This is an early draft of a lockdown monologue. Dorothy is inclined to swim against the tide, but the tide has a strong pull…

Most evenings are long and full of dread, but Thursdays are hardest. I don’t know if I want to stand and clap. Brian would have taken a wooden spoon and banged on a pot and he’s the reason I should be clapping. We were grateful a long time before all of this, but no one was applauding then. When I had that fall in January, two policewomen took me straight to hospital. They didn’t judge me and neither did the nurses and doctors. I said thank you to all of them and made them a promise which I’m keeping now. I hope they understand I’m sorry I didn’t get round to it straight away, but you have to take a long run up to stopping. I should have clapped those kind people and it would be nice to have a rainbow in the window, but I don’t have any paints or felt tip pens and I haven’t heard from little Sophie or Oliver since last Christmas. Their mother won’t answer my calls. I leave her messages and let her know I’m fine, but wouldn’t you think she’d want to check? I wish Helen could put aside what’s gone before and think about what her Dad would have wanted. I suppose it’s a blessing he’s not around to see us fighting. The clapping and banging should give us all hope, but I lie on the bed and hide my head under the pillow until the minute is over.

It’s not that the neighbours wouldn’t want me to take part. Adam and Jenny from number 27 have been over twice to ask if I have everything I need. It must have taken some guts to come back after the first time. I know I should embrace and welcome anything good and wholesome that happens, but when someone does something kind for me I feel dizzy and awkward. How stupid of me, inviting them in for a cup of tea. When they reminded me it wasn’t allowed I couldn’t hold back the tears. How can I ask for help after that?

I wouldn’t say it in the street – not that much attention is paid to yours truly – but it wasn’t always like this. You only had to wait in the queue at the post office or in the supermarket and the man in front would have something to say to the woman behind about the doctors and hospitals. Brian used to insist that people should be able to say what they want – ‘as long as they’re not offending anyone, Dorothy’ – whereas as far as I was ever concerned, people are free to say what is right and well judged and considered. Perhaps we were both correct, but that doesn’t seem to matter now. I had to go to Boots last week and the queue was taking forever and a person can only listen to so much rubbish. In my defence, this was something I had spent a lot of time thinking about. I wasn’t spitting bile and prejudice and of course I’m sorry the man had been at death’s door, but when the people at the top can’t follow their scientists’ advice about shaking and washing hands, why would anyone put their faith in them? War? You know what’s going to win this war? The public is going to win this war, despite and not because of the high-ups. People like you and I staying and suffering at home will win this war. But you can’t say things like that. You can’t say no, the health service isn’t magnificent, it’s overstretched and underfunded and falling apart. The people who work in it are magnificent, but the institution is on its last legs. Perhaps I should not have used the language I did, but they’ve been shitting all over it for years and sometimes, when one is in dire need of a seat and a drink of water at the very least, things have to be said. But this is not a time to speak out of turn. Corona heroes? Contrarians need not apply.

What I’m wondering when I’m hiding under the pillow listening to Adam and Jenny and Mr. and Mrs. Williams and everyone else in the street whose names I can’t remember or never knew in the first place, is what’s behind this applause? I think it started in Italy or Spain. They were ahead of us and I remember wondering if there was any way it wouldn’t cross the sea or if we had time to learn what to do and what not to do. People were clapping from balconies and singing songs outside strange-looking fire stations and I was convinced that even if it came to it, that sort of behaviour wouldn’t take off here. Even so, I was all for it the first time because it felt spontaneous, like we were giving a big hug or thumbs up to all of those brave people who are carrying on so that we don’t have to. I was so close to going outside, but I couldn’t muster the strength to get up off the sofa. People would understand if a little old lady stayed indoors because she’s scared or a bit odd. But they did it again the next week and the next. When will it stop? I wash the dishes three or four times a day, but I never think about what I’m doing. What’s going on in their heads? Are they picturing the faces where the skin is all out of shape because a nurse has been wearing a mask for twelve hours? Are they thinking about that woman who was crying in her car when there was nothing in the shops after her shift in intensive care? What about the people taking the decisions about who gets the spare ventilator? Perhaps they’re clapping for their grannies in care homes – good God that could be me – whose friends are dropping like flies, and the workers getting paid buttons to look after them. Or maybe they’re banging pots for the ambulance crews they’ve stopped spitting at, or the police or firemen putting out fires because an idiot got drunk and forgot about his barbecue. I think they’re living in fear of being in the hands of these magnificent people who are all at breaking point and are keeping going out of sheer will and who don’t want the applause any more. They’d rather we all stayed home and never crossed the threshold of their crumbling workplaces and I’m thinking about all of this while I’m grinding my teeth and holding my breath until the noise stops.