just walk straight there?’ Jess would laugh at me over this, but I’ve always liked to go my own way. Maybe that’s why in the end I was never really cut out for a career in law; it was too predictable and logical. I needed something with more flexibility and creativity. With the kids in school, you simply never know what’s going to happen next.
Speaking of which, I’m not getting anywhere at all, I’m still standing here like a spoon waiting for Jack, or someone, anyone, to open a door. My phone pings in the arrival of a new WhatsApp message.
Hi Sophia, Just wondered how you’re getting on working in a school with all this hoo-ha going on. Marge
Typical Marge, she is obviously itching to hear some gossip about work. Marge is the local neighbourhood busybody who knows everything about everyone. If someone at number 32 dyes her hair, she knows what colour and exactly when they changed it. I’ll never forget the time Erica’s mum came to visit and within minutes Marge appeared asking whose yellow car was parked in the car park, because she didn’t recognise it and thought it might be an intruder. Of course we didn’t believe her for a minute; she spent so much time once she was at the door finding out who Erica’s mum is, what her job is and where she lives. I can’t think how she remembers all the information she accrues, but either way, she’s the only person who might be able to help with my current dilemma.
After a moment’s thought, I reply.
Hope you’re well. (This seems to be obligatory on all messages currently, along with ‘stay well’ or ‘stay safe’, as though it will somehow magically ward off the virus.) Yes, school is different but I’m enjoying working with the kids, they are all coping well. Funny question, but do you know what flat number a young guy called Jack lives at? I think he lives above me but I don’t know the number.
Thank goodness Marge is immediately on it like a car bonnet.
Hi Sophia. You mean the one who works at Soho? Used to live with his mate Chris until he moved out last month.
I told you: she knows everything about everyone.
Yes that’s the one.
He lives in flat 89. The one above you.
Thanks, Marge, you’re a star.
Why do you need to know?
I’m just dropping him off some shopping.
Yes he’s in the vulnerable category because of his kidney. I’d have thought he’d be able to get delivery.
He can’t, they’re all booked. Thought I’d help him out as I was already going to the shop anyway.
Kind of you – how come you know him?
I don’t, just trying to be neighbourly. Thanks again, Marge. Just going to drop it outside his door.
I get off the phone quickly before she asks any more questions. Marge is like the inquisition and has a way of winkling information out of the strongest of people. I am totally hopeless at keeping things to myself; I have this habit of blurting things out before my brain has engaged with my mouth. Also I’m not sure if Jack will want Marge to know all his business, much as she seems to know a lot of it already.
I knock again more confidently this time and call ‘hello’ again for good measure, then stand well back but there’s still no response. There’s nothing else for it; I’ll have to leave the bags on the doorstep. I can always give him a shout from the balcony to let him know I’ve dropped it off. Perhaps he’s in the shower or something. Having placed the bags up against his door, carefully out of the way of the corridor (yes, I do like to worry about everything) I stand and stare momentarily at the plain brown door. It’s kind of strange to think that such a lively outgoing guy is stuck behind this bland boring façade. I give myself a little shake and leg it back down the stairs.
My phone rings as I’m letting myself back in the flat. It’s my mum.
‘Hi, sweetheart, how’s it going?’
‘Fine thanks. I’ve got a day at home so a bit of time to sort some stuff out and prepare activities for the kids tomorrow. How about you?’
‘The surgery has been quieter than usual, to be honest. I think people are more anxious about coming in, not surprisingly. They’ve all been told to stay at home if at all possible.’