by Heide Goody
“Shush. None of your silliness now. I’ve only done the living room so far and I’m shattered. And I’ll probably have to do it again after traipsing dirt and germs in from the other rooms.”
“Do not fret, my friend,” said Clovenhoof and patted Ben’s arm. “I’m sure it will all be fine. I am here to help.”
Ben gave him a suspicious look which changed when Clovenhoof presented him with a big bottle of off-white gloop.
“Lambrini-based alcohol gel handwash,” said Clovenhoof. “Brewed locally by yours truly and Dr Persephone Wossname at four-hundred-and-something a few doors down.”
Ben unscrewed the lid and sniffed tentatively.
“Get a load of those high alcohol aromas,” said Clovenhoof. “With just a hint of sublime Lambrini.”
Ben nodded slowly. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem, mate,” said Clovenhoof turning to his own flat. “Oh, and it goes without saying that you shouldn’t drink it!” he called back to the closing door. He went inside his own flat with the remaining bottles. “Of course, I might have a little sip,” he said. “Just out of scientific curiosity.”
6
That night, as the three of them enjoyed a drink together in Nerys’s flat, Clovenhoof realised it wasn’t very often that he was not at the centre of a conversation; especially when it was an argument. On this occasion however he was happy to be a spectator, because Nerys and Ben were putting on quite the show for him.
“Of course we won’t have total lockdown in this country,” said Nerys. “That would be madness.”
“From Monday,” insisted Ben. “All non-essential shops and businesses are to be closed. The whole economy shut down.”
“And essential means…?”
“Everything except food shops and home repair shops, I think. The wazzock who runs that big pub chain thinks his pubs are an essential service.”
“I might agree with him on that,” said Clovenhoof quietly.
“So only food and hardware shops,” said Nerys. “So, it would mean I couldn’t get my hair cut? Or my nails done? And that’s just the beginning. It takes a team to maintain this.” She pointed at her face, hair and body, circling over her groin with a deliberate emphasis that made Ben cringe. “It just can’t happen.”
“What about Italy? Spain? Those people have hair and nails as well,” said Ben. “It’s the only way we’re going to flatten the peak, as the politicians keep saying. As long as it’s voluntary to keep a distance from people, we’ll keep seeing people behaving irresponsibly. Pillocks.”
“I don’t think you give people enough credit, Ben,” said Nerys in a condescending, maternal tone. “Give them the facts, all of them, and tell them what needs to happen. Most people are prepared to do the right thing.”
“Seriously? Even you were talking about driving to Wales to see your mother this weekend.”
Nerys pouted. “It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow.”
“I literally can’t remember the last time you saw her. You haven’t made a visit on Mother’s Day for as long as I’ve known you.”
“But it’s supposed to be really sunny. It seems a waste if we don’t at least go outside somewhere. Who else is going to be driving to Wales? The place is almost totally empty, so it’s ideal for social isolation.”
“You’re as bad as all of those people who are heading off to their second homes to self-isolate.”
“Huh, do we know anyone doing that? Well it’s hardly a surprise. Jesus, Ben, surely you’ve seen the movies where all the scary stuff happens and you head for the hills! It makes total sense to go somewhere remote. Why would it be bad?”
“Because the shops and healthcare provisions in those remote places are getting pressured. They miss that out of the films.”
“Well of course they do, because it’s boring. Anyway, I wouldn’t be going to the shops, I’d just be—”
“—And your parents are in the vulnerable category. Had you forgotten that?”
A complex set of expressions played across Nerys’s face. Clovenhoof saw the first – which was that Nerys did not consider her mother to be vulnerable; more like some kind of timeworn harridan who would always be there. Then she clearly gave headspace to the idea that perhaps her mother could prove mortal, and she had no idea whether to react with relief or sadness. Possibly both. She fell into a mildly stunned silence. “Well, maybe we could have a barbecue in the garden or something?” she said eventually.
“Cool!” said Clovenhoof. “I can—”
“No!” said Nerys. “This is to be a barbecue that ends with cooked food, not a call to the fire brigade. I’ll get some things from the supermarket.”
“Good luck with that,” said Clovenhoof.
On Sunday morning, Ben invited Clovenhoof round to admire his deep cleaned flat. He was only permitted to admire it from the doorway until he’d cleaned his hands with alcohol gel and removed his shoes.
“Counters, tiled surfaces, doors and windows cleaned with disinfectant. Carpets hoovered and then shampooed.”
“You can’t shampoo a carpet,” scoffed Clovenhoof.
Ben passed him the bottle as proof and Clovenhoof inspected it. “How’s this different from ordinary shampoo then?”
“I dunno,” said Ben. “I suppose it doesn’t need conditioner.”
“Maybe I could use it to shampoo my ‘carpet’,” Clovenhoof suggested.
Ben wasn’t listening. “I’m all set and ready to run my business from home.” He gestured to the boxed books by the living room window. “If vulnerable people are self-isolating, they’ll need reading material more than ever. I’m ready to send out books to the isolated and bored.”
Next to the boxes was the coffee table. There was a cluster of cleaning products and a platter with a clear plastic cloche on top: the kind used to display cakes in shops.
“What’s going on here?” said Clovenhoof.
“This is my virus decontamination guarantee,” said Ben and went over to demonstrate. With latex-gloved hands, he removed a 1974 Dan Dare annual from a box. He sprayed the book with a fine mister and wiped it down. “Cleaned with disinfectant and then popped into here for forty-eight hours,” he said, slipping it under the glass dome.
“You’re putting your books in quarantine.”
“I read somewhere that the virus can’t survive for more than a day or so on paper surfaces.”
“Books in quarantine.”
“Don’t try and make it sound silly,” said Ben.
“You are actually putting your books in quarantine.”
“And then I seal each of them up in an airtight bag ready to send off.”
Clovenhoof nodded in appreciation at this little scene of madness. “And then you will ruin it all by going out into the pox-filled streets and to the virulent post office.”
“Not at all,” said Ben. He nipped to the kitchen. “Look. I’ve realised I can fashion myself a safety suit from two black bin bags. One for top and one for bottom.” He arranged them over himself, like a tunic and skirt. “I’ve got the gloves and, hopefully soon enough, I will be taking receipt of a full-face protective mask.”
“You’re not going out in that sex goblin mask again?”
“No fear,” said Ben. “I don’t want to get a reputation as some weird local nutter.”
“That’s my job.”
“Exactly. A sensible face mask. And then I will be fully protected as I walk to the post office.”
“You got your social distancing stick?” asked Clovenhoof.
“My what?”
“Persephone down the road has one. A two-metre stick to make sure no one comes near her.”
“Ooh, that’s a good idea,” said Ben. “I ought to get me one of those.”
Clovenhoof drifted over to the computer. It showed footage of the chickens in the back yard. “Your webcam footage still being viewed by thousands of people around the world?” he asked.
“Tens of thousands,” said Ben.
Clo
venhoof decided to offer some commentary. In a world now without TV sports, it seemed the done thing to just create spectator commentary on anything and everything.
“Can Mrs Cluckington defend this patch of earth against repeated attempts by Marengo to steal pole position? What’s her strategy here? It’s all about striking at the right time to get the juicy insect, and it’s just possible that we’re seeing her playing the long game—”
The front doorbell rang.
Nerys called down the stairs. “Get that! I’m waiting on a delivery of some designer clothes for my new job!”
Clovenhoof ignored her, his eyes glued to the screen.
“You not going to get it?” Ben asked him.
“I want to see who gets the first bug,” said Clovenhoof.
Ben sighed. “I’ll go then, shall I?”
Clovenhoof heard him clatter down the stairs, then there were some confused and muffled exchanges.
Ben returned and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s for you. You have visitors.”
Spartacus Wilson and his little sister Bea stood on the landing. Spartacus had a rucksack and a pair of rolled-up sleeping bags. Bea, freckled and with mismatched pigtails, carried a partially clothed Barbie doll in her hand.
“Sparts. Beelzebelle. What are you doing here?”
“Mom says I need to stay with you for a couple of days,” said Spartacus.
“Holiday!” agreed Bea excitedly.
“Oh does she?” muttered Clovenhoof. “Why?”
Spartacus scratched an ear. “She’s got to go look after my grandma. She’s got diabetes and that bronchial thing so she’s in a vulnerable category.”
“Your grandma Stella is as tough as old boots,” said Clovenhoof. “I saw her in the Boldmere Oak last week, dumping her latest boyfriend. Frankly, any bloke messes with her and she puts them in a vulnerable category. When I asked why, I sort of meant ‘why me?’”
Spartacus shrugged. “It’s your job, isn’t it? You were my teaching assistant and now the schools are closed…”
“I haven’t worked at your school since Christmas. I got fired for making copies of my arse.”
“Loads of people photocopy their bums.”
“Not using the 3D printer.”
“He said arse!” yelled Bea. “Arse! Arse! Arse!”
“So, mom says we’ve got to stay with you,” said Spartacus, “cos we’re ‘covered in germs and a deadly threat to gran’.”
“Fine,” sighed Clovenhoof. “Let’s get you settled in.”
Ben darted forward with a spray bottle of hand-gel and wielded it like he was negotiating with a terrorist – not welcoming a grubby teen and his pre-school sister into the house. “Before you touch anything, you need to wash your hands properly.” Ben followed them all into Clovenhoof’s flat.
Spartacus walked towards the kitchen and the sink in there.
“Bathroom!” instructed Ben and ran to open the door. “I’ll turn the tap on! You don’t touch anything until they’re washed!”
Clovenhoof was left alone while Ben oversaw the handwashing. This was an unexpected development. He hoped the addition of two young ’uns wasn’t going to cramp his bachelor lifestyle.
Ben ushered an unhappy Spartacus and giggling Bea back into the room. “I can’t believe nobody ever taught you how to wash your hands correctly,” he was saying.
Spartacus rolled his eyes.
“Right,” said Clovenhoof. “If you’re to stay here for – what, one day? Two days? – we need to set some ground rules. Number one: my bedroom is off limits, especially if I have female company.”
“When did that ever happen?” asked Spartacus, a little too scornfully for Clovenhoof’s liking.
“You’d be surprised,” said Clovenhoof.
“Yeah, when did you last—?” Ben started.
“Shush,” said Clovenhoof. “Now, rule number two is you can have whatever you like to eat or drink, as long as you make me one of what you’re having.”
“Fair enough,” said Spartacus.
“Rule number three is you will employ all of your cunning to procure treats and fun stuff for us while you’re here.”
“How do you mean?” asked Spartacus.
“Like phoning all your relatives or your mom’s old boyfriends and getting them to pay for takeaways and baskets of puppies. I don’t know: surprise me.”
“Cool! I’ll go and unpack.”
7
The weekend’s sunshine was a welcome distraction for everyone. Clovenhoof lay out in the back garden to soak up some afternoon rays.
“Hey!” called Ben, standing over him. “What are you doing? Those are the cushions off my sofa!”
“Yes, and they are doing an admirable job as a sun lounger, don’t you think?” Clovenhoof wriggled with pleasure. “I had to take yours as young Spartacus is lying on mine.”
He waved a hand towards Spartacus: idling on a pile of sofa cushions, lolling over them on his stomach, so he could watch Bea as she chased and imitated the chickens scratching in the shadow of the playhouse that was now their home.
Ben huffed with exasperation. “Nerys has managed to buy a portable barbecue from the supermarket, so we’re going to cook some food now.”
“Cool. You can work round us, I’m sure,” said Clovenhoof. “Let me know when you need help with the fire, you know how my expertise—”
“—Your expertise is what gets us into trouble every time. You stay where you are,” said Ben.
Nerys came into the garden a few minutes later carrying a large metal tray. She held it up. “This is one of those instant barbecues, so we don’t need any petrol or flamethrowers.”
“Sounds boring,” said Clovenhoof; although he didn’t mind as he was comfy.
“It was quite difficult to find something to cook on it, mind,” said Nerys. “Physical supermarkets seem to be struggling. Soon everyone will be turning to delivery services like my new employer, Dukoko.”
“Are the chickens to eat?” asked Spartacus.
“No!” yelled Bea, appalled.
“They are definitely not to eat,” said Ben. He sidled over towards the birds, as if he planned to stop anyone who might be tempted to take a bite.
“Not even if you were starving?” asked Spartacus. “If it was you or the chickens?”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe,” said Ben. “I’m thinking of growing some vegetables for that very reason. Eating these beautiful ladies would be an absolute last resort; and to be honest I just can’t imagine doing it.”
“Well if you can’t imagine it, I’m betting there’s others who could,” said Spartacus. “There’s lots of people round here that know you’ve got a few nice Sunday dinners.”
Clovenhoof couldn’t tell if Spartacus was deliberately playing on Ben’s insecurities, or simply describing life as he saw it from his unique perspective.
“I had to buy some unusual things, because they were all that was left,” said Nerys, “but we don’t have to eat Ben’s chickens. Not today.”
Bea tried to hug Mrs Cluckington, but she hopped easily from her arms, continuing her mission to destroy any chance of grass growing on the widening patch of earth which the chickens commanded.
“I’m a fan of the unusual,” said Clovenhoof. “Bring it on.”
“Patience,” said Nerys. “We’ll get the barbecue going and have our culinary adventure in a short while.”
Clovenhoof sent Spartacus up to fetch more drink.
“So, we have appetisers,” said Nerys, throwing a plastic container at Clovenhoof. He prised himself upright to take a look. “Hummus and red pepper puffballs?”
“Yeah, I have no idea. Get it down you, I’m sure it will be delicious.”
Ben came over to investigate. “They look nice, I’ll have one. By the way, how is your mom, Nerys?”
“Huh?” Nerys looked up, confused.
“It’s Mother’s Day.”
Nerys paused. “Oh yeah. Maybe I should give her a
ring.”
“How could you not know that?” said Spartacus.
“I knew it, I just forgot,” said Nerys. She stooped to light the barbecue with a box of matches. “You’ve spoken to your mom have you?”
“Yeah she called me to remind me to wish her a happy Mother’s Day.”
“Sensible woman,” said Clovenhoof. “Right, let’s try one of these things. It looks like a doughnut, so it can’t be all bad. Come and try one Sparts.”
“Nah. I’m holding out for a burger.”
“We don’t actually have any burgers,” said Nerys. “I’d have a puffball if I were you.”
Clovenhoof popped one in his mouth. It was shockingly undoughnutlike. The outside was some sort of pastry that looked appetising, but was so thin and damp that it dissolved on his tongue, leaving him with a mouthful of hummus and red peppers – although he couldn’t really taste any red pepper. He swallowed, washing it down with a massive swig of Lambrini. “Tell me there’s something better than this! What meat did you get if there’s no burgers?”
“Just popping some lovely sausages on the barbie,” said Nerys. “They are made from Quorn.”
“From what?”
“Quorn,” said Nerys. “Sounds yummy.”
“Maude went off to stop them hunting last year,” said Clovenhoof.
“Er, what?” said Spartacus.
“It’s a hunting club, or tribe, or whatever they are. They were definitely called the Quorn. I remember her making the banner out of a strip of roofing felt.”
“Huh. Maybe they’re made from … what do hunts catch?” asked Nerys, giving the sausages a poke.
“Foxes. Of course they’re not supposed to actually hunt them anymore,” said Ben.
“Fox sausages?” said Clovenhoof, peering over eagerly. “Now that would be a new taste sensation.”
“You lot can’t be as dumb as you act,” said Spartacus. “Quorn is for veggies. It’s pretend meat.”
Nerys picked up the packet from where she’d dropped it. “He’s right.”
“How come you know this?” Clovenhoof asked.
“My mom had a veggie phase a while back. Some boyfriend.”