Work Text:
THE PASSAGE OF TIME.
As You Like It.
William Shakespeare 1564-1616.
(Jaques to Duke Senior)
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
oOo
Shakespeare was such a cunt.
The seven ages of man!
What a crock of shit......
October evenings were drawing in fast.
This time of year always made Malcolm reflective.
He saw it as a time of decay, leaves changing colour, shrivelling, falling.
Bare branches left behind, stark against the angry sky.
As temperatures fell steadily, his thoughts turned towards hibernation. He felt the cold these days. It entered his bones, making him choose the thicker socks, the warmer sweater, the padded jacket.
Mornings were darker too, he didn't want to get up. This was not the Malcolm Tucker of old, this was Malcolm Tucker now he was old!
Youthful vigour was a fleeting thing, he mused, the energy and vitality faded in a slow and almost stealthy manner. Sneaking away like a thief in the night when his fucking back was turned.
There was a creak in his left knee. His fingers were sometimes stiff and sore, his shoulders ached.
When did all this happen?
Time was he barely noticed the passing years, until suddenly he did.
Nowadays he relished a morning lie in. An early night. Snuggled under the duvet with Sam. A whole day stretching ahead with no real plans. Perhaps a nice long weekend break, just the two of them.
Manically busy days stressed him out. Messed with his sleep pattern. Made him irritable and paranoid. Having to be somewhere at a certain hour was a bloody mission.
Would he get there on time? Should he allow an extra half hour? Were the trains running normally? Where was his mask? Did he have everything else he needed?
When did all that start?
Was it just since the covid outbreak?
Right now he was supposed to be working. His regime varied little with the passing days. Hours set aside for writing. Strict with himself. Disciplined where work was concerned, just had he'd always been.
This latest book put fire in his belly.
A political thriller. Intrigue in the corridors of power. Loosely based on the downfall of Tom's government and the cabal that initiated it.
His publisher had been promised a finished draft manuscript by the new year.
There was still much work to be done.
Ensconced in his study his eyes were less on his computer screen at this precise moment and more on the world just outside his window.
What a torrid time this last eighteen months had been!
A pandemic, the like of which hadn't been seen since the Great Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918.
Everyone had experienced loss, struggle and pain.
No household was untainted by this curse.
Together, he and Sam had weathered the first year well.
Lockdown initially hadn't been too hard. In some ways he'd found it a blessing.
Forcing him to slow down. Take stock. Be thankful for what he had, not take it for granted. He'd never been a person to sit still for long. Inactivity was his nemesis.
People around him in those heady days called him 'driven'. Working all hours, little sleep, little food. Always alert and watchful.
Overnight, that sense of purpose had been taken away.
It was true that he'd decelerated since leaving the world of political spin. His life changing since his marriage and children coming along, relatively late in life.
However, his new family had given him a purpose of a different sort. Fatherhood made him whole. A new role, one which he could commit himself just as fervently as he ever did working as a top flight journalist.
Yes, covid definitely made him evaluate. He was able to devote more hours to his writing, but, just as importantly, more quality moments with his wife.
It had given them both time. Time away from the madness of the world. Their horizons reduced to their daily walk, a trip to the supermarket, masked and gloved, and little else. It drew them into a bubble of comfort.
The result, apart from a more laidback, calm persona, was a book, published at the end of the first wave. A fine story which had gone straight to the top of the best seller list. A Murder mystery, a new genre for Malcolm. Set in his childhood territory of Glasgow. Full of plot twists and cliffhangers. Apparently his readers loved it. Lapped it up.
Now he was nose to the literary grindstone again.
Quite how he discovered he could write in the first place was a bit of a conundrum. After all his traumas and workplace catastrophes. When the Goolding Enquiry left him rudderless and bereft. There was some catharsis in putting pen to paper.
The action was cleansing, therapeutic, life affirming. It served to remind him that there was still a life out there for him. All he had to do was reach out and grab it.
Grab it he did!
In the intervening years it served to sustain his family, giving them financial security. It paid to put his kids through Uni without saddling them with huge debt. Provided the wherewithal to pay off his mortgage and make a comfortable, happy, yet relatively unpretentious life for himself.
A sigh left him as he downed the congealed dregs from his coffee cup.
His languid gaze drifted down to the cluster of photos cluttering his desk.
His eldest, Jamie, now married to Sandrine, an American he'd met whilst studying in the States. Tall and willowy, of West Indian heritage, she was a breath of fresh air. Fiercely intelligent, bold and daring, with a ready smile and a bubbly personality.
They lived here in London now. Not so far away.
Recently the couple had presented him with a little grandson.
Andrew Malcolm Tucker. Born 6th May, weighing 6lbs 9oz.
Smiling to himself as he reminisced on the day the little one was first placed in his arms. You forget how small they are!
The tiny hands, fingernails, the fuzz of soft hair, a little squeak every so often, as he slept peacefully, swaddled in the crook of Grandpa's elbow.
How the years rolled away!
Right back to holding his own for the first time. That precious little boy, now a grown man.
A graduate, a husband and a new father.
Where had the years gone?
Could it be true that he was really a grandpa? How did that sit?
Just fine thank you!
Next to these snaps was one of Robbie. Wild haired and carefree.
Robbie! The middle child.
The quiet one. The one most like his wife. Both in looks and temperament.
How things had changed now!
Travelling. Backpacking to be more precise. A thrill seeker.
Skateboarding, water skiing, sky diving.
He'd worked for various charities. Been a waiter. Helped with Eco projects in Botswana. Funding himself as he went along. Adventurous to the point of madness.
The cause of Malcolm's now completely grey hair!
They kept in touch mainly via Facebook but sometimes Malcolm thought he would prefer not to see what his middle progeny was up to!
Sporting multiple string bracelets on his wrists, sometimes a ponytail.....and was that a new tattoo he spied on one calf?
Jesus!
Then covid came along and prompted an end to his wayward wanderings.
Presently he was up in Scotland. Living near Malcolms sister.
Working in a bar.......until he was furloughed. Working again. Then made redundant.
Finally deciding to train to become a Paramedic.
Happy and single, but settled. For the time being at least.
Probably until the next thing came along!
Reaching forward Malcolm's long fingers closed around a picture of his only daughter.
Grace.
His darling.
The cleverest by far of his three children.
Still with a cloud of blonde curls, just as she'd had as a tot.
She lived with her long term boyfriend, Lewis, a fellow student, and now a co worker.
A qualified psychotherapist.
Her home was not far from Clissold Park in Stoke Newington. Working in the Tower Hamlets district, which covered most of the traditional old East End. Stepney, Poplar, Bethnal Green.
His daughter was really doing some good.
Replacing the photo, Malcolm reflected on how proud he was of them all. How well adjusted they were.
His brilliant kids.
They were his life.
Never more than in the last year or so when family and health were all that really mattered.
oOo
His gaze flicked up to the window as a flurry of raindrops hit with a swoosh. The day was so typically October.
Windy, clouds scudding, blue sky being blotted out in the space of half an hour, to be replaced with a heavy ceiling of grey.
Rain came in a hurry. Dashing the panes with noisy urgency, then moving on, leaving the watery sun to break through once again. Dappling the walls with a mellow golden light.
Outside, Malcolm's street was lined with London Plane trees. Spaced evenly on the edge of the pavement. These trees were the lungs of the city. Tough and irascible.
Their bark like peeling skin. Sloughing off with the seasons and taking with it pollutants from the dirty suburban air.
Large maple-like leaves were turning fast now, a beautiful mixture of green, yellow, orange and brown. Fluttering down the road as the breeze caught them, whipped them into little whirlpools before depositing them in the gutter. Leaving behind the spherical seeds, clustered burr-like, suspended on the gently balding branches.
Malcolm puffed as he returned to his screen. He did that a lot these days. A huff of air through pursed lips. As if it was all so fucking unfathomable!
He returned to the line he'd been writing.
Typing furiously for a few moments before once more becoming distracted.
People were hurrying passed now, necks bent low under the canopy of umbrellas. Holding tight and battling into the blast. Facing the onslaught head on.
This years lockdown had affected Malcolm far more than he cared to admit.
It made him feel empty somehow. Unsettled. So much seemed to have been taken away. Things he didn't think he'd ever get back.
Last year was different. There was a sense of everyone being 'in it together', a bulldog spirit which had the power of hope and a new future behind it.
Optimism then had been high. It would all be over by the summer. For a while that seemed viable.
Slowly they all began to claw back the life that had been temporarily put on hold.
Gradually though, those hard won freedoms were removed again. Chipped away like a chisel to wood. Lost to rising cases, new variants, more deaths.
Malcolm and Sam faced a bleak Christmas. The first since his marriage where he and she were alone.
None of their three children allowed to come home, not even in a 'bubble'.
The new year brought more doom and gloom in the shape of three whole months of further lockdown and slowly but surely the feeling crept over him that life would actually never be the same again.
Never be 'normal'.
Never to be lived entirely without a niggling worry in the back recesses of his mind.
This thought ate away at his mental well-being. It spread like a cancer inside his mind. It coloured his outlook and his vision of the future.
No longer was the prospect of his retirement years one of excitement of things to come.
He didn't even want to go to the fucking supermarket. He had no desire to travel whatsoever.
Parties and get togethers with anyone but the family were something he had to think long and hard about.
A life consumed with the desire to avoid becoming ill, all his natural instincts muzzled. To hug people, to socialise freely, to go out to the cinema, theatre, restaurants. Each potential danger seeming to grow in enormity in his head until he found himself avoiding them altogether.
Both he and Sam had taken up their vaccines. Willingly, in the vain hope that through medication his little world might be saved.
Sadly, as the weeks passed and restrictions were lifted he felt less and less like reentering the fray.
Especially when he heard of friends and others around him who became infected.
His choices of outings or holidays had changed beyond all recognition. What he now enjoyed most was a few days spent by the sea, perhaps with Jamie and Ellie McDonald, in a lodge he'd purchased on a whim, but with incredible foresight, on the East coast.
It provided a safe place to retreat when covid and everything that went with it in London became too much. A bolt hole.
Wasn't too far away, an easy car journey of under two hours.
Here they could walk on the beach everyday, have quiet lunches or evening meals in small eateries, or stay at home if it was too busy and there were too many tourists about.
He also liked and felt comfortable visiting a public garden or National Trust property, where they could be outside and not in contact with too many people.
How his gregarious former life had been changed by this pandemic!
Sam noticed his reticence and tackled him about it gently.....
"I thought I'd book some theatre tickets," she broached quietly, over breakfast one morning. "Do you think a matinee or evening would be best?"
Her husband shrugged his shoulders noncommittally, focussing on his toast.
"Not sure I'm fussed either way."
His wife had witnessed the withdrawal of her soulmate on several occasions in the past. His tendency to run for cover, to hide himself away. As if waiting for the terrible storm to pass, with a blanket over his head.
"I thought you wanted to see this play?"
"I did. But it's not worth the risk of getting ill over. It only takes one stupid numpty to decide to go even though he or she doesn't feel well. Or worse still, has no symptoms at all and ends up fucking sitting next to me."
"We'll never go anywhere again if that's the case." Sam huffed. "We can't let this bloody virus make us scared of our own shadows."
Taking the remains his coffee, Malcolm headed for the sanctuary of his study.
"Nah. Let's leave it for the time being. See what the figures are like in a week or two."
The door shut behind him with a finality that said the conversation was over. Samantha Tucker had lost round one.
"Yep, shut yourself away in there and put your head in the sand Malcolm." She whispered under her breath......
oOo
For the umpteenth time that week Malcolm was musing upon himself.
Age.
Age had never bothered him, or rather ageing , and the process thereof.
It was just what happened.
Regarding himself in the mirror he'd never fretted much when looking at the face that stared back at him.
Now it was something he thought about more and more.
Perhaps it was since young Andrew was born.
The little one was walking and talking now. He called Malcolm 'Pappy'.
Malcolm smiled to himself as he rocked backwards in his leather desk chair.
Getting old was fucking horrible. He didn't like it, nor did he embrace it at all.
This child was the future. A future he wouldn't be around forever to see.
That was a bloody sobering thought. That Andrew would grow up, may marry and have children, but he wouldn't be there to see that happen. Even if he lived to be ninety.
Once again he mulled over the inevitable.
Fuck me but bits ached!
His knees. His hip joints. His fingers.
Sometimes his shoulder was so stiff he had to take a couple of nurofen to get it moving in the morning.
Nothing seemed to cause it. He wasn't overdoing the exercise, he wasn't sleeping in a funny position, he wasn't sitting in a draught.
Just general wear and tear.
His visits to the gym were scotched by corona. No personal trainer. No treadmill. No gentle weights.
Sam persuaded him to join her weekly Pilates zoom classes.
At first he scoffed at the idea.
"Malcolm Tucker does Pilates? You're having a fucking laugh!"
On reflection though....seemed sensible....
The fact that he didn't even have to leave the house at least gave him little or no excuse.
Going to an actual venue meant that he would probably be the only bloke, in amongst a group of women of a certain age. Yes, he realised that was stereotyping but it was also true.
A Lycra clad bunch of 40 plus ladies of various sizes whose backsides he had no desire to be staring at from his surreptitious position right at the back of the hall.
Having people stare at him and watch his every move, the competitive aspect of doing all the poses like a fucking gazelle, without losing your balance, or worse, farting when you bent over into downward dog, was something he'd happily pass on, thank you very much!
Yet in the safety of his own lounge, with Sam at his side, he could do some good stretches, keep himself moving, ease the creeping stiffness, whilst at the same time strengthening his weaker muscles and working on his, now slightly pudgy, core.
His wife never laughed at him, never tried to show him up, in fact she was most encouraging and helpful, especially when he discovered he couldn't actually sit cross legged properly because his hip joints were so inflexible his knees wouldn't go down!
That was just the tip of the iceberg however.
The hair was pretty much white now, but he didn't care about that. He'd started going grey years ago, when he was still working at the treadmill that was DoSaC. It happened relatively quickly and he really couldn't give a shit. Some said it made him look distinguished, or even more attractive!
Anyway, there was still plenty of it, he hadn't gone bald, so that was a result!
Lately he'd been forced to take more care of his teeth too. Fucked if he was going to end up with dentures, like his own father!
Regularly dentistry cost a fucking fortune. Check-ups, hygienist. Then there was all this business of having to wear a mask to go into the clinic, have his temperature taken, fill out a questionnaire.
Don't get me wrong, he knew why he had to do all these things. Keeping the staff and himself safe. He just didn't like it.
'Do you floss regularly Mr Tucker?' 'How much alcohol to you drink?' 'What is your diet like, do you have a sweet tooth?' 'Are you on any medication?'
Fucking Norah. His whole ruddy life history!
Eyes too were becoming a problem. Working all day on a computer screen fucked him up good and proper. There were disadvantages to being a writer for a job!
He could see a gnat from half a mile away, no problem, but reading a WhatsApp on his phone however, everything was a blur!
Stronger reading glasses it is then!
Couldn't get on with contacts. Felt like he was gouging his own eyeballs out! Couldn't be arsed with lens solution and all that malarkey either.
He wasn't vain to the extent of not wanting sullying his beautiful visog with a decent pair of functional specs!
Much easier to clean them every now and then with a lens cloth or the bottom of his T shirt and stick them up on his head when they weren't required.
Trouble was he'd lose the bloody things.
Was that an age thing too?
Putting something down and then not being able to find it again?
Did Sam move them?
Or worse, not remembering they were on his head and wasting ten minutes hunting for them!
These days half his bloody life was spent searching for stuff.
Slippers, keys, phone, wallet, credit cards.......always in the last place he looked.
Was he really becoming so forgetful?
Wasn't it true that he had to write everything down to jog his memory?
Perhaps.
Yet his mind was otherwise as sharp as ever. Keen and as well stocked as it had always been.
His sense of humour still rapier like. There was no deterioration there.
Besides, he completed a dementia test which he'd found online, just to be sure, and scored a satisfyingly high mark.
Thank Christ for that!
The thought of losing his marbles scared him more than anything else.
oOo
Summer had come and gone.
A shit summer it was too. Weatherwise and otherwise.
Restrictions hadn't finally been lifted completely till the middle of July so there was little to do but stay at home or do the things he did feel happy doing.
He walked. Planted up the flower pots in the garden with Sam. Grew cherry tomatoes. Did a few odd jobs around the house.
He saw the family.......until Jamie and Sandrine contracted covid.
It happened at the beginning of the month and it floored him.
Brought it too close to home.
It was partly the fault of the fucking Euro's.
Malcolm hated football with a passion. Hated the game, hated the diva like players, hated the crass chanting and hated the fans.
He didn't understand the logic behind all the months of careful social distancing, hand washing and mask wearing, for it all to be instantly thrown away amongst the vast crowds of thousands of people allowed to attend the matches.
Well, he did......it came down to money!
Suddenly, he felt, no one was fighting the virus any more, they were now 'learning to live with it'.
Overnight.
Robbie had come down from Scotland with a rabid tartan army to watch the England v Scotland game.
He stayed with his elder brother so that they could watch the next match in a ticket only lounge bar.
That was where they both caught the virus. As had the eight other punters they'd been with that evening.
Jamie then infected Sandrine, who wasn't jabbed because she was pregnant with their second child and decided to wait until after the birth. As she'd had covid mildly in the first wave, she figured she had plenty of antibodies to pass through the placenta and protect her unborn baby.
Malcolm was genuinely frightened.
He didn't necessarily voice his fears. Instead he remained silent and brooded.
Then he caught covid himself.
It was the first occasion he'd seen Jamie and Sandrine since they came out of isolation. Little Andrew was so excited to see 'pappy'.
Malcolm played with him. Read to him. Gave him his lunch....
......three days later he began to feel mildly unwell.
There was a tiredness he couldn't quantify. A lightheadedness.
The following day he was sure he had a fever.
Sweating at night and feeling generally pretty shite.
His lateral flow test was positive.
Malcolm had been vaccinated so he wasn't in fear of his life, but he was concerned for himself, for Sam too. Scared of passing it on.
As the week progressed his smell and taste went. Vanished into thin air.
One lunchtime he'd eaten smoked fish and could taste it fine. By the same evening, nothing.
All food from that moment on was cardboard.
Tea and coffee just nondescript brown liquid.
Another part of him chipped away.
Even after the fever was gone and he started to recover, certain things did not return.
His energy for starters! Lethargy to the point of inertia. Zero sex drive.
Not to mention brain fog.
He could neither think nor write for days at a time. Couldn't even concentrate on the crossword or sudoku.
Eating was a necessity, not a pleasure.
His love for Sam, undiminished, could not be shared in the intimate way he was used to. That was hellish.
Very slowly, inexorably, Malcolm began to feel more and more depressed.
His day began with pouring himself out of bed, munching on wood shavings (granola!) and pap (fruit!) for breakfast. Followed by a cup of brown sludge.
Avoiding the news.
Shunning politics.
Each bulletin was so soul destroying he couldn't bear to watch it.
Endless bad news, trouble, strife, heartache and despair.
Laying about on the settee unable to galvanise himself into action.
Almost a fortnight went by before he deigned to set foot outside the house.
Finally Sam persuaded him to come for a short walk in the local park.
'The sun is shining Malc, please! You look like the undead. No colour in your cheeks. We'll just go to the band stand and back, get a coffee and sit on the bench....'
Reluctantly her husband acquiesced, shucking on his coat and shoes. Grumbling the whole time.
Sam knew he was struggling.
The weight loss was alarming. His whole demeanour seemed altered.
Somehow bowed as if under a great burden.
Shuffling along beside her. Unengaged and silent.
It was by a miracle that she hadn't caught it from him. Considering they slept side by side each night as he sweated and coughed. Living cheek by jowl throughout his quarantine.
Reaching home again following his exercise he was exhausted. His strength giving out. Flopping down onto the sofa with a groan and falling asleep.
Looking down upon him, his eyes closed, face not relaxed, anguished furrows across the brow, she could almost see the inner turmoil. The fight going on right then and there inside his body and his mind. Leaning over, she kissed his forehead.
'Love you, you silly bugger!' She whispered.
oOo
It would be several weeks before he could honestly say he felt better.
The smell and taste did not return.
Three months down the line and most meals still tasted of very little. There would be random smells of things that weren't there.
Like cigar smoke. Or a drain odour.
Yet he could hold a lemon right up to his face and get nothing. Not even vapour rub with eucalyptus oil could penetrate the block which seemed to exist between his nose and his brain.
He missed these things more than he could possibly say. Like a bereavement.
Flowers. A cake baking in the oven.
The salty scent of the sea.
Sam's favourite perfume, which he loved.
A rich aroma of coffee beans which now smelled vaguely of baby's nappies.
Taken away.
Making him less him.
Such solace as he could find came from his loving Sam.
From wee Andrew and the new baby, little Eva. Born bonny and healthy, six weeks after Malcolm had succumbed.
From Robbie and Grace, to whom he spoke regularly.
From his close friends who rallied round to cheer him.
He loved them all so dearly.
But things weren't the same.
Would they ever be again?
oOo
Wide open skies.
The beach stretching away beneath his feet as he walked with the wind behind him.
This month the weather remained unseasonably mild. Those last days before the clocks turned and the winter really began.
Sea birds wheeled and cried overhead. Way out on the horizon he could spy a small fishing boat chugging along.
A little warm hand tucked comfortably into his. Long digits clasped around tiny ones.
'There's the moon Pappy, ' piped the wee voice beside him, a finger pointing skyward.
Sure enough there it was. A silvery three quarter circle above them, in the middle of the day.
'Aye. So it is! Good spot!'
Bending, he swung the boy up into his arms and carried him on one hip.
Little legs in wellies swinging at his sides.
'I'm hungry Pappy.'
'When we get back we'll have hot chocolate with marshmallows in. How does that sound?'
Malcolm was healing.
Slowly.
Lots of fresh air. Lots of walks.
Eating better, even though his taste was still somewhat random and he discovered that boiled egg now made him feel queasy!
There was improvement though. He could discern sweet from savoury at least. He could smell the woodsmoke from logs on the Lodge fire, if little else. He was still confident his senses would return eventually.
Jamie, Sandrine and the children had joined them for the half term week.
Malcolm was so lucky.
He knew that now.
He had taken stock and realised a few things. With Sam's help.
Age was just a number, life was still there to be lived.
Health was returning and he would cling to it with everything he had, for as long as he could.
He had no financial worries. A roof over his head. He had a family and friends who loved him.
Although he was still anxious and low sometimes, he could now manage it more effectively.
Being able to get out. To feel the breath of the sea. The wind tugging at his coat and trouser legs.
To see his grandson running and laughing fit to burst.
Blissfully unaware of all the troubles in the world.
Spending an entire day rock pooling, hunting for shells, making a mermaid house. Whatever the imagination of a small child could conjure. Eating their gritty sandwiches, sitting on a low breaker.
These were moments to be cherished.
Malcolm now practised mindfulness.
It was something Sam taught him.
Clever, wonderful Sam. Who always seemed to know what he needed most. Always there for him and ever patient with his moods and miseries.
Outdoors for at least an hour each day. Rain or shine. Appreciating the world around him.
Taking time over meals.
Writing and being creative. Didn't have to be the book, just a diary entry, an email, or anything. Allowing those juices to flow, which were his life blood.
Being much more strict with sleep. No evening coffee, no iPad or computer before bed. Resisting a daytime nap.
Listening to soothing music or a story or podcast when his brain was fizzing annoyingly with depressive thoughts or he felt stressed.
It was working.
He was feeling better. Rejuvenated.
Even his libido improved.
Those times he relished, when he and Sam could curl up in each other's arms and forget everything else.
Thank god for them!
There was a future. One which he could clearly see.
He needed nothing more.
Shakespeare was wrong. It didn't have to end in decrepitude.
Malcolm Tucker was still a fucking force to be reckoned with!