The next day is hotter still. The predictions were for it to nudge up in to the high thirties, which is more and more common. Beth dresses the same, coats herself in antiperspirant. She drinks glass after glass of water to keep from dehydrating. She looks at herself in the mirror to smooth over her slightly damp brow, to push the hairs back after they’ve become sticky from the sweat on her hairline. She doesn’t care that her makeup is blotchy and matted. She swims for longer than usual, just to try and let the cold water seep into her, to try and make it somehow a part of her: to lower her temperature and allow herself to deal with the day. In her classroom, with her GCSE class, they’re going over The Tempest to set them up for the last day of term, a trip to London to see the Barrage and watch the play in the Globe theatre, but she’s lost them before they’ve even begun.
Be not afeared, she reads. The isle is full of noises.
Sounds like the new estates in Cowes, one of the boys says, and you should be well fucking afeared there, I tell you! and that gets a laugh. She tries to continue but it’s pointless; they’re in their own world for the rest of the class, and so is she. She wishes that they didn’t have the trip, but it’s routine now. Every year, the last day of term. Keeps the kids occupied, and they use what money is left of the annual budget on it, because otherwise that money is lost. Somehow most of the parents found their token monetary contribution – little more than pocket money, really – for the trip. When they give up on the book – the boys protesting about how hot it is, and how they can’t concentrate, and how the words sound invented and like lies – she tells them about the floods, and how it happened. Some of the children, Beth discovers, have never been to London.
What was it like when the floods came? asks a girl, one of the few who seem emotionally attached to what they’re doing.
It was awful; everything was ruined, and so many people lost their houses, all their things. And you know, a lot of people lost their lives.
Where were you when it happened, miss? asks one boy, one of the kids she most dislikes. One of the school’s branded troublemakers. She humours him: at least he’s paying attention to this.
I was at home, Beth says.
Did you watch it on the news?
We all did, yes. It was a really big deal. She loads up the projector (whirr, and then the background hum of a machine doing its work, she notices; doing its job), and then plays one of the files from the network. Watch this, she tells them.
The class are almost completely silent as they watch the video: there’s a bit where a naked woman, comedic in all other respects (unfit, flabby, unattractive), climbs a fence, to the top of her kitchen extension, and then scrambles, sobbing, to her roof to escape the flood; but, mercifully, none of the class laugh. The bodies of dogs and cats in the streets, floating down. The dead being dredged out onto boats. When the video ends there’s only minutes until their first class, and they leave quietly. Beth goes to lunch and sits alone, on a table at the far end. She sees Laura, who makes a beeline for her. Laura doesn’t ask to sit next to Beth – and why would she? They’re not children – but Beth finds it strange, how relaxed Laura is immediately. She starts talking about her life, how she argued with her boyfriend the previous night.
They’ve asked me to stay on permanently, she says. Apparently Mr Westlake is retiring. Something to do with his heart. She eats only salad, Beth notices. Hard-boiled eggs and crispy bacon and dressing and lettuce leaves today. She forks the food, a piece of each component in each mouthful. So I said to Rob, this is something we could do. He said that it was impractical, but we could live in Portsmouth. I could commute. He could commute. It’s a job.
What does he do? Beth asks.
He’s a plumber. Electrician. Whatever he can get his hands on. He’s a handyman, that’s the thing, but they don’t call it that any more. We have three telephone lines for all three parts of his business, can you believe that? When there are no kids nearby she leans closer. What are you doing tonight? she asks.
I shouldn’t, Beth says, not even knowing what’s coming.
Not like the other night. I’ve got a bottle of wine in the guesthouse, that’s all. You can help persuade me that moving here is a terrible idea. Rob’ll thank you for it.
I shouldn’t, Beth says. I’ve got marking to do.
Ah, the perennial excuse. Laura lowers her eyes.
I’d love to, but the work. I have to get it done before we break.
I know, I know. It’s fine. We’ll do it the last day of term or something instead.
Sure, Beth says. She watches Laura walk away and put the remaining leaves of her salad in the bin, the plate on the side.
She remembers how she used to have friends. She used to be sociable. She and Vic went to socials for the army, the wives-and-partners things, and they would sit at the tables with people that they didn’t know and they would make friends, even transitory ones who only stayed their friends for the evening. The people you could talk to and make up details about your lives, or spill secrets to, knowing that you wouldn’t have to see them again. It didn’t matter who you were for that one night. All that mattered was that, the next day, you could start again: she could wake up with Vic and never think about the people they’d met. They were young, and that was how it was for them. You sit next to somebody you barely know; ten minutes later they’re your best friend; ten hours later you struggle to remember their name, past the wine and the dancing.
Beth catches up with Laura in her classroom just before the bell rings, signalling the end of lunch.
Friday, I promise, she says. I just need to get past this stuff.
It’s fine, Laura says.
Friday we’ll go out and have more drinks.
Will there be a social thing? All the staff, something like that?
Oh God no, Beth says. Nobody does that here. Just you and me, I’d think.
Lovely.
When Beth gets home she strips in the hallway and opens the fridge door and stands there in her underwear, pulling herself close to the brightly lit interior. She runs an ice cube over her head and puts more of them into a glass, gets herself wine from the cupboard – she doesn’t keep it refrigerated for some reason – and pours it, hardly gives it a chance to rattle the ice before drinking it almost in one. In the living room she puts the television on, opens the windows to get a draft through the flat, opens all the doors, and she stops and looks at the Machine for a second, thinking about how cold its metal is, and how refreshing and relieving it would be against her skin, but she tries to ignore it, knowing that it’s ready for Vic now – she doesn’t want to mess that up. She puts each of the fans on. On the television they’re all talking about it: on Blue Peter they’re discussing the multitudes of different ways to keep yourself cool when you’re sleeping. They show a young boy, twelve or thirteen, waking up and gasping, then wrapping himself in a cold towel that’s been kept in the freezer.
Quick showers really help to lower the body’s temperature, the presenter says. The boy shivers and grins, because this is preferable to sweating. Don’t run a bath then throw the water away; reuse the water, if you really want one. And more than anything, it’s important to drink lots, to keep your fluids up. Your health is more important than your cleanliness, at times like this, the presenter says earnestly. He’s got sweat on his hairline. Beth defies his advice, and takes herself to the bathroom. She runs both taps, the cold harder and faster than the hot, and when the bath is nearly full, not bothering to check the temperature, she steps in. It’s cold, but that’s okay: she slides back and under it, opens her mouth, lets the water cover every part of her. She doesn’t even think about the bill: since all household water went metered, she’s relied on short, sharp showers. When you live alone, it’s the sensible thing. This is the first bath that she’s had in forever. It feels incredible.
When she’s finished she doesn’t dress. She towels herself dry, dabbing at her body but leaving just enough water that it still feels cool, and she lays the slightly damp towel on the sofa before putting herself onto it. On the evening news they show footage of some coastal towns on the news – Eastend, Hastings, Canterbury – and of people bunking off work and school, the country brought to a halt by the heat. They dance in the water, the beaches crowded like she’s never seen, the sea a mass of hair and bathing suits. The reporter smiles and puts a brave face on it, but he’s dripping with sweat in his suit, desperate to join the throng behind.
This is officially the hottest start to a summer on record, he says, making it sound like that’s something that the audience at home should be happy with. You always used to moan about British summers: look what you’ve wrought. Beth checks her email as they cut to EastEnders, to the actors sweating, wearing cut-off shorts and open shirts, even hotter under the camera lights. This was filmed months before but feels strangely appropriate, seeing them struggle as much as the rest of the country.
Four days left. She calls up pictures of Vic and her on her screen and looks at them. Four days.