‘At least you and Mum get to retire together,’ said Mandrake. ‘In the same apartment.’
Under the guidelines this was permissible because they had been married over the required twenty years. There was an opt-out clause for those who could no longer stand the sight of each other after a lifetime of cohabiting. And some went even further choosing state encouraged suicide with the thought of their body functions mapped on a chart at the bottom of the bed a sore point.
Couples with an age gap of any number of years could retire together at the retirement age of the eldest, as long as the junior partner had not sought marriage as an excuse to reach Scotland at an earlier than hitherto allowed age, and of course held the required points. But if the age gap was bigger than ten years, the endless paperwork and checks prevented most of those eligible from applying.
‘I’m planting some tomatoes this afternoon, do you want to help?’ asked Jeremiah.
‘Sorry, Dad, I need to rest. I’m back on nights soon.’
Tomatoes, grapes and bananas were all grown outdoors these balmy days. It was an outdoor life, an improved life, away from double glazing and central heating. But the price had been paid in the southern hemisphere with countries left to burn.
Mandrake looked at the pile of broken roof tiles swept together in the yard as Eliza waved him indoors for breakfast.
The downstairs floors of the house had already dried in the heat, and Jeremiah was standing by his gate at the end of a white picket fence. He’d repaired it this morning with help from his neighbour, another pre-retiree who jealously checked Jeremiah out whenever he turned away, envious of the old man’s strength and suppleness.
A horse and cart carrying two women slowed down and stopped at the gate.
‘You want to buy some milk, eggs?’ asked the young woman jumping down from the back.
She was nineteen, her mother twenty years older. They were mixed race, olive complexion with straight black hair and often mistaken for sisters by visitors to the village.
‘We’ll trade you some lamb for a pail of milk,’ said Jeremiah.
He looked at the youngest woman, May the part-time school teacher and then June the village herbalist. The older he got the greater the number of women he found attractive but the less able he was to do anything about it. But there were no legally available drugs for impotence, fertility, dementia and a whole list associated with aging and genetic disorders. Those caught with illegal medicines lost fifteen points whilst those that supplied them lost everything, lamenting their mistake on a chain-gang.
But there were always those willing to take the risk out of a misplaced sense of care or greed. The Party insisted that the few medicines available were used to save the lives of the young and not cushion the final days of the old. Otherwise, the world would return to the days when children withered then perished as infirmity sucked up the last drops of blood like vampire bats feasting on the village cattle.
Eliza came rushing out of the kitchen, ‘I’ll see to them, go and find Bastian,’ she shouted.
Even an old matriarch could be sensitive when the old man was near beauty. But Jeremiah left embarrassed, hoping they didn’t think that he thought he stood a chance.
Chapter Three
Jeremiah picked more blackberries from the hedgerow as he meandered along the footpaths that weaved in and out of the village before he was forced to jump out of the horse’s path. They could have both lost points, the rider in court and Jeremiah in hospital. There were no excuses for losing your points, either through poor concentration or choices and it kept most on their toes, frightened to put a foot wrong. Jeremiah took a deep breath and calmed down as the horse cantered into the distance.
The birds were singing and so was Jeremiah’s heart. But then sadness overtook him faster than any storm rolling in from the sea for soon he was leaving it all behind, and not just the village he had grown up in but life. With nothing but blue sky above him whilst strolling in the sunshine and warmth, that was hard to take at any age. He waved back at Holroyd who was making an inventory of animals lost to the storm and crops that had perished. Citizens had a nasty habit of exaggerating their loss to lessen their government contribution.
The skies were full of birds thanks to the great cat cull that had annihilated their sworn enemy. ‘Cats are for vanity, birds for the economy,’ said the Party propaganda machine. The insect pests that had once threatened the crops were picked off from above, not drowned in cancerous pesticides. When the birds stomped their feet on the ground, they brought up the worms that aerated the soil misbelieving the thud was rain. But presently there was no need to do that, the storm had given the birds plenty to feed upon.
Dogs had fared no better than cats, taking their last walk in the jungle with the owners of dangerous animals tied to the same tree. In the days of upheaval when the militia ran riot the villagers went to bed with cotton wool in their ears.
Jeremiah grabbed a cob of sweetcorn from the land and approached the beehives, a row of seven small white huts each with a roof and four drawers. Hanging from a nearby tree was a beekeeper’s hat and veil, and a thick pair of gloves from the last motorcycle rider in the village.
‘I got no honey for you today, Jeremiah,’ said the beekeeper, Jambit.
He was from South America, light skinned and almost thirty, one of the latest wave of immigrants helping the land prosper. There were government ships out to sea waiting to rescue them from leaking vessels and bring them safely ashore. Jambit was grateful, willing to roll up his sleeves having
