What happened to Covid key workers when the clapping stopped?
Five years after the UK’s first lockdown was imposed, those who kept Britain running face a different challenge
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Becoming a fast-food delivery driver had seemed like a golden opportunity for Muhammet to make enough money to move out of his houseshare in south London. “The salary was basically two times more than what I was getting from working in a restaurant,” he recalled.
Muhammet, 33, had been earning minimum wage before the pandemic. But after the first UK lockdown was imposed in March 2020, demand for food delivery services such as Deliveroo and Uber Eats soared, offering gig economy workers a chance to boost their earnings. In return, delivery drivers — who were disproportionately likely to be from ethnic minority backgrounds — were left to face the deadly virus, with vaccines and treatments still a distant hope.
Muhammet was among an estimated 10.6 million Brits who kept turning up to work during the UK’s first lockdown to keep basic services running even as colleagues became sick and died. It was for these people that Britain stood on its doorsteps and applauded each week, led by the prime minister, Boris Johnson, and his cabinet.
Yet on the eve of the fifth anniversary of that initial lockdown, Muslim key workers who spoke to Hyphen said the government’s gratitude had not translated into meaningful action — and that their jobs are harder than ever.
Today, Muhammet puts on a brave face regarding the risks he faced during the pandemic. “I was thinking, if people die, we will all die together,” he said.
Of greater concern to him now is the cost of living crisis that followed Covid, turning what was once a well-paid, flexible job into one that is exhausting, unpredictable and financially unsustainable.
He now finds himself working 10 to 12 hours a day for as little as £8 an hour, less than the minimum wage, as food couriers only get paid for the deliveries they make. Most companies also require those with cars and motorised scooters to pay for their own vehicle insurance, adding to the cost of work. “It’s got worse, and there are fewer jobs,” he said. “People tipped more generously two or three years ago.”
The takeaway and home delivery boom that began during the pandemic lockdowns has continued. Riders’ pay, however, is decreasing in real terms. At the same time, fast food delivery companies have been accused of depriving riders of basic employment rights. The UK supreme court ruled in 2023 that Deliveroo riders are self-employed and do not have a right to collective bargaining, effectively banning them from going on strike.
The impact of this has been profound on drivers like Muhammet, who asked us to withhold his surname because he fears being identified as Muslim could expose him to abuse. Long hours and stress are taking a toll on his health: he keeps getting sick and developed pneumonia last year. “The job has become more stressful,” he admitted. “I don’t have time for anything else.”
Fatima*, a care worker in her 30s from Leeds, supports children in foster care. While some of her visits were switched to video calls as the first pandemic lockdown hit, others continued in person. “The more difficult placements we were worried about, we still went out to see with PPE that was in the office — masks, gloves, hand sanitisers and aprons,” she said. Fatima was nervous about catching the virus as she had young kids and an elderly mother at home.
Today, she and her colleagues face a different challenge. Frontline staff have quit the profession “in droves” — driven out by the rising cost of living and pay falling behind inflation. “We’re seeing a very young, inexperienced workforce, but also the council is hiring loads from abroad because they just can’t fill the posts, and again, they are newly qualified and don’t have that background experience,” said Fatima, using a pseudonym as council workers are not allowed to speak to the press. In addition, as some of her meetings moved online, Fatima was given more cases to look after in the time she had supposedly freed up. But she explained: “We never had the time in the first place. Our profession is one of those where we work through our lunch break, work late, work evenings, and work all hours.”
Fatima appreciated the weekly Clap for Our Carers, but said it hadn’t been matched by material improvements. “You’d think they’d improve things like working conditions and caseloads, or pay,” she said, “but they haven’t.”
Akkas Miah runs Ukay Fish & Meat Bazar in Whitechapel, east London. Nestled between a pharmacy and an electronics store, the shop has been in Miah’s family since 2012. Inflation since the pandemic has hit business hard. “The cost of electricity is high,” he said, as fridges hummed at the back of the shop. “Meat shops like us are struggling.”
Ukay was designated an “essential business” when the pandemic hit, meaning it stayed open during the lockdowns. Despite clear signs urging social distancing, not everyone followed the rules, and Miah contracted Covid, spending eight days in hospital.
Meanwhile, with reduced footfall and no online sales to fall back on, the shop struggled. Customers stockpiled meat, fish and toiletries, but supply chain disruptions left shelves empty. Footfall has now largely returned to pre-pandemic levels, but Miah said: “We’re not millionaires. For a small shop like ours, it will take a long time to recover what we lost.”
He doesn’t consider himself a frontline worker in the way NHS staff were, but believes shop workers’ struggles went largely unrecognised. “The clapping was mainly for the NHS workers, but I don’t think people realised how people in retail had to keep going,” he said.
The pandemic arrived at a pivotal moment for Iman, now 26, a teacher at an academy in north London. She was training for a PGCE qualification while working as a school support employee for 16 hours a week. “I still remember that moment when they said schools would remain open only for children of key workers,” she said. It meant that, though most children were off school, she would still have to go to work. Iman — who asked us to withhold her surname to avoid problems with her employer — was particularly worried about passing the virus on to her clinically vulnerable mother.
Five years on, Iman still cares for her mother, but school attendance hasn’t returned to pre-pandemic levels, and London’s shrinking inner-city school population is the subject of growing concern as the cost of living drives young families out of the city. Meanwhile, her basic pay no longer covers her and her mother’s living costs, not helped by the fact academies have more freedom in setting salary levels. “There was a time when being a history or English teacher on the main pay scale was enough,” she said. “But now, taking on additional roles, like pastoral leadership, makes a big material difference.” She wonders what her career would have looked like had the cost of living crisis not forced her to work longer hours and stay in the profession.
Muhammet, too, has had to put his ambitions on hold. He still lives in a shared house, the dream of having his own place now on ice, and feels “disappointed, frustrated and stupid”. “When you are under stress, even small things affect you,” he said. “I’m not as young as I was yesterday.”
*Name has been changed
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