Love in Lockdown

I don’t, just trying to be neighbourly. Thanks again, Marge. Just going to drop it outside his door.

I get off the phone quickly before she asks any more questions. Marge is like the inquisition and has a way of winkling information out of the strongest of people. I am totally hopeless at keeping things to myself; I have this habit of blurting things out before my brain has engaged with my mouth. Also I’m not sure if Jack will want Marge to know all his business, much as she seems to know a lot of it already.

I knock again more confidently this time and call ‘hello’ again for good measure, then stand well back but there’s still no response. There’s nothing else for it; I’ll have to leave the bags on the doorstep. I can always give him a shout from the balcony to let him know I’ve dropped it off. Perhaps he’s in the shower or something. Having placed the bags up against his door, carefully out of the way of the corridor (yes, I do like to worry about everything) I stand and stare momentarily at the plain brown door. It’s kind of strange to think that such a lively outgoing guy is stuck behind this bland boring façade. I give myself a little shake and leg it back down the stairs.

My phone rings as I’m letting myself back in the flat. It’s my mum.

‘Hi, sweetheart, how’s it going?’

‘Fine thanks. I’ve got a day at home so a bit of time to sort some stuff out and prepare activities for the kids tomorrow. How about you?’

‘The surgery has been quieter than usual, to be honest. I think people are more anxious about coming in, not surprisingly. They’ve all been told to stay at home if at all possible.’

‘Maybe not a bad thing, as long as it’s nothing urgent.’

‘That’s the problem,’ she replies. ‘We’re having to keep an eye on our older patients, because they tend to follow the government advice to the letter, even when they need help. Not including Uncle Jim of course.’

‘How is Uncle Jim?’ I’m really fond of the old guy in spite of his idiosyncrasies; he is the last of a dying breed. He might be cantankerous and has always been a bit of a hypochondriac but my mum says he was one of the first to enlist in 1939 to work on oil tankers, one of the most dangerous jobs there was. He was only fifteen and lied about his age so he would be eligible. Pretty brave I think; so you never know about people really.

‘He’s fine, although Jess was worried as he keeps telling us all he has a bad stomach still and has been losing weight. So she phoned the surgery and asked one of my colleagues to call him.’

‘Good idea,’ I say.

‘Well it was,’ my mum says awkwardly. Oh no, what did he do this time?

‘He picked up the phone to Dr Gregor, answered all his questions – did he feel dizzy, was he struggling to eat, et cetera? You know the sort of thing.’

‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘basically all the symptoms Uncle Jim said he was having.’

‘That’s the one,’ says my mum. ‘Well of course Uncle Jim said he hadn’t got any of those issues and was perfectly fine. Seemed surprised the doctor had phoned at all.’

‘How typical!’

‘It was. He’s apparently decided he’s not ill after all.’

‘I don’t understand. Did he just suddenly wake up and feel better?’

Mum laughs. ‘I wish. No, it turns out it’s all because of his neighbour Geoff.’

‘Geoff? Has he become a doctor then?’

‘No, it’s because Geoff had an accident with the hoover and according to Uncle Jim, he hit his wall so hard with it that all his photos fell out of his picture frames and broke.’

‘Uncle Jim’s or Geoff’s?’ I ask.

‘Uncle Jim’s.’

‘That’s sad,’ I say. I hate the idea of his losing his picture frames; his photos mean a great deal to him. ‘Can we get them replaced?’

‘He’s already on it,’ Mum says. ‘Apparently he went down to the picture framers at nine o’clock this morning and was hammering on the door.’

‘But they’re shut,’ I say confused.

‘I know, but Uncle Jim thought they should be open as an essential service. Anyway, the upshot of it is that he’s decided that Geoff shouldn’t be left to do his own cooking and hoovering and has been on to social services and his MP.’

‘Whoa – go Uncle Jim!’

‘Yeah apparently it’s given him a new lease of life and he feels much better. He doesn’t need the doctor any more.’

We both laugh and after we work out how we can get some more picture frames sent to Uncle Jim, my mum rings off. Our conversation about Uncle Jim has made me think. Perhaps everyone’s mental health is better when we have a purpose and feel needed. Especially someone like Uncle Jim who has been hard-working and much valued during his whole working life as an ambulance driver and now he’s been left in a flat with no one needing him, his health has deteriorated.

‘You all right?’ asks Erica, emerging from the shower. She’s been on an early shift today so is around for the evening, which is really nice. I’m hoping we can chill out and watch Love is Blind. We’ll probably Zoom Jess afterwards – we are behind a couple of episodes and have loads of gossip to catch up on.

‘Yeah, fine,’ I say. ‘Just thinking deep philosophical thoughts to myself.’

She laughs. ‘Be careful with them – they’re in a strange place.’

‘Thanks a lot.’ I wander out onto the balcony and listen for a moment. I can’t hear anything up above.

‘Hello?’ I call. I’ve taken to leaving the balcony door open a lot of the time as it’s quite warm for the time of year and in case Jack needs something.

‘Sophia?’

‘Hi, Jack?’

‘Yep, I’m here.’ He sounds a little flustered.

‘Are you all right? I knocked on your door; well at least I think it was your door – I’ve left your shopping outside.’

‘Thanks. Did you knock? I didn’t hear you, I was on the phone.’ He definitely sounds dazed. ‘Sorry, thanks. I mean … it’s just that the baby’s coming.’

‘Right now?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. I was on the phone to Sam. He’s popped out to the waiting room, but at least they’ve let him go in with Tina at the moment. Her contractions started to become regular about 10 p.m. last night. I think they were in the queue for Tesco.’

‘Tesco? At 10 p.m.?’

‘Yeah a bit weird I know, but apparently Tina had a craving for nachos and she was feeling uncomfortable so wanted to take her mind off it.’

‘In the middle of a pandemic?’

‘I know, poor Sam sounded beside himself; said there was no reasoning with her so he just gave in.’

‘Probably the best way,’ remarks Erica, who has joined me on the balcony. ‘How long’s she been in labour?’

Jack hesitates a moment. I call up to him, ‘Jack, this is my friend Erica – she’s a fully qualified midwife so you’re in safe hands!’

‘Hi, Erica!’ he says, sounding more his usual self. ‘I don’t know. Apparently the contractions are every three to four minutes.’ Jack recites this fact as though he has learnt it by heart.

‘Okay, well that means she is probably about six centimetres dilated so she’s still got a way to go until that baby’s going to be born. You can never tell though.’

‘How dilated does she need to be? Sounds horrible.’ Jack is obviously totally traumatised. It almost makes me want to giggle – guys just have no idea what women have to go through. I have a sudden memory of a conversation I’d had with Ryan about having kids when he’d announced we would definitely have at least two, but there’s no way he’d be in the delivery room because he would be too grossed out. What had started out as a lovely dinner in our favourite restaurant had left a very sour taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with the food.

‘Once she’s eight centimetres dilated, she will be ready to give birth,’ Erica confirms.

‘Excuse me,’ an unknown voice floats from seemingly out of nowhere. ‘Do you think you can talk about nice things like flowers or something? I’m trying to eat my dinner.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I call guiltily. ‘It’s just we’re in the middle of a baby being born.’

‘How fabulous!’ exclaims the voice. ‘Do I need to shimmy across with hot water and towels?’

Erica laughs. ‘Not these days – we’ve moved on a bit since then but thanks.’

‘How very disappointing. Can’t I do something? I’ve always wanted to say I’ve helped deliver a baby.’

‘The baby’s not here,’ shouts Jack from above.

‘I could help make tea or something?’

‘No,’ Jack says, laughing now, ‘it’s my brother’s baby and his wife’s at the hospital.’

‘Shame,’ says the voice, sounding rather crestfallen. ‘And here I was thinking this was my big moment.’

‘Thanks anyway though,’ I say, feeling sorry for the guy. He sounds like a laugh. ‘Where do you live?’

‘In flat 29,’ comes the voice.

‘Hi, nice to meet you, we’re Erica and Sophia – are you on the second floor?’

‘Yeah that’s me.’

‘Well, you must be to the left of us then. Jack, whose brother’s wife Tina is having a baby, is on the third floor. He’s above us.’ This is a bit random; I’m introducing someone I’ve never met to someone I don’t know and have never met. This lockdown just gets weirder by the minute.

‘How fabulous, I love the idea of having a socially distanced meet and greet. Hello, all, I’m Greg at number 29.’

‘Great to nearly meet you, Greg at number 29,’ Erica says.

‘Yeah,’ says Jack, ‘sorry to ruin your tea, mate.’

‘S’all right,’ calls Greg. ‘I’d much rather hear about the baby than most things. Beats the news at the moment anyway.’

‘My phone’s going again,’ we hear, accompanied by a crash from above. ‘I’ve dropped it.’ This is followed by a lot of scuffling and general cursing.

‘You all right up there?’ Erica asks.

‘Yes fine thanks, it’s okay – not smashed.’

‘What a relief,’ comments Greg. ‘I remember dropping my phone down the loo and it was never …’

‘Just a mo, Greg, Jack’s on the phone.’

‘Sorry, guys.’

‘Sam, hello? Yes I know, I dropped the phone.’

Erica and I exchange a smile; he’s in such a tither.

‘He’s almost as bad as some of the dads I have to deal with,’ she whispers.

‘It’s all okay,’ calls down Jack. ‘Sam just popped out to tell me she’s in transition or something like that – sounds as though she’s turning into something else.’

‘In a way, mums do at that point.’ Erica laughs. ‘Women in transition can sometimes become a bit unreasonable because they’re exhausted with the contractions and frustrated because at that point they can’t push … Sorry, Greg!’

‘You’re all right, darlin’,’ he calls. ‘I’m on dessert now and no one puts me off Rocky Road and ice cream.’

‘Ooh I’m so jealous!’ I realise I haven’t had Rocky Road for ages. In fact I’d totally forgotten it existed. Now I come to think about it, I really need Rocky Road back in my life. It’s definitely going on my list next time I have to do the weekly shop.

‘I’d send some across, but I’ve pretty much eaten it all,’ remarks Greg.

This guy is hilarious. I can’t believe I haven’t come across him before when he lives so near.

‘So … basically won’t be long now then?’ asks Jack, bringing our attention back to the current issue.

‘No – the baby might well be born in the next hour or so, although it’s a first-born and they can be unpredictable.’ Erica is matter-of-fact.

‘But I don’t know what to do with myself until then. I’m all over the place,’ says Jack, sounding more restless than one of my reception students.

‘Why don’t you go and grab your shopping from outside the door and then come back and we’ll all have a drink?’ I suggest.

‘Excellent idea.’ We hear Jack walking inside his flat.

‘What can I do to help?’ calls Greg.

‘We could put on some relaxation music, whale sounds or something,’ suggests Erica, although she doesn’t sound too enthused about it.

‘Please don’t.’ I laugh. ‘Whale sounds always make me ridiculously stressed.’ I love relaxation music and have got quite into mindfulness when I get a minute, especially during the lockdown. I find I need it. But whale sounds, they’re like a really horrible eerie shrieking; makes me feel really tense. Who on earth first thought they were relaxing in the first place? Thinking about it, who even discovered whales make a sound, as they’re not discernible by the naked human ear? Even more puzzling, whoever that person was felt it was important to not only encourage other people to listen to the hideous sound, but worse still, that it was necessary to record it for innocent people going about their daily business who would never ordinarily listen to whale noises. It’s worrying really.

Before we can discuss the choice of music any further, the dulcet tones of a saxophone lilt over the edge of the balcony and waft towards us on the afternoon breeze. Erica and I both stand transfixed, wrapped in the chocolate velvetiness of the sound. For a moment we are transported far away into another place, another world where there isn’t a pandemic. A perfect time and place – it’s like a really mellow version of ‘Perfect Day’. Now this is my kind of relaxation music.

‘Is that Greg playing?’ Erica asks peering over the balcony rather pointlessly. She can’t possibly see anything of him, as his flat is to the side of another part of the building, which juts out obliterating the view.

‘I guess it must be, unless he’s put on a CD.’

The music ends and we both feel a sense of regret, bereft almost.

‘Hey, Greg, was that a disc?’

‘No, it was me,’ he replies. ‘I like a bit of a blast on the old sax.’

‘Man, you are talented.’ Jack has obviously returned.

‘It’s just a few notes all thrown together,’ says Greg.

‘Play us something else,’ I urge throwing myself down in a chair and making myself comfortable.

‘I’ve got the rest of the shopping to unpack – I could do with some accompaniment,’ Jack adds. ‘Thanks so much for this, Sophia,’ he calls down. ‘You’re a lifesaver.’

‘Don’t worry; I was going to the shop anyway. You really need to give me a list each week and I’ll sort it.’

‘Yeah she loves shopping,’ says Erica, sarcastically.

‘I hate food shopping,’ retorts Greg. ‘You can go for me too.’

‘Course I will,’ I say.

‘Nah you’re okay.’ He laughs. ‘I’m allowed out – when I’m not at work.’

‘You still working, then?’ Erica asks.

‘There’s no rest for the wicked.’

‘That good, huh?’

‘Yeah, but I love my job, hard though it is sometimes.’

‘Are you a medical worker then?’

‘Not exactly. I’m a carer at the local autism residential college for young people.’

‘Whoa, that’s tough,’ says Erica.

‘It can be, but also really rewarding.’

‘I can imagine,’ I say. ‘Why haven’t they gone home to their families?’

‘Many of them have, but for some it’s just not possible. Either the family don’t want them, or in some cases they desperately do, but can’t cope with them.’

We are all silent for a moment. Lockdown is incredibly tough for so many people and makes difficult situations for many even more complicated. I think of all those who are struggling – those living on their own, people with health conditions, elderly people, the kids in the residential colleges, who already have anxiety and struggle with the complexities of life without a lockdown being thrown into the mix. I feel as though we should be able to do something to help them. I need to think of something, however small, to try to make a difference.

Whilst I stand there, Erica disappears inside to call her mum, and Greg’s saxophone starts again, weaving its magic once more.

I think about the old guy who I often see walking through the courtyard, treading slowly as though he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

‘That’s it,’ I say loudly.

‘That’s what?’ I jump, as I hadn’t realised Jack was back out up above.

‘I’ve had an idea.’

‘About what?’

‘Helping people. I’m thinking I could get some messages around on WhatsApp to get in touch with anyone like you who’s struggling with getting shopping, or who’s lonely?’

‘You really are a glutton for punishment.’ He sounds impressed.

‘I know, but I’d hate to be bored.’

‘Like me.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. You can’t go out – you have an excuse.’

‘That doesn’t really help. I hate it. I feel so powerless.’ His words pull at my heartstrings, but at the same time, I’m amazed how honest he is being about his feelings. Ryan convinced me that all men are emotionally unavailable, but it looks as though maybe he was wrong.

‘There must be something you can do,’ I muse.

‘Like what?’

‘Just give me time. Are you on WhatsApp?’

‘Yeah of course.’

‘What’s your number? I’ll add you.’

I feel kind of excited about this. I might get to see what Jack looks like. I’m not shallow, I’m really not, but it would be nice to see him so I can put a face to the name.

Jack tells me his number and I pop it in, a feeling of exhilaration rising up in me, which I can’t quite quash.

His number bings up. Hi Sophia, thanks for inviting me to the group!

I quickly press on his profile picture. It’s of a flipping cocktail. I don’t believe it. It’s a very attractive one, but even so.

Give me some time and I’m going to think of some stuff you can do to get involved. Meanwhile, enjoy having a break! I message back and press send. This is kind of sad, messaging when we’re able to call up or down to each other. But he can get hold of me when he needs to now, and somehow that’s strangely reassuring.

‘So you can message me any more shopping lists direct,’ I say, pocketing my phone.

‘Great. I’ve already started scoffing the crisps. They are just the best. Can I pass you some down?’

‘No I’m good thanks. I’m on the hard stuff: Dairy Milk.’

‘Sam’s calling,’ Jack says, suddenly sounding really tense.

‘Go answer it!’

‘Have I missed anything?’ asks Greg, who has stopped playing and is obviously intrigued.

‘That baby must be on its way by now,’ Erica says, reappearing with a couple of glasses of ice-cold wine.

‘I don’t normally drink on a week night,’ I protest.

‘You have to celebrate,’ calls Greg. ‘Unless of course it’s not born for another day or two.’

‘He or she will be along before then,’ Erica says. ‘First babies may be late, but once they start coming there’s no stopping them.’

‘Thanks for that,’ says Greg. ‘In that case, I’m breaking out the scotch.’

‘She’s here!’ Jack cries, interrupting our conflab on the ins and outs of childbirth, but his voice cracks and he breaks off, clearing his throat. ‘The baby’s here. It’s a girl.’

‘Wonderful,’ I shout in delight, torn between tears and laughter. Jack is making it sound as though he’s the father in the birthing room.

‘Congratulations, Uncle Jack,’ Erica tells him. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Yes, we must know the name,’ calls Greg, his enthusiasm for the whole situation makes me smile.

‘Carrie Elizabeth,’ Jack manages to say. It sounds suspiciously as though he’s crying. ‘Sorry, guys, I’m just a bit emotional.’

‘Take your time,’ Erica says. ‘Babies can make you feel like that.’

‘They don’t usually.’ Jack laughs. His voice sounds stronger now.

‘I love her name. Carrie is gorgeous – it’s unusual,’ I say. ‘How’s Tina?’

‘And Sam?’ asks Erica. ‘Dads are often totally exhausted by the whole process, as you can imagine!’

‘I’m totally exhausted just hearing about it,’ jokes Greg.

‘They’re all doing really well. He’s sent some pictures. I must show you.’

Within minutes, thanks to the wonders of technology, we are all admiring a tiny pink-faced bundle, her eyes, two gossamer slender curved lines, edged by fairy-tale-long lashes and a tiny rosebud mouth.

Greg bursts into ‘All That She Wants Is Another Baby,’ on the sax.

‘Have you got a drink, Jack?’ I ask.

‘You bet,’ he says. ‘Well … here’s to Carrie.’

‘To Carrie,’ we all echo from our individual balconies. Toasting a tiny little miracle, born in the most trying of circumstances. We sip our drinks and bask momentarily in the warmth and happiness that only the hopeful joy of a new birth can create, along with a shared sense of feeling amongst those who otherwise must stay apart.

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