It’s been a year since the last of my three sons moved out, leaving me and my wife to live alone with animals. Of course, grown children never truly leave home – they have keys.
In principle, I am free to do as I like – to behave erratically, dress eccentrically and allow my hair to find its own topiary shapes. But, in practice, I have to present more or less normally, in case a key turns in the lock without warning, as it does several times a week. Generally speaking, my sons drop by either to play with the pets or steal my socks, depending on whether they find me in or not. But sometimes their motives are not readily apparent.
On Wednesday, I walk into the kitchen to find the middle one in there, drinking coffee in front of his computer, as if set up for a full day’s work. The cat is on his lap, the new dog at his feet. I think: I am dressed, there is nothing stuck in my beard – all is well.
“Hey,” he says.
“How’s it going?” I say. He shrugs.
“Not too bad,” he says. “I’ve got Covid.”
“Huh,” I say, thinking: Covid?
“Everyone in my house has Covid,” he says. “I just came here to do a test.”
“You did?” I say, thinking: that makes sense; our tests are free.
“Yeah, look,” he says, pointing to the plastic cassette on the table, with its two sharp red lines.
“So how do you feel?” I say, taking a step backwards.
“A bit shit,” he says. “But better than yesterday.”
“Well enough to come by and give me Covid.”
“I came here to do a negative test,” he says. “But then I got this.”
The front door opens. My wife walks in with two bags of shopping, and sees the middle one at the table.
“What a surprise, as always,” she says.
“He has Covid,” I say.
“Covid?” she says. “So what’s he doing here?”
“I came to do a test!” he says.
“I don’t want Covid!” my wife says.
“Nor me,” I say. “I’d have to cancel my plans, if I had plans.”
The middle one spends the rest of the afternoon working in a bedroom, before walking home in the evening. I don’t see him the next day, although I do find a new positive test on the kitchen table in the afternoon.
“I wish he’d stop doing that,” my wife says.
“To be fair,” I say, “those tests are like 10 quid for a pack of five.”
“I feel weird,” my wife says.
“Do you have Covid?” I say.
I feel weird too. I have not kept up with Covid, its strains, its prevalence, or any recent changes in protocol. I hardly know what to expect from it these days.
Three days go by, and neither of us falls ill, or displays any non-psychological symptoms. The middle one must have tested negative at some point, because he stopped coming round.
On Sunday, the oldest one arrives for lunch, on this occasion by appointment.
“How’s it been going?” my wife says. “You look pale.”
“Yeah, I don’t feel great,” he says.
“Not great hungover, or not great ill?” my wife says.
“Why choose?” he says, feeling his own forehead.
“Your brother has Covid,” my wife says.
“Does he?” says the oldest one.
“Yes,” she says. “He keeps coming by to test himself, and then leaves his medical waste behind.”
“You have tests?” he says.
“There might be one left,” I say. “I have no idea how old they are.”
Four minutes later we are watching as the little cassette’s second line darkens to a rich shade of red.
“Well, that was your first mistake,” I say to the oldest one.
“Bye!” my wife says.
“I guess I probably shouldn’t go on public transport now,” he says.
“Oh,” my wife says. “I suppose not.”
“You’ll have to stay here,” I say.
“There’s no food,” my wife says.
“I mean, there’s lunch,” I say, pointing to the plates. “But after that.”
“I would go to the shops,” says the oldest one. “But I have Covid.”
Two days later, the oldest one is still here – rising at midday to be fed, working at the kitchen table all afternoon, and waiting patiently for my menu suggestions in the evening.
“I was thinking of spaghetti carbonara,” I say.
“Ooh, sounds good,” he says. It’s not how I remember it from three years ago, but he makes having Covid seem a rather enviable proposition.
