The Corona Chronicles: a tale of domestic non-bliss as one family struggles with self-isolation

Part One

TUESDAY

8am

Is it Tuesday? Thursday? I really couldn’t tell you. The days are already starting to blur into one another. I woke early and the silence was so silent I could hear all these sounds I’ve never noticed before; the house seemed to be sighing and scratching and moaning, as if it couldn’t make itself comfortable. Outside, in our street, there was the zippy whirring of a bicycle and I got up and went to the window to see what kind of a bike could make such a racket. I parted the curtains a fraction to look out and then it hit me. Of course it wasn’t early. Of course the bike wasn’t loud. It’s the world that has got quiet.

Do you find yourself forgetting? I do. And then I remember. This is actually happening to us. Not in some stupid dystopian film. Here, now, us.

On Sunday, we put the clocks forward one hour, but I wanted to put them back. Back to being normal. Back to the last time I went to the cinema with Fiona. Military Wives. Feels like a century ago, actually a fortnight. We met for a glass of wine before and I kissed Fi, her cheeks were so cold, and we couldn’t stop laughing because we were so happy to get a night off from the kids. Now, Fi is working with Corona patients and can’t see her children because Isla is a Type 1 Diabetic and the cinemas are closed and I can’t remember what day of the bloody week it is.

Since the PM announced the lockdown, an eerie eiderdown of hush has settled over cities and towns like ours. We know a quiet that only quiet places know. Tiny noises become trumpets. A blackbird on the forsythia under the kitchen window is suddenly Maria Callas at the Met. This morning’s “rush hour” consisted of that solitary cyclist and Dennis next door pulling his blue bin out of the wrought iron gate onto the pavement, acting as though everything is exactly as it was.

I watched him as he did it. Dear Dennis, still dressed in shirt and tie and burgundy cardigan, three buttons done up, when all his gentrified neighbours have sagged into leggings and sweatpants, barely bothering to change from daytime athleisure wear to night-time athleisure wear. Terrible word, athleisure wear, if you ask me, but I still can’t bring myself to say “trackie bottoms”.

When he’d parallel parked the bin to his satisfaction, Dennis happened to glance up and saw me watching him from the window. He gestured at the bin and the gate and did a funny little mime of washing his hands. I nodded, smiled and mouthed: “Go inside!” He raised his right hand to his forehead in a mock salute and I thought, “Oh, God, don’t touch your face before you’ve washed your hands.”

Dennis has emphysema and some other things that happen to a body when you live in it for 80 years. His wife, Ellen, is on her third round of chemo for ovarian cancer, and now this. If the virus has a hit list, they’re near the top. So are Robert’s parents, and mine. Try not to think about it. Got to keep going.

From the bed comes a muffled groan. One of those marital sounds you recognise instantly when you’ve been living with someone for almost twenty-five years. It’s my husband’s way of saying, “I know you’re up, darling, and good for you, but don’t even think about disturbing me, OK? A cup of tea in bed later would be acceptable.”

In the era B.C. (before Corona), Robert would be gone while it was still dark to catch a train into Liverpool Street. Part of the machismo of his breed, being at his desk by 7. For ages, I thought he was saying he had to get there in time for Nicky and I wondered if I ought to be jealous. Turns out it was the Tokyo stock exchange. Nikkei.

“Christ, you really can be remarkably dense, can’t you, darling?,” Robert said.

I can, I know I can, but luckily he’s been clever enough for both of us.

People keep saying say how lovely it is to have all this unexpected family bonding time, but there’s bonding and then there’s four of you glued together while the adults are sick with worry about the state of the economy, or what remains of it when they finally let us out. I do like that calm, sensible Jenny Harries, Deputy Chief Medical Officer, but she says we could be stuck here for “three to six months”. To be honest, I’m anxious about having my husband home with me for so long. “I like to run a tight ship,” Robert always says, clamping his jaw shut like a turtle.

Sadly, we’re a bit short of deckhands at the moment. Only me, really, now that Jean can’t clean and mind the kids if I’m working. We both got a bit tearful when I told her that probably it was best not to come in, although I’d keep paying her (haven’t mentioned that part to Robert). So, here we are, the available crew for Robert’s tight ship:

Me: Carrie, freelance publicist, limited survival skills, secret yet strangely alarming crush on Chief Medical Officer Chris Whitty, refused to panic-buy toilet paper on principle. Now panicking we’re running out of toilet paper.

Izzy: twelve and eleven-twelfths and yet to be acquainted with a Hoover (my fault, sorry). Bit of a geek, currently mastering every last horrifying detail about Covid-19. Home schooled. Well, once we can get the app to work.

Harry: Sixteen. Has spoken fewer than a dozen words since school finished so abruptly. Having a meltdown because, not only are GCSEs cancelled, so is his Easter show. Never mind that the globe is engulfed by a deadly pandemic unprecedented in modern times; what matters, what really matters is that drama mad Harry Davies won’t get to give the world his Jesus in Year Eleven’s Passion Play. “Mum, you just don’t get it, I’m never going to have another crucifixion.”

Max: Two-year-old cockerpoo. No use to anyone, but good for licking floor now cleaner has left and taking mind off international plague.

Chloe: my eldest, funny, beautiful, humanitarian, marathon runner, now at uni. Would definitely help me if she was here, but self-isolating in a student house in London. Sent her a precious box of anti-microbial wipes and the twelve-pack of Paracetemol Ibrahim in the corner shop produced from behind the till, furtive as contraband.

My beloved girl is young and strong, in both will and body. She’ll give those monstrous microbes what for. I have to believe that. There just isn’t room for her on my Corona Worry Rota.

8.26am

Give Max a bowl of his extortionate kibble which has practically doubled in price on Amazon since the lockdown. Cynical manufacturers know the British would have to be starving before they let their dogs go without. Max gulps down about five quid’s worth in as many seconds and looks up, hopeful for seconds. “No way, mister. This is a crisis. We’re economising.”

Phone dings and I reach for it on the counter. Oh, marvellous, here comes your early-morning WhatsApp of Doom from Apocalypse Anna: “Carrie, what are you doing about outdoor clothing? You do know the virus can live on material for between 2 to 4 days!!

"We’ve got this rota at home where we put the coats we’ve just worn outside on the back of the dining-room chairs and we wear other coats until the first coats are definitely Corona-free.

"Quite simple when you get the hang of it! Such a shame the boys can’t get together but I hear Alex and Harry are playing Fifa online. We’re so lucky to have that chest freezer in the cellar, absolutely chokka with meals made by moi. At least we won’t starve!   A xx”

I try not to let Anna panic me. I know she means well, but there is something about her helpful hints that fills me with helplessness. No, I haven’t got those fabulous zinc tablets that will disrupt the virus (allegedly). No, funnily enough, we will not be rotating our coats on the outside chance they are putrid with pathogens because a) we don’t have a dining room or b) enough coats.

Even as I’m refusing to be drawn into her competitive paranoia, I have a gnawing worry that Anna’s family will be safer than mine: survival of the fittest.

Oddly, my calmest, most cheerful friend is the one who has most cause to be afraid. Fiona is a senior Oncology nurse, now redeployed to the frontline of the virus war.

“Total shitshow here, Hag,” her last text from the hospital read, “You won’t believe what I’m wearing for protection: binbags and swimming goggles basically. Please send armour. So looking forward to our picnic on the beach in June. Chocolate Hobnobs obvs, what else? Love Hag x”

We started calling each other Hag when we turned fifty, five years ago now. It was a joke because we thought we looked pretty great for our age actually. Now I think of Ben at home with the girls while Fi is staying at a Travelodge across the road from the hospital. Not even a cuddle at the end of a long, scary day.

10.27am

Robert puts his head round the door, still wet from the shower. “Where do we keep the towels? I’ve got a meeting at 11, make sure the kids don’t come into my study.”

“It’s Mum’s study,” says Izzy looking up from her porridge.

“Yes, well, Daddy’s working from home now, love. Don’t worry, it’s fine. I’ll work on the kitchen table.”

“You can’t. The kitchen table is my classroom. You’ll be talking to clients. I’ve got Maths. I won’t be able to concentrate.”

“Don’t be silly. There’s plenty of room for both of us, darling. Mummy will just have that little corner there. I won’t say a word.”

“Yes, but even when you’re not speaking you think loudly. Doesn’t she Harry?”

Jesus glances up, a look of infinite pain clouding his youthful features. “Seriously, Mum, why have I got to stay in because of some stupid disease I’m probably not going to get and even if I do get it it won’t be that bad? It’s just like really old people that die.”

(Ah, well, at least my son has broken his week-long moody silence.)

“Selfish pig, Harry,” Izzy snaps. “Gaga and Gramps are old people, you idiot, so are Nana and Grandpa. Do you want them to die?”

“Stop that, please, no one’s going to die. Your grandparents are doing what the Government says and sensibly self-isolating.”

(Not strictly true. Susan and Peter have only just been persuaded to give up their bridge evenings after Robert told them he’d call the police and get them to raid the club. My poor old dad’s got dementia and keeps forgetting about the epidemic which my mum insists on calling “that Corbynvirus”.)

“That doesn’t mean they’re safe, Mum,” Izzy persists. “Do you realise a viral particle was found up to SEVENTEEN DAYS after passengers got off the Diamond Princess Cruise ship?”

Oh Lord, time for me to rally my mutinous crew. Cue Elgar strings.  “Look, guys, I know it’s not easy but we’ve all got to do our bit, OK? The Prime Minister says it’s a national effort and if everyone pulls together we can beat this virus.”

“Boris only went and got corona,” snipes Harry.

“Yes, and that just shows that he’s right when he says we’re all in it together. He’s going to prove that it’s a mild illness for most people who make a full recovery which is brilliant.”

“Actually, Mum, being a fifty-five-year-old male puts Boris in one of the higher risk categories. Do you know 71% of all global fatalities are men over the age..”

“ISABEL, that’s quite enough!” (Poor Boris all alone, red-eyed in the Downing Street flat. I like to think Dr Jenny Harries is taking him something eggy on a tray and whispering soothing epidemiological statistics to him through the door.)

“Anyway, what I am trying to say, kids, is we are a lot luckier than many people. Dad has a good job and can work from home. We’ve got a house and garden and Mummy will soon have tracked down some more loo paper and there are only four of us so…”

And at that point, fate intervened in the form of a text from Chloe.

“Mum, got to leave my house. Will explain. OK if I bring boyfriend home? Love you x”

“Of course! More the merrier. Seem to remember George is vegetarian? Can’t wait to have you home. Let me know what train you’re on? M x”

8.43pm

Robert and I are having one of those furious rows when you can’t shout so you end up hissing instead. Chloe turned up with the boyfriend. He wasn’t George.

“Hi Mum, this is Paolo. ‘Fraid he can’t go back to Italy because his town is in like total lockdown. The girls in the house didn’t want Paolo there because he was skiing in February and he’s Italian which is like really unfair but they said he might be infectious so now we’re home.”

“Ciao, Mrs Davies,” said Paolo, “You are very welcome.”

So now Chloe and Paolo have to self-isolate from the rest of us in the house, especially from Robert who gets asthma badly, but Robert doesn’t consider himself to be a vulnerable person so pretend I never told you that.

He is not happy. “Are you seriously telling me that Chloe and some bloody Italian are occupying the sitting room and we can’t go in there? And Harry and Izzy will be using our ensuite because Chloe and the bloody --”

“Paolo.”

“.. will be using the family bathroom until we’re sure they haven’t got sodding bubonic plague?”

“Yes, darling.”

The Corona Chronicles is published on Mondays and Fridays every week on Telegraph.co.uk

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