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Authors: Richard Madeley
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squirmed slightly. She hadn’t felt like this in years. What was happening to her?
Suddenly she opened her eyes again and sat upright. This had to stop. Now. An affair with a work colleague? It was a ridiculous, stupid idea. If they got caught out – and
everyone
got caught out, didn’t they, in the end; how often had she told her listeners and readers that? – the scandal would be huge. Meriel Kidd, the happily married agony aunt, screwing a
young – make that
younger –
radio reporter.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Romans called them the dog-days, those weeks from early July to mid-August when the so-called dog star Sirius rises and sets almost as one with the sun. The ancients
believed that earthly dogs could be driven mad by the intense heat. Perhaps they were, on the Mediterranean’s sultry southern shores.
But not in Britain. Not, at least, until this year. August remained a furnace of heat and searing light and even after Sirius had begun to slowly draw apart from his fiery master, the maddening,
sweltering fever burned on with no respite.
In the Lakes, the Kirkstone Pass was closed to traffic. This normally only happened in winter when a heavy fall of snow blocked its passage. Now, the road surface itself was melting; sticky
black tar that sucked at tyres and brought cars to a straining, squelching stop, trapping them like bluebottles on flypaper.
Reservoir levels were steadily falling because of heat evaporation, zero rainfall, and the daily draining away of what remained of the rains of winter and spring. Homes and factories were fast
guzzling the vast rocky basins dry.
Talk turned to hosepipe bans, water-rationing and standpipes in the streets. The cabinet discussed creating a new government position: Minister for Drought.
In the Lakes, the unthinkable was being discussed.
‘Yes, that’s right, sir. A complete ban on swimming. In the lot of them – no exceptions.’
The county’s environment chief looked around the table. Heads were shaking doubtfully from side to side. He pressed on.
‘Obviously Windermere, Derwent Water, Ullswater, Bassenthwaite – but all the smaller ones too. From midnight tomorrow until further notice.’
The chief constable grunted. ‘That’d take us to bloody Halloween, the way things are going. Absolutely no sign of a change in the weather, according to the Met Office boys. A massive
belt of high pressure from here down to the Azores and halfway up to Iceland. It’s just not moving.’
He drummed his fingers quietly on the file in front of him before continuing.
‘I’m sorry, Terry’ – he looked directly at the council man – ‘but my boys couldn’t possibly police the ban you’re proposing. I just don’t
have enough boots on the ground. And anyway, I simply can’t see how we’d enforce it. Are we banning paddling in the shallows, too? If so, what d’you define as shallows? How far
out can folk go? Can they swim if they stay in their depth? And what if they need to go in after their dogs?’
The environment officer shrugged. ‘I was just answering the question we’re all trying to square away, Chief Constable – how to guarantee no more drownings. I’m simply
telling you that an outright swimming ban’s the only way.’
‘And I’m explaining why it’s unenforceable. We’re having a heatwave, for God’s sake. It’s human instinct to want to cool off in the water.’ The police
chief sighed. ‘Anyone else have any ideas?’
‘More boat patrols.’ It was the region’s head of tourism. ‘The RNLI have said they can spare us some men and inflatables. And I’m sure we could rustle up a few
retired folk with boats of their own. A sort of Dad’s Navy.’
There was a general laugh. ‘Good idea,’ nodded the chief constable. ‘No shortage of Captain Mainwarings around these parts, that’s for sure. Anyone else?’
The chief press officer for Cumbria raised her
Suddenly she opened her eyes again and sat upright. This had to stop. Now. An affair with a work colleague? It was a ridiculous, stupid idea. If they got caught out – and
everyone
got caught out, didn’t they, in the end; how often had she told her listeners and readers that? – the scandal would be huge. Meriel Kidd, the happily married agony aunt, screwing a
young – make that
younger –
radio reporter.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Romans called them the dog-days, those weeks from early July to mid-August when the so-called dog star Sirius rises and sets almost as one with the sun. The ancients
believed that earthly dogs could be driven mad by the intense heat. Perhaps they were, on the Mediterranean’s sultry southern shores.
But not in Britain. Not, at least, until this year. August remained a furnace of heat and searing light and even after Sirius had begun to slowly draw apart from his fiery master, the maddening,
sweltering fever burned on with no respite.
In the Lakes, the Kirkstone Pass was closed to traffic. This normally only happened in winter when a heavy fall of snow blocked its passage. Now, the road surface itself was melting; sticky
black tar that sucked at tyres and brought cars to a straining, squelching stop, trapping them like bluebottles on flypaper.
Reservoir levels were steadily falling because of heat evaporation, zero rainfall, and the daily draining away of what remained of the rains of winter and spring. Homes and factories were fast
guzzling the vast rocky basins dry.
Talk turned to hosepipe bans, water-rationing and standpipes in the streets. The cabinet discussed creating a new government position: Minister for Drought.
In the Lakes, the unthinkable was being discussed.
‘Yes, that’s right, sir. A complete ban on swimming. In the lot of them – no exceptions.’
The county’s environment chief looked around the table. Heads were shaking doubtfully from side to side. He pressed on.
‘Obviously Windermere, Derwent Water, Ullswater, Bassenthwaite – but all the smaller ones too. From midnight tomorrow until further notice.’
The chief constable grunted. ‘That’d take us to bloody Halloween, the way things are going. Absolutely no sign of a change in the weather, according to the Met Office boys. A massive
belt of high pressure from here down to the Azores and halfway up to Iceland. It’s just not moving.’
He drummed his fingers quietly on the file in front of him before continuing.
‘I’m sorry, Terry’ – he looked directly at the council man – ‘but my boys couldn’t possibly police the ban you’re proposing. I just don’t
have enough boots on the ground. And anyway, I simply can’t see how we’d enforce it. Are we banning paddling in the shallows, too? If so, what d’you define as shallows? How far
out can folk go? Can they swim if they stay in their depth? And what if they need to go in after their dogs?’
The environment officer shrugged. ‘I was just answering the question we’re all trying to square away, Chief Constable – how to guarantee no more drownings. I’m simply
telling you that an outright swimming ban’s the only way.’
‘And I’m explaining why it’s unenforceable. We’re having a heatwave, for God’s sake. It’s human instinct to want to cool off in the water.’ The police
chief sighed. ‘Anyone else have any ideas?’
‘More boat patrols.’ It was the region’s head of tourism. ‘The RNLI have said they can spare us some men and inflatables. And I’m sure we could rustle up a few
retired folk with boats of their own. A sort of Dad’s Navy.’
There was a general laugh. ‘Good idea,’ nodded the chief constable. ‘No shortage of Captain Mainwarings around these parts, that’s for sure. Anyone else?’
The chief press officer for Cumbria raised her
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