Monday, 20 April 2020

"Arlene, I wanted to talk about Mum's death."

My counsellor adjusted her spectacles, waggling the frames so she could focus on my expression. It had taken me until half-way through our session to pluck up enough courage to raise the subject.

"There's more to it then? Is this about how you tell Tom—"

Downstairs, the front door opened. It was only half past 12. Tom rarely returned before two o'clock.

"It's him," I hissed at the screen. "Can we do this some other time?"

Arlene nodded, reminding me tartly as I lifted a finger up to press the button that ended the meeting that she would still need to charge the full amount for this one. I hurried to the hallway.

"This is a surprise! Has the sorting office run out of mail for you to—"

Tom was sheet-white—eyes enormous and cheeks hollow. He tugged at the zip to his hoodie and pulled it over his head.

"What happened?" I asked. Stupid question. The answer was obvious.

"The bosses have sent a few of us home—a supervisor's tested positive for the virus, but he hadn't realised." He unbuttoned his shirt. "Came into work coughing and spluttering and everything, and he's been in close contact with people in the sorting office for the last few days. But I started coughing the other day. I shouldn't have gone in either."

Cue the cough starting up again—a harsh, hacking sound that seemed to go on forever. I froze to the spot for a couple of seconds before the automatic response kicked in.

As he hunched over, choking into his hand, fear gripped my belly. Every time he coughed, every rib and vertebrae stuck out and redness spread from his face to his throat and chest, emphasising the whiteness of the rest of his body.

"Stay there," I said, "I'll get a thermometer."

The official advice listed two major symptoms—a continuous, dry cough and a temperature.

Item retrieved from the first aid kit I kept in the kitchen, I ran back to the hallway, coming to a halt a few metres in front of him.

"I s'pose..."

He nodded, forearm in front of his mouth. "Don't come any closer. Throw me the thermometer."

I pitched it underarm, and he caught it easily—the feat making us smile at each other; small pleasures smuggled in under the radar of fear and worry. He shook the thermometer and stuck it in his mouth. "Keep it in there for 15 seconds," I said, "and I'll Google what a health person's temperature is meant to be."

"The thermometer says 39.6," he said.

"Oh," I glanced up from my phone, nerves tightening my stomach in a vice-like grip. "That's a fever. How are you otherwise?"

"Me head's thumping."

Anyone with symptoms was not meant to leave the house for seven days—the other residents in the home banned from the outside world for the same time too. Time to focus on the practical.

"Right. This is where having a spare room and an ensuite comes in useful. You stay in there and I'll bring you food and leave it outside the door. Stick your washing in a bag and I'll do that for you."

He nodded, shoulders hunching up as another coughing fit started up. It made his back look extra knobbly. Each vertebra stood up sharply as they shook in time to the choking sound he made.

Greeny-blue eyes met mine—fear, panic, an apology?

"I'm sor—

"Don't you dare, Tom! No sorry's. You've seen how hygiene-obsessed I am. The virus won't get within a foot of me because I'm surrounded by a permanent aura of Dettol. Okay?"

He spluttered. "If you say so, Sophie. I better..."

He pointed upstairs, and I stood aside, watching him as he made his way up the stairs, hand grasping the bannister so he could pull himself up. The stories I'd read of people who'd developed the virus reported muscle weakness. I dashed away a tear, battling the longing to run after him and envelop him in my arms, mutter, you'll be okay, you'll be okay in his ear.

But no-one had given me the authority or expertise to say those words. And if I caught it too—more gut-wrenching terror as I imagined the virus coming for me, belying those cocky words to Tom—two ill people in one house would be no good to each other.

Upstairs, Tom had shut the door to the spare room behind him. I tapped lightly on it. "D'you want some lunch?"

"No, thanks. I'll just get some rest."

I leant on the door, forehead resting against in the wood channelling a telepathic, get well soon message through the wood.

Downstairs, something struck me. The dog walking would be out the window—the arrangement we'd set up with Mrs Whittaker. Tom had been collecting Roger, who now barked in joyful anticipation the minute Tom swung open Mrs Whittaker's gate, every day at three o'clock. Who would do the job now?

Funny, wasn't it? In the space of less than a month, I'd gone from brief exchanges of hellos with my neighbour to worrying about her dog and who would fetch her food.

I phoned Darla.

"Yo, Sophs! So, so, so bored. Times a thousand. The mother ship says I won't be back at school until at least September. September! Stuck here in the house with her fussing over me the whole time, friggin' Tiger Mom Extreme-itis.

"Darla, I—"

"And I found out my friend Skye, y'know, the one says she's my bestie, has been having all these FaceTime chats with Lucille, even though she knows I can't stand her after she posted that thing about me on—"

"Tom's got the virus," I butted in.

"Oh my God! Is he going to die?"

As a teenager, I was the same. Over-heightened responses to everything. But my jangled nerves didn't need a reminder of the potential seriousness of the situation. I cast my eyes upwards to the bedroom where Tom lay, crossing my fingers that his immune system was ready for the battle ahead.

He was young, fit, and had no underlying conditions. The same applied to me. Low risk. This would be a story to regale friends with years later. "D'you remember, Tom," I'd say, "that time we both caught coronavirus in the middle of the pandemic? And it turned out to be not that bad, as we were one of the lucky ones...?"

Was even thinking that tempting fate?

"No!" I snapped at Darla. "But he was walking our neighbour's dog every day for her because she's old and vulnerable. You met her the other week when you and Josie came to the house. Obviously, he can't do that anymore and neither can I because I'll need to isolate too. What about you? You're only 15 minutes away and it can count towards your one-hour state approved outdoor exercise quotient."

The sound of wheels turning in a teenage brain where she worked out what she might also wrangle from the deal. Why not stretch it out into offering to shop for Mrs Whittaker and escaping her house for two hours instead of one? A covert meet-up with another mate (presumably not the treacherous Skye), who by 'coincidence' she bumped into while walking Roger?

"Yeah. Course. But you owe me. Like, £20 an hour?"

In the background, I listened to the sound of a phone being wrenched out of someone's hand and protests about respecting privacy.

"Sophie?" Josie barked at me. "I overheard the gist of that. Tom's ill and your neighbour needs her dog walked because he's been doing it for her? Darla will take over. She will not need payment. Neither will she message all her friends and arrange to meet up with them while she is out with said dog."

"Aw, Mum! That's, like—"

"So, we're settled? Darla will start this afternoon. Tell your neighbour to expect her in 15 minutes' time. And tell your boyfriend I'm thinking about him—and you. Send me a list of any shopping you and your neighbour need and I'll pick it up. Take care."

And that was that. I messaged Darla quickly—Sorry and thanks!—and phoned Mrs Whittaker, who gasped when I told her the news.

"But he's such a lovely young man!"

The virus, as far as I knew, didn't discriminate based on a person's character.

"This doesn't seem fair at all!"

No, it didn't. But as a postman, out and about, in contact with people at the sorting office and on the streets, him catching the virus was far more likely than someone like me, working a cushy, stay at home, middle-class job. Reassuring Mrs Whittaker that my sister would shop for her if she needed it, I hung up and headed back upstairs.

On the landing, I held back—tension making me suck in deep breaths. S'pose if I knock and... Or what if... Mrs Whittaker's words, not fair not fair not fair...

"Tom...? Are you okay?" Not wanting to wake him if he'd fallen asleep, I kept my voice quiet.

No reply. About to burst in, I caught the sound of someone snuffling.

Alive, then. I headed back downstairs.

Please, please, please... Who did I beg? A deity I didn't believe in? A benign force in the universe I wasn't sure existed? But if a supreme being was prepared to step in on my side, I was willing to suspend all disbelief.

...let him be okay...

AUTHOR'S NOTE - Dettol is a UK-brand name for disinfectant (and the reference is a cheeky nod to the US president's exhortation to the population that internalised doses of bleach might kill the virus... :)