Mum probably hoped I’d maybe use it for teaching the kids.’

  I rummage about and manage to find some wool that isn’t too scrappy and tie the resplendent rainbow on the railings, facing out towards the courtyard below.

  ‘Don’t you think it might get wet if it rains?’ asks Erica.

  ‘It hasn’t rained for weeks,’ I say indignantly – and it hasn’t. The sun has shone for days now in some cruel irony of nature, given the hideous situation we all now find ourselves in. The birds have been singing, gathering bits of fluff from the courtyard below ready to make their nests. Spring has well and truly sprung and yet the whole of mankind is battling against a pandemic. I can’t help but think this scenario would give Alanis Morissette inspiration for an entirely new song; the situation is so ironic.

  ‘Will you do the clap at work?’ I ask Erica, standing back to admire my handiwork, albeit from up above and therefore the wrong way up.

  ‘You mean clap for ourselves? Bit bizarre.’

  ‘That’s a bit sad,’ I say. ‘No, I mean for everyone. You’re clapping the NHS workers but also people in the shops and all the key workers.’

  ‘Of course I will, unless I’m in the middle of delivering a baby – I don’t think the mum would be too chuffed trying to push and yelling for more gas and air if I just stand there clapping.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe that wouldn’t go down too well.’ I smile. ‘It must be so tough for these mums. I wouldn’t want to be expecting a baby right now.’

  ‘Me neither,’ says Erica. ‘In fact, after what I’ve seen in the maternity unit, I’m completely rethinking the whole having kids thing. Are we having tuna pasta? I haven’t got long.’

  ‘It’ll only take ten minutes.’ I pop the kettle on and grab a pan. ‘Can you chop some cucumber for the salad?’

  ‘I guess …’

  Erica is terrific, but she doesn’t really do cooking or washing. In fact, she doesn’t do a lot round the house at all, but she’s lovely to live with all the same. I bet she makes an amazing midwife. She’s totally unflappable and to be fair she also makes a mean cup of tea.

  ‘Are you still kicking the dads out?’ I ask, opening a tin of tuna.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Seems a bit 1960s. Mum told me they did that all the time – that and shoving babies on the bottle at the slightest inclination.’

  ‘No choice; can’t risk infection. It’s for the babies’ sakes as well. I try to make them feel as though they’ve got a friend in the room, though.’

  ‘I can imagine, and to be fair I’d rather have you there than any man.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Erica pops a piece of cucumber in her mouth. ‘But I’m not sure that’s much of a compliment considering you hate all men at the moment.’

  ‘Not all men,’ I protest indignantly, ‘just most of them!’

  We down our food as we often do, in front of the TV. We’ve got quite into that drama Quiz about the guy who cheated on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire? by getting someone to cough when the right answers were read out.

  ‘That wife is a bit scary,’ Erica remarks.

  ‘Yes, to be honest I think she put him up to it,’ I comment.

  ‘Must have driven them mad; people coughing wherever they went for the next ten years.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a good job there wasn’t a virus outbreak then – the studio would have been empty.’

  The dulcet tones of Dua Lipa blast out. ‘Can’t you change your ring tone? I’ve heard that so many times,’ Erica complains.

  ‘I love it,’ I say, grabbing my phone. ‘Besides, it gets me moving better than Joe Wicks. Oh, hi, Jess. How’s it going?’

  ‘Good thanks. Well, as good as it can be considering,’ Jess replies.

  ‘Yeah I know what you mean. It is a bit weird isn’t it? I can’t believe it’s been a month since we went shopping at Greenham.’

  ‘I know. It all felt so normal. Little did we know what was coming. I’ve had the most frustrating day too. The server keeps going down and we’ve had so many calls.’

  ‘How annoying. I guess it’s because everyone’s on the system. I s’pose at least business is goi
ng on?’ Jess works for a marketing company and used to have regular battles with her boss about working from home (it was apparently against company policy) – until the actual lockdown that is, which of course enforced it.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about work – it’s totally boring. I’ve had an idea.’

  This sounds ominous.

  ‘Mmm,’ I say noncommittally. Jess is fab and I adore her, but I can tell this is her I’m-about-to-start-trying-to-manage-your-life tone.

  ‘I happened to come across this app the other day that could have been designed for you.’

  I know exactly what kind of app she means and it will certainly not have been designed for me. ‘Jess, we’ve been all through this. It’s kind of you but …’ Erica has her jacket on and gives a little wave from across the room. ‘Just a mo, Jess – bye, Erica, take care won’t you?’ She gives me a sympathetic smirk as she vanishes out the door.

  ‘Erica’s just off for her shift. She’s amazing – I would hate to go and deal with birthing women, especially in the middle of a pandemic,’ I gabble to Jess, hoping it might distract her from the conversation.

  ‘Yes, but we’re all different aren’t we, Soph? Anyway, Hinge is a dating app that helps you meet someone nice and normal. Even you can’t go wrong. How about it?’

  ‘Hinge? Sounds like something to do with a door.’ I’m trying my best, but there’s no distracting Jess when she gets like this.

  ‘Ha-ha, come on, Soph.’ She hears my silence, which is hopefully deafening. ‘Okay so maybe you haven’t heard of it; you are getting on a bit now.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ I roll my eyes. ‘It’s nearly time for the NHS clap. Don’t you think you’d better go and get ready?’

  ‘It’s only seven-thirty and we only have to go to the window. It’s really not that far.’

  ‘Yes, but I need to make sure my hands are warmed up ready for my best clapping,’ I say.

  ‘It’s too late anyway,’ says Jess.

  ‘What do you mean? It’s not ’til 8 p.m.’

  ‘No, the dating thing. I’ve done it, I’ve signed you up to Hinge. You’re welcome.’ As always with Jess, it’s a fait accompli. I remember the time we vaguely discussed getting Mum and our stepdad a holiday weekend away as a surprise and before I had confirmed I could pay my share, she had booked it and paid the deposit. Jess has a heart of gold but goes at everything at a hundred miles an hour.

  It’s a fact that she doesn’t ever give up. I hate dating apps. I have managed to avoid Tinder so far, having heard too many horror stories. It’s so not my thing. These people could be anyone; how do you know the photo is even them? I’m a bit old-fashioned. For me there’s something so impersonal about meeting online.

  ‘Jess, it’s very thoughtful, but you know how I feel about apps. I was going to get back into dating slowly; I have this idea of actually meeting someone in person, getting to know them properly. I had it all planned.’

  ‘Yes, but now we’re in the middle of a lockdown you’re kind of limited for options, hon.’ My sister is ever practical.

  ‘It’s so frustrating,’ I admit. ‘I was all geared up for a fresh start. Joining some fitness groups, book clubs – you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Not going to happen now for ages, so you’re going to have to get creative and Hinge is quite good actually. Danni at work used it. She’s been going out with this guy for six months now and he is really nice and normal.’

  ‘Well that’s a start,’ I say with a laugh, ‘except you know I am far from normal – it’s way too boring. And I would rather meet someone first. God knows who you find on these apps. They could be a stalker.’

  ‘You’re going to have a hard job finding a stalker in the current situation. Most people aren’t able to go out,’ Jess tells me. ‘And in any case, Hinge is really cool. It’s not like other apps – it’s not random and you can only contact a certain number of people. Also, you have to have things in common or it won’t let you contact each other.’

  ‘Why is it called Hinge anyway? If you’re unhinged you’re not allowed to join?’

  ‘Yeah right. I don’t know but I’ve just pinged across your account details.’ My phone bings at the arrival of a message.

  ‘Thanks, it’s good of you,’ I say patiently, wanting to throttle her, but I know she’ll never change. ‘Is Mum okay?’

  Miraculously, for once my tactics work and Jess is momentarily distracted. ‘Yes, I spoke to her yesterday. She’s been having trouble with Uncle Jim though.’

  ‘Oh no, is he poorly again?’

  ‘Well, you know how his stomach is?’ I think the whole world is au fait with my Uncle Jim’s stomach. It seems to have a life all of its own. I’m surprised he doesn’t send out a Christmas letter dedicated solely to the ins and outs of his digestive system. He is about ninety-three and one of the most dapper old gentlemen you have ever met, always in a smartly pressed shirt and tie, whatever time of day you might find him, yet he is also one of the most difficult. He usually has something wrong with him, but as soon as my mum tries to help, he won’t take the medicine. He really needs to go into a nursing home, but staunchly refuses and instead lives in a block of flats for older people, where they seem to have a competition going for who can be the most awkward and cantankerous.

  ‘I thought Mum sent him some medicine that would build him up a bit?’ I say.

  ‘Yes she did, but it was rather awkward because I took the stuff round, to save Mum, and left it outside Uncle Jim’s flat, as of course I couldn’t go in. Apparently after I’d gone, one of his neighbours, Geoff – you know, the one who lives in the flat next door and is ninety-eight, the one Uncle Jim looks out for?’

  ‘I remember.’ How could I forget? He’s always getting into some trouble or other despite my ill, elderly uncle’s expert care.

  ‘He got hold of the box of sachets prescribed to build up stamina after being ill, and he ate three of them.’

  ‘Oh no.’ I stifle a laugh. ‘I mean that’s terrible. Was he all right?’

  ‘He was fine, probably better than he had been in years, but Uncle Jim was furious with him, said he’d stolen his medicine and there was a right old ruckus. Without intervention it would have truly been a case of Zimmer frames at dawn. Mum had to calm him down – apparently she was on the phone for ages!’

  ‘Poor Mum, as if she hasn’t already got enough to do at work.’

  ‘She said it’s really busy at the surgery although they’re trying to do most of the appointments online to minimise contact.’

  ‘It’s a worry isn’t it? I wish now that she had a job where she worked from home. It would be a lot safer,’ I say, ‘and just imagine if she’d had her way – you’d have been working on the front line too.’

  ‘Someone’s got to do it, although I was never cut out to be a doctor. I hated science anyway. You should have stepped up to the plate as the prodigal daughter,’ Jess replies staunchly.

  ‘That was never going to happen. Science was the only GCSE I had to retake and in any case she was perfectly happy with my career in law. It’s the whole teaching thing she has issues with.’

  ‘I guess, but you can understand it was a bit of a shock to her after putting you through years of law school. I’d have loved to have an opportunity like that.’

  I sigh inwardly. This is an age-old argument. Neither Mum nor Jess get the whole career change thing. For ages they just thought I was having a momentary crisis, which they expected to resolve along with the cessation of my seizures with the epilepsy meds, with the happy result of me going back to my legal career and everything returning to normal.

  As always Jess is oblivious. ‘I’ve got to go now, but before I speak to you next I want you to try the app.’

  I get the sense the world could be ending and she’d still remember to check.

  ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll be asking questions,’ Jess replies and with that she’s gone.

  Half-h
eartedly, I click on the link she’s sent, but quickly exit it again. I can’t face it – it’s simply not the right time to meet someone now. It’s typical, just when I’m finally considering making some sort of effort to at least try to regain my trust in guys. They can’t all be unreliable and shallow, influenced totally by success and looks. There must be some genuinely nice blokes out there somewhere; it’s only a matter of finding them.

  I glance at the clock: 7.50. There’s just enough time to clear up the remains of dinner and get ready for the clap for the NHS.

  At 7.55 I am ready. The door to the balcony is open and I potter about just inside, not wanting to look as though I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not sure why. It’s not like anyone will see me. I fiddle with a couple of bits, picking them up and putting them down again.

  I go back out again at 7.59. Should I start? Is it like a thing when everyone automatically knows when to begin? Will I be able to hear anyone else? I peer down into the courtyard but it’s empty as usual. Perhaps I’ll just start clapping on my own. I check my phone and as I am looking, it changes to 8 p.m.

  As if by magic the clapping starts – first quietly, from one side of the courtyard, then the next, and from above, until all around me the air is full of clapping. It’s a rousing chorus of applause ringing out round the courtyard and beyond from the streets of the city, echoing far and wide. It’s simply beautiful.

  Before I realise what is happening, the tears start streaming down my face. So many people everywhere, kept apart, yet we are all responding in the same way. We are clapping together in one united group for our incredible fellow human beings out there right now on the front line, risking their lives for us all, battling to save people from this hideous virus. Erica, Mum, and so many others – people we care about and are terrified of losing. I hate this isolation from friends, family, even strangers, from normal human contact. I am sobbing now; a raucous, noisy broken sound and I can’t stop.

  ‘Hello? Are you okay?’

  Now I’ve completely lost it – I’m beginning to hear things.

  ‘Hello?’

  I stop crying for a second and glance over my shoulder. No, there’s no one there. Thank goodness no one has broken into the flat, though the door’s locked and who would try burgling someone in the middle of the clap for the NHS, when everyone’s in? I really am losing it.