The Day The World Closed
I reflect on the events of 12 March 2020, the day COVID closed the doors of our world.
The Bus
On the bus into town, I chat to a man with a long white beard. He’s on his way to the set of a Viking-themed show, to be an extra. I’m heading into the school where I’m delivering a writing residency.
‘They’re talking about closing the schools down over this Coronavirus,’ he says to me.
‘Ah, they wouldn’t do that. That’s a bit drastic. Do you think you’ll get to your film shoot?’
‘Ah, I’d say so. No point worrying about it yet.’
His words are a comfort, a blessing from Santa Claus.
The School
At the school, the air is taut, waiting for a thread to snap. We’re doing outdoor writing activities today. There is lots of laughter in the playground among the seven and eight year olds in my first session.
But their writing is filled with talk of COVID-19; their fear leaks into their words. One asks if she will be able to make her communion. Another hopes she’ll be able to go and visit her grandparents in Croatia in May.
At the break, the teachers ask me if I’ll be able to head away tomorrow for my ski trip. I say I hope so. Surely, they won’t stop people travelling. The teachers say they’re hearing strong rumours that the schools will shut.
As I head towards my second batch of pupils, the teacher stops and stares at her phone. Two other teachers gather around her.
‘Leo’s making an announcement from the White House,’ she says.
I hear a disembodied voice, but can’t catch the words.
‘That’s it,’ says the teacher. ‘The schools are shut from tomorrow.’
Photo Description: This is a classroom with three rows of empty desks and chairs. On a back wall there is a corkboard decorated with colourful pieces of paper.
The ground shakes. But there is no time to react. We have a queue of five and six-year-olds waiting for us. The teacher says she’s going to the classroom to get her coat for our outdoor activity. She instructs the girls to sing for me while they wait.
The earthquake shock is cushioned by the sound of twenty infant voices singing Colonel Hathi’s March from the Jungle Book, a school show which they will never perform.
Outside, the sun is shining. The girls squeal with laughter as they follow clues and discover treasure. When we go back inside, the teacher says.
‘That was great fun. We’re not going to get to see each other again, are we?’
‘I suppose not.’
Another earth tremor.
The Ski Trip
Outside the school, I look at my phone. It is filled with messages. Are we going on the ski trip? Is it on? Is it off? I feel an urgent need to get a bus home. The afternoon is full of frantic scrambling for information about the trip, possible travel restrictions.
Shockwaves keep the ground moving under our feet, but we’re all optimistic it can still go ahead.
Some of the ski guides are already in Austria, preparing for the pistes. In the early evening, word comes that the Austrian government has not yet imposed restrictions and if we don’t come, we’ll lose all the money we paid.
Confident that the trip will now go ahead, I pack my suitcase and allow myself to feel the glow of anticipation. At nine-thirty, I’m dozing on the couch when the phone rings. And a voice says:
‘It’s off.’
The ground opens up and swallows me.
I ring my family. They are relieved I’m not going be stranded in Austrian limbo. One sibling sends me a message.
‘Balls, eh?’
That about sums it up. The doors of the world have clanged shut. There is nothing to do but wait until they open again.
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