Love in Lockdown

by Chloe James

  ‘Jack?’ I hear a faint voice from outside.

  ‘Hello?’ I go out on the balcony.

  ‘I thought you were having a party up there!’ she says.

  ‘Maybe a small one.’ Okay this is slightly embarrassing. I didn’t know the walls are so thin.

  ‘I love that song – it’s terrific to dance to. I could hear you having a go.’ I can hear laughter in her voice and I’m glad she can’t see the state of my hair.

  ‘No comment. The party’s winding down though. I just had to let a good mate down who wanted to come crash here.’

  ‘Is he being kicked out?’

  ‘No, but his flatmate’s one-night stand turned into a live-in girlfriend when she couldn’t leave due to lockdown.’

  She laughs, a bright bubbly sound. It’s infectious.

  ‘I guess it is kind of funny.’

  ‘It’s hilarious. And it’s not like he’s really homeless so you don’t need to feel guilty.’

  She’s right actually. I don’t, so I’m not going to.

  ‘Have you got that list of stuff you’d like?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Within minutes I’m lowering down the Budweiser box, my list of requests in it; carefully packaged and stowed away, hanging on to my yellow lifeline, which is swaying gently in the evening breeze.

  ‘Got it,’ she says.

  ‘You don’t need to get all of it.’

  ‘I know,’ she says, ‘but I’ll prioritise the crisps and beef noodles; they’re total necessities.’

  Chapter 5

  Sophia

  Carrying three heavy bags of shopping makes the stairs feel as though they are going on forever; I’m really glad I don’t live on the third floor. Not that I mind doing this for Jack. It must be terrible not being able to go out and get the basic necessities we all take for granted. With a sigh of relief, I reach the top floor and rest for a moment. Only then do I realise I don’t actually know what Jack’s flat number is.

  Okay, I tell myself, keep calm; it must be the one above me. I’m three along on the second floor so of course, he must be third flat on the right on the third floor. That makes sense. I think so, anyway, but I don’t actually know. If I went back down to my flat I could call up to him, as I don’t have his number, but that would be a right old faff. I’ll just knock and then stand at an appropriate distance and see who comes to the door. This seems like a plan. I approach the third door along the corridor and knock gently, then stand a couple of metres distant along the corridor and wait with a sense of heightened expectation. I can’t wait to see this guy who I’ve been talking to for the past couple of days.

  And wait. Nothing. The long row of depressingly brown doors all stare blankly back at me. I walk forward and knock again, much louder this time. I also call ‘hello?’ for good measure. I hope it is Jack’s flat; what if it’s some poor older person who needs food and thinks all these provisions are for them? I’d have to give them all Jack’s food of course. I have nightmare visions of having to fight my way back into the supermarket, having already queued in a socially distanced manner and then go back round the one-way system all over again.

  I really hate one-way systems. I know it’s necessary in this case, but I think there must be, somewhere buried deep within me, a small but vital streak of anarchy, because I really don’t like being told which way I should go round a shop. It feels sort of robotic and soulless somehow. At least in a food shop, they’re not that much fun anyway and during this pandemic I can see the sense behind it. But in IKEA – that’s something else. I’ve been so many times with Jess and insisted on going round the whole store against the direction of the arrows. ‘What is your problem?’ she always joked.

  ‘I don’t want to go that way,’ I would remark. ‘I need to go and look at the futons and then I must pop down to the Market Hall (who doesn’t just love all the nick-nackadee noodles down there). But who wants to traipse twenty miles extra with everyone in the wrong direction when you could just walk straight there?’ Jess would laugh at me over this, but I’ve always liked to go my own way. Maybe that’s why in the end I was never really cut out for a career in law; it was too predictable and logical. I needed something with more flexibility and creativity. With the kids in school, you simply never know what’s going to happen next.

  Speaking of which, I’m not getting anywhere at all, I’m still standing here like a spoon waiting for Jack, or someone, anyone, to open a door. My phone pings in the arrival of a new WhatsApp message.

  Hi Sophia, Just wondered how you’re getting on working in a school with all this hoo-ha going on. Marge

  Typical Marge, she is obviously itching to hear some gossip about work. Marge is the local neighbourhood busybody who knows everything about everyone. If someone at number 32 dyes her hair, she knows what colour and exactly when they changed it. I’ll never forget the time Erica’s mum came to visit and within minutes Marge appeared asking whose yellow car was parked in the car park, because she didn’t recognise it and thought it might be an intruder. Of course we didn’t believe her for a minute; she spent so much time once she was at the door finding out who Erica’s mum is, what her job is and where she lives. I can’t think how she remembers all the information she accrues, but either way, she’s the only person who might be able to help with my current dilemma.

  After a moment’s thought, I reply.

  Hope you’re well. (This seems to be obligatory on all messages currently, along with ‘stay well’ or ‘stay safe’, as though it will somehow magically ward off the virus.) Yes, school is different but I’m enjoying working with the kids, they are all coping well. Funny question, but do you know what flat number a young guy called Jack lives at? I think he lives above me but I don’t know the number.

  Thank goodness Marge is immediately on it like a car bonnet.

  Hi Sophia. You mean the one who works at Soho? Used to live with his mate Chris until he moved out last month.

  I told you: she knows everything about everyone.

  Yes that’s the one.

  He lives in flat 89. The one above you.

  Thanks, Marge, you’re a star.

  Why do you need to know?

  I’m just dropping him off some shopping.

  Yes he’s in the vulnerable category because of his kidney. I’d have thought he’d be able to get delivery.

  He can’t, they’re all booked. Thought I’d help him out as I was already going to the shop anyway.

  Kind of you – how come you know him?

  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 peo
ple 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.