Yellow.

Yellow is the colour. Yellow. Not green, or blue. Why not vomit green, mouldy green, green around the gills, green bile? No, somebody decided on Yellow. Perhaps a HSE directive, he wonders, ambling towards the Luas after a tiring 24-hour shift. Or maybe it was a WHO consensus – is it Yellow in other countries? The regular media coverage and social media commentary from different places blurs and overlaps and seems borderless. Was there an actual faceless civil service discussion on the colour here in Ireland – an agreed decision on Yellow, on behalf of an unsteady caretaker government? Yellow it is though – Yellow posters, circular stickers on shop floors, pop-up adds, sides of buses – Yellow; warns and educates about Coronavirus (which they even translated in some posters to Irish, that was quick, he thinks).

There is no one, of course, at the Luas stop. Automation, not being affected by the current pandemic (unlike the much feared Y2K bug) provides the due time for the next tram – three minutes. Just enough time to get a ticket, and he pauses – is it safe to touch the screen? The blue rectangle reading, ‘Standard Tickets’ awaits a response. A pointless precaution, on later reflection, but still, he nubs the options with his knuckles rather than fingertips. Working in Healthcare he could have a pocketful of clear vinyl or even blue nitrile gloves but that simply feels wrong. Something like robbing frontline Peters to pay civilian Pauls. His conscience forbids. In any case he sees himself washing his hands thoroughly as he has been trained in the next available public toilet along the way home and not touching his face or itching eyes until then. Clean hands still win the contest with contaminated gloves.

Now the Luas is due and obediently curls the corner at Blackhorse. He recalls those plastic toy snakes with moving attached body pieces like carriages. Each one pulls the next until all line up behind the head. He nods at the driver, which has never seemed necessary as there are always passengers alighting on the platform to capture attention. Not today, there is no one aboard. And there it is – Yellow – and plenty of it. All the train long seems bedecked in yellow bunting. Or sashes, he thinks, vaguely remembering orange sashes and songs from black suited marchers on news clips on British Television. These sashes are definitely Yellow; cadmium yellow, canary or lemon yellow. He knows from a distant and youthful employment in design and art houses that there will be a Pantone colour reference number for the Yellow (the printer needs that) chosen from a swatch of many yellows. These sashes, like mini-skirts pulled out over the knees for decency, are stretched over three of every four seats thus allocating safe places. He chooses to stand, as a preferred position, opposite the opening doors. At Drimnagh, three teenage males bounce in, and, making no eye contact, head for the nearest seats. They discard the Yellow sashes with a flourish and sit together in jocular defiance. Can one of these be a carrier, he ponders, asymptomatic and unsympathetic? An unknowing bearer of a deadly virus unwittingly transferred to hard surfaces, biding its time for assignment to a fated human host.

At Suir Road a little family steps on board. She is wearing a cropped belly top and faded jeans. Her tummy piercing is a bright jeweled cross catching the glint of late morning sun streaming in the tram window. She sports over-sized shades that conceal her personality. He notes how keenly he depends on eye contact to assess a person, he likes to think he might intuit thereby intent, or character. The father, or brother, is clothed with a fading grey sweatshirt with matching grubby trousers. They have no visible brand names. He wears white socks and black widened loafers – they might previously have been worn by different sized feet. He also, is hidden by large sunglasses. The little five, or six-year old girl watches her mother casually flip off the long Yellow sash and promptly does likewise to sit together. Children become teens and these consistently and intently demonstrate how not like their parents they are, but this age imitates, unquestioning, the behaviours of their elders. The father, or brother, anonymously loiters in the opposite doorway ever ready to disembark at the next platform. He notices all the surfaces their hands have variously touched or held and lowers himself cautiously into one dedicated banner free seat at a reasonable social distance. He presses his cheek against the cold Luas window and recoils immediately at the thought of virus transfer from the hard glass. A random handprint or residual droplets from a sneezing, coughing previous occupant of this designated seat. It seems likely, reasonable. Do they disinfect carriages clad in head to toe protective equipment spraying all surfaces at the end of the day? Is Ireland doing that? Or, are we not, ‘at that stage’? Leo will tell us, smiling and grinning with his newly apportioned importance.

The swans along the canal bank have never had such interested companions or been so well fed with soggy sliced pan leftovers. A steady string of cyclists, strollers and sitters are arranged with various measures of success at social distancing. As the tram rounds the grassy bend to St James’s he sees a small sparkling drinking party of afternoon revelers clutching cider cans. No observable distancing there – perhaps different rules apply in a boozy alternative reality. Colours flag what team you support, he thinks, blue for Dublin, reds and greens, purple and yellow – yellow, we all support Team Covid now. Yellow is our colour, regardless of County or conviction.

The city centre seems deserted. The narrow platform at Jervis would not permit any safe distance passing. How will this be managed in the dismantling of the lockdown restrictions? He sees two mounted Gardai, motionless, guarding the entrance to O’Connell Street – resting horses in the middle of the road. Noble centaurs in high visibility regalia possessing especially granted powers during the crisis. Intimidated by these he crosses the Ha’penny Bridge towards Temple Bar. And the Liffey waters lie still, perfectly reflective, yet indifferent to our very human plight. The padlocks on the railings are noticeable now with no one on the bridge. Passing John Gogarty’s pub, now boarded up against looting, he presumes – he thinks of Gogarty Ward in Tallaght Hospital. There, she will finally emerge from an eventful shift, barely coherent and exhausted, needing food and safe transport to well-earned rest. A few scattering tourists sporting bright lime green face-masks, give a wide berth. Can we assume tourists, he muses, caught in a fleeting uncertainty. Coffee before the next leg of the journey home on the Dart would be most welcome but there seems to be nowhere open. Along the way by Trinity College a SuperValu is promising but seems packed and best avoided.

He considers the ATM at Pearse Street Station. Cash here for the travel ticket, the vending machine? More touching of surfaces as his ATM card is not contactless, or simply doesn’t work and needs replacing (in case a worldwide pandemic engulfs routine life requiring minimum surface contact). Another task to complete when this is over. ‘When this is over’ – a poem, or a song lyric? Duly noted now on his phone as the very least response he makes when the muse inspires. There is a public bathroom down from the Dart platform at Pearse. There all noxious infections can be washed down the plughole. There is an attendant safely ensconced behind glass at the ticket stiles staring warily at his passing. An essential journey he reminds himself as he pats the Healthcare Cover Letter from his employer in his jeans pocket. The water in the bathroom is surprisingly hot and the oversized white-boxed soap dispenser produces a green slime with a curious gritted texture. He remembers a large jar of Swarfega brought home by his father one summer’s evening. He had spent days tinkering with the gears on an old bike that when painted and finished had one wheel, the front, several sizes smaller than the back. ‘No water, at first’ – and surely the sandy Swarfega restored oil and grime stained fingers to youthful purity.

The Dart trundles in from Tara Street. The doors refuse to open with just a glance and wait for the touch button release. Perhaps an elbow? No one said anything about the cunning virus clinging to threads, or seat coverings or jeans pockets, or face masks? Coasting quietly along the Dart line now, heading south – this could be last summer – bright, brilliant sunshine that is heavy on the eyes, a band of pure ultramarine blue brushed along the horizon and speckled with silver. Yet, there are few people. No early adapters taking a dip in Killiney, no crowds brimming at the platforms about to bustle life into the carriages. He removes to the opposite side of the Dart sitting safely in a window seat. Awkward fathers in St. Anne’s park throw Frisbees for their children. Others can be seen in the distance cycling wobbily along pathways with smaller ones in train. The obligations of the lockdown clearly making parenting possible in novel activities and out-door pursuits.

Sharing a car with a busy nurse often provides these solitary excursions on public transport as the car waits patiently in the hospital staff parking spaces. A good book to read on the Dart, three hours, at times, of coveted aloneness with no particular obligation to talk to or even acknowledge another person, is much valued. Now these simple pleasures are sharply outlined in high definition. And still Yellow warnings, explanations and recommendations abound in the Dart as in the Luas. A different committee, he supposes, opted for modest Yellow pendants hung around the necks of off-limits seating. He walks the length of the carriage as it approaches Bray Station. He wonders if he now has the virus. A healthcare worker – yes. Middle 50’s – yes. Married to a nurse – yes. The pendants hang languid, like mourners marking the solemnity of the question. The ‘Standard Tickets’ touch screen option – yes. Touching the ATM hooded metallic buttons – yes. Turning off the tap in the station toilet, after washing hands – yes. Does he have the virus? Will the presence and establishment of the virus be detectable within? It is novel, not yet known to the immune system. It will surely be like, but unlike, a flu or cold virus. Yellow is a cowardly colour he decides. Coronavirus is sinister, skulking, grinning while lingering on surfaces longer than is reasonably fair – it’s not fair. One-touch contact from any surface to an itchy nose or an eye irritant to going viral, literally, in the human lungs choking life and breath to a solitary death and burial, unattended and unsupported as it ought – marked only by Yellow, all along the way.

Written by Paul Dempsey.