When Jeremiah returned home, he was surprised to see Eliza still talking to June and May around the kitchen table. They left as soon as he arrived and he knew better than to ask the nature of their conference.
Mandrake was upstairs snoring, having fixed the broken window with an old TV screen and Jeremiah went to his own bed for an afternoon nap. Eliza looked out the kitchen window, washing the pots and wondering. She knew that real life was productive, reproductive, and once that was gone then nature snuffed you out like a candle flame, but what followed death, anything? Perhaps she’d feel reassured after tomorrow’s church service and went to her wardrobe to choose an outfit in advance. Her clothes were her memories and guilty pleasure as she was hoarding a few too many. But she was careful to stick to the rules on the outside.
The STP were averse to unnecessary wardrobes. The Rule of Three permitted only three types of clothing per item per person thus making it a necessity to choose clothes that matched every other outfit in your wardrobe. Three was chosen on the presumption of one worn, one on the rail, and one in the laundry. And you couldn’t dress in white lest you were accused of impersonating a commissar, the nation’s elite guards, of whom some were calling for the prohibition of pearls and ivory on the garments of ordinary citizens.
The women had three dresses, skirts, sarongs, shirts, blouses, waistcoats, shorts, pantaloons, dungarees, trousers, three-quarter trousers, jackets, coats, caps and hats, and anything else that crossed over from one item to the next and could be considered a separate kind of apparel if argued before a panel of twelve good and trusted village citizens. Jeremiah had three pairs of trousers, shorts, T-shirts, full length shirts, waistcoats, jackets, and caps, like most of the menfolk. And most people did their laundry before the siesta, hanging on the line and ready to wear when they awoke. But you had to be careful with your shoes in case a poisonous spider found a home.
Eliza closed the bedroom curtains, placed her hand inside the yellow linen jacket with pearl sequins embroidered around the edges, and pulled out a zebra skin purse. She opened it, removed the kit, and injected a steroid into her painfully inflamed knees before taking the laundry outside to the washtub and mangle.
Chapter Four
The bells of St Michaels were ringing out across the village as the bicycles began to arrive at church, leant against the walls and a few remaining gravestones. There was no reverence for those who had died, it was part of nature and they’d had their time in the sun. Only the church interior and the village green were sacrosanct. Some bikes had carts at the back for the little ones and others were tandems, for this was a green age if not a golden one.
Everyone wanted to look fit in church and if you had a cough or worse a sneeze, excuses were made for your absence. Those who would have once spread their germs were now pariahs of the community. But everyone afflicted seemed happy to take the rest and the natural remedies.
Antibiotics were only given for serious infections, not to ease the sneezes of the worried well and they had important side-effects, ones that cost points. Home grown opiates and cannabis were encouraged as cure-alls and used for pain relief as well as relaxation.
The Party line for the aged and ill, which was anyone over fifty with a permanent cough, was often espoused by Edward on his radio show, ‘With dignity and without fear make way for the next generation.’
The men wore shorts and shirts, the women short dresses. Everyone wore sandals and some had a hat. Bastian chose a short-sleeved shirt with a collar for the day and his elasticated police armband was digging into his right arm. It consisted of five green apples in a row upon a white background. Party officials had ten green apples upon a red background and sometimes a single ploughshare replaced all of the fruit if they were power brokers.
Bastian entered the old medieval church passing the two-door wooden confession box that hid the identity of the penitent inside, and the three tall drums used to signal a warning through the village. Everyone scanned the noticed board for new messages causing a tailback of impatient worshippers; pinned upon it was Party news, village tittle-tattle, those seeking to help and those needing it. The church was the new mental health and social services, or rather it was the oldest returned to prominence after decades of wasted resources.
Bastian realised the importance of showing his face and steely blue eyes now and again, before the village accused him of being a witch responsible for their maladies. On his way to the pews he grabbed one of the new government Leaflets to read as people settled down and made small talk before the start of the service; there was a large pile next to the hymn books with the Party logo on the cover, an apple tree in front of a ploughshare. He sat down and began to read, trying to smile and feign complete agreement and obedience.
Citizens Advice from the Ministry of Points
Even as you were growing in your mother’s womb, a benevolent government had 100 points waiting for you to use for the benefit of your own life and for the greater good of all. In some instances, their use is unavoidable. For instance, if your birth was complicated you were deducted five points for the medical care received. Indeed, points are deducted for all manner of things to ensure not one citizen takes more than another from the world’s finite resources.
Each individual deserves the same amount of chances and opportunities in life, no more and
