I glance at the clock: 7.50. There’s just enough time to clear up the remains of dinner and get ready for the clap for the NHS.
At 7.55 I am ready. The door to the balcony is open and I potter about just inside, not wanting to look as though I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not sure why. It’s not like anyone will see me. I fiddle with a couple of bits, picking them up and putting them down again.
I go back out again at 7.59. Should I start? Is it like a thing when everyone automatically knows when to begin? Will I be able to hear anyone else? I peer down into the courtyard but it’s empty as usual. Perhaps I’ll just start clapping on my own. I check my phone and as I am looking, it changes to 8 p.m.
As if by magic the clapping starts – first quietly, from one side of the courtyard, then the next, and from above, until all around me the air is full of clapping. It’s a rousing chorus of applause ringing out round the courtyard and beyond from the streets of the city, echoing far and wide. It’s simply beautiful.
Before I realise what is happening, the tears start streaming down my face. So many people everywhere, kept apart, yet we are all responding in the same way. We are clapping together in one united group for our incredible fellow human beings out there right now on the front line, risking their lives for us all, battling to save people from this hideous virus. Erica, Mum, and so many others – people we care about and are terrified of losing. I hate this isolation from friends, family, even strangers, from normal human contact. I am sobbing now; a raucous, noisy broken sound and I can’t stop.
‘Hello? Are you okay?’
Now I’ve completely lost it – I’m beginning to hear things.
‘Hello?’
I stop crying for a second and glance over my shoulder. No, there’s no one there. Thank goodness no one has broken into the flat, though the door’s locked and who would try burgling someone in the middle of the clap for the NHS, when everyone’s in? I really am losing it.
‘I just wondered if you were all right?’ The voice comes again, definitely from outside. I look down into the courtyard. It’s deserted.
‘Hello?’ I say tentatively, my voice husky after the crying.
‘I’m up here,’ says the voice.
‘You’re the voice from above?’ I say. I mean, it could be comic if it weren’t for the fact I’m so stressed about everything.
‘Yes, I live in the flat above.’
‘Oh.’ That’s a relief; there’s a perfectly normal explanation. ‘I thought I was hearing things,’ I admit. Good grief, now he’s going to think I’m really weird, whoever he is.
‘You probably thought I was the voice of doom?’ He laughs; it’s a nice sound actually.
‘Maybe. I’m sorry, did I disturb you? That’s really embarrassing.’ How awful, my blubbing must have been super loud for some random person to feel they had to ask if I’m all right.
‘Not at all, the clapping was really moving – made me want to cry too,’ he says.
‘Well you were a lot quieter than me,’ I say wryly.
‘Not difficult,’ he jests. ‘Was it just all too emotional or is there something wrong?’
It’s strange talking to someone I’ve never met, outside on a balcony when I can’t even see him.
‘It was emotional, but I guess I’m also scared,’ I confess, sniffing and trying not to. In a way it’s easier to be honest when you can’t see the person you’re talking to.
‘We all are I suppose. I mean, it is sort of scary being told to stay in and that people are getting really sick,’ the voice says matter-of-factly.
‘I know, but I’m so frightened something’s going to happen to my mum – she’s a doctor – and my flatmate’s a midwife. I guess the whole emotion of clapping for them brought home to me how much danger they’re in. I can’t bear the thought of losing them.’ I wipe my nose with one of the new tissues; good job I bought so many as I have a feeling we’re going to need them.
‘I’m sure they’ll be okay; they’re doing their best to keep things safe as they can in hospitals and surgeries. Surely your mum’s doing most of her appointments online?’
‘Yes,’ I call back up into space, ‘she is, and Erica is pretty sensible. They give