OVER a lifetime, only a handful of clothes stick in the mind. My first pair of jeans, a black lace cocktail dress, fabulous polka dot sling-back stilettos I bought for a wedding some years back. To this meagre list can now be added a luminous, sleeveless nylon jerkin. It was left hanging for me on the garden gate at the weekend, provided by Borders Council for those helping out neighbours who are temporarily confined behind doors.

In Italy, in case of breakdown, all drivers are required by law to have one of these high-vis vests, not just for themselves but also for passengers. They drape them nonchalantly over the seat backs, which is where mine now lives too. The idea is for local volunteers to wear them when delivering prescriptions, or shopping, or checking to see if people are okay. Presumably it’s so householders know, at half a mile’s distance, that the person staggering up the street laden with parcels is not a random stranger intending to shower them with unwanted muesli or medication.

Since my involvement entails nothing more than a bit of light shopping for a few folk, most of whom live within yards of my front door, there’s no need for anything official or officious. To don a sherbet lemon jacket when dropping off asparagus or cornflakes would be to turn into Captain Mainwaring, with clipboard and pointer under arm. There is, nevertheless, a childish thrill in knowing I’ve got one should I need it. In theory, now that I have the wherewithal to be fluorescent, I could redirect traffic around a pot-hole or dig up the village green in search of drains, looking qualified to deal with any civic emergency that might arise.

It was the French who imbued the gilet jaune with anarchist chic, which is no mean feat. Mine was designed with a burly bloke in mind, and seems to have seen a bit of the world already. All the better, in this hand-me-down era, where spanking new is frowned upon as frivolous. In the shift towards thrift, baggy and shabby earn extra Brownie points.

From clachans to city centres, big-hearted armies across the entire country are organising rotas, filling in spreadsheets, and helping out to make sure those in greatest need or isolation do not feel abandoned or helpless. The spirit of kindness this pandemic has stirred is humbling. We’ve always liked to think of ourselves as a caring nation – not always with reason – but seeing the range of ways in which theory is being put into practice is eye-opening. This will have far-reaching consequences, some of which, I suspect, will reverberate long after lockdown. Not the least of these is discovering how many are eager to be pressed into service, and what they can achieve when marshalled.

None of us knows how long more vulnerable members of society will be asked to stay home. What is increasingly clear, though, is that while the sort of helpful domestic support going on now will be finite – even if, for some, the necessity of relying on others makes it feel never-ending – informal community involvement on several fronts will continue to be important, and perhaps even essential, in the coming years.

Long before the present situation, a crack squad of citizen gardeners had taken it upon themselves to turn our nearest town into an outpost of Kew gardens. Others put up Christmas decorations, or tend the tubs and raised beds at the train station, keeping plants on the concourse thriving across the seasons. There are individuals, meanwhile, who go out in all weathers with litter pickers and refuse bags. They clear the verges and river banks of crisp-packets, plastic bottles, cans, takeaway cartons and all the detritus ditched by those who should (and do) know better. Thanks to them, wildlife and livestock are safer, burns cleaner, the undergrowth no longer unsightly and depressing.

I’ve always been intrigued by those who don’t feel their patch ends where their property meets the pavement. For such folk, the mental map of where their obligation or responsibility lies stretches far beyond the obvious bounds of self-interest. Most of us like to keep our own house in order, but those who are outward-looking are protective of a much wider area. The same goes for helping others. For some, the family circle is as far as their antennae reach. Others respond to those in need whom they’ve never met, or – through charitable giving especially – whose names they’ll never know.

Who can say what state the economy will be in when this virus goes into retreat, nor how long it will take to recover. None of the predictions makes cheerful reading, so it seems reasonable to assume that, for a period at least, there will not be an abundance of cash in council coffers. They were hardly overflowing a year ago but with the likelihood of a serious fiscal downturn, shoestring budgets will grow even more threadbare.

Around these parts, people are stepping up, not just to collect refuse or plant bulbs by the roadside, but to mow communal areas of grass, strim embankments and de-litter waterways and bridlepaths. You could say that most of this is the council’s responsibility, and you’d be right. At a certain point, however, it becomes a pernicious and self-defeating outlook always to expect others to get things done when you could simply get up and do it yourself.

So, while this is not intended to suggest letting local government off the hook, whenever essential services come under threat – rural buses and post offices, libraries, care packages – those of us with time, imagination and inclination can surely help plug the gap, even if only in the short-term.

Thanks to the current volunteer force, I foresee a future when, with the memory of Covid 19 fading, initiatives intended to get us through this emergency will live on and help communities flourish. After all, the benefits are not solely for those who at the receiving end. Helpers get the immense satisfaction of knowing they are being useful. How Presbyterian is that? Added to which, the gilet jaune slung Tuscan-style in the car is a pleasant reminder that one day we’ll be able to return to something resembling la dolce vita.

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