‘(C)Lockdown’
My ancient father is Indian by birth. He was born in 1929 and arrived in the UK on 13 October 1953 on his way to Canada to make a new life.
He lives in a large Edwardian house in London that is tatty but comfortable. He is often collected by my sister for brief stays at her house, usually for family events. This year he was staying for my niece’s birthday and we came to stay for the weekend too, so we could all be together for the family party.
No one could have known that this was the weekend the pandemic would erupt into our lives.
Dad was stranded in Cambridgeshire and could not return to his home. He demanded to be returned, then requested a lift back and finally begged to be allowed out of ‘exile’ in the provinces: He explained that his garden ‘needed him’ and perhaps he had been burgled (he has nothing worth stealing). Of course, the lockdown rules prohibited unnecessary journeys and we responded that he would be better cared for with us. Nonetheless, he was frustrated as it is not often that he does not get his own way.
My father’s hearing is ropey these days and this is an excellent excuse not to hear anything that goes against his plans or ideas. My sister and I discussed our dubious luck in having not one, but two stubborn (also known as pig-headed) parents, and how thankful we were to have him safely within our family group. But, The Great Escape saga by the aged but innovative was not yet over.
As our father is both stubborn as a (very determined) mule and cunning as a wily fox, he then tried cadging a lift from my Persian cousins in Bournemouth. Persuading them that it was safe to travel and that they should take him back to his house as it could benefit them in the future. This incentive is unsurprising to those who know him, as one of his primary delights is hinting at leaving relatives generous bequests in his will. As he has been, in his own words, a ‘lamp in the morning’ for forty years — he may well outlive us all.
This tactic did not work either.
We were calm as it appeared that he had given up on the idea of returning to what, by now, was the epicentre of the pandemic with a death toll higher than anywhere else in the country. Dad carried on cooking the occasional delicious curry and talking to anyone who would listen about the hypocrisies of our government and the American President.
At 2am on a Wednesday my brother-in-law encountered Dad in the hall, fiddling with the locks on the front door, fully dressed with a carrier bag of clothes in his hand. He explained that he was going to walk to the A10 and hitchhike back to north London. At the ripe old age of 92 this seemed inadvisable and he was sent to bed with a distracting snack (he eats constantly), and the front door triple locked for safety.
Since then we have kept a careful eye on him and, hidden his walking stick just to be on the safe side.
END
