Moving when the world has stopped

MARCH 27th 2020

There is something cathartic about going through all our stuff and separating it into 3 categories: stuff for lockdown months, stuff for Oman, things to store. I sling the final load of washing between two old apple trees and feel thankful for the surprising happiness we found in this house. A house of firsts. First washing line, first veggie patch, first feline - an orange cat called Monkey, sent our way by our wonderful neighbour, Alison, when she heard St Grace was leaving us in May 2018. He has a handsome marmalade face with palest of green eyes. ‘Would this fill the space?’ I asked myself. I wasn't sure a cat could ever replace a nanny like St Grace. And the fact that St Grace believed in karma and hated cats, meant that essentially she was being replaced by a cat - which she found hilarious and did her famous belly-quivering laugh.  And then our first dog (also orange) a few months later; and our first proper school run through fields along winding roads. The silhouettes of enormous oaks on the skyline, and podcasts and conversations, and little schooly worries and gripes all aired in the metallic bubble that is the family car.

The country is in full lockdown as we plan to move ourselves. I find comfort in being surrounded by the orange pets and a 10, 8 and 4 year old and J in our confinement. 

I feel a shiver when I think of children and women who are now locked in with their aggressors. For the children whose only escape is school - and whose only healthy meal is from school. And I feel nervous about J going to London to work which he'll have to do when we get to Scotland. Why is it better when someone is in sight? Even if you’re not a nurse and you couldn’t help them if they fell ill anyway. 

In the languid zone just before sleep, where more delicate thoughts are aired, Rashimi asks me: ‘Mummy what happens when the world ends? It’s just, I’m okay if we all suddenly go dead. But what I don’t like is the idea of the suffering.’

I go to give blood. There is no one much on the road. People are jogging and walking dogs - all at appropriate distances. J was worried about me going, and Rashimi calls after me: ‘Don’t give all yer blood Mummeeeee!’ ‘Just 1 pint!’ I call back. Daddy’ll show you how much that is in the measuring jug if you ask him.'

The nurse was brusque. ‘We have plenty of blood. I don’t know why they were giving the call out for more. We have plenty.’ I thought that was rude, and felt like withdrawing my arm. Did she know what I’d left behind? Either way they got my blood and I expect someone will use it. I get home and have a moment with the Lozenge. I explain J is going to have to work away from us for a while, and then isolate afterwards. A total of 6 weeks. Just like one of those blocks of time he spent in Baghdad. 

‘Why does he have to go?’

‘Because he works for the government. It’s called a ‘service’ which means you serve other people. And you’re paid for it, but it’s not a private company. It’s a public thing.'
 
The Lozenge says:’Screw the government.' Then looks a bit embarrassed.

'So you gave your pint of blood, and Daddy is giving his 6 weeks to the government, so what are we giving?'

Everyday feelings are changing. The world’s situation is a contrast to the bright, crisp weather. After only one week of home schooling from three different computers: 'Mummy! Mummy!' from all different floors with separate technological or numerical situations, many of which I can't answer immediately and need to do more research to answer. My phone is a constant hum of questions to Google. Wherever I step, there's a small orange dog under my feet, and Monkey the cat is on a constant cycle of hot bedding, until there are no beds left in the house. You never know where you'll find him next - on a pile of fresh laundry or in an open suitcase.

The children close the lid on their time capsules: plastic boxes with treasures inside that they will not be taking to Oman, and will discover in however many years time as a testimony to these earlier days.

Against all odds, we move out of Dagnall Farm on Friday 27th March. Pickfords close the doors of their trucks. It's their last job, and they are all wondering what will come next. None of them have jobs to go onto as they're all freelance. One of them was talking about trying to do deliveries for pharmaceuticals companies. None of them look terribly excited about the prospect of being at home with their wives and children. 

We have so many bags and pieces of equipment to take with us to Scotland that we have to arrange a separate hire car from Avis. I try my luck online, and unexpectedly get a confirmation of my order. On Friday - the country 3 days into lock down, we all drive into Milton Keynes towards the Avis office, and we are expecting the place to be shut. But as we turn the corner I see some little puffs of smoke from outside their reception area. Two blonde ladies are having a fag outside. 'Oh, we've been expecting you all day. You're our only customer so you can have any vehicle you like.'
'We'll need the biggest you have,' I said as I explained the pets and suitcases and our strange situation of moving when the rest of the world had ground to a halt. 
'Oh bless, ya,' they puffed over a generous 2 metre fenced off zone. I feel so grateful for them being there. And for still being smokers. There's something comforting about their throwback Englishness. Neither of them look like they own a yoga mat, and you'd definitely want them there in a crisis (with their fags).
The journey begins. J does an origami-like pack of the cars where every bulging suitcase of clothes, computers, toys, cat cage, dog bed, camera equipment - is all fitted like a Jenga stack.

Then the children do the family tradition of house-kissing when we leave a place we have loved. Which so far is pretty much everywhere.

The boys and pets go ahead, with the Pea and I behind in the enormous white Avis hire car shaped like an iceberg adrift - which almost how we felt. The Pea in her child seat in the front  - legs sticking straight out in front of her, telling jokes. ‘Why did the cow cross the woad Mummy? Because he wanted to get to the moooovies.’ She chats non stop, we listen to music, she eats her picnic tea, and passes out, head lolling backwards by 7pm until we arrive at 11pm.
There is almost nothing on the long road to the deep North. Just lorries in a loose cubic metal chain, restocking supermarkets for panicking shoppers. We wind our way north, the countryside changing. Through the treeless hills of Cumbria. And all of Britain in their houses, with the lights on. Every face you exchange a glance with,  you know they know it too. You know they’re thinking it. Our exchanges have changed. There’s kindess there, there’s support. (‘You’re only allowed 2 bread items I’m afraid,’ Oh - of course.) 
We stop once for some fuel and that's it. Monkey the cat miaows his way for 7 hours - even after a couple of tranquillisers. 
We reach Scotland. It's a wild re-route, and it may not be Oman, but in some ways feels like one of the biggest adventures we've had. The route ahead is completely uncertain. Completely unplanned.