FROM BAD TO WORSE

The economic dislocation of Covid-19 and its aftermath has sunk his business and left Guy Grieve wondering: where now?

The recent tidal wave of economic hardship leaves Guy Grieve pondering his next steps

As detailed in recent downbeat columns from the frontline of rural Scotland, 2019-20 has been an awful winter of relentless strife and misfortune. But if the fates were winning, we were at least sustained by that age-old refrain: ‘Summer is coming.’

That was the mantra when our dry suits were leaking and we had to push on even though we were damp and cold. When bad went to worse, thoughts of the sun-soaked days of plenty which lay ahead were what sustained us when the wind and sea were up, the skies dark and the water even darker.

The plan was as it has always been, to survive winter and make hay in the summer. Even in our darkest hours we knew that we could – we would – rediscover the joy of the job with long days out upon a glimmering summer horizon.

And then, just as we were getting a first glimpse of the light on the horizon, an almighty darkness descended upon our vulnerable enterprise. Covid19 struck. And in the space of one week our entire market disappeared. We normally send out nearly ten thousand scallops a week, but instead within three days demand had fallen to precisely zero and we had a substantial amount of money owed to us.

I spoke with my eldest son just as everything was dying around us and it broke my heart to see his irrepressible spirit of youthful optimism trying to make sense of the reality that was gently settling upon us like radioactive ash from a reactor fire.

‘Well lad, remember these times,’ I said to him. ‘You studied the Great Crash of 1929 during your history classes didn’t you?’

He nodded. ‘Well this is 29 for 20,’ I continued. ‘And make no mistake, we’re going to have a depression for years after this crash.’

Suitably appraised of the coming storm, and with no doubts about the prospects for the family business, he duly went off and applied for about twenty jobs. Many weeks later, not one has replied to the young hopeful. Office after office is closed or mothballed. Private businesses are going under, the public sector is cutting its cloth.

At 46, I am wondering what are we going to do. There is no furlough for company directors of small limited companies. And although friends might joke that I might sound like a character from Brideshead

Revisited, like most fishermen, I have no trust fund to cushion this disaster.

I think that the world is never going to be the same and I’m really unsure about what my next steps could be. I’ve a deep sense of foreboding about the future for little enterprises like ours.

Just a week into the disaster I headed straight for the mainland once the boats had been mothballed and we had all resigned ourselves to the prospect of living like the Viet Cong for months ahead. I needed to find some kind of job to at least generate something.

It was abundantly clear to me that the place to be was logistics. The home delivery market would be booming and it would be a dream time for courier firms, with empty roads and every address occupied with people able to receive parcels without undue hassle for drivers.

My logic meant that I soon found myself at a massive warehouse, standing in a line of men giving urine samples, after which a group of us were seated around a table for an introduction to the business.

Before the presentation began the woman in charge asked for a little background from all of us. I’ll never forget the young man opposite me who, with lowered eyes, said that he had been an airline pilot for Flybe. It was heartbreaking. All that work and expense and commitment in getting his wings blown away by a virus.

Later we learnt what the reality of the very Covid-19-exposed job would be and it profoundly shocked me. We were to be selfemployed. We would pay for the fuel. We would hire the van and we would get 65p per parcel delivered. And we were expected to work six days per week.

I just could not do it. I just cannot become a cog in such a cynical wheel with such misery behind every delivery becoming my daily bread.

I’m renting a little place in the hills beside a village called Heriot. It’s beautiful and serene. I’m digging a veggie patch and looking for work. In three months’ time we’re absolutely out of money.

The reality settling upon us was like radioactive ash from a reactor fire