THE 'P' WORD

It was a Friday evening, Jean unlocked the entrance door of the shopping centre, clad in the uniform that would keep her safe. As a cleaner, she may easily be unsafe, for life had changed so much and precautionary measures were of necessity, drastic. The place was eerie. The lights were dimmed for some reason, yet she had a job to do power deficiency, or not. She sprayed every door and polished each pane of glass, on all shopfronts; washed the floor, normally a difficult task. She conceded it was much easier with no furniture in the way, but that indicated there was no chit chat over coffee, no groups of men approaching old age sorting the world out whether in Aussie lingo or languages only understood by a certain few.  Jean was concerned that this emptiness would remain, it frightened her. For the first time since the dreaded P word was whispered, then bleated, then announced, then dreaded and finally enveloped the entire world, per se, there was a surreal feeling about life.  Jean’s entire world was Melbourne Australia, and having been applauded for keeping things in check, the bubble burst. Added to the tension, those in power and those without power reacted the only way they knew how: the blame game. Australia once the lucky country was now the perverse country. What do you say to or about people who are doing their best, but it seems their best is not good enough? Would the little groups of men who sat for hours over two cups of latte a piece, sort the pickle out any better? Sometimes Jean and her husband wondered, laughing about the ludicrous situation.

Businesses closed indefinitely, whether part of a chain or family concern unless it was one of the few regarded as essential: yet even, they had an aura about them. Certainly, the precautionary measures of masks prevented conversation, but also the ambience had altered. The chit chat that had been normal, was replaced by a robotic “in, get what you need, out” movement; social distancing, now the norm, was on everyone’s mind, and the few who could physically cope did the shopping, those with mobility or other normally minor health problems, stayed home, prisoners of their own comfortable jail. Isolation in its various forms produced the same result, loneliness, fear anxiety, a sense of helplessness, as though powerless to do anything and life was not worth living.

What was so odd about the centre was in the ‘everyday’ cleaning; there was not one discarded chocolate wrapper on the floor, no spilt peanuts, indeed no mess, at least in comparison with those halcyon days of yore only six months before; when the P-word was as unimportant, as clearing your throat. Now like fog mist it enveloped the country but Melbourne to an extent was blamed. It hurt to think that law-abiding citizens would be blamed at random, no proof just “You’re it.” Jean smiled as she saw the common thread; after all, if you have Scots blood, you are mean and bad-tempered which was as unfair as the assertion that the P-word was, in the Melbourne context, bandied about.

Jean had cleaned this centre, small though it was by comparison to others, for many years, and knew the shop keepers well, and some of the regular customers too if only by sight. She thought of Mrs Timmins with the artificial limb, yet her three young children lacked nothing, including a good telling off if it were necessary. Or old Guido who would shop for his wife and if he were of a mind, would entertain the customers with favourites like Caro Mio Ben. His beautiful tenor voice silenced by the P-word. Or indeed the young burns victim with scars over her face and neck, Debbie her mother called her. How would they manage isolation? Jean felt powerless.  Short of complaining (and who would listen?) what could a fairly ordinary cleaner in her fifties do to alleviate the pain?

In her day where schooling was scarce: unless you were brilliant, you left school at 15, took anything that was going job-wise, saved money, and life with or without marriage opened doors that were meant to stay open because you made the most of it. You were in control of your life. Irrespective of the life once lived, the P-word was a whole new ball game; if the world felt powerless, how much more so did the city she loved?

 Why was Amy the hairdresser there at this time of night? That was considered nonessential, (fortunately, the liquor stores did not come under that banner).

Amy was in tears.

“Blow this,” said Jean defiantly, securing her mask. She tapped on the door of the shop.

“Amy?”

Amy looked up, smiled, and rushed to open the shop door.

“Jean? Are you still here?”

“As are you, but I often work in the evenings.” Jean looked kindly at the young woman “What’s wrong, love?”

“Everything Jean. Oh, come in just don’t hug me, though I need it.” The sat well apart.

“Is it your business?” asked Jean

“No that’s okay thanks to the legacy from Grandad. Did you hear about Guido?”

“No”

“He’s dead… swallowed pills. His wife died of the P-word.” Amy was sobbing “he was always so kind to me.”

Quite suddenly the night lights went on, not as bright as the day but at least functioning. Jean could see the distress on Amy’s face, but she did not take her hand, there was no sanitiser about.

“Guido was good to everybody.” said Jean “the pity of it is, if they were still in Italy, the community would help him, their way, through the grief; he and his wife chose to emigrate for a better life.”

“Did they not have a family here?” asked Amy.

“No, they were childless,” said Jean sadly.

Amy took a deep breath and looked around the shop then back at Jean.

“How do we make ‘the Government powers’ understand?”

“With courage, love.” Jean replied “the courage to see beyond the pain yet take one step at a time. The courage to care enough for others where though you can’t touch them, you can pray for them. The courage to believe God created a world where isolation was not part of the agenda, but a mere man in an attempt to control the P-word, insists on it because he is just as scared as we are. We just have to believe that there is light at the end of this tunnel and we will survive; the key is our determination to succeed.” Jean wiped her own tears hurriedly “now if I don’t get home soon, I will miss the football. Thank God for Aussie rules.”

PS the writer of this tale is in a reflective mood but okay.