"I Believe"

The heat had been sitting over Romford for days, the kind that made the pavements along Eastern Road feel soft under her shoes. The air smelled of warm brick and vegetables on the turn. The washing hung limp from the clothes line.

Helen wiped her forehead with the back of her hand as she waited by the flat door. “Come on, Nora. If we go early, we won’t roast.”

Nora appeared from the bedroom, hair already sticking to her forehead. “Can I wear my sandals?”

“You’ll get blisters.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

Nora sighed and put her shoes back on. “It’s too hot.”

“It’s July,” Helen said. “It’s meant to be.”

They went down the narrow staircase, the air close and stale. Someone had left a pram on the landing again, partially blocking the way. A wireless played faintly behind a door, ghostly French voices drifting in and out of waves of static.

Outside, they were hit by a shimmering wall of heat. The hum of traffic from South Street sounded distant and muffled. Somewhere, a dog barked once, then stopped.

“Everyone’s got a dog except us,” Nora said.

“We’ve been through this.”

“I’d take it out every day.”

“You’d forget.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You would.”

They walked toward the station, the heat reflecting off the pavement. As they reached South Street, a number 86 bus pulled in at the stop, its engine grumbling. A passenger alighted, swinging from the stanchion pole like Tarzan the Ape Man. A tiny puff of diesel smoke drifted across the road.

They crossed at the corner. Coronation bunting still hung in some shop windows, faded now, its colours bleached by the sun. A few flags drooped from upstairs windows, dusty and tired.

At the market, the heat was worse: trapped between the stalls, rising from the cobbles. The tea stall had its hatch propped open, adding steam to mix with the warm air. A wireless inside the hut played the Light Programme, tinny and distant.

Frankie Laine again; the same song, the same warm voice: I believe…

Nora paused. “It’s on again.”

“It’s popular,” Helen said.

“Do you like it yet?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t.”

“You said it was all right.”

“It is.”

“That means you don’t like it.”

Helen didn’t answer. She was looking at the greengrocer’s stall, where the lettuces were already wilting in the heat.

“Two lettuces,” she said. “And some tomatoes if they’re not soft.”

The greengrocer wiped his brow. “They were firm this morning. Can’t promise now.”

Nora drifted to the edge of the stall. The boy she’d met in April — Alan — was hanging about, holding a bottle of Tizer and looking pleased with himself.

“Got it without a coupon,” he said.

“You don’t need coupons anymore,” Nora said.

“I know. Still feels like you should.”

He took a swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You going to the pictures tomorrow? They’ve got Flash Gordon on. Saturday morning. Nine o’clock.”

“I don’t know.”

“You never know.”

“I have to ask.”

He shrugged. “Ask then.”

Helen called her name. Nora turned. “I have to go.”

Alan raised the bottle in a small salute. “See you.”

They walked back toward the station, the heat pressing down on them. A woman passed carrying a string bag with a set of plastic tumblers showing through the mesh, their colours too bright for the old street. Another woman fanned herself with a folded Woman’s Own.

Nora tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Do you believe things now?”

“What things?”

“Just… things.”

Helen looked down at her daughter; at the flushed cheeks, the hair sticking to her neck. “I believe,” she said slowly, “that we’re going to melt if we don’t get home soon.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

They reached the house. The stairwell was even hotter than outside, the air thick and unmoving. Someone upstairs was trying to tune their wireless... a loud burst of accordion music with a woman’s vibrato soaring above it...

Nora started to hum the Frankie Lane tune in counterpoint. Helen didn’t tell her to stop. Not because she liked it, but because the heat was too much, the shopping was heavy and some things just weren’t worth the effort.