Coughing in the Time of Corona

Michael Cummins cleared his throat, and licked his lips. The delectable taste of the Waitrose sandwich that he’d just wolfed down still clung to his lips. The sweet, yet tangy taste of sun-dried tomatoes, lingered on one corner, the fruity and creamy taste of the camembert on the other. Every now and then he burped and the full taste of the sandwich came through in all its glorious decadence. The sharpness of mustard, the honey smooth roundness of the balsamic vinegar, the fieriness of finely ground pepper, the cool crunch of the lettuce – they were all there. The freshness of the sea salt that reminded him of the last cruise he and the wife had been on. And holding it all together, as if in a warm, inviting embrace was the taste of freshly baked rye bread, speckled with gold, its rich and complex texture and aroma reminding him of so many things – the comfort of home, the nostalgia of childhood, the luxury of holidays. Bread was part of them all, except it was rare that bread was so well made. Perfectly baked, skilfully sliced, it would have made a fine meal in itself, even without the beautiful delights that it encased. Good old Waitrose.

Michael Cummins worked in the City and had done so for the last 15 years. He had slunk his way up from being a trainee and was now comfortably ensconced somewhere above middle management but below top management. He made good money – correction – he made very good money. Especially if one compared that to his actual talent. But luckily for Mr. Cummins, not many people noticed this fact. He was such a ‘fixture’ now that no one could imagine the office without him. He had a talent for punctuality, and was always at the office at 8.30 am sharp. This meant that he had a 30 minute head start on the rest of the workforce. Over the years as they got younger and younger, they were also tardier and tardier, and this meant that Mr Cummins’ punctuality stood out even more than before. So just by arriving early he made himself look better than everyone else. He also had a knack for being at all the right meetings, and holding doors open for all the important clients, and overhearing all the good ideas and repeating them before the originators of those ideas had a chance to open their mouths. And to top it all, he also had the remarkable talent of knowing exactly which one of the big bosses were likely to become even bigger bosses – and bought them expensive lunches before they were at the pinnacle of their careers. This didn’t go unnoticed and Mr Cummins always found himself with a nice little bonus before Christmas.

Now, as he stood on the platform, just behind the yellow line, he surveyed his surroundings with a look of superior disdain. He was wearing a fairly well made suit, not his Saville Row one – he only got that one out for special occasions – but a good one nevertheless. His gold watch glistened beneath the cuff of an expensive pin-striped shirt. He tapped his handmade brogues on the platform floor and looked at his watch impatiently. He looked up at the electronic display – the train was due at 17.47. It was 17.45 now. Come on. Come on. He had an appointment with the builder at 8 o’clock. Jack Hodgson was going to build him a shiny new loft extension so his 5 bedroom house could become even bigger. Mr Cummins had been dreaming about this loft extension almost every night. Imagining the floods of light that would come in through the big velux windows. The plush sofa that he would place in one corner. The advanced gaming system that would occupy the other corner. The beautiful oak lined bar that would sit along the left hand side. The billiards table that would go on the other side. The beautiful oak bookcases that would divide the space, lined with hundreds of rare and beautifully bound books. He wasn’t much of a reader but he knew that the big bosses had such books in their libraries, so he must keep up with the trend. After all, he was headed in their direction too. Mr Cummins mind now leapt forward – as minds often do – to the next year end meeting. The managing director calls him into his office. He sits down at the table, the MD slides across an envelope in his direction. He opens it – and finds that he’s been appointed Regional Head. But he must play it cool. He must not show his excitement, even though his hair is standing on end and his arms and legs are tingling. He looks up at the managing director and smiles graciously yet gratefully, getting that delicate balance just right.

The clatter of the train interrupted Mr Cummins’ reverie and he took a step back. The trains had been quite empty all of this week. It was because of that coronavirus nonsense. Some people were so afraid, thought Mr Cummins scornfully. It was all being blown out of proportion. All these people in masks. Ridiculous. It was just the flu. People needed to man up. Even his builder Jack had tried to delay the job by hinting at possible lockdown. What nonsense. A lockdown? As if the prime minister would allow such a thing. The entire economy coming to a standstill? Impossible. Besides the clever boffins at all these top laboratories would find a cure in the next few days. It was the 2020 for God’s sake, not the time of the Plague.

With a defiant shrug of his shoulders Mr Cummins got on the train. There were only a handful of people, all wearing masks or covering their mouths with scarves. The ones who had nothing on wore slightly suspicious and forlorn expressions. A few copies of the Evening Standard lay scattered on the floor and on some of the seats. The headlines forecast doom, disease and gloom. Mr Cummins almost tutted out loud. With an audible sigh he sat down and picked up one of the offending papers. Appalling how people were so gullible and believed in this drivel. As if a city like London could be brought to a standstill by a flu!

The train started to move. People cast furtive and mistrustful glances at each other. Mr Cummins turned the pages of the newspaper with loud, cracking noises. He had almost forgotten the taste of that delightful sandwich that he’d just eaten. Oh no, wait, here was a tiny smidgen of that velvety cheese, trapped in the creases of his lips. Greedily his tongue caressed the area and relished the taste. Then, it was gone – too soon. Mr Cummins wished he’d bought two of the sandwiches, but then again, he didn’t want to ruin his appetite for dinner. Mrs Cummins was a good cook. Actually, she was an average cook that was helped by very expensive ingredients and packet sauces. Not all the time though. He was being unfair.

Suddenly Mr Cummins burped. It took him a bit by surprise. It was a bit embarrassing, but on the whole, it was rather pleasant because suddenly the taste of the sandwich repeated on him. His olfactory senses became infused with the flavours, reminding him of the richness of the cheese, the tanginess of the sun dried tomatoes, the fieriness of the mustard, the pungency of the vinegar. And then there it was – that beautiful bread – it was like he could taste it again. Wait a second – he could really taste it again. A large glutenous mass of bread had somehow lodged itself somewhere near his aural passages, just under his chin, but deep within his throat. He really should not have gobbled that sandwich so quickly. Some of it had clearly gone down the wrong way.

Before he could help himself, Mr Cummins was coughing and spluttering. And suddenly, every gaze in the carriage was on him. The train was now approaching Farringdon. The woman next to him got up, a bit too quickly. If Mr Cummins or anyone else had asked her, she would have said “No that’s not my stop.” But that didn’t stop her from wanting to get off.

Meanwhile Mr Cummins carried on coughing. The two men on the other side got up too. So did the old lady, except in her case, it was her stop. In the far corner the 3 young men decided not to risk it too. The woman with the face mask, and the pram lunged forward to get to the door, pushing the others out of the way. But this wasn't the time for manners – she thought her child’s life was in danger.

Within seconds, the train arrived at the station. Almost as soon as the door opened the young mother started to get out, probably bruising her upper arm against the door. Again, she did not care. The others followed with unnatural haste. Inside, Mr Cummins kept on coughing, unaware of the effect he was having on his fellow passengers. His Evening Standard lay limp on his lap, and Boris Johnson appeared to gaze up at him from one of the photos with a slightly quizzical expression.

Mr Cummins’ eyes were now streaming, and his coughing was pretty loud. A few people who wanted to get on the train heard him and quickly made their way to the next carriage. Soon the announcer’s voice came on “This train is now ready to leave". The doors shut with a 'ping'. The carriage swayed slightly and the overhead hand-holds all swung in different directions like a group of drunks trying to do a synchronised dance, but failing. Rows and rows of empty seats in their blue patterned upholstery stared back at Mr Cummins. The floor glistened in the overhead light taking on a strange translucent quality. The yellow poles rose up from amidst them like totem poles. Or redwood trees. Except they were yellow. This didn’t make sense. Why was there no one on the train? It was rush hour. Was there no one who could give him some water? Some water to chase away the bread, to flush it down. No, there was no one. And the bread – it seemed to expand and grow, and like candy floss or styrofoam, or the filler for holes in the wall, or pulpy cardboard soaking up water. It bubbled and proliferated, threatening to engulf his insides. Mr Cummins felt weirdly lightheaded, and almost out of breath. He was half lying on the floor now but didn’t seem to care. He felt dizzy and almost euphoric. This was a feeling unlike anything he’d ever felt before. His last memory was of the inky shadows flashing by through the dark windows as the train rattled on. And of one of his expensive brogues, lying on its side at the far end of the carriage, leaving his pink-socked foot exposed. How did it get there? Mr Cummins thought about it, but couldn’t quite figure it out. And then, he was gone.