Your vicar is available to answer any questions, charged at one point per query. However, it is anticipated most questions will be answered by the following information which is by no means an exhaustive list.
There was then a list of all manner of things that could cost you points and the number of points deducted. And if you transgressed with points deducted there were no appeals. Ignorance of the system was no defence before the Ministry of Points.
Degrees and diplomas cost varying amounts dependant on the amount of goods and foodstuffs you could earn, the comfort or not of your qualifying profession upon graduation, and the national shortage. Hence, the relevant Leaflet was updated every few months and the less physically demanding roles cost the most points to study.
‘Go on, sit next to the young man,’ said June to May. ‘He won’t bite.’
May smiled at Bastian and he slipped along the pew giving them room. June was playing matchmaker and he couldn’t argue there was a certain delight in feeling May’s warm thigh rub next to his. He didn’t move and neither did she. There was no mistaking the attractiveness of them both, the village bobby and the teacher, and some were forced to hide their jealousy under wide brimmed hats or behind hymn sheets.
The vicar, Malthus, appeared from a side office and ascended the cold stone steps to the pulpit. He had curly brown hair and a moustache that purposely drooped over the downturned corners of his mouth.
‘Good morning everyone on this lovely sunny day that the Lord has made,’ he shouted.
‘Good morning, vicar,’ they all replied.
‘Now for our first song, The Lord has Called my Name to Heaven.’
The choir led the intro with acoustic guitars and tambourines before the rejoicing began. And the church sang the well-known words in unison,
‘Lead me to the steps of heaven,
Guide me to the throne of gold,
I want to sing with the angels,
Before I get too old.’
Eventually Malthus, who had thrown himself into the joyous exuberance more than most, wiped his brow with a handkerchief and addressed the congregation from up on high.
‘Today’s sermon is about ageing and retirement,’ he said.
Bastian sighed, not again, and he moved his leg even closer to May’s so that he could feel her warm flesh against his.
‘Just as every harvest makes way for a new crop so it is with us. The previous generation making way for the next, neither selfishly holding onto life nor their possessions.’
There was little inheritance allowed from parent to offspring and the orphaned children grinned the widest. Indeed, upon leaving school they were the likeliest to fill government posts with no family loyalty to sway their judgement.
‘This is a cycle created by God. Birth, reproduction, and death of the flesh before we gratefully ascend to heaven. And now let us rejoice with song number seven,’ said the vicar.
They all stood. The women in church wore less make-up than their mothers once had but looked better for it, their skin fresher and naturally tanned. Though hair-dye was still popular with the villagers and Party, both averse to grey hair. Jewellery was restricted to one plain wedding band if requested, and a crucifix worn solely by the militia to prevent it becoming a mere fashion accessory.
After the remainder of Malthus’s sermon, the congregation bowed their heads to pray, some taking the opportunity to rest their weary heads. Bastian and May turned their eyes towards one another and smiled for a brief moment. The older woman next to Bastian, the widow, stepped on his foot. June, on the other side, rubbed May’s arm in encouragement.
It was as if the storm had returned when the front door of the church was battered open. The congregation turned around and stared in disbelief at the ragged man standing before them, dishevelled like a village scarecrow.
‘It’s not real,’ he screamed. ‘Don’t believe them.’
Bastian recognised the old man’s tortured face, it was the survivor from FA892.
He was running to the front of church ready to deliver his own message when he was tripped up by Bastian’s old school friend seated in the aisle, Nabulus. Bastian squeezed by May and June and pinned the old man’s arms to the floor.
Nabulus grabbed a syringe from inside his hollow bible and jabbed the needle into the man’s arm. He kicked his legs like a donkey before falling asleep under the liquid cosh.
‘My Sunday best,’ Nabulus sighed to Bastian, whilst dusting down his T-shirt and shorts.
He was of African descent and black, now turned blue-black in the British sunshine. Free citizens lived by the coast away from the scorched barren earth and by the sea breezes, but where the storms brought risks of flooding.
‘What’s up with him?’ asked Bastian.
‘Dementia,’ replied Nabulus.
He then addressed the church.
‘Sorry, citizens, but worship is over for today.’
Nabulus was in the Ministry of Cooperation and the highest government man in the village.
‘Thanks,’ said Nabulus to Bastian as the congregation shuffled out.
‘What happens now?’ asked Bastian of the old man snoring on the floor.
‘My men will collect him. He’ll reach Scotland when the next ship leaves.’
Dementia was a golden ticket to Scotland and for the few that tried to bluff for an early retirement, the tests were nearly as brutal as the repercussions.
Bastian looked at the last worshippers making their way out and with reason to chatter into the twilight hours.
‘I think she likes you,’ said Nabulus of the pretty young teacher looking over her shoulder at Bastian.
Outside, Malthus was consoling distraught parishioners in the graveyard but May was gone. Bastian put a hand in his pocket and felt something the old man had pushed in during their struggle, the key and fob to a room numbered sixty. Typical of old-timers to lock their belongings away
