Mr.

White

Walks are very zig-zag these days. A mother walking towards me and holding a

toddler by the hand means I have to go into somebody’s front drive to keep the two metres

distance. She doesn’t seem to care that I’m a good fifty years older than she is. I make a

considerable performance of moving out of her way, thumping my stick down, avoiding eye

contact. And then a young couple walking hand in hand, taking up so much space that the

only thing I can do is wait for a space in the traffic to cross to the other side of the road.

When I get home I’ll report on my Covid-19 app. I may be old, but not so old that I

can’t answer a few simple questions. No, I haven’t had a coronavirus test. No, I’m not feeling

quite myself today. They’ll get excited when I tell them that coffee tasted like dust this

morning, and that my toes look the way they did when I was a child and bedrooms were

colder than fridges. Like chilblains, red and shiny, painful and itchy at the same time.

In the meantime I’m going for my walk because that’s what I do every day, and that’s

how I’ve lived to a ripe old age. That’s what Sue next door says to me, the patronising cow.

“Mr. White, you’ve lived to a ripe old age! I wish you’d tell us your secret”. She orders food

from the supermarket for me, Waitrose for them, Asda for me, pretending that it’s more

convenient if we have separate orders. “Just transfer the money when you’re ready. No hurry.

It’s brilliant that you can manage bank transfers”. I try to seem grateful, though once she

starts being sympathetic I run out of patience. Then I get, “I can see you’re a tad stressed

today. Maybe blood sugar a bit low? Would you like me to bring you a nice cup of tea and a

biscuit?” No, you stupid bitch, I’d like you to fuck off and die.

I’ve made the traffic stop by tottering out in to the road in a dangerously senile way,

and almost reached the pavement on the far side when I see a young man ahead of me, his

eyes fixed on his phone. Texting. There are few things that annoy me more than people
walking and texting, but the combination of exasperation and varifocals that need updating

means that I misjudge the kerb. The edge isn’t where I expect it to be, my foot comes down

hard and twists, and I fall heavily on the grass verge.

The young man’s head jerks up from his phone, and he comes towards me without

hesitating. He’s very young and extraordinarily good looking – dark curly hair, eyelashes so

long you could hang your hat on them - and I’m struck with sudden fury that he has his whole

life in front of him whereas mine seems to have evaporated in a matter of moments, like a

dream.

Shall I warn him? I don’t think so.

“Are you alright?” he says.

Stupid question, but never mind about that. “Could you just help me up?” I quaver,

sounding convincingly old and frail. “I seem to have done something to my ankle”. He eases

my arm across his shoulders and helps me up. I gasp in pain. I’m very good at this.

“I don’t think you’re going to be able to walk”, he says. He has a good manner, kind

but quite firm. “I’ll call the paramedics. Let’s get you sitting down”. He spreads his coat on

the grass and I sink down with every appearance of gratitude.

“Will you stay with me until the ambulance arrives?” My tired old eyes are filling

with very convincing tears.

“Of course”, he says, settling down on the coat beside me.

I can feel the virus shedding itself in millions and billions, surrounding the two of us

like a cloud. I can almost see it, as if I were one of those crazy women who claim to see

auras, swarming around us like a cloud of tiny mosquitos. I think, why should he have his

life, why should he have a future, why should he have friends, wife, children, when I have
lost all this and have nothing to look forward to but illness and pain? It’s rising up inside me,

the pleasure at what I’m doing.

Now, that’s what I call a bubble.