Synopsis
In an ageist society, where euthanasia is encouraged as a patriotic act, dementia is no longer tolerated.
Henry Morris is watching his wife slip away from him. Kaitlyn, a young waitress, is desperate for the funds to keep her brother’s life support machine switched on.
When a chance encounter brings the two together, they embark on an unconventional business arrangement that will force them to confront their prejudices, as well as their deepest, darkest secrets.
GUARDIAN BOOK OF THE MONTH
'This compelling page-turner is so disturbingly real, I can't stop thinking about it' Daily Mail
'A powerful and tender book, with even more emotional punch than Crosskey’s debut' WI Life Magazine
'This study of a washed-out, uncaring society is a salutary warning' Guardian
'On an overstretched earth, sustainability is sacred and the elderly are made to feel as if they have overstayed their welcome. Gripping, fast-moving and tightly plotted, Overdrawn imagines a future in which we can no longer afford the luxury of old age' Heather Child, author of Everything About You
'Crosskey is a genius - I don't know how many of these convincing, terrifying dystopias she has lined up, but I want to read them all. Overdrawn is flawless. It's a compelling page-turner, an astute exploration of society's attitude towards the ageing and the sick, and a beautiful portrait of connection between lost human beings. I truly loved it' Laura Pearson, author of Missing Pieces and Nobody’s Wife
'In Overdrawn, Crosskey creates a dystopian Britain in which the ageing population is neither valued nor tolerated. Compelling, unsettling - I couldn’t put it down' Joanne Burn, author of Petals and Stones
‘Poignant, powerful and so very plausible. Crosskey’s writing is just flawless. Overdrawn is undoubtably an utter triumph and Crosskey is fast becoming the writer of our generation’ Stefanie @LiteraryElf
‘Crosskey takes the tricky subjects of ageing and dementia and spins something so inventive and heartrending. Wonderful characters, beautiful writing, this book is a total gem’ Clare Empson, author of Him
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author
N. J. Crosskey worked in the care sector for almost 20 years and is now a full-time author.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
“The importance of the Moving On initiative simply cannot be overstated. In many ways, it is the second revolution of our time; offering both an effective solution to our current economic crisis, and a personal solution to thousands who have, in the past, suffered needlessly and seemingly without end.
“Just as the advent of the contraceptive pill gave our great, great grandmothers autonomy over their own fertility for the first time, the Moving On Corporation now offers us an even greater freedom. The freedom to choose our own destiny. The power to decide our own fate.”
Maria Drake, Spokesperson for the Collective Council
1
Henry had never liked doctors. They were always harbingers of pain. Even when he was a boy, he’d never been wooed by their shiny red lollipops. No amount of shrink-wrapped sugar could distract him from their lies about what constitutes ‘a small scratch’. In fact, his whole life had been punctuated by their bad tidings:
‘I’m afraid those tonsils will have to come out, Henry lad.’
‘In cases such as these, amputation is the safest option.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Morris, there was nothing more we could do for your mother.’
‘It’s a difficult choice, but as her father it falls to you to make it on her behalf.’
‘I’m afraid your wife’s diagnosis is indisputable.’
He couldn’t recall a single time in his history that a white coat and stethoscope signalled anything other than trouble. And today was no exception.
He’d been waiting in the sterile silence of the doctor’s office for well over half an hour when Dr Johnson waltzed in, whistling. Because to him, armed with his white coat and youthful privilege, it was just another day at work. Chloe was just another name on a file. Just a date of birth and a condition.
“Mr Morris.” The doctor smiled, too widely. Black news comes after flashes of white teeth.
He sat down and opened the lime green tome of a file on the desk.
“I’ve been reviewing your wife’s case. In light of the information you gave my colleague over the phone, I think it’s safe to say her current dose of Hepraxin is no longer sufficient. Would you agree?”
“Yes.” Henry shivered a little when he remembered coming home the day before to discover the front door wide open, and Chloe nowhere to be found. “Yes, I would.”
Dr Johnson nodded. “Well, that in itself is nothing to worry about. As the disease progresses, it’s perfectly normal for a patient to require a higher dose. I would suggest we try doubling it. If you still wish to continue treatment, that is?”
Henry’s cheeks burned. “Of course I do.”
“I understand.” The doctor nodded slowly. “I see no medical reason why we can’t put her up to 40mg. However, I’m afraid I am only able to authorise three months’ supply today.”
The bile churned in Henry’s guts. Had the time come so soon? Perhaps not. Perhaps there was another reason. Supply problems, maybe? Or the need to review the drug’s effects?
“Why is that?” he asked, praying he didn’t already know the answer.
Dr Johnson exhaled. That one release of CO2 confirming Henry’s fears. This was it. End of the line. Game Over. You do not have enough credits to proceed.
“I’m afraid three months’ supply will take you to the limit of your overdraft, Mr Morris,” he said at last. “If you prefer, I could prescribe six at her current dose? You won’t see any improvement, of course, but there might not be too much of a decline. If you need more time to… make arrangements?”
Make arrangements. The phrase lingered in the air.
Henry eyed the young, virile doctor. Anger twisted in his solar plexus, radiating down to his fingertips which began to shake, and burn. This guy knew nothing about life except its monetary value. He’d never had to watch the light and passion fade slowly from eyes that had once burned with conviction and courage. He’d never built love with someone, learned to recognise the subtle movements in their face that belied their every mood. He’d probably never even held a little miracle of his own creation in his arms. What did he know about life, apart from its mechanics?
He wanted to shout, rage. Scream his despair at the white-coated epitome of youth in front of him. But instead he whispered, “I’ll take the three. Everyone gets older, you know.”
“Indeed” – Dr Johnson nodded solemnly – “and it is something we must all prepare for. Mr Morris, I understand how hard this must be. But, there comes a time when you must think of yourself as well.”
“What do you mean?” Henry thought of nothing but himself, if he was honest. All the praise, all the well-meaning ‘I don’t how you do it, you must be saint’ comments from friends and neighbours made him uncomfortable. Chloe was his world. He couldn’t let her go. Not without losing himself as well.
“Have you thought about how you would cope, if you continue to care for your wife once her medication runs out?”
“I’d cope.”
“We are fortunate these days, Mr Morris. Dementia has been effectively eradicated. The trouble is, because it’s no longer a part of everyday society, we’ve forgotten how hard it is to deal with. What it means for those trying to look after the patient.”
“I’m well aware of what it means,” Henry snapped. “I stand by my decision. I will not be making any arrangements.”
Dr Johnson just smiled again, which made Henry want to smack him in the chops, not that he ever would. “Well,” he said, far too congenially, “I am just a humble physician. All I have to go by is the current repayment plan you have in place. That’s not to say there might not be other options. Why don’t I make you an appointment with the financial department? There’s a slot available tomorrow? Maybe they’ll come up with something?”
Henry nodded and took the small scrap of paper the doctor handed him, along with the prescription. He stood up and headed to the door.
“Mr Morris?” Dr Johnson called out to him before he grabbed the handle. “I do respect your decision; I’m just concerned about your health as well. I sincerely hope we can find some way to continue treating your wife. But if we can’t—”
“I’ll manage.”
Dr Johnson sighed. “Mr Morris… how did you get that cut on your cheek?”
Henry walked out and slammed the door.
“Jumped-up little son of a bitch,” he muttered to himself as he clung to the handrail, easing down the staircase one step at a time. Every movement chafed. He was long past due a new prosthetic, but that was the least of his concerns right now. When he reached the bottom, he headed for the gents, hoping to get some relief from the pain that burned in his bladder.
Picturing Dr Johnson’s face in the urinal wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped. But a little of the vitriol built up inside left his body with the dwindling stream of urine. It wasn’t the young doctor’s fault, any more than it was Chloe’s. Or his. The anger he held was all the more bitter because it had no direction.
The mirror was smeared. Hastily cleaned by a harried worker with a low EP and high hourly targets. He grabbed a coarse paper towel and gently rubbed the streaks away. Maybe the supervisor would be coming round with their clipboard soon. Maybe that one small gesture might save someone the sack. Chloe always said a person’s character was made up of a series of small gestures. A cup of tea every morning was worth more than a dozen roses once a year. He used to worry she only said that to make him feel better. But then, he never used to understand what was important.
He stared at his own reflection, and half wished he hadn’t cleaned the mirror. Sixty years had flown by, leaving only grey hair and deep lines to prove their passage. Sixty years. It seemed like nothing. He remembered his grandfather turning sixty. The whole family gathered together, laughing and joking. He could still taste the creamy frosting on the cake his grandma had made for the party. It was the start of a new adventure, the adults had said. The dawn of his Golden Years. Joseph Morris still had twenty years ahead of him on that day. By the time the cancer took him aged eighty he’d spent two decades in retirement, and taken a sunshine holiday every single year of it.
Nowadays nobody celebrated turning sixty. Nowadays people his age held very different types of parties. It wasn’t fair.
The jagged cut on his right cheek added a shock of colour to an otherwise pallid canvas. Henry ran his finger along it, making it sting. It ought to sting, he thought. It ought never heal, because the memory of what it means never would.
The door was open. He swore when he saw it. Not at Chloe, but at himself. He knew he shouldn’t have gone out and left her, not without someone to keep an eye. But he’d only meant to be gone ten minutes. How was he to know they’d be digging up the sodding roundabout again? Damn temporary lights. He abandoned the car in the drive and limped into the house, his heart racing.
“Chloe?” He hobbled to each room in turn, but she wasn’t there. When he reached the kitchen he was confronted by a puddle of water in the middle of the blue linoleum floor. It rippled rhythmically. Looking up, he saw the steady drip coming through the ceiling.
“Chloe, turn the taps off!” He heaved himself up the stairs, grimacing at the pain in his stump from the hard, ill-fitting plastic. The sound of gushing water grew louder as he neared the bathroom. But she wasn’t in there either. He turned off the tap and pulled the plug out of the overflowing sink, soaking his left foot in the process. The clean-up would have to wait.
He was halfway back down the stairs when he heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path.
“Henry? Henry, are you there?” He recognised the sing-song tone. It was Kimmy, from number 34. When he reached the front door, he saw his neighbour standing there, her arm around Chloe.
“Oh thank God!” He rushed to his wife.
“I was coming home from work,” Kimmy said. “I found her down by the post box. What happened, Henry?”
“I’m sorry. I had to pop out. I thought she’d be okay.” Chloe shuffled toward him, one stiff leg then the other. She didn’t look up from the ground.
“Oh Henry, you could have asked me to watch her. I’m free this afternoon,” Kimmy said. “You know I don’t mind.”
But Henry minded. He didn’t want to ask for her help. Or anyone’s help. He didn’t want people to know how bad things had gotten. He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself. He ignored Kimmy and gently placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders.
“Chloe,” he whispered. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”
She blinked and lifted her gaze. Her sapphire eyes met his.
“Henry?” she asked.
“Yes!” Henry tried to hide his relief that she remembered him. The same relief he felt every day when she said good morning. She remembered him. For at least one more day, she remembered him.
Her expression turned dark.
“Where’s Heidi?” she demanded, throwing his hands off her.
Kimmy looked confused. “Who’s Heidi?” she asked, but the Morrises ignored her.
“Chloe, don’t you remember—”
“What have you done with her?” Chloe raised her voice, and Henry stepped back instinctively. “You bastard!” She lunged forward, clawing at his face. “What have you done with my baby! Where’s my baby?”
He couldn’t put off the trip to the hospital after that. Kimmy had calmed her down, taken her inside. It was only when he’d turned to follow them through the door, pressing his palm to his smarting cheek, that he noticed Chloe’s nightdress was tucked into the back of her knickers.
He’d wept. For the first time in thirty years. Kimmy was more understanding than most people her age, but that only made him feel worse.
Kimmy. He shook himself out of his pity trance. She’d swapped her shift so she could watch Chloe for him. He didn’t want to take advantage. He needed to get back, after a quick trip to the pharmacy to pick up the higher dose that might bring his wife back to him. For three months.
Still, he reasoned as he made his way out of the hospital, a lot can happen in three months. He didn’t hold out much hope for his meeting with the financial department, but he’d find a way. Somehow. He’d try everything, everyone.
The sour-faced woman at the pharmacy clicked her tongue when she looked at the prescription. He knew what she was thinking. Not much call for Hepraxin these days. Not the done thing.
“It’ll be ready to collect in half an hour.” She didn’t add ‘sir’. He didn’t expect her to. Old age wasn’t something to revere any more. Henry’s generation hadn’t fought for freedom, or built anything of note. If anything, they’d caused more problems than they’d solved. And now they were just taking up room and resources.
He wandered into the greasy spoon next door and took up the last remaining seat. A young waitress with black curls and a dirty pinafore came to take his order. She rolled her eyes when he asked for a small coffee. It was almost lunchtime and patrons with deeper pockets were beginning to line up outside, looking for an empty table. She dumped his flat white down on the chequered plastic tablecloth with a force that caused a third of it to slosh out into the saucer. And there was no sugar. He didn’t complain.
At the next table, two silver-haired women gossiped. Their used napkins lay scrunched up on top of the remains of their lunch. The waitress tapped her pencil on her notepad loudly. The pair seemed to be oblivious to the fact they were taking up much-needed space.
“Excuse me,” the waitress said at last. “Are you going to order anything else?”
“Oh no,” the skinnier of the two replied. “No, we’re just fine. Thank you.”
She hadn’t got the hint. She turned back to her ruddy-cheeked friend and continued.
“So, anyway I said to her you ought to try those new ginger teas. Cos I swear my rash cleared right up after that. Didn’t do much for the arthritis, but then nothing ever—”
“Don’t you think it’s time to move on?” the waitress interrupted her, scowling.
Henry gasped a little, but the ladies either didn’t notice the double meaning, or chose to ignore it. They apologised profusely and gathered their things. As they stood up a group of young men in overalls took their seats, without waiting for them to finish buttoning their coats.
“Some people really don’t know when it’s time to get out of the pool, do they?” one of the scruffy oiks said.
The coffee was bitter and still too hot. Henry burned his tongue trying to consume it quickly. He decided he’d just leave it, put his money on the table and go. He looked for the waitress, to make sure she was far enough away for him to get through the door without having to converse with her. He spotted her clearing plates behind the counter. She threw the old ladies’ dirty serviettes into the bin, but didn’t scrape their plates. Instead, she took a square of cling film, wrapped an uneaten quarter-sandwich in it, and tucked it in her pocket.
Insulting customers and thieving. Typical young madam. No wonder the whole world was going to hell in a handbasket.
If the future belonged to her generation then perhaps having less of it to live through was a blessing after all.
But, as he had taken to doing since he found himself alone most of the time, he tried to imagine what Chloe would say. If she was still Chloe. She’d listen to his griping patiently. But for all her tolerance of his bellyaching, she wouldn’t be complicit in his old-gititude. She’d reach across the table, put her hand on his.
“Oh hush now, you old goat,” she’d say with a wink of those sapphires. “Thieving from whom exactly? The dustbin? I’ve a mind to think she’s got more troubles than we have if she needs to steal a half-eaten sandwich. No wonder she’s a little grumpy.”
They’d finish their drinks and Henry would leave the exact money on the table. But, before she followed him out of the door, Chloe would fish around in her purse and leave an extra coin or two. Always more than ten per cent.
Chloe wasn’t here. But Henry had long known she was the better half of their whole. He stood up, put the correct money on the table, and then added two shiny coins on behalf of his wife before heading to the door.
“Sir?” the waitress called out to someone as he shuffled to the exit.
“Sir!”
She appeared beside him. He panicked a little. Had he done something wrong? But she held the door open and smiled.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, holding up the coins.
He was taken aback. He hadn’t been called Sir since the pepper in his hair gave up and let the salt take over.
It was a small gesture. But it meant a lot.
“Just as the advent of the contraceptive pill gave our great, great grandmothers autonomy over their own fertility for the first time, the Moving On Corporation now offers us an even greater freedom. The freedom to choose our own destiny. The power to decide our own fate.”
Maria Drake, Spokesperson for the Collective Council
1
Henry had never liked doctors. They were always harbingers of pain. Even when he was a boy, he’d never been wooed by their shiny red lollipops. No amount of shrink-wrapped sugar could distract him from their lies about what constitutes ‘a small scratch’. In fact, his whole life had been punctuated by their bad tidings:
‘I’m afraid those tonsils will have to come out, Henry lad.’
‘In cases such as these, amputation is the safest option.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Morris, there was nothing more we could do for your mother.’
‘It’s a difficult choice, but as her father it falls to you to make it on her behalf.’
‘I’m afraid your wife’s diagnosis is indisputable.’
He couldn’t recall a single time in his history that a white coat and stethoscope signalled anything other than trouble. And today was no exception.
He’d been waiting in the sterile silence of the doctor’s office for well over half an hour when Dr Johnson waltzed in, whistling. Because to him, armed with his white coat and youthful privilege, it was just another day at work. Chloe was just another name on a file. Just a date of birth and a condition.
“Mr Morris.” The doctor smiled, too widely. Black news comes after flashes of white teeth.
He sat down and opened the lime green tome of a file on the desk.
“I’ve been reviewing your wife’s case. In light of the information you gave my colleague over the phone, I think it’s safe to say her current dose of Hepraxin is no longer sufficient. Would you agree?”
“Yes.” Henry shivered a little when he remembered coming home the day before to discover the front door wide open, and Chloe nowhere to be found. “Yes, I would.”
Dr Johnson nodded. “Well, that in itself is nothing to worry about. As the disease progresses, it’s perfectly normal for a patient to require a higher dose. I would suggest we try doubling it. If you still wish to continue treatment, that is?”
Henry’s cheeks burned. “Of course I do.”
“I understand.” The doctor nodded slowly. “I see no medical reason why we can’t put her up to 40mg. However, I’m afraid I am only able to authorise three months’ supply today.”
The bile churned in Henry’s guts. Had the time come so soon? Perhaps not. Perhaps there was another reason. Supply problems, maybe? Or the need to review the drug’s effects?
“Why is that?” he asked, praying he didn’t already know the answer.
Dr Johnson exhaled. That one release of CO2 confirming Henry’s fears. This was it. End of the line. Game Over. You do not have enough credits to proceed.
“I’m afraid three months’ supply will take you to the limit of your overdraft, Mr Morris,” he said at last. “If you prefer, I could prescribe six at her current dose? You won’t see any improvement, of course, but there might not be too much of a decline. If you need more time to… make arrangements?”
Make arrangements. The phrase lingered in the air.
Henry eyed the young, virile doctor. Anger twisted in his solar plexus, radiating down to his fingertips which began to shake, and burn. This guy knew nothing about life except its monetary value. He’d never had to watch the light and passion fade slowly from eyes that had once burned with conviction and courage. He’d never built love with someone, learned to recognise the subtle movements in their face that belied their every mood. He’d probably never even held a little miracle of his own creation in his arms. What did he know about life, apart from its mechanics?
He wanted to shout, rage. Scream his despair at the white-coated epitome of youth in front of him. But instead he whispered, “I’ll take the three. Everyone gets older, you know.”
“Indeed” – Dr Johnson nodded solemnly – “and it is something we must all prepare for. Mr Morris, I understand how hard this must be. But, there comes a time when you must think of yourself as well.”
“What do you mean?” Henry thought of nothing but himself, if he was honest. All the praise, all the well-meaning ‘I don’t how you do it, you must be saint’ comments from friends and neighbours made him uncomfortable. Chloe was his world. He couldn’t let her go. Not without losing himself as well.
“Have you thought about how you would cope, if you continue to care for your wife once her medication runs out?”
“I’d cope.”
“We are fortunate these days, Mr Morris. Dementia has been effectively eradicated. The trouble is, because it’s no longer a part of everyday society, we’ve forgotten how hard it is to deal with. What it means for those trying to look after the patient.”
“I’m well aware of what it means,” Henry snapped. “I stand by my decision. I will not be making any arrangements.”
Dr Johnson just smiled again, which made Henry want to smack him in the chops, not that he ever would. “Well,” he said, far too congenially, “I am just a humble physician. All I have to go by is the current repayment plan you have in place. That’s not to say there might not be other options. Why don’t I make you an appointment with the financial department? There’s a slot available tomorrow? Maybe they’ll come up with something?”
Henry nodded and took the small scrap of paper the doctor handed him, along with the prescription. He stood up and headed to the door.
“Mr Morris?” Dr Johnson called out to him before he grabbed the handle. “I do respect your decision; I’m just concerned about your health as well. I sincerely hope we can find some way to continue treating your wife. But if we can’t—”
“I’ll manage.”
Dr Johnson sighed. “Mr Morris… how did you get that cut on your cheek?”
Henry walked out and slammed the door.
“Jumped-up little son of a bitch,” he muttered to himself as he clung to the handrail, easing down the staircase one step at a time. Every movement chafed. He was long past due a new prosthetic, but that was the least of his concerns right now. When he reached the bottom, he headed for the gents, hoping to get some relief from the pain that burned in his bladder.
Picturing Dr Johnson’s face in the urinal wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped. But a little of the vitriol built up inside left his body with the dwindling stream of urine. It wasn’t the young doctor’s fault, any more than it was Chloe’s. Or his. The anger he held was all the more bitter because it had no direction.
The mirror was smeared. Hastily cleaned by a harried worker with a low EP and high hourly targets. He grabbed a coarse paper towel and gently rubbed the streaks away. Maybe the supervisor would be coming round with their clipboard soon. Maybe that one small gesture might save someone the sack. Chloe always said a person’s character was made up of a series of small gestures. A cup of tea every morning was worth more than a dozen roses once a year. He used to worry she only said that to make him feel better. But then, he never used to understand what was important.
He stared at his own reflection, and half wished he hadn’t cleaned the mirror. Sixty years had flown by, leaving only grey hair and deep lines to prove their passage. Sixty years. It seemed like nothing. He remembered his grandfather turning sixty. The whole family gathered together, laughing and joking. He could still taste the creamy frosting on the cake his grandma had made for the party. It was the start of a new adventure, the adults had said. The dawn of his Golden Years. Joseph Morris still had twenty years ahead of him on that day. By the time the cancer took him aged eighty he’d spent two decades in retirement, and taken a sunshine holiday every single year of it.
Nowadays nobody celebrated turning sixty. Nowadays people his age held very different types of parties. It wasn’t fair.
The jagged cut on his right cheek added a shock of colour to an otherwise pallid canvas. Henry ran his finger along it, making it sting. It ought to sting, he thought. It ought never heal, because the memory of what it means never would.
The door was open. He swore when he saw it. Not at Chloe, but at himself. He knew he shouldn’t have gone out and left her, not without someone to keep an eye. But he’d only meant to be gone ten minutes. How was he to know they’d be digging up the sodding roundabout again? Damn temporary lights. He abandoned the car in the drive and limped into the house, his heart racing.
“Chloe?” He hobbled to each room in turn, but she wasn’t there. When he reached the kitchen he was confronted by a puddle of water in the middle of the blue linoleum floor. It rippled rhythmically. Looking up, he saw the steady drip coming through the ceiling.
“Chloe, turn the taps off!” He heaved himself up the stairs, grimacing at the pain in his stump from the hard, ill-fitting plastic. The sound of gushing water grew louder as he neared the bathroom. But she wasn’t in there either. He turned off the tap and pulled the plug out of the overflowing sink, soaking his left foot in the process. The clean-up would have to wait.
He was halfway back down the stairs when he heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path.
“Henry? Henry, are you there?” He recognised the sing-song tone. It was Kimmy, from number 34. When he reached the front door, he saw his neighbour standing there, her arm around Chloe.
“Oh thank God!” He rushed to his wife.
“I was coming home from work,” Kimmy said. “I found her down by the post box. What happened, Henry?”
“I’m sorry. I had to pop out. I thought she’d be okay.” Chloe shuffled toward him, one stiff leg then the other. She didn’t look up from the ground.
“Oh Henry, you could have asked me to watch her. I’m free this afternoon,” Kimmy said. “You know I don’t mind.”
But Henry minded. He didn’t want to ask for her help. Or anyone’s help. He didn’t want people to know how bad things had gotten. He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself. He ignored Kimmy and gently placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders.
“Chloe,” he whispered. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”
She blinked and lifted her gaze. Her sapphire eyes met his.
“Henry?” she asked.
“Yes!” Henry tried to hide his relief that she remembered him. The same relief he felt every day when she said good morning. She remembered him. For at least one more day, she remembered him.
Her expression turned dark.
“Where’s Heidi?” she demanded, throwing his hands off her.
Kimmy looked confused. “Who’s Heidi?” she asked, but the Morrises ignored her.
“Chloe, don’t you remember—”
“What have you done with her?” Chloe raised her voice, and Henry stepped back instinctively. “You bastard!” She lunged forward, clawing at his face. “What have you done with my baby! Where’s my baby?”
He couldn’t put off the trip to the hospital after that. Kimmy had calmed her down, taken her inside. It was only when he’d turned to follow them through the door, pressing his palm to his smarting cheek, that he noticed Chloe’s nightdress was tucked into the back of her knickers.
He’d wept. For the first time in thirty years. Kimmy was more understanding than most people her age, but that only made him feel worse.
Kimmy. He shook himself out of his pity trance. She’d swapped her shift so she could watch Chloe for him. He didn’t want to take advantage. He needed to get back, after a quick trip to the pharmacy to pick up the higher dose that might bring his wife back to him. For three months.
Still, he reasoned as he made his way out of the hospital, a lot can happen in three months. He didn’t hold out much hope for his meeting with the financial department, but he’d find a way. Somehow. He’d try everything, everyone.
The sour-faced woman at the pharmacy clicked her tongue when she looked at the prescription. He knew what she was thinking. Not much call for Hepraxin these days. Not the done thing.
“It’ll be ready to collect in half an hour.” She didn’t add ‘sir’. He didn’t expect her to. Old age wasn’t something to revere any more. Henry’s generation hadn’t fought for freedom, or built anything of note. If anything, they’d caused more problems than they’d solved. And now they were just taking up room and resources.
He wandered into the greasy spoon next door and took up the last remaining seat. A young waitress with black curls and a dirty pinafore came to take his order. She rolled her eyes when he asked for a small coffee. It was almost lunchtime and patrons with deeper pockets were beginning to line up outside, looking for an empty table. She dumped his flat white down on the chequered plastic tablecloth with a force that caused a third of it to slosh out into the saucer. And there was no sugar. He didn’t complain.
At the next table, two silver-haired women gossiped. Their used napkins lay scrunched up on top of the remains of their lunch. The waitress tapped her pencil on her notepad loudly. The pair seemed to be oblivious to the fact they were taking up much-needed space.
“Excuse me,” the waitress said at last. “Are you going to order anything else?”
“Oh no,” the skinnier of the two replied. “No, we’re just fine. Thank you.”
She hadn’t got the hint. She turned back to her ruddy-cheeked friend and continued.
“So, anyway I said to her you ought to try those new ginger teas. Cos I swear my rash cleared right up after that. Didn’t do much for the arthritis, but then nothing ever—”
“Don’t you think it’s time to move on?” the waitress interrupted her, scowling.
Henry gasped a little, but the ladies either didn’t notice the double meaning, or chose to ignore it. They apologised profusely and gathered their things. As they stood up a group of young men in overalls took their seats, without waiting for them to finish buttoning their coats.
“Some people really don’t know when it’s time to get out of the pool, do they?” one of the scruffy oiks said.
The coffee was bitter and still too hot. Henry burned his tongue trying to consume it quickly. He decided he’d just leave it, put his money on the table and go. He looked for the waitress, to make sure she was far enough away for him to get through the door without having to converse with her. He spotted her clearing plates behind the counter. She threw the old ladies’ dirty serviettes into the bin, but didn’t scrape their plates. Instead, she took a square of cling film, wrapped an uneaten quarter-sandwich in it, and tucked it in her pocket.
Insulting customers and thieving. Typical young madam. No wonder the whole world was going to hell in a handbasket.
If the future belonged to her generation then perhaps having less of it to live through was a blessing after all.
But, as he had taken to doing since he found himself alone most of the time, he tried to imagine what Chloe would say. If she was still Chloe. She’d listen to his griping patiently. But for all her tolerance of his bellyaching, she wouldn’t be complicit in his old-gititude. She’d reach across the table, put her hand on his.
“Oh hush now, you old goat,” she’d say with a wink of those sapphires. “Thieving from whom exactly? The dustbin? I’ve a mind to think she’s got more troubles than we have if she needs to steal a half-eaten sandwich. No wonder she’s a little grumpy.”
They’d finish their drinks and Henry would leave the exact money on the table. But, before she followed him out of the door, Chloe would fish around in her purse and leave an extra coin or two. Always more than ten per cent.
Chloe wasn’t here. But Henry had long known she was the better half of their whole. He stood up, put the correct money on the table, and then added two shiny coins on behalf of his wife before heading to the door.
“Sir?” the waitress called out to someone as he shuffled to the exit.
“Sir!”
She appeared beside him. He panicked a little. Had he done something wrong? But she held the door open and smiled.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, holding up the coins.
He was taken aback. He hadn’t been called Sir since the pepper in his hair gave up and let the salt take over.
It was a small gesture. But it meant a lot.
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Overdrawn: In an ageist society, euthanasia is encouraged as a patriotic act
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