They made a mockery of our trust: why Britain is united in fury at the PM and his adviser

Exactly seven days after Boris Johnson placed Britain into lockdown, a 13-year-old south London boy died alone, on a ventilator, in the early hours of the morning.

Five days later, Ismail Mohamed Abdulwahab was also buried alone because his mother and siblings were in self-isolation displaying symptoms of COVID-19.

I remember being struck viscerally by the news: we, too, had developed symptoms and were in self-isolation, and we could see the hospital where Ismail took his last breath from our bedroom window while the boy's grief-paralysed family were locked up somewhere in the suburb next to ours. The thought of them, alone in their agony, seemed unfathomable.

Ismail's death that day brought the British COVID-19 toll to 1789. As I write this, 37,837 have perished. Thousands have been unable to farewell loved ones, hold a partner's hand in labour or welcome a new baby into the world. The terminally ill have been denied precious last moments with family, lovers separated, grandparents distanced from their young ones. In the nation's care homes, the infirm and elderly have been locked up without visitors since March 23.

These personal sacrifices have been made all over the world, not only in Britain: individual freedoms set aside willingly for public health and the common good.

The howls of outrage that erupted when news broke that Johnson's right-hand man, Dominic Cummings, had driven 420 kilometres to his parents' farm, with his wife and son in tow – while showing virus symptoms – were to be expected.

Unparalleled in recent British political history is that this white-hot, palpable fury has spanned the political divide.

A poll published this week showed that 71 per cent of voters believe Cummings flouted the rules and more than 60 per cent want him sacked. A Conservative minister has resigned in disgust, more than 60 Tory MPs have joined the Labour Party in their call for Cummings' head, while the Daily Mail, the country's highest-circulation newspaper not known for its left leanings, published a front-page headline asking, "What planet are they on?" More than a dozen Church of England bishops have raised their heads above the pulpit to question Johnson's integrity and describe his defence as "risible".

Hypocrisy is, of course, not uncommon in politics. It inevitably ignites opprobrium when exposed in all its naked glory. But what the Cummings affair has revealed is that the British voter, already raw from the divisions of Brexit, see his actions in a light much worse than hypocrisy: he has destroyed public trust.

Democratic governments around the world have relied on this most precious commodity to steer their citizens through the horrors of the pandemic.

Dominic Cummings was one of the architects of the policy that asked Ismail's mother to stay home. And she did. As did thousands of other heartbroken Britons, Italians and Americans – because they trusted that their governments' "stay home" orders were for the common good, to protect the most vulnerable and safeguard public safety.

Day after day, Johnson was unequivocal in his orders to the nation to "stay home, save lives". Then, when he was in hospital with the virus, fighting for his own life, his government enacted a raft of laws and fines to police the public good. Again, the advice was explicit: anyone with symptoms should isolate for at least seven days, with a 14-day isolation period for those around them. "You should not be visiting family members who do not live in your home. If you don't follow the rules, the police will have the powers to enforce them. Stay Home. Save the NHS. Save Lives."

Johnson's government took several days to respond to public sightings of Cummings outside London, first in his father's garden, then by woodland near Barnard Castle (on the day of his wife's 45th birthday). It was only when the Daily Mirror's first reports were followed by The Guardian and others that Johnson deigned to comment. Cummings' explanation, he said, was that he'd driven to seek childcare (over a distance pretty much equivalent to that between Sydney and Albury) and this was understandable, following the "instincts of every father in lockdown".

Widespread derision was quickly replaced by fury, forcing the extraordinary spectacle of an unelected apparatchik taking to national television in No.10's rose garden to offer a 40-minute litany of excuses to the nation. The lack of any sign of regret let alone apology unleashed a second, ferocious wave on social media which quickly likened his story about driving to the castle to "test his eyesight" to Prince Andrew's car-crash defence of his friendship with Jeffrey Epstein: "Cummings drove to which Pizza Express? Sorry missed that bit?" "Has he got to the bit about not sweating yet?"

Britain is not a nation characterised by what Aussies would call "dobbers". Personal liberty is hotly defended, so-called "nanny state" tendencies widely debated. It's a nation that has never adopted random breath testing for drink-driving, the wearing of bicycle helmets is voluntary and citizens rail against too many public safety rules and regulations in parks and on public transport.

When Nicola Sturgeon, the Scottish Chief Minister, accepted the resignation of her chief medical officer after she was caught driving a much shorter distance to her holiday home – and she was not symptomatic – public reaction was not homogenous. It was similarly mixed when the UK government's chief scientific adviser, Neil Ferguson, resigned after revelations that he had invited his (married) lover to his home.

And yet in the space of just four days, public opinion of both the Prime Minister and his government has plunged to the lowest it has ever been: polling shows the catalyst for the collapse was Cummings' road trip and his boss's defence of the decision.

The difference with Cummings is that he is the mandarin who shaped the British government's short, sharp public health message – "Stay home. Save the NHS. Save lives" – and yet he decided he and his family were different, more important than the rest of us, thumbing his nose at his own mantra to then travel two-thirds of the country with ill passengers in a car to find suitable childcare.

The Irish Times columnist Fintan O'Toole nailed it this week when he observed that Johnson and Cummings made the people who placed trust in them feel like fools: "As the Catholic Church found in Ireland, people don't forgive violation of the sense of meaning that gives dignity to their own sufferings."

Why?

Because Johnson's and Cummings' betrayal of the British people feels personal: they made an absolute mockery of our collective trust.

Paola Totaro is a former Europe correspondent for The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age and now lives and works in London.