Two Lockdown Tales

by Kevin Crowe

1. James.

I wish I could take my words back.

I never understood why she needed to work in such a stressful, low-paid job. No matter how often she told me she really enjoyed the work, I still couldn't get it into my head. Surely, I sometimes asked her, there are other enjoyable jobs you could get, ones that pay better and have less anti-social hours. No, she would reply.

She works shifts in a care home and is paid the minimum wage, with a small addition for when she's on nights. She told me once that she sees a lot of the residents as friends.

“Even those whose dementia is so far gone, they don't recognise anyone?” I asked her.

“Especially those,” she replied. “Especially if there's no-one who visits them.”

“Even if all they do all day is piss their pants and drool constantly?” I asked. She sighed. “They're still people. They're still human.” She paused. “None of us can see into their minds. For all we know, there could be someone in there trying to get out, to express themselves. Even if there isn't, they still have feelings. They can still feel hunger, pain, pleasure. Anyway, they're not all like that.”

I know she loves her job, but even so I can't understand why she puts up with the bullying and harassment. She just won't complain about it.
When I pressed her, she'd say: “What good would it do? You know what would happen if I complained. It would be my word against theirs, and I wouldn't get anywhere. Everyone would think I was playing the race card, and I'd end up having to leave. And I love the job.” The last time I raised it, she added: “Remember what happened to you.”

I nodded. I had been passed over for promotion once too often, so I challenged the IT company I worked for, invoking their grievance procedure. And I won. But it was a pyrrhic victory: life was made so uncomfortable, I couldn't stay there and stay sane, so I left. Then I found I couldn't get another job in IT.  I remember how difficult life was at the time. I was afraid we'd end up having to live off Gloria's measly income, especially after I was diagnosed with type 2 Diabetes, which made finding another job even more difficult. So, almost in desperation, I set up my own IT consultancy business, working from home. No-one was more surprised than me when it proved a success.

Coronavirus had us both worried, particularly when the local hospital dumped more people in the care home to free up beds for the expected spike in Covid-19 numbers. I don't think the poor buggers who were moved around like cattle had any say in it, and according to Gloria the care home had no say at all. Apparently it was something to do with a service agreement.

When lockdown began, I thought I was one of the lucky ones. I already worked from home anyway and I was my own boss. I couldn't visit clients to sort out their problems of course, but I found that providing help at a distance worked most of the time. Whether it was a Skype or Zoom meeting or talking them through the problem over the phone, normally I could sort things out for them, at least temporarily.

I knew my diabetes and age put me at increased risk, so I stayed indoors, only going out for exercise and even then avoiding anyone I saw in the street, so I knew I was safe.

Gloria, ten years younger than me, was concerned, though. “What if I bring something back from work?” she asked me.

I laughed it off. I reminded her there hadn't been any cases at the care home yet. “And anyway, when all that protective equipment arrives from Turkey, we'll be fine.”

That turned out well, didn't it? By the time she was provided with the necessary protective equipment, someone transferred from a hospital brought Covid-19 with them and it made itself at home, infecting other residents.

She came back from work one day wearing a mask and a gown, packed a bag and told me she was going to spend the next two weeks isolating herself at one of the caravans in the care home car park. When I moved to hug her, she stepped back and wouldn't let me get any closer. “It's for your own good,” she said. “What if I've got it. I'd never forgive myself if I made you ill.”

“Fuck my own good!” I yelled. I turned my back on her, refusing to speak to her.

“Please,” she said. “You know I love you, you know I'm only thinking of you. Please James, don't be like this.” I sat at my computer and ignored her. A bit later she said: “I've cleaned all the work surfaces I've touched and I'll clean the door handle on the way out. I love you.”

I ignored her. I heard the front door close.

Later that night she rang me. She tried to explain, telling me the care home was doing its best to keep the healthy residents separated from the sick, and that she needed to be there to help, particularly as some of the carers were ill and they had extra residents to look after.  She told me she loved me too much to put me at risk.

I replied: “If you love me so much, why are you putting them before me?” I could hear her sobs, but ignored them.

This morning I received a phone call from the care home. Gloria is now in hospital, seriously ill with the virus and needs oxygen. I'm not allowed to see her.

I love you Gloria. I didn't mean what I said.

2. Emily.

The lift was broken again.

Despite the protests of her two young children, she returned to her flat and collected the baby backpack carrier. Even though her youngest was now too big for it, she had no choice, not if she
was going to go to the shops. With Olivia on Emily's back in the baby carrier, the folded buggy under her arm and the oldest, Sam, who had only started school a few months ago, holding her hand, she made her way down the five flights of stairs, ignoring the stinging aroma of urine and navigating past the accumulated litter.

Long before she reached the ground floor, Olivia was kicking against the restraints of the baby carrier, her mumblings getting ever louder until they become a full-throated tantrum. Meanwhile Sam was dragging behind her, whining that his feet were sore. With a floor to go, he sat down on a step and when Emily told him to get up, he shook his head and pouted. No matter how much she pleaded, cajoled and even bribed, he refused to move.

After what seemed an eternity, she managed to get both Olivia and Sam to the ground floor. She unfolded and secured the buggy, strapped Olivia into it, stored the carrier in the back of the buggy, and the three of them made their way to the nearest shop: a small, overpriced supermarket. With two children in tow, there was no way she could have gone any further.

The shop only allowed two people in a time, so she queued outside, holding Sam tight to force him to maintain his distance from the man in front. Despite his wriggling and pulling, he was unable to free himself from her grasp.

When it was finally her turn to enter the shop, she had to let go of him in order to have a free hand for the groceries she was buying. Sam took his opportunity and ran down the aisle, pretending to be a plane and making appropriate noises. He ignored her calls to come back and, when he collided with an elderly customer, she was told to keep her children under control or she would be asked to leave.

Eventually, the nightmare was over and, with the shopping safely tucked in free spaces in the buggy, they returned to the tower block they called home.

She stared at the steep stairs, realising getting up the five flights would be even more difficult than getting down, now she had two bags of shopping. She knew she couldn't manage it, and did her best to keep the threatened tears at bay. She left the shopping on the ground floor, hoping it would still be there when she returned, struggled with the buggy and two children, eventually reaching her door. She sat the children in front of the TV watching cartoons, retrieved her shopping which, thankfully, hadn't been stolen. When she got back to her flat, she collapsed on the sofa and burst into tears.

Sam came to her and took her hand, asking: “What's wrong, mummy?”

She smiled, told him she was okay and pulled him onto her lap. Olivia, not wanting to miss out, insisted she too be allowed to sit on mummy's lap. It wasn't long before both children were asleep. Emily, despite the discomfort, didn't want to disturb them.

Later that night in bed, unable to sleep, her mind took her back over how her life had changed since lockdown. Being a single parent living in a high-rise flat with two young children was never easy, she accepted that. But she used to have a part time job that brought in a bit of money and her own mother would look after the kids while she was at work. The job in a local cafe had gone, not furloughed, but gone, as the cafe owner had decided to close the business altogether. And her mother was no longer allowed to help.

In the first weeks of lockdown she had relied on the local food bank, while her application for additional Universal Credit was assessed. She was grateful for the food, but it was humiliating having to ask. Surely, she thought, in one of the richest countries in the world, something was wrong when people had to rely on charity through no fault of their own. It made her so angry when she saw wealthy tax exiles pleading poverty and threatening to close their businesses unless honest hard-working tax-payers helped them out. She felt like puking.

No point in getting stressed out, she told herself, there's enough to worry about here making ends meet and keeping two young kids amused all day.

That was easier said than done. These past weeks she had begun to understand what drove some women to harm their children. The continual needy whining and pleading, the fights between the two of them, their refusal to allow her to have some quiet time to herself were all just too much. And she had to watch them like a hawk, otherwise they could harm themselves. Oh, she knew it wasn't their fault, that it was a combination of boredom and not understanding why they couldn't see their friends or their Nana.

But she was reaching the end of her tether. What with the lift being broken half the time, not even being able to relax on their daily exercise and the stress of shopping with two over-active and bored children.

The next day she kept it together over breakfast, and even when Sam and Olivia decided to help with the washing up and cleaning. She thought if she took them out for an hour, it might tire them out. She was pleasantly surprised to find the lift working. She ushered the two children inside, thinking it was a good start to the day.

Part way down, the lift stopped between floors.