Hot and Bothered

'Thank God I don’t have to commute anymore,' muttered Harry, gazing out of his apartment window at the scorched grass of the communal play area that served his block and two others. The brown grass sat in the middle of a swathe of grey concrete which seemed to shimmer in the heat. The sky was as clear as he could ever remember it in his sixty-seven years and the blazing sun was blinding. Harry could feel the heat through the open window, like a glassblower's furnace ready to melt the skin from his bones.

‘So dramatic,’ he scolded himself.

But yes, at least he didn’t have to commute to work anymore. He’d retired on Friday. Today was Monday.

A parched-looking pigeon landed on the ledge of the window, head cocked to one side, staring at him through one pleading, beady eye.

‘Coo,’ said the bird.

‘Fuck off,’ said Harry, closing the window.

Harry sat on his sofa. Sweating.

His flat had no air con, obviously; this was England, why would anyone have the foresight to build homes with air con? Plus these blocks were owned by the local authority, and they didn’t care how hot residents got. It would do them a favour if he did melt; free the place up for a refugee or six.

‘Stop it!’ he scolded himself. ‘You’re turning into a gammon. Since when did you talk like that…to yourself?’

Oh God, he was talking to himself already. His first day as a retiree and he was holding a full-blown conversation with himself.

‘It’s the heat,’ he muttered, wiping his dripping forehead on the back of his hand. ‘And I’m still talking to myself.’

He’d take himself out somewhere where he could cool off.

He tried to think of a place that would offer reprieve from the searing heat of this July day in London.

***

He was beginning to look conspicuous now, having stood for fifteen minutes next to the chiller cabinet in the local Aldi supermarket.

One of the staff smiled at him sympathetically. She obviously knew why he was here. A sad, lonely recent retiree with no friends and nowhere to go, desperate to escape the heat. He looked down into his empty shopping basket. He may as well buy a few bits while he was here.

He shuffled along the aisle, dropping items into his basket — some fishcakes, a prawn cocktail mix and something containing potato and cheese, and covered in breadcrumbs. He hovered for a few more seconds next to the cabinet, basking in the cool air, before reluctantly heading for the self-service tills. They were enough to make anyone sweat.

Three ‘An assistant will be with you shortly’ scenarios later, Harry stood outside Aldi. Within seconds, the front of his white t-shirt sported a large bib of sweat, making the cheap material transparent and showing his nipples to the world. He could only imagine the state he’d be in by the time he got home.

Standing by the lift on the ground floor of his building, drenched in sweat to the extent that it was dripping from the end of his nose, Harry thought he might cry.

OUT OF ORDER

It had been the last working lift, and now it, too, had died…on the hottest day of the year. Harry swayed slightly, feeling dizzy just thinking about walking up the five flights of stairs to his flat. Thank God he hadn’t gone overboard with the shopping. He’d had to lug two heavy bags up those stairs before, when the temperature had been normal, and he’d needed to lie down for an hour afterwards.

He squinted up at the first landing. He’d have to take a rest on each floor.

‘Just take your time,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry?’

A young woman with orange hair and a silver bolt through the top of her nose was standing next to him, also looking at the out-of-order sign.

‘Oh nothing,’ said Harry. ‘Just talking to myself. I do it a lot, I’ve realised.’

‘Me too,’ said the woman, although Harry thought she was just trying to make him feel better.

‘I’m just trying to pluck up the energy to use the stairs,’ Harry continued.

Oh God, he was becoming one of those old people who talked to strangers because they were lonely.

‘I’ll walk with you as far as the third floor,’ said the woman. ‘Come on. I’ll race you!’

She was a bit too chirpy for her own good, thought Harry.

***

Having the woman for company had actually made the climb easier — distracted him from the heat and the pain in his knees.

Inside his flat, Harry threw the shopping bag onto the kitchen counter then flopped onto the sofa. He needed to change his clothes. Even his underwear was soaked through.

He’d take a cold shower before putting a new set of clothes on.

In the end, he opted to remain naked after his shower. Why sweat through more clothes? It’s not like anyone could see him. The nearest block was on the other side of the play area. Someone would need a strong set of binoculars to spot him.

As if to make a point, Harry stood by the living room window, hands on hips, large belly distended, finally sweat-free.

The window cleaner looked rather shocked as his platform dropped to the level of Harry’s flat. He stared at Harry open-mouthed, and Harry stared back. He was a man of around forty, balding and badly sunburnt on his forehead.

‘What idiot cleans windows in this heat?’ asked Harry

‘I do,’ said the window cleaner, brandishing his jet spray like a weapon. “Would you mind closing yours so I can do my job? I’ll only be a minute.’

Harry obliged. Then, backed away from the window, grabbing a cushion from the sofa as he went and placing it in front of his genitalia.

The window cleaner began to whistle a tune. Harry continued to walk backwards until he reached the bedroom, which, mercifully, had closed blinds at the window.

***

The next day was even hotter. Harry woke wrapped in a soggy sheet; the duvet had been kicked off several nights earlier and remained in a musty-smelling pile on the bedroom floor.

Harry groaned and sat up, detangling himself from the sheet and throwing it on top of the duvet. He’d wash it later. It would be dry by the time he went to bed again.

‘I need a cold shower,’ he said, continuing the habit of talking to himself.

He shuffled morosely to the bathroom, stepped into the shower, which was set to cold, and turned it on.

There was a gurgling sound from somewhere in the plumbing, a splutter of water from the shower head, then nothing.

Harry released a dismal wail. ‘Now what?’

No doubt the mains pipe had burst again. It had happened a few months earlier, and the whole block had been without water for two days.

He pulled on a bathrobe and stomped to the living room, peering downwards from the window. Sure enough, there was a small lake of water forming in the communal area below. Several vans bearing the logo of the local water authority were parked up next to the block, and around half a dozen men in high-viz gear were wading in the water, scratching their heads.

‘Typical!’ snapped Harry.

He sniffed his left armpit. It stank. He dreaded to think what other parts of him smelt like. Thank God he’d had a shower yesterday.

He needed to pop out for some essentials, stuff he should have bought the day before in Aldi, but had been too obsessed with hanging out by the chiller cabinets.

He returned to the bathroom, removed the robe and liberally sprayed himself with deodorant. Next he covered his torso in talcum powder, rubbing it into his blotchy skin. He followed this with three generous squirts of au de toilette. Surely, this would be enough to get him to the local convenience store for some bread and Marmite.

The lift was still out of order, so he took the stairs slowly, resting at each landing. By the time he reached the ground floor, he was drenched. His white T-shirt was transparent once again, sticking to the paste formed by the talc and sweat.

‘Dear God,’ he sighed, staring at the newly formed and growing lake just a few feet away.

***

‘Sir?’

“Leave me alone,’ said Harry, who felt cool for the first time in hours.

‘Sir, we need you to get out of the water so we can do our job.’

Harry sat up. He’d been lying in the lake formed by the burst main pipe for a minute or two now. The workmen had been distracted when he’d first waded in and lowered himself into the deliciously cold water, but now they wanted to spoil his happiness.

‘Sir…’ One of the workmen was standing over him now, looking down with an expression that flickered between annoyance and concern.

‘Fuck off,’ said Harry, and he lay back down.

Bliss.