‘Listen,’ said Mandrake, the eldest of two brothers and the shortest by a foot, something that had always bothered him.
‘I can’t hear a thing,’ said his mother, Eliza, putting down the half completed blanket.
She’d run out of wool and the next ball was above ground with her spare knitting needles, but at least she’d managed to grab her sewing box before the hatch was fastened down. It was crammed with cotton reels and covered with soft velvety giraffe skin, like her favourite sofa cushions.
‘That’s what he means,’ said Jeremiah. ‘We’re in the eye of the storm.’
His hair was thin but no bald patch, for which he was grateful.
‘Then perhaps one of you can thread the eye of this needle,’ she said. ‘I need to fix Bastian’s pants.’
This was their other son, the village policeman, and his thin corduroy trousers were draped across her lap.
‘Where is he?’ asked Mandrake of his younger brother by ten years.
Bastian was twenty-five and single.
‘Saving the sheep,’ sighed Jeremiah.
The elbows on his shirt and the knees on his trousers were patched up, and he longed to fill his pipe with tobacco but so far resisted, not wishing to cough on his final health check. He had ten points left, a good buffer to ensure he got into Scotland with Eliza, lest he make any last minute mistakes.
‘Will Rebekah be alright?’ asked Jeremiah of Mandrake’s wife.
‘She’s in town with her parents,’ replied Mandrake, ‘and the boys.’
Mandrake had three boys of his own and having been given first choice, he and Rebekah had spent twenty points each for the privilege of moving into his parents’ house upon their forthcoming retirement.
They were leaving their two-bedroom terrace to an expecting couple from the town desperate to move in and willing to spend the points. But there was no rent nor mortgage to worry about.
Your allocated housing space was determined by the size of your family, but any more than three children and every new bundle of joy would cost each parent ten points.
The rain started to hit the roof again, gently at first then ferocious like teeth from a pack of wolves tearing apart their prey. The storm had retuned and those underneath braced themselves. A pane of glass shattered on the ground, swept from the window-frame as though it were a leaf.
‘I hope that’s a downstairs window,’ said Jeremiah.
He was terrified of ladders and falling, of losing any remaining points.
‘Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll take a look,’ said Mandrake.
He was less worried about losing his points, younger, braver, and with forty points left. But still not as careless as his teenage years when he would climb the tall jungle trees to the canopy.
Automatically at fifty points remaining, every citizen was given the opportunity to see a counsellor. Once your points were gone that was it, there was no chance to get them back even if you won first prize at the village horticultural show. And though you remained at large with no points and could even retire to Scotland, any slip-ups and you were heading to the chain-gangs if you didn’t commit suicide.
For those that remained productive, tilling the land or manning the local goods store, retirement at sixty was unavoidable if not welcome.
Finally, the storm relented with the old woman fast asleep in her rocking chair and Jeremiah blissfully smoking his pipe. Mandrake pushed the photo album of the old house back into the bookshelf and a small notebook fell onto the floor. He looked at the rows of numbers jotted in pencil on the open page.
‘That’s nothing to worry about,’ said Jeremiah.
‘Vessel numbers and dates, Dad. Never had you as an anorak.’
‘Sowester, you mean,’ said Jeremiah. ‘And before you ask, it keeps me busy.’
Mandrake returned the log, just a list of ships and the dates they left the harbour and returned.
‘Don’t tell Eliza,’ said Jeremiah.
Mandrake nodded, already it was out of his head. But with the storm gone, he wondered what damage had been done to the house that would soon be his. There was no need to worry about the electric and gas supplies with no fossil fuels left that had heated the earth like a boiled egg until it cracked.
Candlelight lit the homes and wood burned in the stoves. The government relied on solar power to air-condition its buildings and sometimes charge electric fences that kept out intruders and subversives, but renewable energy had been largely dismissed with the government opposed to technology. Your radio batteries were charged at church and only the police and Party officials used telecommunications.
The year was 035 and the political ideology Save The People, known simply as the STP, had governed for as many years. A desperate and weary populace had voted them into power, their last hope, or so they were told, of saving themselves and the world after years of upheaval.
There had been doubts to the electoral result with too many sickened by the heatwaves that cursed the land to cast their vote in person. But before the opposition could rally they were outlawed by sweeping new laws and the powers deemed necessary for national survival.
Government was much leaner these days and there were only four departments that ruled the land from London, the Thames flood barrier just holding. The Ministry of Points dealt with life choices and justice, and the Ministry of Retirement with the old folk, giving them what they well and truly deserved. The Ministry of Coordination oversaw family planning and education, and those who worked in the Ministry of Cooperation ensured that public life ran smoothly and that civil order was maintained.
Chapter Two
The beach beneath the cliff was a scene of devastation with several dead bodies lying over broken timbers snapped like matchsticks by the sea. The shipwreck was an old fishing trawler later given sails and used before the stocks were depleted, though if there numbers ever returned it was doubtful they could be eaten, the sea was polluted by
