Category: Short Fiction

By Heather Allen

Picture the scene: a Midland town in the early 1980s. Six punk rockers, one punkette and a small bearded hippy were gathered around a large four-wheeled object that vaguely resembled a van.

“How much did you say you paid for it?”
The questioner, a Joe Jackson lookalike called Paz, could not hide his incredulity. Shaun lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “Fiver. Bloke was going to scrap it.”
“Should’ve let him, you were ripped off,” Paz laughed, kicking the tyre. The van shuddered and creaked in protest.
“What you gonna do with it, anyway?” 
“Gonna sell it! I’ve done a bit of work on it already.”
“Where?”
“There! Look!”

The rest of us had gathered in a rough huddle around the vehicle in question, a Ford Escort Mk I van. It had definitely seen better days. The cowpat-green paint had bubbled around the wheel arches, and bits were flaking off, revealing the rust beneath. The bodywork was covered in dents and scratches, and the number plate was held on with string. A large chunk of the wing around the right headlamp consisted entirely of clumsily-applied fresh filler, and it was this to which Shaun was pointing.

“Right,” said Paz, smirking. “I can see you’ve put some work in there, alright.”
“Sell it?” I laughed. “Who’s gonna buy that heap of rust?”
Shaun scowled at me. “For your information, it’s in the Telegraph tonight.”
“What you asking for it?” I said, sniggering.
“Twenty quid! Reckon someone’ll snatch me hands off.”
At this,  the seven of us – me, Paz, Johnny, Pete, Spike, Reg the hippy, and Nige – exploded into fits of laughter, in which the words “Twenty quid!” and “Snatch his hands off!” were to be heard.

Shaun waited, scowling. When we had eventually calmed down, he said: “What I actually came round for was to see if anyone wanted to come for a drive, before I sell it? It might look like a piece of junk but it’s bloody fast.”
Reg laughed. “You’ve got to be joking, mate! That thing don’t look safe.”
“It’s perfectly safe,” protested Shaun, slapping the roof and causing the van to creak alarmingly.

Pete was jigging up and down. “Yeah, yeah, we should go for it, it’ll be a right laugh. Go up to the services and get some breakfast.”
Reg shrugged. “What the helicoil. Shall we?”
“I don’t care; we’re all going to die soon anyway!” I said, with the typical fatalism of a Cold War teenager. The others grumbled in agreement.
Paz, the self-appointed King of all that is Escort, grunted. “Won’t be as fast as mine. Okay, but I’m driving.”
“Only if I can drive yours next time,” said Shaun.
“No bloody way. Alright, you drive. But I’m sitting in the front, just to keep an eye on you.”
“Okay,” Shaun shrugged.

Shaun stepped to the rear of the van and turned the door handle. Pulled it. Pulled it harder, swearing. Pulled it a third time, and the doors shot open with a squeal, landing him on his back. “Okay,” he said, brushing himself down, “Pile in.” So Reg, Nige and Pete climbed in, followed by six-footers Spike and Johnny, leaving a tiny gap for me between Johnny and the door. Shaun turned the key and the engine coughed and clanged into life.

“You didn’t think it necessary to fix the exhaust, then?” Paz shouted.
“Got a hole in the end, innit? S’fine!” Shaun shouted back. He let out the clutch and the van kangarooed forward.
“Have you got a licence?” shouted Paz.
“You know I ain’t. Have you?”
“Don’t be daft. But at least I can drive.”
“So can I!” shouted Shaun, careering down the street, the back end of the car sagging two inches from the road, the suspension rolling and bucking as he accelerated up to an illegal speed and threw it around the bend.

“Sid and Nancy!” Johnny cried, as he threw his arms around me and squeezed me a bit too tightly. I wriggled free, on account of needing to breathe.
“Shaun! Shaun! Slow down!” yelled Reg. “I’m too young to die!”
“We’re fine, don’t worry! Don’t you want to see what she can do?” shouted Shaun.
“Not particularly, no!” Reg shouted back.
“I’ll be surprised if it stays in one piece all the way to the services,” I yelled, and Johnny clenched his jaw, turning a pale shade of green.

The nightmare drive continued, the elderly Escort wallowing and rolling around every bend, the creaking and squealing growing louder every minute. We soon reached the dual carriageway, and Shaun put his foot down, laughing like a maniac. Paz was shouting: “What you think you’re doing? You’re an idiot! You’re going to get us all killed!”

In the back, Nige had rolled into a ball and was sobbing uncontrollably. Spike was cackling and slapping his knees; Pete was gripping the sill, eyes tightly closed; Johnny was fervently reciting the Lord’s Prayer; and Reg was yelling expletives and attempting to climb into the front. Eventually we approached the notorious chicane which terminated the dual carriageway and skirted the bottom edge of the golf course. The road ahead veered sharply to the left and then to the right in a reverse ‘s’ shape. This was a favourite spot for teenage drivers to show off, usually with a carload of shouting mates.

“Hold on, everyone!” yelled Shaun, and threw the van hard left. The groans and squeals of protesting metal became deafening. We all started yelling. Johnny and I gripped the sill behind us as tightly as we could. I closed my eyes.

Suddenly, there was a sickening crack, and the van veered out of control. Everyone started to shout and scream at once. The van slewed onto its left side with a crash, hurtling forward. Everything seemed to slow down. This is the end, I thought. That’s not fair! I’m only sixteen!

The van rolled onto its roof, then slewed onto its right side, still moving at speed. The gloom in the back was a blur of heads and boots and limbs and leather jackets. Somebody kicked me in the face, and I banged my head against the side of the van. Blood trickled down my neck. The van rolled back onto its wheels for a few yards, then there was a jarring thump, slowing it down. Still moving, it barrelled onto its side again, then finally thumped onto its roof and slid to a halt.

I fell out of the back, Johnny landing in a heap close by. The rest crawled out slowly. Spike rolled round to the side of the van and was violently sick. Nige, still crying, sat on the ground, cradling his knees and rocking.
Pete rubbed his head and swore. “Who kicked me in the head? I bet it was you, Johnny, with your massive Docs!”
“Probably, who cares?” Johnny shrugged. “We’re all alive.”
Johnny turned to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. Banged my head though.” I gingerly touched my wound. The bleeding had almost stopped. There was a small cut and a bump, and my head ached, but I felt fine otherwise.

“I thought we were going to die, Johnny!”
“Yeah, me too!” He looked around and frowned. “Reg? You okay?”
Reg was lying on the ground in the foetal position. He was still and silent.
“Reg?” I moved to his side and crouched, my heart pounding. Was he dead? Poor little hippy.
“Reg! Can you hear me! Reg!”
His mouth opened and his lips moved.
“What was that, Reg?” I leaned in so that my ear was close to his mouth.
“…balls…” came the faint yet agonised whisper.
“Oh,” I said, standing up. “I’ll give you a minute, then.”

Then we heard Paz shout: “Oi! Someone give us a hand!” We turned, and saw him, purple in the face, dangling upside down by his seat belt. We rushed to help him out, then ran round to Shaun to force open his door and get him the right way round. Soon we were all assembled at the rear of the groaning, steaming van.

“I don’t like to state the obvious,” said Paz, “but we’ve just crashed an illegal vehicle driven by an illegal driver through a council-owned fence onto a council-owned golf course and left half the van spread all over the road. Now, unless anyone thinks it’s a good idea for us to hang around and wait for the Police to turn up, I reckon we should get moving pretty quick.”

Nige dried his eyes, and helped me to get Reg to his feet. We all staggered, as fast as we could, up the hill to the top of the golf course, trying not to look behind us. When we had reached the top, we paused for breath and turned. A trail of wreckage spread across the road to the fence, then a deep gouge in the grass led to where the van rested, smoking and creaking, severely dented yet surprisingly intact. A crowd was beginning to gather.

“I feel we should say a few words,” said Pete, rubbing his head.
“Bloody good motors, those Mark Ones,” said Paz.
“That’ll do,” said Shaun, as the sound of sirens reached our ears. “Can we go now?”

We hurried over the brow of the hill until we were out of sight of the wreckage, then slowed to a leisurely stroll. Paz turned to Shaun and grinned. “So,” he said, “you still planning on selling it?”

That was all it took to set us off. We started to laugh, and soon we were in hysterics, unable to speak, our sides hurting, tears rolling down our cheeks. We were still laughing when we got to Johnny’s house for tea and toast, still laughing when we left to go to the pub, and still laughing when we all staggered home at the end of the night. I still laugh now when I remember that day; the day we cheated death.

by Heather Allen

Through a crack in the door, Jessie watched the old man as he bent over his workbench. He had his back to her, his white hair standing out in a cloud around his head. On the bench in front of him was an array of phials, test tubes and flasks. An acrid smell drifted through the crack. It tickled Jessie’s nose. As she watched, the old man held a test tube filled with a greenish substance over a flame, then poured it into a flask of clear liquid. The mixture bubbled and frothed, turning bright purple and glowing. The smell was overpowering. Jessica sneezed.

The old man stood up, turned to the door and flung it open. Jessica was already halfway through the hole in the hedge, but it was too late.

“Jessica Smith!” he called, “Come back here!” 

Jessie was not in the habit of defying adults, so she obeyed. She returned to stand meekly in front of her next-door neighbour. He frowned down at her.

“Now, I should give you a telling off,” he said. 

Jessie’s lower lip wobbled.

“But,” he said, and smiled, “I can’t do that. I was just as curious at your age.” 

Jessie could not imagine Mr Adams ever being eight, but she said nothing. 

He continued: “What did you see?”

She swallowed and said: “I saw you put the green stuff in the other stuff and it went purple.”

Mr Adams nodded. “Do you want to have a proper look?”

She glanced over at her house on the other side of the hedge, then turned wide eyes back to the old man and nodded

He lowered his voice. “Go on,” he said. “Go and ask your mother first. She won’t mind, she’s known me since she was a little dot.” He chuckled.

Five minutes later, Jessie returned, and Mr Adams let her in.

“Now,” he said, “what do you suppose I’m going to do with this?”

Jessie was looking around the shed. Bunches of herbs and odd-looking roots hung from the rafters, and dusty jars and bottles lined the shelves. She turned to him.

“Hmm?”

“I said, what do you think I’m going to do with this?”

“Don’t know,” said Jessie “Drink it?”

Mr Adams laughed. “No, I’m not going to drink it! It might turn me into a prince!” He laughed, and shook his head. “No, it’s for my arthritis.”

He lifted down an enormous jar of cream, opened the lid, poured the mixture into it and stirred it with a wooden spoon. The result was a faintly glowing purplish gloop.

“Ugh,” said Jessie.

“It’s perfectly safe, I can assure you!” Mr Adams said with a laugh. “Just a few herbs, some things you can get at the pharmacist, and a few…” he coughed, “other ingredients.”

“What other ingredients?”

Mr Adams raised a bony hand to his face and tapped his nose. “That’s for me to know. One day, I might tell you, but not until you’re older, Jessica Smith.”

By Heather Allen

At this time of year, there are so many lovely windows to look at in our street. Everyone seems to have made a particularly splendid effort this year – we even have a window advent in this town; that’s how seriously people take their Christmas decorations. I am a naturally nosey person, so I feel compelled to take a look in people’s houses whenever and wherever I can. When I’m walking down the road on my daily constitutional, I can’t help but peer in. It’s even more interesting when I walk in the evening, although walking in the dark goes against my instincts to seek daylight and company. At night, though, the Christmas lights are all on and shining brightly; and I can see the faces of my neighbours, lined up on their sofas, reading books or looking at their phones, watching TV or eating. It’s comforting.

Yes, I am nosey, and I have to look away quickly before their innate ‘being watched’ sense kicks in, but just seeing them gives me a happy little thrill in my heart, the idea that they are all there, in their houses, surrounding me, most of them good, kind people, living good, kind lives.

I was walking home from the shops in the early evening yesterday, thinking thoughts like this, window gazing and not really engaging with the world around me, when something made me stop short. I had admired the technicolour display at number 75, waved at the kids at number 73, then looked at the pretty tree in number 69, the house next to ours.. Number 71 was dark. But – I forced my steps back and looked in the window of number 71: the house where until her death in April a lovely old lady had lived, alone. She never went to much effort at Christmas, being on her own, but there was always a small tree inside, decorated with a smattering of coloured lights.

No, it was dark, of course it was. I could just make out her heavy old furniture, the desiccated plants lined along the windowsill, waiting for the clearance team to come now that the house had been sold at auction.

But when I walked past, as my eyes skimmed the window, for a few seconds I thought I saw my neighbour sitting in her big old armchair, her little tree twinkling beside her, holding something in her hand – a mince pie, maybe? I could have sworn that she raised her eyes for a split second and met mine, raised her other hand to wave as she bit down on what could well have been one of the mince pies I used to take round to her house every Christmas.

But no, it must have been my overactive mind. I shivered.

“Goodbye, Mary, Happy Christmas in Heaven,” I whispered.

I turned towards home, but as I did so, for a split second I thought I saw her pale face behind the glass, returning my smile, heard in my mind’s ear: “Happy Christmas, dear.”

I walked the few paces to my front gate, to the the welcome sight of my family in the front room, our beautiful tree and all our fairy lights. I shook my head.

“Thank you, Mary,” I murmured, and turned the key in the lock.

By Heather Allen

Sophie awoke at the crack of dawn. She did not usually stir until much later, and even then it took an hour or so and a few gallons of coffee for her to pass as human. Today, though, she was fully awake, early, suddenly, all at once, and with a feeling of dread. Something was badly wrong.

She jumped out of bed, padded downstairs, and unlocked the back door to stand in the garden. The birds were just waking up, and bright dew sparkled on the grass. All as usual for an early morning at the end of June. But there was something different. Sophie could feel it, a shifting in the air. Subtle, but tangible, like a pinch of paprika in a stew. A waft of heat in the breeze, a warm breath coming from the south east, infusing the damp morning air.

Frowning, she looked up into the sky, but it yielded no clues. Just a deep, serene blue, without a wisp of cloud. She inhaled deeply. There was a tang in the air, like baked earth or a desert wind. As if a gigantic oven door had been flung open, just over the horizon. She sighed and closed her eyes. So that was it.

She studied the garden around her, examined the tender plants, listened to the dawn’s exquisite cacophony while she considered what to do. She didn’t have to check the weather report, she just knew it in her bones. It was that time again. She had caught the breath of Sirius, the dog star, harbinger of heat, bringer of the hot wind. Each year worse. This time, she knew, it would be unbearable.

The dog days were coming, sure. That hideous heat. Fine for some, in fact most people seemed to enjoy it, but not her. They would strip off most of their clothes – really, they would do that! – strip off, and expose their vulnerable flesh to the sun, pronouncing it good as they drowned in their own sweat. Let it flay them, then. Let them burn. Time for her to escape.

Could she outrun the hot wind? She closed her eyes, felt the air shift around her. It was growing closer. She had to try. Instinct said head north, head east. She ran into the house, quickly checked the map, packed her panniers, and wriggled into her leathers. She locked the house and hauled her faithful ‘78 Triumph Bonneville out of the garage, clanging the door down behind her.

“Time for a trip, old girl,” she murmured, as she strapped her luggage into place, then checked tyres, connections, and fuel. Angling the old 750 towards the road, she eased the starter into position, balanced on the foot pegs, and brought her weight down and back onto the pedal. The engine turned over, but didn’t catch. She kicked again. A metallic burble this time, then nothing. Again, and the engine caught with a sputter and a roar. She grinned. Always started on the third kick.

She revved the engine to warm it up, savouring the thump of the big twin. Her next-door neighbour, never a friendly sort, twitched her curtains back and shouted something out of the window. “Yeah, yeah, you’re just jealous,” Sophie muttered, and pulled on her helmet.

With a one-fingered wave at her neighbour, Sophie knocked the Bonnie into gear, eased the throttle open, feathered the clutch and pulled off, the big twin thumping away beneath her. She was glad she always kept her tank full – you never knew when you might need to take off. There was no one to say goodbye to, because she hadn’t, just hadn’t made that kind of connection. No partner, no children, few friends, no one she was close to, no family around. Any work she took on was transitory, fleeting, ephemeral even. She had a small inheritance, enough to get her through the worst of times. And now, here they were. The hot wind was on its way, the hottest yet.

She had to get as far north as she could, as soon as she could. Driven by the wind, she headed for the open road.

By Heather Allen

The sun was high above the horizon by the time Eppie had completed her chores and readied herself and little Molly for their morning walk. Silas, Eppie’s father, was already busy at his loom in the cottage they shared, despite that she had told him he should rest. He had been getting very tired lately, and he did not need to labour so hard, not now.

“What would be the purpose of idleness?” he had replied, turning his large eyes to meet hers. “There is always a need for good cloth, is there not?” She could not disagree with that. There were always customers ready to hand over their gold for a good length of fine-woven fabric, and many uses for his weaving in their home too: clothes for Molly, household linens, and now all the bags and cloths needed for Eppie’s burgeoning trade.

This morning, as on many mornings, she and Molly set out to walk across the fields to the river bank to search for a few particular herbs. Eppie had a fine new rush basket, woven from reeds which had grown around the edge of the Stone-pit near the cottage. She had made a smaller one for Molly. Now they strolled, the golden sun climbing the sky, Molly a miniature of Eppie in her pale blue frock and pinafore, her red-gold curls bouncing as she broke away and ran across the meadow.

“Be careful, sweetheart!” Eppie called out, but knew it was pointless. Telling a six year old to be careful? She recalled her father’s tales of her own exploits as a wild child he could not bear to discipline, and took comfort in the memory. She had turned out well enough, had she not? But now—

“Momma, mom, is this one?”

Molly’s voice rang across the meadow. She stood next to a plant taller than herself, the familiar purple bells arranged around the long stalk, open mouths inviting bees in for a visit. A foxglove, and a fine example, standing at the front of a large patch of its fellows.

“Very good, Molly. Yes, it is. That is a foxglove. Well done.”

Eppie approached the foxglove patch.

“Now then, Molly, stand back. You must not pick this one yourself. It is very poisonous.”

Molly jumped back, her eyes round. “Poisonous? But I thought it was medicine?”

“Yes, but only if you use tiny amounts. It is very good medicine for the dropsy.”

“Dropsy? What is that?”

“It is a nasty thing where your arms and legs swell up. Your grandfather healed a lady in the village of it once. He helped her when the doctor could not.”

“Ooh! Grandaddy’s clever!”

“Yes, he is,” replied Eppie, as she produced her pocket knife from her pinafore pocket. She selected four of the best foxglove spears and deftly cut off the last ten inches. Then, reaching into her basket, she pulled out a square of waxed cloth, and carefully wrapped it around the cut ends of the stalks before putting them in the basket.

It had taken Eppie a long time to persuade her father she should learn to be a herbalist, despite his knowledge and affinity with the subject. He would frequently recall the times as a child when his mother had taken him with her on her plant-gathering walks near the northern town where he grew up. Eppie remembered Silas naming plants for her on their walks in her own childhood, and clearly remembered too the look of pain in his eyes as he did so. She had not understood his sadness at the time, but when she was old enough to understand, he recounted the tale of the time when, not long after his arrival at Raveloe, he used a herbal tincture to heal a lady, and his efforts were met with a confusing mixture of suspicion and demand. His refusal to heal anyone else, and increasing annoyance at the villagers’ pleas, had set minds and hearts against him for a time. Slowly, Silas had accepted Eppie’s exhortations that times had changed (indeed, herbalism was becoming quite the fashionable thing in London, so she had heard), and had begun to share his knowledge with her. As it turned out, that knowledge was extensive.

“You must remember, Molly,” she said as she continued to walk, “that your grandfather was taught how to use plants as medicine by his mother, who used them herself, like her mother before her. He knows the use of plants well, but if he had made a mistake with the dose…” she shook her head.

“The lady would be dead,” Molly said, emphasising the final word with gleeful relish.

“Yes, Molly, but unfortunately so might your grandfather.”

“Why?” the child’s voice was outraged.

“Because, Molly, some folks might think he did it on purpose. If the law ruled against him he might have been…” she swallowed, “hanged.”

“Oough.” Molly shuddered and rubbed at her throat. “Mommy, I hope you never kill anyone!”

“Do not worry, sweetheart,” Eppie said, bending to kiss her daughter’s warm curls, “I know what I’m doing.”

Presently, the pair came to the river bank, stopping to gather bunches of yarrow and dandelions on the way. Molly skipped along the bank, pointing at flowers.

“Is this one, Mommy?”

“No dear, that’s a buttercup.”

“This one?”

“No, that is a cowslip. Useful, but not what we are looking for.”

“This one?”

She stood by a patch of an unassuming, yellow-flowered plant with large green waxy leaves.

“Yes, my love, you have found the right one. Good girl! Coltsfoot, good for the coughs and the wheezes. This time,” she said, spreading out a piece of sacking and kneeling on it, “I want the whole plant.”

Eppie reached into her basket for a hand fork (a gift from the local blacksmith for helping with his rheumatics), and started to loosen the earth around the plant. Then, very carefully, she slid a trowel (another gift) into the hole she had made, and eased out the roots. She laid the plant to one side, then got to work on another. A third, and she put aside her tools. “That will be enough,” she said. “We have to leave some so they can grow back again.”

“But Mommy, there are lots and lots and lots!” cried Molly, waving her chubby hand up the river bank, where the yellow flowers were abundant.

“Yes, but we only need three. That is more than enough for now. We can always get more later. We must never, ever be greedy.”

Molly pursed her lips and shook her head solemnly. “No, Mommy, we must not.”

Eppie cleaned her tools carefully on a rag she kept for the purpose, then stood up, rolling up her piece of sacking and placing it in the basket with the plants. She smiled at her daughter, who stood in front of her, bouncing up and down, barely able to contain the life in her limbs as she waited for her mother’s next instruction. Eppie gazed across the meadow and saw what she was looking for. A wide expanse of globular purple flowers, nodding in the warm breeze. She smiled.

“A very important job for you now, Molly!”

Molly jumped up and down. “What is it, Momma?”

Eppie walked a few paces and picked a bloom, then held it out to her daughter.

“I want you to pick me some of these. Wait…” for Molly had already set off towards the patch, “you must make sure the stalk is long, like this, and do not disturb the roots!”

Molly glanced back. “I know, Momma!” She ran.

Eppie followed her daughter to the clover patch, picking stray blooms as she went. Clover, good for a gentle sleeping draught. That would help her father, who sometimes had troubled nights. She sighed. He was a good man. Good right to the soles of his worn brown boots. He did not deserve the troubles he had had in his life, but – here she smiled – he had her now, and her Aaron, the friendship of Aaron’s mother Dolly, and now little Molly. He was well respected, these days, in the village. He was a happy man. But sometimes the old troubles came back to haunt him.

Time seemed to slow as Eppie and Molly picked the clover blossoms. The sun was high in the sky now, gathering heat, and Eppie felt the deep contentment she always felt when surrounded by flowers under a clear sky. Birds sang – here a thrush pealing forth its music, there a charm of goldfinches chattering to each other, and there, a flurry of sparrows fluttering from bush to bush, gossiping as they went. She remembered the words of Godfrey Cass, the son of the old squire and the closest thing they had to gentry in these parts, when he had come to the cottage to announce that he was her true father. He had expected her, a grown girl of eighteen by then, to move to the manor with him and his wife, live a life of luxury and eventually marry a man with money. He had been offended when she refused to leave Silas; and incredulous when she married her Aaron, a lowly gardener and the best husband she could ever wish for. Shaking her head, she smiled at the memory. No rich father or high-born husband could make her life any better than this.

Molly came walking towards her, her little basket overflowing with clover blossoms.

“I cannot carry any more, Momma!” she said.

Eppie laughed. “Thank you, my love. You have done very well. Now…” she looked up at the sky, “it is time to go home to grandfather. He will be needing a bite to eat, and he will not stop for it unless I put it in front of him!”

Molly reached up her hand to her mother’s, who took it firmly. Together, they walked along the river bank, back across the meadow, to the little stone cottage that was their home.

Don’t we just love the school holidays?

Short fiction by Heather Allen

Hooray, they squeal, hooray! It’s the summer holiday!

Hooray, I growl. Hooray. Now make it go away.

Six summer weeks feel like forever. One hot, horrible day after another, another, another. Hot outside, hot inside, hot inside me. Hot flushes, hot washes, washed all over with sweat dripping, red-faced skin burning, mind melting, blood boiling torture!

Summer! Oh, how we British love it, don’t we just love it? Squeezed into clothing to burn ourselves in, showing way too much skin, slathered in slime to stop that melanoma – mela no, ma’am! This hat is meant to keep my brain from liquefying, perched on my sweating head like a slab of fruit on a knickerbocker glory. Nobody ever looks good in the sun. Nobody with my DNA.

Candles in a jar on her windowsill, melted to a twisted mass. That’s my bones, I think. It’s funny, daughter says, but I’m not laughing, nothing is funny (it is, but) nothing will ever be funny again. Or so it feels to me. At least, not until the beautiful, cool schooldays of September. Summer will roll on, like a mass of molten wax. Thick, slow, hot.

Here we go, then. First day trip. The conservation park. Oh to be a meerkat, they’re made for this weather. They stare as we go past, up on their hind legs, their beady black eyes seeming to judge us. Yes, I think, we may well be idiots, but we are out here and you are locked in there.

Around us, black and yellow warriors circle like fighter pilots, buzzing the bins and the sticky puddles, buzzing our heads. Children run from stinging peril, screaming and flapping. I hold my head. Too much noise.

I stop the rampage with a damp hand, and hunker down, all adult-like. ‘Do you want to get stung? Those wasps, they’ve spent their lives feeding and guarding their young, so now they just want to find some sugar and eat it before they die.’ (Which, sotto voce, is just how I feel). ‘Don’t hurt them and they won’t hurt you. But if you flap your hands at me again, Heaven help me, I will sting you and then we’ll all be bloody sorry.’

In the wire enclosure, the lynx paces, back and forth, up and down. Shouty kids point grimy fingers and squeal. I watch the beast for a while, pacing, pacing, trapped, bored, hot. For a brief second, I catch the creature’s eye. I know you, I think. I am you. Blink, turn, pace.

Pace, pace.

Another bright idea, another bright and burning day. Hey, Mum, let’s go to the farm. Fabulous, I say, I cannot think of anything I’d rather do on a day hot enough to melt your eyebrows off than catch a bus to that grimy West Midlands town, then stroll through its picturesque delights to the urban farm. More miserable animals. Great idea. I’ll make the sandwiches. No, we’re not going to Greggs.

Baggy old town brings me down, whatever the weather guaranteed, holding the heat like a firebowl, the pavements and buildings covered in brown dust, radiating back the furnace heat. I want to tear off my skin. Been here too often but I always get lost. This way, that way, don’t know, it’s over there, keep going, stop arguing, leave your sister alone. I know you’re hot, we’re all flaming HOT. 

Finally, out to the green space, and the farm. In the shop, the lady takes the money and her weary eyes meet mine. ‘Three weeks,’ she says. I nod. ‘Yes.’ Solidarity.

In the farmyard, the usual collection of local families, cheap-tats dads and legging-trousered mums yawping at their spawn to ‘Get here!’ Cute kids, not yet fully conditioned, giggle and gawp at the listless beasts. We three trudge around the yard, peer over the wooden gates into the darkened stalls. I marvel at the unique, separate stinks of alpaca, goat, horse, pig, duck, chicken, rabbit and sheep. Parfum de Farmyard, with mid-notes of armpit and vape smoke, and a redolence of nappy and sick. My two stand and coo over disconsolate sheep, while I sway in a six-inch strip of shade, praying, please God, just a little breeze? A drop of cool rain? Is this my penalty for not going to church, this putrid personalised hell?

And so it drags on. A barbecue – what, now? What fresh hell is this? Kill me, so I may be spared this torture. I said that last time, he reminds me. I promised I’d go this time. You like these people! Yes, I argue, but I hate the heat. But…sigh.

Lo, just like yesterday, it’s going to be the hottest day of the year. A short walk, but a long way with the sun burning. No shade, no cover en route. Yes, this is an umbrella, but today it is a parasol. Thank you for noticing that it is yellow, like a banana. Do not judge me. I must not melt.

Arrive, exhausted already. Take stock, assess survival strategy: I grab a large glass of iced water, place my seat in the shadiest corner of the garden and stay there, listening to other people’s conversations, until I can reasonably sneak away. Only then am I forced to speak, my price for leaving early: ‘Thanks for inviting me,’ (pause for exaggerated yawn), ‘I’m a bit tired, the kids will come home with their dad.’ It’s lovely walking alone in the post-sunset cool. I have half a bottle of wine in the fridge at home, a book to finish, and zero guilt. I’m too old for guilt.

Another day, a home day, even bloody hotter. I am hiding in my office, the coolest room in the house. My brain is cheese. I have done, am doing and intend to do NOTHING which involves me moving from this seat. But hark, here are my darlings! They barge in. This is my sanctuary, my sanctum sanctorum, my sanitarium – yet they are definitely very much in here, and I can’t pretend they are not. Loud voices, eager faces, sweaty bodies standing far too close to me. Right in my face. I can smell them. I feel sick.

‘WHAT?’ Hoping my voice is carrying an adequate measure of menace.

‘We’re hungry! What are we having for dinner?’

I spin round in my chair – it squeaks – and give them the death glare. 

‘I’M BUSY.’

They look at the screen. I’m Googling ‘murder in a heatwave’. They glance at each other.

I turn back to the screen and adopt a sing-song, mistress-of-the-orphanage voice. 

‘Did you know, children, that more murders are committed at 92 degrees Fahrenheit, than at any other temperature?’ 

‘N…no…’ says daughter, her eyes sliding across to the thermometer on the wall.

I snap my head round, look her in the eye, and smile with my teeth only. My throat burns with bile.

‘Do not expect me to cook. I am already cooking. There is ample food in the fridge, the freezer, the cupboards, the fruit bowl, and the breadbin. There is a microwave, which I know you can operate.’

I turn my empty eyes to the boy child, who squirms under my gaze.

‘You are intelligent and resourceful children. You know where the crisps are, and you know where your father is. Now go.’

The door bangs as they leave, and I pick up my pen.

Bank holiday Monday. They said it would be cooler today, but they are idiots. It is 7am and my brain is melting. What to do today? Not another day out. Think. Think. Idea.

I should have bought it in July, when I first thought of it, but he said, don’t get one, we’ve got nowhere to put it when we’re not using it, it’s a waste of money, blah blah and what do I get for listening to him? What?

HOT.

Decision. Click, in the basket, reserve, thanks very much, sweaty trudge down to Argos, sweaty trudge back up the hill, lay out the tarp and open the box.

Bigger than I thought. Oo-er missus. Too hot even for mental innuendo.

Pump it up, pouring with sweat – blimey I’m hot! – never mind, it will be worth it. Wow, it is big. Nearly takes up the whole patio. Not bad for thirty quid. Splendid. Get the hose, turn on the water. 

Tell the kids. Screams of delight.

Cold drink, sit in the shade and watch it fill up. Out they come, cossies on, clutching pool noodles and plastic toys. Climbing in. Squeals. Fun. Job done.

Set the hose to dribble, grab a gin and ice, sit in the pool with the nozzle balanced on my head, water dripping down my face. Coolest I’ve been in weeks.

Lie back and think of Svalbard. And breathe.