Competition 3459 invited you to submit a passage that lavishly depicted a heatwave. The entries accumulated languorously, replete with detail – occasionally so excessive that one almost suspected the involvement of AI. Anyway it was enjoyable to wallow in these writings. Frank Upton, Sue Pickard, David Harris, J.C.H. Mounsey, John O’Byrne, Basil Ransome-Davies, D.A. Prince (and others besides) deserve honourable mentions, but the £25 vouchers go to those below.
A summer Lord of Misrule, Heatwave hath come into his estate, evicting cloud, curtailing rainfall, consigning long trouser, counterpane and necktie to laughable if temporary obsolescence. Feel his warmth unbuttoning your apparel, loosening your morals. For who wouldst not sooner recline in blissful torpor in His sun-bathed garden than toil at coaxing scorched provender therefrom? Heatwave abolisheth alike learning and labour, making ovens of offices, buckling railways and sending hay fever likewise to examinee and invigilator. A benign dictator, Heatwave’s sole diktat is ‘Holiday!’ No beach stretches lonesome on his watch, for he calls forth ten million ladybirds to supplement such tens of thousands of us as he calls to assemble thereon. Time itself Heatwave slows for our better appreciation, days lasting weeks and weeks months as the sun itself extends the duration and intensity of its dominion. Make thy welcome rapturous as thou wilt, Heatwave shalt outstay it.
Adrian Fry
Heat everywhere. Sultry and indolent. Heat, shim-mering above drowsy waves; heat in the chirp of cicadas, the languid splash of swimming pools. Heat pushing up thermometers, spraying hoses on children, humming with bees, dropping ice into glasses of Pimm’s. Heat spinning fans, enhancing the shadiness of hats. Heat slipping on sunglasses, tasting lemon sorbet, tanning legs under shorts of linen and lace. Heat lying on the freshly mown grass and hovering over the snapping sails of yachts. Heat baking pebbles, luring people to fountains. Heat gazing across hazy horizons, sipping gin and tonics, firing up barbecues. Heat dining al fresco in cotton and sandals. Heat unfolding beach towels, dozing in golden fields, squeezing fresh oranges. Heat on the tennis court, heat on the country garden. In the very heart of the heat sits the god of summer, he who summons with divine music, the driver of the ice-cream van.
Janine Beacham
The townspeople really knew that this was a heat like none before when Maria Torres spontaneously combusted after mass. A widow for fifty years, she was as crumbly and desiccated as a little biscuit of the English kind, and burned brightly but very briefly. Father Coronel swept up the ashes to consign them, with the proper offices, to the river, but walls of heat and avenues of shadow made a maze of the streets, and by the time he reached the river, some days later, it was so dry that when he knelt on the river bed the parched plants cut through his vestments. After a week, the only movement was that of the snakes of melting lead, from roofs and pipes, that slithered down walls and across streets, devouring strays as they went. And yet Macondo did not burn. It was too hot for any flame to breathe.
Nick Syrett
Today for a change the Huddersfield sky no longer exhibits its customary threat of drizzle. George’s hand shields his eyes as he looks up into the cloudless expanse, towards the sun: clear, bright, blazing, disturbing. Any unwise enough to walk in the open will suffer for it; all seek the shade. June’s rain had brought forth foliage in abundance, but the leaves now begin to weaken, show signs of exhaustion. Well-trodden grass is fading to brown.
Inside the house, the cold tap spouts tepid; his underwear chafes. All rooms are uncomfortable, but the cellar, with a fan whirring, is less so than the rest. George huddles there, resentfully, clutching a glass of elderflower cordial, still with the blessed coldness of the fridge upon it. He tries to read his J.G. Ballard novel, but falls asleep. In his dream, Ed Miliband tells him that this weather may persist until after Christmas.
George Simmers
Yeah, I remember Adlestrop. That damn place in the heat. The train, no warning, stuck there, midday, mid-July. A groan the length of the carriage. Sweat stinging the eyes, stifling air, no whirr of aircon. The Tannoy crackled, ‘Your train attendant here. Apologies for the delay. Extreme heat has buckled the rails. The overhead wires are dangerous so the air conditioning has been switched off. I repeat, there is no air conditioning.’ Silence as heads nodded. Sun beat through sealed and grimy windows. No birds flew over browned branches of scrubby shrubs draped with crisp packet, carrier bag. Against the shining sky a crane rattled and squealed, hovering above the local scrapyard. ‘Passengers are advised that we are awaiting emergency services to assist passengers to alight here close to Adlestrop. Gloucestershire para-medics will be in attendance. Unfortunately, there is no bottled water. The buffet has run out of bottled water.’
Shirley Curran
Visit the Leatherhead Riviera, hotter than Saint-Tropez! Parakeets galore, in vivid green tropical plumage; a white-tailed eagle on an awayday from the Isle of Wight, colourful Mandarin ducks and stately Egyptian geese. Paddle in the river Mole, drink the local wine and eat melt-on-the-plate local cheeses at pavement cafés. Buy delicious wasabi ice creams from Lidl, iced coffees from one of at least 15 air-conditioned coffee outlets, sunglasses from the Poundshop, vintage sunhats, shorts and bikinis from a huge range of charity shops. Dress to kill for next to nothing! Watch plumes of smoke curling upwards in balletic pirouettes from the wildfires on Box Hill, and the intricate patterns of vapour trails from Heathrow and Gatwick against cloudless blue skies. Access is a morceau de gâteau, via the M25 where you can witness the rippling mirage of its evocative heat shimmer on the tarmac. Let’s celebrate the Leatherhead heatwave!
Elizabeth Kay
No. 3462: Slave to the ‘rithm
You are invited to submit a short story in which the protagonist lets an algorithm take charge of their life or an aspect of it (150 words maximum). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 5 August.
The Spectator Competition wants to wish Sylvia Fairley a very happy 90th birthday.
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