"Nun'o' the bleedin' pubs'er open" said Tel, the bitterness in his voice betraying an undertone of fear. I tried to reason with it; tried to say that home drinking was the way forward. "Try findin' a soopermarkit that in't full'a' wallies buyin' everyfing they can lay their 'ands on" he said. "Impossible, it is. Always the fat ones n'all. Like they fink they're gonna run out of crisps and pies an' the panic sets in, so they stock up every day. Turnin' into the modern spivs, thass wot they're doin'. Arf expect ter be offered two Ginsters an' a pack of bog roll fer fifty notes outside a Tesco".
I'm officially on furlough from work, a long-standing health problem meaning that my presence, as of yesterday lunchtime, was entirely superfluous for 12 weeks. I still get paid, natch. I just can't travel anywhere or do much, apart from write and send daft emails to my company to keep me involved with the few who are still toiling at the coalface. I hasten to add I don't yet show any of the symptoms they keep mentioning in the media. But a slight cough in the morning, a bit of a headache from the booze, a quick hot flush and you're thinking "b*llocks".
Tel's still delivering, albeit to stores and small shops, no more garden goods as the market went tits up, but the company he works for soon found it was more profitable to outsource their services for the local cause. Tel and his driver's mate Callum are working at 5am, loading up goods from a depot, driving them to stores and then sitting in the cab as face-masked supermarket workers they never speak to, unload and store and then it's back to the depot and "the 'ole fing starts agin". He's happy-ish. They had to cancel Marbella in May but he's working to fill the void. "Finkin' o' retirin' nex' year" he ruminated to me on Saturday night, round mine, a cold beer in hand and his feet up on my coffee table. "Then we'll 'ave a look at a two munf trip in the US".
We've stopped meeting socially. Forced to, really, like many others. I would say 'everyone' but that's not true; Manningtree was awash with people walking and soaking up the spring sun on Saturday. I went to my local Tesco at eleven and was amazed at the amount of walkers, dressed in their cagoules and their socks over their moleskin trouser-bottoms. All within mere feet of each other, some within inches. As though this pandemic is just a 'London' thing and they don't need to worry; the fresh air'll kill it anyway.
They come from London as well, hence my worry that this little corner of a misbegotten country will soon be savaged by death and self-isolation like the Italians are facing. Londoners, especially middle-class ones, don't get it. They work in professions that require them to be clever, yet they threaten the rest of us oiks and country bumpkins with their 'preferred activities'. I said this to Tel on Saturday and he nodded. "No'iced the same fing" he said. "Bleedin' posh Londoners treatin' us like their lavvy, comin' out for a jolly near the sea an' be'avin' like its their own to do wit wot they like".
Tel started telling me a rambling and often funny story about someone attempting to break into his van. "Darn at Basildon, deliverin' cleanin' stuff to a cash'n'carry, some 'oody comes over'n' sez 'wotchoo got in there mate?" so I tell 'im ter clear off outer it 'n' he starts tryin' ter open the back. So I 'ad Ray, the ex-SAS bloke wiv me and 'e gets out and let's jus' say ah nevver 'eard wot 'e sed, but this bloke leaves a brarn cloud behind 'im as 'e goes. An' Ray comes back'n ses 'e woz polite'n that".
Tel works a six-day week 5am to 2pm then he's home. "Drivin' the missus mental, me" he said smiling. "Can't go out an' do anyfing so iss jus' me'n'er the rest of the day". He became confessional and lowered his voice, even though it was just the two of us in my house. "Ah've started plannin' our yank trip fer nex' year. First clarse flight ter Noo York, week in a five star, then 'ire a motor an' off ter the 'amptons an' Marfa's Vinyard, always fancied seein' where they made Jaws, then on ter Vegas an' a week in a nice 'otel, then Frisco an' LA, then a trip to the Rockies, then 'ome". I said it sounded expensive and he smiled. "Savin' in'I? Five 'undred a munf in an account I set up last year. Got nearly four grand in there already. Should 'ave more'n' ten by the end o' this year, this virus keeps up an' I keep workin'. Also, ah got this policy due to machure in November. Ten grand. That should be enuff".
We chatted on, then he drank his last bottle and wiped his mouth carefully with a silk hanky and left. "Come wiv us" he said. I can't, I replied. We're not supposed to be meeting in groups. "Nah, not NOW!" he said, irritably. "Come wiv us to the US nex' year. You won' be spendin' much an' you earn a good wedge from them trips to Bermin'am, yer should do anyway, gawd knows why yer do 'em. Save up. I'll pay yer 'otel costs. We'll 'ave a laugh, you'n'me". He looked at me in anticipatory relish. Then he choked up a bit. "You're, lark, the nearest fing I got to fambly these days. Ah miss yer. Come on 'oliday wiv us. The wife'd love it; she asked me ter ask yer, she don' want two munfs're me on 'er lonesum". He left the offer dangling, like a worm on a hook. And though I laughed and asked if he was alright to drive home, a part of me did think. Why not?
And to be honest, in these uncertain days, we've all got to have something to look forward to. Don't we? |  |
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