A/N: This is an idea which popped into my head last night. When it was still there this morning (Sunday) I decided to pursue it, to see where it took me. Any opinions expressed by the characters are not my own. And I apologise for any inaccuracies in the UK lockdown policy which appear below. To me, the details are little more than the framework for the story.
My thanks to all who are still following (and even reviewing) my occasional story offerings. I'm trying to give up writing fanfic, but the ideas keep coming.
The home of Harry Pearce – London, Saturday March 28, 2020 – 9.08pm:
He is not really watching the images which pass across his TV screen. Apart from the government shutting down (which is never a bad thing in his opinion) all is as usual in his city, his nation. It is the same as it was yesterday, and the day before, although life will possibly never again be as it had been for his sixty-six years of life so far. Harry contemplates that paradox for a minute, before his ears pick up a sound from his back door, the one which leads directly into his kitchen from the back garden. He carefully places his glass of single malt on the small table beside his chair, before hurrying to the kitchen. Chances are it's Bob Rundle, his next door neighbour, widower, and veteran of the Korean War, or maybe .. just maybe it is …
Harry opens the back door, not with care and trepidation, as he may have done nine or ten years earlier, but with a flourish. His visitor is not Bob.
"Ruth?" He couldn't be happier. "Come inside. Quickly," he adds, ushering her through the door before closing and locking it behind her.
Ruth Evershed, his former intelligence analyst, and girlfriend … lover … partner? .. stands in his kitchen, before dropping her large black rucksack on the floor with a thud. Ruth's clothing is all black – black jeans, black gloves, black hoodie. While visiting him in the evening during a lockdown is not allowed, people are going to greater than usual measures to visit those they care about.
"Where did you get that bloody great rucksack? You could carry your grandmother in that."
"Hello to you too," she says, pushing the hood from her head, before stepping close to him, lifting her face for a kiss.
Harry gives her a quick kiss. He has questions, and so further kissing will have to wait. "Were you seen?" he asks, genuinely worried for her safety.
"I took the lanes," she says quickly. "The only life I came across was two cats, and they ignored me."
"All the same .." Harry says. "And we agreed that we'd not see one another during the lockdown."
"And what if it's extended another three weeks? Or another three months?"
She has a point. Nothing which has happened since the announcement of the first coronavirus cases in the UK has been expected. Nothing is exactly normal. Life in a world of a deadly pandemic has taken on a strange, surreal tinge.
"What if I'm infectious?" Harry adds, looking for an argument.
"Well, Harry, you're always infectious. You know how drawn I am to your infectious personality"
"Har-bloody-har," he says sarcastically. "No, but what if I had the virus?"
"I'd still want to see you in person before you died," she says matter-of-factly, before opening the black backpack, and reaching inside. "I come bearing gifts," she says, smiling up at him, before lifting several objects from the backpack "Ta-da!" she says dramatically, placing four rolls of toilet paper on the end of his kitchen table. "And I have kitchen roll, and .. these," she adds, placing two boxes of tampons beside the toilet paper."
"I hardly need those, Ruth," Harry replies, picking up one box and examining it to ensure it's not a dummy box which hides something more useful.
"And as you well know nor do I, but they were my insurance, in case I was stopped."
"Insurance?"
"Had I been stopped by a police patrol, I had a story ready. I also know that most men would run a mile rather than take on a woman armed with tampons."
"True, but it was still a risk."
Ruth rolls her eyes at him. Sometimes the fifteen-plus year gap in their ages hovers as a barrier between them. He is not prepared to take the kinds of risks Ruth is taking. He is used to following the rules, or some of the rules. Throughout his life there have been many rules which he has flouted, but the threats posed by this virus are enough to have kept him confined within his home.
"Thanks for the loo roll, but I still have enough for the next four weeks," Harry says.
"Not if I'm staying under the roof with you," Ruth replies, a glint in her eyes.
Harry is seeing a new side to Ruth – a risk-taking, playful side – and he quite likes it. "I have to confess that I stole a few bits and bobs from work."
"I hope you weren't seen."
"By the time I left the Home Office the place was practically devoid of life."
"The Home Secretary?"
"Priti Patel was one of the first to leave," Ruth states matter-of-factly. "We were told to leave by the end of the day. Ravi stayed behind to make the office look as normal, like it hadn't been raided."
Ravi Mohnish is Ruth's new secretary, the amazing Margot having retired in December. Fortunately Ravi is equally as efficient as Margot, although his tendency towards opportunism seems to be one of his core skills.
"Ravi took home eight boxes of toilet tissue from the supply room," Ruth adds. "He's sure we're all going to die. Have you seen "28 Days Later"?" Harry shakes his head. "You should. It's about what's happening now, except that everyone dies … or almost everyone. You might like it."
"I'll give it a miss, thanks," Harry says, as he watches Ruth rummage through her backpack before pulling out a large box of teabags, a small box of camomile tea, and two jars of pasta sauce. Lastly she places two packets of pasta on the table beside the pasta sauce.
"That's all the food," she says in explanation. "You told me you had plenty of supplies."
"I do, but I hadn't planned on you turning up, Ruth."
They stand in the kitchen, the only illumination coming from the light over the cooker, their faces mostly in shadow. "I'll go if you want," she says quietly.
Suddenly Harry feels bad. When the first of the restrictions appeared, they had shared a long phone conversation, during which they had pledged that if one of them caught the virus, and looked like not pulling through, the other would come to the rescue, even at the risk of losing their own life.
"No," he says, equally as quietly, "Now that you're here I'd like you to stay. I enjoy your company. I haven't left the house since before the lockdown began."
"Which was only two days ago," she says, smiling.
"It's just that I'm not used to being ordered around by others," he says, gazing over her head towards the cooker, eerily illuminated in the shadowy room.
"But you don't mind ordering others around," Ruth says, placing one palm against his chest.
He nods, dropping his eyes to her, and smiling.
"It's being out of control you don't like, darling," she says, reaching up to place a quick kiss on his lips.
While surprised at her use of the endearment, Harry decides to not draw attention to it. "No-one alive appreciates their lives being out of control."
"But you more than most," Ruth says. "Some people look upon these times as an opportunity."
"An opportunity for losing one's mind," Harry says grumpily.
"Oh, I don't know. Being here together in your house during a lockdown isn't so bad."
Harry nods, reaching out to place his hands on her hips, drawing her closer. "I wonder has Boris figured out yet how many children he has fathered."
Ruth slaps her palm lightly against his chest. "Now, then, leave our PM be. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes right now."
And neither would Harry, but he's not about to admit that to Ruth. Despite the obvious risks, he is glad Ruth had negotiated the narrow back lanes to his house. Since she had moved closer to his house two years earlier, she has often walked through the connecting lanes to see him, turning up late at night at his back door. He could ask her why she'd changed her mind about them each remaining in their own houses. He could ask her why it was she had risked coming to his house during a lockdown. He could even ask her how long she plans to stay. He could ask her (again) to move in with him permanently, but he is not about to ask these questions of her. Ruth is a breath of positivity and spontaneity in his life, and he had best appreciate that.
"Have you eaten?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, and before she has a chance to answer, there is a sharp rap at the back door.
As if caught doing something they shouldn't, Ruth and Harry spring apart. "That's probably Bob," Harry muses, before moving quickly to back door.
And it is Bob Rundle, Harry's elderly neighbour, who lives alone in the house next door.
"Just thought I'd let you know I made it through another day," Bob says briskly, his voice rich and strong for a man of his years.
"Come in, Bob. Ruth is here."
"No," Bob replies, lifting his hand, "I won't interrupt the two of you in your time of togetherness."
Ruth suddenly appears at Harry's shoulder. She smiles when she sees that Bob is keeping his distance from the door, and so from Harry. Not for the first time, she silently mourns the loss, however temporary, of closeness to other humans. What strange times they are living in.
"Please, Bob, come in. Harry and I were just about to make a pot of tea."
Harry turns to her, but Ruth is not biting. While Harry would much rather go back to his whiskey, a cup of tea will have to do.
"I brought you a few things I might not need," Bob replies, taking one step closer, as he brings his hands from behind his back to reveal a full bottle of whiskey in one hand, and two rolls of toilet paper in the other. "I'm sure you can use more loo roll," he says, smiling.
"But won't you need it?" Ruth asks.
"My daughter turned up earlier in the week with ten of the wretched things. She has a regular order online, and since they were away for most of January, they were able to spare some. Besides, her husband is at the hospital for sixteen hours out of every twenty-four. Everyone's worried that the NHS will collapse under the weight of this illness."
So Bob joins them at the table, but at a distance. Harry and Ruth sit side by side, Ruth's hand resting on Harry's thigh.
"I'm waiting for the military to take to the streets," Bob says after they are all seated, and the pot of tea sits on the table between them.
"I'm not," Harry says quietly. "If and when that happens, we're all doomed."
"Not so, m'boy," Bob says. "The military'll keep all the stragglers and ne'er-do-wells off the streets."
"But Bob, less than an hour ago I was one of those stragglers."
"Anyone can see you're not a straggler," Bob states. "When I was in Korea, now, that was something else."
Bob was a career military man, having served in the war in Korea in the early 1950s. Ruth and Harry have heard most of his stories. Harry is sure Bob makes them up as he goes along, but Ruth is always polite to the old man, listening closely before asking questions.
On this night Harry would rather listen to Bob's many tales about life during the Korean War than discuss what is going on outside their doors. He is sure that life will not, can never be the same again, and he mourns the loss of the familiar. He has the TV on for most of the day – sound muted, of course – just so he doesn't have to think too much about the future.
"Were you ever scared of dying, Bob?" Harry asks during a lull in Bob's storytelling.
"Every day, son. Every day. I was only nineteen when that war began, and when you're that age death seems like just another adventure to be had. But just before I fell asleep each night I'd pray that I lived to see my parents again. And my sisters. Not my brother, though. My brother was a right bastard."
Ruth drops her eyes to hide her smile. She'd love a tenner for every time Bob had told the story of his older brother, Archie, the black sheep of the family, who went on to become a successful businessman, only to die of a heart attack, aged fifty-one.
Bob announces his departure by pushing his mug away from him, and then standing. "I have no wish to encroach on your evening any longer," he says, walking to the door.
Ruth joins him at the back door, noting how Bob stands back, allowing Ruth to open the door for him. Had she been watching him more closely, she would have noticed how the only object he had touched with his hands was the handle of the mug holding his tea.
"Good night, Bob," she says, standing back to allow him through the doorway at a `safe' distance. "Don't hesitate to pop in if you need anything."
And he is gone, hurrying down the steps, across Harry's garden, and through the gate in the wall.
"I feel sorry for him," Ruth says, once more sitting beside Harry, who has retrieved his whiskey from the living room, and has poured a small one for her.
"How so?"
"He has no-one. Apart from you, and you're not related to him, and Madeleine, who only drops in to perform her filial duties whenever guilt motivates her."
"Fair go, Ruth. Madeleine has three kids, and a busy husband. They must be her first priorities."
"Her children are home now because schools are closed. They're old enough to take care of themselves. Despite his bluster, and endless stories about Korea, I think he's scared."
Harry nods. "I know he is, Ruth. Which is why I'm happy for him to visit me when he needs company. With you here, I suspect he'll be less inclined to simply pop over of an evening."
Ruth stares hard at him. "Do you want me to leave?"
"Of course not. I'm thrilled that you're here."
"You have an odd way of showing it."
Harry sighs, sitting back in his chair, so putting a little distance between them. "You know that I keep my emotions close to my chest. In my job I couldn't afford to -"
"I do know that. I worked beside you, remember? But you haven't worked for six years, Harry."
"You must know how much I love you." Harry's voice is husky with emotion. "I can't be more forthright than that. And it's you who won't live with me, not the other way around."
Ruth has no answer to that. He is right, of course, and she hates it when he calls her out in that way.
"Besides," he says at last, "were I able to demonstrate my emotions more clearly you'd lose respect for me. You don't want a man who acts like a woman. Most women don't. You love me because of my reticence, because you also know it forms the cornerstone of my strength."
Bastard. He has her in a headlock. So, here she is – Ruth Evershed, fast approaching fifty, and still running from committing to the man she loves – having just been verbally checkmated by that same man!
"I suppose this means we should take this opportunity to have an early night, then," she says lightly, hoping Harry can't read her mind.
"All in good time, Ruth. I still have to finish this glass of whiskey, while you have to wash the dishes and sweep the floors before you deliver my slippers to me."
Harry doesn't even see her hand coming as she swipes at his upper arm - the one not holding the glass of whiskey.
"Easy, Ruth," he says. "I might need that arm to keep you in check."
Of course she knows he's not serious about the dishes or the sweeping or the slippers, but she has a need to remind him that she probably never will perform any of those tasks, at least not until he's old and infirm, and in need of a carer.
What is she thinking? In three months Bob Rundle turns ninety, and there is nothing infirm about him. The man is a force of nature, as is Harry. It wouldn't surprise her at all if Harry outlived her.
"I'd quite like to go to bed now," she says quietly, her eyes on Harry as he contemplates his glass of whiskey.
The tone of her voice has him quickly turning to face her, where her smile brings an answering smile to his face. "Then why didn't you insist?"
"This is me, insisting."
They head upstairs to bed, their glasses and tea mugs still on the kitchen table. In one hand Harry carries Ruth's oversized backpack, while with his other he grasps her hand in his.
"Not so bad, this lockdown, is it?" he says, almost to himself.
"That's what I've been trying to tell you."
Harry smiles to himself. For a moment he wishes the lockdown will never end, and that Ruth will never leave his house. In his head that sounds a little stalker-ish, but he sees her presence in his home as the silver lining beneath a very dark cloud. At this time in history all they are able to do is to live one day at a time.
"Then I will listen more carefully to you, Ruth."