Some of the natives quietly simmered that new arrivals were given a clean slate with one hundred points, none deducted for an education or crimes abroad. And most immigrants lied about their age before receiving the government date of birth tattoo known as ‘the dob’, with some wishing to retire early and others wanting to work until they dropped. The Party was aware of the deceit and concluded that overall it evened out.
The immigrants helped keep the population stable at around seven million, replacing the retirees headed for Scotland. And if anyone washed ashore, they were given work by the first village that made them welcome.
‘But, hey, wait a minute,’ said Jambit, ‘try a spoonful of this.’
He opened a small bag that lay on the floor next to the closest white apiary bursting with bees and pulled out a small jar of golden honey.
‘From the new bees,’ he said smiling.
Beekeeping was one of his two jobs, he was also Bastian’s part-time deputy, used when needed or whenever he felt committed to show support for his adopted homeland.
Jeremiah dipped in the spoon that was offered and took some.
‘Oh my,’ he said with honey dripping from his lips before he caught it on his finger and licked it clean. ‘Marvellous.’
Jambit smiled.
‘You want to order a jar in advance?’ he asked.
‘Make that three,’ replied Jeremiah.
‘And you give me?’
‘A quarter pig and a leg of lamb.’
Jambit looked at the jar.
‘Half a pig and two legs of lamb, and let’s make it four jars.’
‘Throw in a pot of strawberry jam and it’s a deal,’ said Jeremiah. ‘And I take the jam now.’
The jams were packed with natural sugars, the refined ones were no longer produced.
The two men bowed towards one another to seal the deal. Handshakes were banned years ago to stop the spread of germs.
Jambit had begun his enterprise with jams made with berries picked from the hedgerows, and a lemon-curd that was still the talk of the town. He’d followed on with marmalade made from his orange trees, but the love of his life were his bees and it showed in the honey.
‘Have you seen Bastian?’ asked Jeremiah.
‘About an hour ago, headed that way. Said he was looking for someone,’ replied Jambit.
A trail of honeybees headed back to the apiary having pollinated the land. There was a beauty in nature that no man could build nor replicate and Jambit smiled. He’d known much harder times and many deaths back home but had kept his dignity and love of people. And his new family, the village, were accepting to all foreigners.
During the first elected STP government, which was also the last election because the Party decided the people couldn’t be trusted to make the right decisions, the government had relied on foreign aid from the foremost world of Canada, Siberia, Greenland, and Scandinavia, collectively known as the Ice Pack. In return, the STP had promised to prevent ungrateful citizens reaching their shores.
Jeremiah followed the trail looking for Bastian with butterflies dancing in the air before him. It was a glorious day and one might wonder why the government had detractors. Some were calling for free and fair elections and the truth, whatever that might be, but today if you were fit, there was no denying the idyll in which the nation gently slumbered. As much as possible was recycled and citizens joked the government would one day invent a way to recycle people.
Jeremiah walked for another hour following the winding lanes between fields of barley, corn, cannabis and opium poppies. He was in no particular hurry before he heard Bastian’s whistle on the other side of a tall hedge. He looked for a gap and slipped through.
Bastian was in his wellington boots, his long blonde hair was tangled and he wore a wispy beard. He was tall and thin. Jeremiah was short and thanked that for his fitness, telling people that his heart had less work to do whilst pumping blood around the body. But for good or bad the genes had skipped a generation and Bastian took after his grandfather including his rugged looks. His skin was permanently tanned from the outdoors.
Bastian didn’t talk a lot but he knew those that did usually had the least to say. His police issue revolver hung from a belt around his waist in a holster made of crocodile skin.
He blew the whistle once more as ‘dog’ rounded up the sheep. The border-collie was simply called dog; no one encouraged over familiarity with animals and giving them human names was prohibited.
‘I guess you made it,’ said Jeremiah smiling.
‘Just a gust of wind,’ said Bastian of the storm.
‘And the sheep?’
The village bobby was also a shepherd.
‘They did just fine in the bunker,’ he replied.
The old nuclear bunker was built when nations were ready to fight for the last barrels of oil. But global warming and the rising sea levels had brought enough destruction of their own, destroying crops and culling billions of people who’d destroyed their own habitat.
Bastian sighed and looked around. He wasn’t sure whether or not he should tell the old man but sometimes even he liked to talk.
‘Did you see that capsized ship the other day, washed in by the storm?’ he asked.
‘Freya’s Anchor,’ said Jeremiah. ‘A retirement ship says the badger. But pretty strange to set sail with all the weather warnings.’
‘I saw a survivor,’ said Bastian, throwing a stone into the field at a scarecrow.
‘Did you help him?’
‘I couldn’t, he ran off as soon as he saw me.’
‘There’s been nothing on the radio,’ said Jeremiah.
‘I know, strange, isn’t it?’
Bastian blew his whistle for the sheep to be moved on by dog and graze elsewhere.
‘Here,’ said Jeremiah ready to walk back home. ‘I brought you a pot of strawberry jam.’
Bastian removed his binoculars from the giraffe skin satchel, a gift from the Party at his police graduation. On the horizon he could see several chain-gangs toiling in the fields and working up a good honest
