There was a time, but a few weeks ago, when we looked forward to a summer break – a week in Sutherland; a first trip to Orkney.
Within days the school had closed and the children were at home. Within days studying stops, exams forgotten. Within days their mother was then at home too, working. Within days she had been furloughed, and we all learned a new word as well as a new regime. Within days we were all locked down, learning of essential daily shopping, alone; and of daily exercise, walking or cycling. Very quickly we learned, all of us, to be in our own company, all the time. To be a family all day, every day.
Within days a letter arrived. Immediately I was banned from venturing out. My routine had to be met by others. Within days I expect, perhaps even hope, to be sent out of doors, the mower needing a walk, but don’t dare go out the gate.
Today is a future never envisaged. The daylight hours are spent in the office, in isolation. The night hours are also in isolation, sleeping arrangements changed. Meals are taken alone, banished from the kitchen, prepared by others probably thankful for a break from my culinary delights, and cleared up by others too. Whilst we learn to be together, we also learn to be apart, and perhaps all the stronger for it.
The Future is no longer something to look forward to on the calendar. It is now something that changes by the day, or even by the hour. Or so it has seemed.
Having relocated my business to a home office near fifteen years ago, when The Future was child care and school remained distant, a work-life balance in complete sync became an added bonus. Life became good; better than good. Today I can still work, thankfully; still earn and feed the housebound family, so long as I can prevail on my beloved to do the shopping; and the business mailings and bankings. That’s on top of the household chores, no longer shared. Fortunately the furlough becomes a bonus, freeing up time that no one else can find.
All around me The Future is happening. The house martins, or at least the advance guard, returned early this year, 7th April rather than 27th. But their future had a shock. There’s a sparrow in the nest, presumably on eggs. Much chittering under the eaves. I’m sure they’ll sort it out, somehow.
The cats bring mice, to the doorstep, or the bedroom. Often still squeaking. Keep the cats in, comes the call from somewhere distant online. Not a chance of that. They live and hunt outdoors, by day and by night. Boy cat sneezes as he feeds; never heard that before.
Shielding. It’s my name on that letter. A second one arrived just this morn. How long? Twelve Weeks. That’s a long way in the future. Two have come and gone, slowly, and the outdoor world is something to gaze at. With two weeks ticked off and the prospect of the remaining ten being further extended, The Future is far from a dream.
The Sutherland cottage is cancelled. The ferry to Stromness won’t sail, at least not with this family on board. Orkney disappears into The Future. Perhaps next year.
At the start of the year we had plans. Boy Child would audition for the Conservatoire, trad music; and acceptance will mean his Saturday’s revolving around music studies. No pie and bovril at the game; no trips to wee Ayrshire towns, like Kilwinning or Auchinleck. No away days in the Scottish Cup, like that trip to Forres, or the unforgettable afternoon in the snow at Bonnyrigg.
The audition moved online, a YouTube video, and no personal interaction. We wait. Weekly tuition has stopped, though there is a guitar lesson, for both children, on something called Zoom, which we now know how to access.
From a distance we watch Scotland’s music scene crumple, and worry about those we have come to know well. The folk festival weekends are scored off the calendar. No camping weekends this year, in Newcastleton, or Stonehaven. No community garden at Girvan, and no fish supper on the front as the sun sets behind Ailsa Craig and the gulls gather. No ceilidh dancing at Stoney, in the swimming pool. No Splashing White Sergeant.
All these events become The Future. Perhaps next year. There is a void, to be filled by walking the lawnmower; and by spending more time with a shovel than the wee chap down below, the one in the velvet jacket, spends with his tiny claws defacing what will never pass as a lawn. Time to watch the sparrows and the chaffinches, rather than the puffins; goldfinches, not guillemots. A passing buzzard, the kestrel too, becomes the excitement, as the larks sing away above, unseen.
Fortunately the garden is rural, surrounded by fields soon to burst into life as the lambs come out to play. Cyclists trundle by, some whizz, on our single-track road, isolated and socially distant. I long to join them. Who would know? Me, and all the other important ones around me, should I end up attached to one of Louisa Jordan’s ventilators. I just can’t do it.
For The Future demands that I still be here. To be able to make those weekly trips to the Conservatoire. And to join those festivals, next year. Orkney too. I need to be dancing in that shallow end, and more than that, I need to be enjoying the best ice cream in Scotland.
The Future. It’s what keeps me within these walls; watching the goldfinches. With family; my best friends.