Breathing Slowly: Surviving Lockdown

By Lis Porter

Pandemic-stressed families breathe slowly. We are lockdown survivors.

How does one family react to lockdown? From New York to London, Oxford, the Cotswolds, Belfast, Bellagio, Byron Bay and Wuhan, four siblings and their families share common experiences of fear, anxiety and isolation. Yet, resilience and a strength of spirit prevail as new forms

• Language: English
• Publisher: Perspicuous Press
• Release date: Mar 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645142211

Lis Porter

Lis Porter, an Australian writer, was born in Indonesia and lives in Adelaide. She has also lived in Belfast, Byron Bay and Oxford. A former University Professor, she now writes fiction.

Book preview

2

Julie and the Family Photograph

Typical! Martin was late home from work. Tonight, was different. He stomped inside. Julie could hear angry frustration in every loud step.

His mathematical algorithms weren’t coming out as others had predicted. Those who should be listening were closing their ears. He kept warning them what his modelling was screaming. They failed to pay sufficient attention to the evidence, which was calculated with fastidious detail. They refused to heed the urgent warnings that were presented by his entire team. Tonight, he wanted his dinner on time, needed a glass of wine immediately, and couldn’t stand the irritation of a baby crying. Fortunately, the baby wasn’t bawling, but he couldn’t smell cooking, and the dinner table wasn’t set.

Instead, Julie was sitting holding a framed photograph, weeping quietly. She craved home. Photos weren’t doing it for her. She wanted to be there, in the garden, smelling the fragrant roses, then realised it would be too early for them to be blooming.

Martin wasn’t in the mood for tears or compassion. He never was. He had a massive job to do. It was a crucial task, one with potential to save lives, hundreds, thousands, dare he think, millions of lives.

Impatient, without prefacing his remarks with any greeting, he asked, ‘what’s your problem now? What’s that photo?’ he asked peering over her shoulder. ‘What the hell are you doing blubbering over an old funeral photograph?’

‘I miss England Martin. I miss your family. I miss my family. I want to go home.’

‘New York is home, get used to it honey. Where’s my dinner?’

Julie looked up as if she’d forgotten it was dinner time. ‘Lola cried all day, this is the first time I’ve had a quiet break. I’ve not cooked anything. I can heat last night’s leftovers.’

Martin grabbed his wife by the shoulders and shook her vehemently. ‘Bitch. I’ve been working all day to keep you in this lavish lifestyle, and you can’t even cook my dinner. At least the brat’s quiet. Get up now and heat the scraps. Open a bottle of red first.’ Martin picked up the photo, looked at it, almost in disdain, threw it down, and said, ‘oh forget it, I’ll open a bottle of red, I need a drink now.’

They ate in silence. In his head, Martin was regurgitating the day’s numbers. They were bothering him. Julie was too exhausted to think beyond wanting to return to England, to the familiar, family, friends. Oh yes and getting more sleep. She was punch-drunk with exhaustion. Martin shoved back his empty plate, and lifting his glass and the wine bottle, left without a word of thanks or a glance backwards, stomping into his study, shutting the door with a bang. He never took a bottle into his study. He was finicky about cleanliness, not wanting spillages over pages of number printouts.

These numbers were worrying, frightening, terrifying. It takes a lot to scare a world-class mathematician. While the World Health Organisation wasn’t calling it yet, as he saw it, the United States of America would be facing an epidemic, probably a pandemic of epic proportions, if more people didn’t grasp its enormity soon, and act to minimise its spread.

Julie took her full glass of wine not yet tasted to the sofa, relieved in a funny way that her husband had left her, she couldn’t say in peace. She never felt calm when he was home, never knew when he’d shove, push, shake or strike her. He had no idea how alone she felt in this big jungle of New York, with post-partum depression crashing over her, sleep deprivation the norm, walking around all day zombie-like, with zero support. She’d not mentioned the depression to anyone. It crashed over her like an all-encompassing wave, making her feel inadequate as a mother, a wife, a modern-day woman. She’d read the women’s magazines, superwomen from every sphere of life managing to juggle a basket of assorted balls, excelling with their families, paid-work, social life, entertaining, looking a million dollars every second of the day, squeezing into skinny jeans for their six-week check-up. Could they be real?

She was drowning in all shades of blue foam. It was hard to surface to breathe. She’d joined an online mother’s chat-group. It was an enormous relief to discover that she wasn’t alone in feeling blue. Or in nearly drowning.

She wondered if Fi ever overdid the blue hues, making her work look esoteric. Would she smudge white foam over it? Did it look better? Julie doubted if Fiona would cope well with this working from home malarkey. Probably only if she could have a bottle of wine sitting waiting to be opened the second she finished her day’s work quota. Julie could imagine her pouring a generous glass of red wine, noting the empty bottle, dripping every last drop. She’d sigh in relief that there was enough in her glass for the rest of the night. If she sipped slowly. 

Ah, back to her own woes. Her online chat group showed that others also experienced a similar exhaustion, confusions, uncertainties, identity crises, panic attacks. She related to many of the questions that other mothers wrote in the chat area, drinking the helpful answers like a tonic, refreshing her spirit, making her feel a little less inadequate. Too shy to post her questions, she waited until someone asked what she wanted to know. Everyone had similiar questions. She smiled as she read hers. The ones she hadn’t written but whose answers she craved.

In surprise, she’d become reacquainted online with Glory, whose baby Makayla was born the same day as Lola. They’d met and chatted in the hospital. There, Glory seemed so self-assured that Julie was astonished to see her struggling at home. They’d started to message each other.

It was good to have a local friend. At last.

Her mind returned to the photo she had been studying. How she missed her husband’s family. Sometimes, ironically, she thought they were the best part of their married relationship. She played the game of competent hostess and happy wife when she needed to, but when it was just the two of them, the three of them now, not that he ever admitted the extended family, she felt awkward, confused, unloved, taken-for-granted, and always afraid, anxious how her husband’s moods would be taken out on her body. Her fragility cut her to shreds. She longed for nurture.

Glory filled the gap, a little. A little felt like a lot.

Julie remembered the original photo in its old, worn, gilt frame. Memories are funny. She recalled seeing a tiny, dirty, smudge on the edge and wondered whose fingerprints they were. There was no point guessing.

Reflecting on the faces in the photograph, she recalled how her in-laws had been wonderful people, kind-hearted, loved by the villagers, even those who didn’t attend their church. You didn’t have to look far to work out why. They turned nobody away, their care knew no boundaries, people responded to their enveloping warmth with gratitude. They had responded with enthusiasm to her ideas on interior design, even buying a few new items she had suggested for their gorgeous stone villa. Her late father-in-law was gentle, tenderly kind to her late mother-in-law. Julie didn’t know why Martin was rough and aggressive with her. He’d had an amazing paternal role model.

She hadn’t seen the violence coming until after they married. Too late.

She was sure no-one saw evidence of it, ever. Her disguise was second nature. Solitary colours, blue, green, black. Sometimes, she wanted to tell Glory about the violence. Pride held her back. It was too private to share.

Now, she gazed at the treasured photo, remembering the good times shared with her husband’s family. She felt sorry for Gladys. She saw behind the façade of always trying to keep a brave face, staying optimistic, forever hopeful. Her known face was brave too. She suspected that Fi’s public face fought daily with her private thoughts. She was a brilliant actress, taking repeat encores.

She’d never met Gladys’ husband who died early of a serious illness, leaving her with wealth and a house in Oxford with no mortgage. He must have been quite a looker, their son Reuben was handsome, as casually chilled as Gladys was a frenetic fusspot. But she was a kind soul, opening the family home she inherited to anyone when they could visit, continuing their parent’s generous, warm hospitality.

Martin and she looked fitting, glamorous, well-dressed, too perfect. She groaned at the hypocrisy, noting her heavy eye make-up. Recollections of the night before returned with a painful jolt. Violence, bruises, the biggest damage internal, confidence undermined, soul hurt stinging like a sucking wasp.

Looking at Fiona, Julie remembered how tipsy she’d become with Martin after the photo was taken. She liked Fiona, who couldn’t? She was effervescent, the life of the party, laughing, giggling, flirting, dancing sexily. Julie wondered if she was always like that. She’d heard that she’d gone through a spate of men, and suspected that all sorts of unknowns accounted for much of the wild flamboyancy. Julie recalled how on the night of the photo, she’d steered Fi’s lovely daughter Philippa outside onto the swing, away from raucous, boozy laughter. It was a funeral. They’d rugged up cosily, talking passionately about art, colour and design, and how much they’d miss the absent guests of the night.

One day, she’d put Lola on that swing. Cycles of life. Backwards, forwards. One day.

Julie recalled how Mavis, the pet, always helping others, wandered out to join them on the swing, then drifted back inside, then returned, tipping her glass of wine into rose bushes before joining them for the rest of the night. Mavis wasn’t much of a drinker. Julie was envious of the way Jian kept coming out to check on his wife, placing an arm lovingly around her, whispering sweet endearments, making her smile, and reaching up to kiss.

Martin was never like that.

She thought of how Ling and Mei bustled around in the kitchen, making tasty food, presenting delicacies, bringing some outside with a cheerful grin, clearing, cleaning, smiling, grateful to be accepted as part of this extended family.

Ah Lam came outside to join Julie and Phlip, chatting easily. What a darling! A quiet, optimistic self-confidence flowed through her. Julie remembered that day fondly. Liena stayed inside, on her phone, presumably posting endless selfies. She was gorgeous, a stunning young woman. Niu was slumped in a pile, too young to legally drink alcohol, he’d sneaked more drink than he should have. He’d be a handful, Julie thought, pitying Mavis.

What would her Lola be like? Who knows?

As if to answer, Lola woke with a piercing cry. On guard, Julie sprung up, trying to ensure their baby didn’t disturb her husband. She looked longingly at the glass of wine, still untouched. Exhausted, she lifted this beautiful daughter and did what needed to be done. Sitting for a while in dim quietness, she looked meditatively at her baby, marvelling at the exquisite beauty of ten tiny fingers perfectly formed, a delicate face with a rosebud mouth, a perfectly shaped nose, and blue eyes now closed, peacefully content.

Martin’s anxiety about some virus was on a different planet to the one she inhabited. Leaking breastmilk, wet and dirty nappies, sterilising clothes, interrupted sleep, confused thoughts, ducking marital blows, that was her life.

But there was endless baby love, reaching to infinity, to the moon and back.

She took a sip of wine and breathed slowly.

3

Fiona's Daughter and the Family Photograph

‘Mum, when can we have a holiday in Burford? Liena wants to know.’

‘Possibly not for ages love, there’s talk this coronavirus might get worse and restrict travel. Anyway, don’t you find the idea of visiting your grandparents’ place a bit weird without them present?’

‘No, not at all. Auntie Gladys has left it just as they had it. She’s not made any major changes. I love sleeping in your old bedroom and I want to check grandpa’s study again. He had so many fabulous books I want to read. I miss them awfully.’

‘I know dear,’ Fiona said half-heartedly.

Her daughter missed her parents more than she did, her life had taken off now that she’d moved in with Steve. It was all a buzz, a real hoot. There was lots of lively, noisy, satisfying sex. In the evenings, there were shrieks of outrageous laughter, a shared glass of wine, or two, or three. After that, she stopped counting. It would be rude to keep the tally. It was marvellous to have someone to cuddle while watching Netflix, sucking chocolates from each other’s mouths. 

There were many aspects to their lifestyle her late parents wouldn’t have approved. It was handy living in a different country when they were alive. Well, Northern Ireland was sort of a different country, it certainly wasn’t England. She’d leapt at the chance to escape home territory for her first job after completing university. Once in Belfast, she fell in love with its people. She relished her new surrounds, stayed on, and forgot to leave. She loved the wild craic of the Irish, a contrast to the prim, cold politeness of the English that made her uneasy. Steve’s kids Tobias and Marianne were easy enough to have stay over every second weekend. It was a good thing Philippa got on with them. She treated them as family. Suddenly, she had a young stepbrother and stepsister who idolised her.

‘Mum, where’s the funeral photo?’

‘What funeral photo?’ Exasperation marked Fiona’s face. She couldn’t always work her teenage daughter out. 

‘You know, the photo taken after grandma and grandpa’s funeral, the last time we were all together in Burford.’

‘No idea.’

‘Mum, can’t you take me seriously for once? I really want to see it now.’

Fiona poured herself a glass of wine, conscious of her daughter’s beseeching. ‘Then go and find it.’

Trying to stay patient, Philippa asked, ‘mum, where will I look?’

Fiona hadn’t unpacked fully when they’d moved in with Steve, there was too much fun to be had. Orderly unpacking was for others. She bet Martin and Julie’s apartment was spotless. She didn’t have a clue where the photo was. But her daughter was looking hyper-serious, so she gave it a minute’s thought. ‘Try the box under my bed.’

Philippa hated going into her mother’s bedroom when she was sharing it with a man. There had been a range of scruffy male creatures in her childhood. She’d lost count, shoving them out of her memory.

This man was different. For the first time, she liked this one. Steve treated her with respect. He locked the bathroom door. He put the toilet seat down. He didn’t barge into her bedroom. If he wanted to speak with her, he knocked, and waited patiently until she came to the door. She trusted him. This was such a relief.

Discreetly, she looked under their bed, rummaging through mismatched shoes, dirty lace knickers, empty water bottles, to find a flat box. Blowing dust off the top, she took it into her room and shut the door.

The box was a conglomerate of all the small trinkets and odds and ends her mother didn’t know what to do with. Where were her organising skills?

Loose, right down the bottom, was a large brown envelope containing random photos. First, she pulled out her baby photos, then those of her wearing her first school uniform, tie askew, then skating on an ice rink, on a bike, riding a horse, blowing out birthday cake candles of varying numbers. These were in order of age. A surprise after all. Then, there were various photos of her mother with different men, always a glass of wine or bubbly in hand. Finally, she looked at the largest photo, the one she was looking for, right at the bottom of the pile. She returned the box to the bedroom and lay on her own bed studying this photo.

Oh, how she missed her beloved grandparents. She’d gone to England to stay with them every year, sometimes twice a year, for long spells during the summer vacation. They were her rock, her stability, a solace in the face of many emotional storms. She’d felt completely safe in their presence. Sheltered. Unconditionally loved. Truly cherished.

Whilst her mother hadn’t raised her with much religious instruction, she had relished sitting in the chapel listening to the familiar liturgies repeated by her grandfather, words that came back to her when she needed comfort. Her grandfather never preached at her. He taught her a great deal about independent, critical thinking, and the richness of the faith tradition he believed in. Then, he left it to her to decide, answering questions thoroughly as she threw them at him. She had so many new questions she’d like to toss about now. But he had passed away. The present felt empty without him.

She had enjoyed sitting around the large oak kitchen table while her grandmother baked endless supplies of luscious foods. She recalled stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon, licking the beaters, cracking eggs, she was a dab hand at separating them, and the highlight was placing warm chocolate brownies on cooling trays. She was always the first taster. Mmm, delicious, it was as if she could taste them now. A constant flow of people dropped in. Home-cooked food was shared in abundance.

Laughter and music echoed. Her grandfather played the guitar, her grandmother was a concert pianist and sang soprano. Philippa adored the large house, the gorgeous rambling gardens, the tasteful handicrafts scattered inside, many of them gifts from grateful travellers. Most of all, she loved the bursting bookcases lining the walls that extended from her grandfather’s study into drafty passageways. Books to hide away with, and imagine being spirited away on all sorts of amazing adventures.

Her grandfather used to make up stories with her. He invented a land where everyone was jolly, where everything was pretty and nothing nasty happened. Then he sang creative songs about this magical land that left her giggling. Sometimes, she still remembered the tunes, but couldn’t recall the words. It was never the same when she tried to create new lyrics by herself.

Her grandparents had lifted her up, strengthened her inner resources, encouraged her independent resilience. They’d given her valuable tools to learn to become a survivor in life.

As Philippa looked at the photograph, she reflected on the figures in it. ‘Dear Auntie Gladys, you need to do something with your hair, it’s so old school, it’s atrocious. And your clothes for that matter, they’re absurdly old-fashioned,’ she said to the photo, smiling at the image, a Bathilda Bagshot figure from the Harry Potter movie.

Auntie Gladys had said she’d contact her about her forthcoming English Literature exams, but she hadn’t. It was a bit disappointing. Exams terrified Philippa. Even at the thought of them, her confidence flew out of the shut window. After her A-level exams, she was aiming for the University of Oxford. Having an auntie as a professor there wasn’t enough. She needed a mentor to guide her through the dark passages of rigorous scholarship. It was a terrifying goal. Her self-confidence wavered. Her ambition crumbled. Auntie Gladys could be of enormous help. She’d start hinting again.

Next, she looked at Uncle Martin and Auntie Julie. They were a stunning looking couple, always dressed immaculately. Without being rude, she tried to avoid Uncle Martin. He was a bad influence on her mum. ‘Nah,’ she told herself, sometimes, her mum drank as quickly as her brother, it was her choice as much as his. She loved Auntie Julie though. She didn’t always look happy when she was with her husband, but by herself, she became a different person. Freer. More relaxed. Fun to be with.

She recalled the night after the funeral, when Auntie Julie drew her outside onto the swing, away from the inside crowd, where the drink flowed and the conversation was bawdily raucous. They clicked, they had a lot in common, classic tastes in clothes, fascination with a variety of art forms, and a love of creative patterns in nature.

Tonight, Philippa wondered when she’d ever see her baby cousin Lola. Her mother’s warning about no travel in the immediate future was disturbing. Could it be true? She hoped not.

Looking next at Auntie Mavis and Uncle Jian, Philippa wondered why she’d never had much to do with them. They lived in London. She’d never visited London. Why not? She avoided Niu as much as possible. He was pushy, a bully, he sniggered and leered, and muttered filthy comments to her, acting outraged when she turned away, not amused. Ignoring him was her chief response.

Sometimes, Liena and Ah Lim came to stay in Burford on school holidays. That was fun, but she’d loved it best when she was there by herself, the sole focus of her grandparents’ adoring attention. She had soaked their love into her pores. Her arms tingled with the memory.

There was no chance to talk to her mother tonight about some crappy virus that might stop her from visiting Burford. Fi had gone out to the local pub. Tomorrow, she’d convince her mother she needed to go to England to discuss English Literature with auntie Gladys. That should do it.

Life was for living. Now.

4

Mavis and the Family Photograph

Mavis was feeling unusually nostalgic. It was all these unsettling rumours circulating around their Chinese restaurant. Somehow, anything to do with China apparently made her family responsible for talk of a global virus. It wasn’t fair. Putting troubling thoughts aside, she concentrated her mind on the full restaurant. It was doing a great trade, there were many happy customers returning for more visits.

‘Jian, it’s a good thing your parents are away now.’

Jian looked confused. Sometimes, the English were hard to understand. ‘Why love? I miss them. I miss hearing their Mandarin chatter.’

‘Jian, get real, you must be hearing what everyone’s saying about China.’

‘I don’t listen to gossip. I just prepare the food, I’ll keep cooking wonderful food, everything’s fine. Go and visit Gladys, you’ve not seen her for a while.’

‘No, I haven’t. It’s true, I miss my family, but I need to stay here to keep the restaurant afloat.’

Mavis poured another cup of green tea for her husband. It was Monday evening, their only free night when they didn’t open the restaurant. Wandering across to the fireplace ledge, she picked up the photo frame, the last picture of the family together.

‘Jian,’ she began and paused.

‘What love? Be quick, I’m watching this program.’

‘Nothing.’

Her husband hated interruptions when he was watching his favourite Monday night program, the only time he could relax to watch the box.

Mavis was a flutterer. She envied the way that university life kept Gladys sane. Focused. Constant tasks to be done. Ambition achieved.

Tonight, Mavis kept her thoughts to herself. She was the only one in her family who hadn’t gone to university. From teenage years, she liked working in Asian restaurants, she’d met Jian working in one. Her parents were displeased with her decision to avoid higher education, not that they’d said anything, but she’d felt