Just One Cornetto
Part I: Heatwave
Thirty years ago, I wrote a short story set during the hot, restless summer of 1990 — when England were deep into the World Cup and the whole country seemed to be holding its breath.
I wrote the first version of Just One Cornetto in my first creative writing class, and it was later published in my college literary magazine, Piecework. I hadn’t looked at it in years, but it stayed with me.
During Italia ‘90, I was living in Dublin, and I can still remember the excitement of that summer: the football, the heat, the street musicians playing Italian songs, and the feeling that the whole city was caught up in the game. Even then, my writer’s mind was imagining stories behind it all.
Recently, I went back to the story and started reworking it, cutting overused adverbs and dialogue tags, smoothing the phrasing, and ensuring the timeline and emotional turns felt consistent and believable, all while trying to stay true to the world I first imagined: a working-class South London estate, a young marriage, and a woman beginning to wonder whether the life she has chosen is really the life she wants.
With the World Cup in the air again, it felt like the right time to share it.
Sharon Rattenbury stood on the third-floor balcony of her council flat, squinting into the shimmering heat that stuck to the Sarsfield Estate like cling film. It was early July 1990, and South London was baking. The kind of heat that made the concrete sweat and the air hum. England was still in the World Cup, and the entire country was holding its breath.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine somewhere else, somewhere with a breeze, maybe a beach. But she opened them to the same view: tower blocks, concrete, and distant World Cup commentary.
At least I’m not in one of those tower blocks, she thought, eyeing the twenty-three-storey Pelican House next door. No balconies. No escape.
Down in the park, she spotted Tracy, her best mate since primary school, walking home with a rolled-up blanket and a bottle of sunscreen tucked under her arm.
“Oy, Tracy!” Sharon called.
“All right, Shar?” Tracy yelled back, shielding her eyes. “Hot enough for you?”
“It’s bloody awful!” Sharon leaned on the railing. “What’ve you been up to?”
“Getting a bit of colour before Benidorm!”
“Lucky cow. I don’t know how you can lie out there with all them dogs running about.”
“I don’t have a balcony like you, do I?” Tracy grinned. “Anyway, how’s him indoors? Still glued to the footie?”
“Kevin’s all right,” Sharon said, though her voice lacked conviction.
Tracy checked her watch. “Gotta dash, Mum’s got tea on. I’ll pop round before I go, yeah?”
“Yeah, safe travels,” Sharon called, watching her disappear into Pelican House.
Back inside, the kitchen was dim and heavy with heat. Sharon had drawn the curtains to keep the sun out, but it had helped little. The air was thick with the smell of fresh paint and chip grease. Somewhere in the estate, a neighbour’s telly erupted in cheers.
She opened the fridge and allowed the cold air to wash over her face.
“I could stand here all day,” she muttered.
She pulled out a half-used pack of Tesco sausages and sniffed them. Still good. Probably. She grabbed a bag of potatoes and a tin of beans from the cabinet and sat at the table, peeling in silence. The thought of Tracy’s mum cooking her tea made Sharon’s chest ache with a hint of envy.
The front door slammed shut downstairs, followed by the familiar thud of Kevin’s boots on the steps.
Sharon was at the cooker, turning sausages in the pan. The heat from the hob mixed with the heat from outside, thick and relentless. The kitchen felt like it was holding its breath.
“Shar! You got the telly on?” Kevin called as he entered. “They’ve started the build-up. Lineker’s on!”
“In here,” she replied, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.
Kevin bounded into the kitchen, still in his grease-stained boiler suit, his face flushed from the heat and excitement. He came up behind her and squeezed her bum. “Give us a kiss, then.”
She flinched but he didn’t notice. He leaned over her shoulder, peering into the frying pan.
“What’s for tea?”
“Sausages, chips, and beans.”
“Lovely. You always know how to please,” he said, grinning as he pulled open the curtains. “Why’ve you got these shut? It’s like a cave in here.”
The sunlight poured in, harsh and unforgiving, bouncing off the beige walls and linoleum floor. Sharon turned the sausages again, the oil spitting as if it were angry.
“How was work?” she asked, trying to sound interested.
“Boiling. Sunday shift and all. Couldn’t breathe in that garage. But the lads had the radio on, been talking about this match all day. If Lineker’s on form, we’re through. Cameroon won’t know what hit ’em.”
He wandered into the sitting room and flopped onto the red corduroy settee. The telly was already on, the BBC’s pre-match coverage in full swing. Kevin cracked open a can of lager and leaned back, eyes fixed on the screen.
Sharon plated the food, grabbed another can from the fridge, and brought it to him. He didn’t look up.
“Ta,” he said, already halfway through a mouthful of chips. “Don’t let me miss kick-off, yeah?”
She returned to the kitchen and sat at the table; her plate untouched. The heat was stifling. Even with the balcony door open, the air didn’t move. She stared at her food, the smell of sausage and beans turning her stomach.
She pushed the plate away and stood to do the washing up. Kevin hated seeing dirty dishes. From the sitting room, the roar of the crowd and the voice of the commentator filled the flat.
“Shar! Run us a bath before it starts, will you?”
She sighed, loud enough that he might hear. “All right.”
As Kevin soaked in the tub, Sharon lay on the bed, arms splayed across the floral duvet. The bedroom faced the river, but it offered no relief. The air was still. Heavy. She could hear the water draining, slow and gurgling.
The bathroom door creaked open, and Kevin stepped into the bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist, steam trailing behind him.
“Got any clean pants?” he asked, rubbing his hair with the towel.
“In the drawer,” Sharon said, still lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
He rummaged through the chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of navy-blue Y-fronts. As he dressed, Sharon watched him in silence. His body was softening around the middle, his skin pale except for the red line where his socks had been.
He pulled on his England shirt, the badge over his heart with the three blue lions stretched mid-leap as if ready to go. “This is it,” he said, almost to himself. “Quarter-finals. We beat Cameroon- we’re in the semis.”
He turned to her, grinning. “You should come down and watch it with me.”
“I might,” she said, though she knew she wouldn’t.
Kevin headed downstairs, the sound of the telly grew louder as he increased the volume. The BBC commentators were already in full swing, discussing Lineker, Gazza, and Cameroon’s pace.
Sharon didn’t move. The bedroom was stifling; the curtains hung still. She turned her head toward the window, hoping for a breeze, but there was nothing.
She didn’t know when it began—this feeling of being somewhere she didn’t belong. It wasn’t just the heat; it was the sameness, the routine. The way Kevin touched her as if she were part of the furniture, and how he never really looked at her anymore. Now, everything about him felt flat. The same meals. The same jokes. The same grope before bed. She was twenty-two, but she felt like she’d skipped straight to middle age.
She remembered how Kevin used to make her laugh with his Harry Enfield impressions at the Queen Vic. “Only me!” he’d said, and she’d giggle like a schoolgirl. And when he told her she looked like Sam Fox “only thinner, and not as big up top”, she blushed. Back then, it had felt like flattery. Now, it just made her feel small.
She thought of Tracy still living at home, going on holidays, and still laughing, as if life was something to be enjoyed. Sharon had traded all that for a beige kitchen and a man who thought a compliment was pointing out her resemblance to a topless model.
She turned her face toward the open window. Somewhere out there, the estate was alive with the sound of football, cheers, the distant echo of a radio someone had probably nicked from a pub.
And then she heard it.
That familiar, tinny jingle drifting through the estate.
Just one Cornetto...
It grew louder as the van turned the corner, the melody borrowed from ’O Sole Mio, floating up like a strange little serenade.
She sat up slowly, ran her fingers through her hair in the mirror, and grabbed her handbag.
“Kevin!” she called down the stairs. “I’m going to get us an ice cream. You want one?”
“Yeah, Cornetto!” he shouted back. “And make sure it’s not melted this time!”
Sharon didn’t respond. She just slipped out the door, past the broken lift, and into the thick, humming heat of the stairwell. The music of the ice-cream van drifted through the estate like a lullaby from another world, soft, lilting, and romantic. Sharon stepped out into the heavy evening air, her sandals slapping against the concrete stairs as she descended. The stairwell smelled of stale beer and something worse, but she barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere.
The van sat near the kerb, surrounded by children waving coins and shouting orders. Sharon joined the queue, fanning herself with her hand. The regular old man wasn’t there. Instead, a younger bloke stood behind the counter, olive-skinned, with dark curls slicked back and a white apron tied around his waist. His gold crucifix glinted in the sun.
From a nearby window, the sound of the England match filtered out, commentators shouting, a crowd roaring, the occasional cheer or groan echoing across the estate. The entire country was glued to the telly. Except her.
The man behind the counter looked up and caught her staring.
“Evenin’, love. What can I get you?” His voice had a curious blend, South London with a hint of something warmer, Mediterranean.
Sharon blinked. “Uh, one Cornetto and a 99, please.”
“Sorry, no Flake left. Sold out hours ago. This heat’s murder on chocolate.” He gave her a sympathetic smile. “Tell you what, have another Cornetto on the house. You look like you’ve had a long day.”
She laughed, a little flustered. “That obvious, is it?”
He handed her the cone with a flourish. “I’m new on this route. My father usually does it, but he’s letting me take over tonight.”
“On match night?” Sharon raised an eyebrow.
Antonio grinned. “He’s at home with his feet up, glued to the match. I’ve got the radio on in here. Can’t miss Lineker, can I?”
From inside the van, Sharon could hear the faint crackle of commentary, the crowd’s rise and fall like waves.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Born in Peckham, raised in Palermo. Back and forth, like a stray cat,” he grinned. “Have you ever been to Sicily?”
“No. Closest I’ve been is Benidorm.”
He winced. “We’ll have to fix that.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the estate, the heat, the noise, all of it faded. Sharon felt a stir in her chest. Not lust, not yet. Just the thrill of being seen.
“Well, thanks for the ice cream,” she said, stepping back.
“Anytime,” he said with a smile. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”
She hesitated, then smiled. “If the heat keeps up, you just might.”
“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning slightly over the counter.
“Sharon. Sharon Rattenbury.”
“Nice to meet you, Sharon. I’m Antonio. Antonio Magnifico.”
She nodded, then turned to leave, the music from the van restarting— “Just one Cornetto…”—as she walked away.
She didn’t look back, but she knew he was watching.
Doreen, I enjoyed this! Well timed for the season. The summer of 1990 was my first as a mother, and I remember quite a few details. Your young main character is so relatable. Her discomfort and yearning. Wonderful voices.
You and I have a lot on common! 😍