Old

“I’m here to see...” he checked his clipboard, “...Mr Heatley.”

“Yes, he’s just inside.” The woman blinked anxiously. “I’m Mrs Cavendish. I’m his daughter.”

“My name is Stansfield. I’m from the Department for Fiscal Sustainability. I need to evaluate Mr Heatley.”

Mrs Cavendish stood in the doorway, her hands fluttering like moths in the air. Stansfield cleared his throat.

“I will need to come in, Mrs Cavendish.”

The woman looked at the ground, then nodded and stepped aside. Stansfield stepped round her into the hallway.

“Where is Mr Heatley, please?”

“In the lounge.” The woman pointed to a door and followed him through. “Dad? Dad, you’ve got a visitor.”

The old man slumped in his chair, eyes closed, mouth hanging slackly open. Stansfield noticed with distaste the dangling drool. “Mr Heatley,” he said sharply.

The old man stirred and squinted up at him. “Stephen?” he asked, uncertainly. “Is that you?”

“No, Mr Heatley, I am not Stephen. My name is Stansfield, I am from the Department for Fiscal Sustainability. I am here to evaluate you.”

Mrs Cavendish knelt before her father and took his hand. “Mr Stansfield is from the government, Dad. He just wants to ask you a few questions.”

“Questions?” He peered at her curiously. “Like a quiz? I was never much kop at quizzes, love.”

“I know, Dad.” Stansfield watched her swallow hard. “Just do the best you can, okay?”

"If you could accompany me to the kitchen, Mr Heatley.” Mrs Cavendish helped her father up out of the chair. Stansfield frowned and checked his watch as the old man shuffled across the room, leaning on his daughter’s arm. Stansfield stopped her at the door and motioned her back to the sofa. She hesitated, patted her father on the arm, and turned away. Stansfield closed the door firmly.

“Before we begin, please make me a cup of tea, Mr Heatley.”

The old man looked round the kitchen, eventually happening upon the kettle. He shuffled towards it, picked it off its base in a shaky hand and carried it to the sink. With an effort he worked the tap, took the filled kettle back to its base and set it back down. He stared at it for a moment then back at Stansfield.

“You need to switch it on, Mr Heatley.”

“Oh yes, of course, of course. Silly me.” He flicked the switch then turned back to Stansfield and smiled.

“Milk, Mr Heatley.”

“Milk?”

“For the tea.”

“Ah, yes, milk. Milk. Er, where...?”

“The fridge, Mr Heatley.”

Stansfield watched the old man shuffle across to the fridge, pull it open and stare into it for a few seconds before locating a bottle of milk and pulling it out. He turned and started back towards the kettle, the fridge door open behind him. The kettle came to the boil as he reached it. He picked it up and looked round, muttering to himself, “Cups, cups. I could have sworn...”

“Okay, Mr Heatley, let us leave the tea now. Sit down, please.” Stansfield sat and pulled a sheet of paper from his clipboard as Mr Heatley lowered himself into a chair. “I’m going to ask you a few questions now and I need you to answer as best you can. Do you understand?”

Mr Heatley frowned and nodded.

“How old are you?”

“How old? Well, um....” He tailed off.

“What year were you born?”

“Oh, er, 1936, I believe.”

“And what year is it now?”

“Nineteen... something?”

“It’s two thousand and eighteen, Mr Heatley. That makes you eighty-two years old.”

“Gosh. Really?”

Stansfield made a mark on the paper. “Who is the Prime Minister?”

“Oh, I don’t really follow the news. It’s not still that woman is it?”

“The Prime Minister is David Cameron.”

Mr Heatley looked blank.

“What town are you in right now?”

He shook his head. “I’m very sorry, young man. I don’t know. I don’t think I’m going to do very well at this quiz.”

Stansfield carried on with his questions. What month is it? What day is it? What is the capital of France? In what year did World War One start? Why is a carrot like a potato? All were met with a single shake of the head.

“What is eight multiplied by eight?”

The old man’s eyes lit up. “Eight eights. That’s sixty-four. Aha, that’s right, isn’t it? Eight eights, sixty-four, yes.” He waved a finger in the air, triumphant.

Stansfield tucked the paper back into his clipboard and stood up. “We’re finished now, Mr Heatley. I just need to speak to your daughter. Please don’t get up.”

Mrs Cavendish jumped up as the door opened, hope etched on her face.

“I got one, love. I got one,” Mr Heatley called. “Eight eights, sixty-four. Was always pretty good at the old mathematics, eh?” He tapped his head and grinned delightedly at Stansfield, who tore a sheet from his pad and handed it to Mrs Cavendish.

“Mrs Cavendish, I have to inform you that your father has failed the Certified Fit and Functioning Persons Test and therefore by the authority of the National Sustainability and Pensions Act Two Thousand and Seventeen I hereby serve you with papers notifying you of his eviction from this flat and removal to the nearest Clinic.”

She stared at the paper, shaking her head. “How can you do this?” The tears started now. “He worked his whole life; paid taxes his whole life. This isn’t fair. How can you live with yourself?”

Stansfield sighed. “Mrs Cavendish, this is not personal. There is an extremely long waiting list of people who need this flat. You know you cannot afford to look after him. The country simply cannot afford to keep people like your father. The country is in a great deal of debt. Without the Sustainability Act the country would have gone bankrupt. It may seem harsh but this is a necessary process. The Collections team will be here next Wednesday to pick him up.”

Stansfield backed off hurriedly as the woman started weeping and sank to her knees before him. “Mrs Cavendish, it’s really a very humane process. The injection does not hurt at all. He will simply drift off just as if he were going to sleep.”

Mrs Cavendish let out a long anguished wail. Her body shook as she sobbed into the carpet

“Mrs Cavendish, I have to go now.” He glanced into the kitchen where Mr Heatley had fallen asleep at the table. “Goodbye.”

He shut the door quickly behind him and marched down the path. He was behind schedule and he still had a lot of visits to get through.