When we bought our house, the front door was painted blue – a mid-blue, reminiscent of Chelsea’s home kit. We never much liked it.
Still, we lived with it for years, before finally covering it with a mellow green. Where the door has scraped against the doorstep, the paint has cracked in places, revealing hints of the old blue. Somehow, I like the memory of its previous colour much more than I liked the reality.
On Friday morning, my son and I walked through that door, out into our little patch of front garden. As usual, he couldn’t resist pootling about on the grass, which is mostly moss anyway. I opened our picket gate, across which a small snail wended its torpid way, and we descended the familiar seven steps to the street below.
Usually, Tristan would have whizzed away on his scooter. But having lost its brake two months ago, and a wheel last weekend, the machine is now beyond salvation. A new one is on order – an early birthday present – but a week of walking to school has been more than enough. In a reversal of the usual order, I pressed ahead; Tristan languished, muttering about the absence of wheels.
While things were a little quieter than usual, the school run traffic was still backed up a fair way along the road, so that we overtook the line of cars within minutes. I paused at a side road, waiting for the boy to catch up so we could cross together. He clasped my hand with his green-mittened one and I wondered, as I often do, how much longer he will want to hold hands with his parents.
At the entrance to the nearby private school, an endless rotation of SUVs came and went, dropping off children by the side of the immaculate, all-weather lacrosse field. I glanced jealously at the hint of sporting prowess and thought of what a difference such facilities must make to those who can afford them.
A little further on, where the pavement runs alongside a public meadow, Tristan branched off, insistent that he walk through the trees – and the mud. Our paths merged again not far from his school gates. He had kept himself surprisingly clean.
Looking out of the window into my garden, all appears just as should be
In the playground, less crowded than before the virus arrived, small children milled around happily. Parents talked, sharing ideas for the grim months ahead, trying to be cheerful – and keeping noticeably further apart than they might have done even a week ago.
The bell sounded and Tristan’s teachers appeared. Who knows when we’ll see them again. As he always does, Tristan wandered in amiably, without a backward glance – easy to spot in his emerald-green hat and gloves. We’d given him chocolates to hand to his teachers; stockpiling by the back door I suppose.
I turned to go; the last school drop-off for the foreseeable future done. And as I sit here and think about it, looking out of the window into my garden, all appears just as should be. The daffodils and hellebores and primroses are blooming; two robins are scouring the ground for dry leaves; the miniature willow is coming into bud, much to the delight of the chubby great tits; and the fence at the back is still looking shambolic because I haven’t fixed it.
And yet somewhere out there too is this corona bug, trying to change everything, to scrape holes in our social fabric, to wear us down.
So, as we begin to get used to isolation, hold onto the small things, and memories of old routines; walk if you can get outside – retrace old pathways in your mind if you can’t. Try not to feel blue. In time, we’ll track forward again.
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