‘Well, I would be delighted to sell it to you if I physically had it. And as it is, I already trade it at a premium. Mirth Farm gin fetches two and a half times the price of the average supermarket own brand.’
‘Two and a half times?’ The Colonel did the maths very quickly in his head. ‘Still, that’s probably reasonable for the quality. Can’t quite shake the memory. Very, very good. Excellent job, if I might say so. Probably worth every penny.’
Doubler was pleased to hear this. ‘I like to think so. Each year I look at the average cost of a seventy-centilitre bottle of supermarket gin and I use a two and a half times multiple to determine the price I will trade mine for. It means I don’t have to worry about what else is going on in the supply chain. I am confident mine is two and a half times as good as the average bottle.’
‘Only that? Honestly, it was extraordinary. I’d say it was ten times as good.’
Doubler considered this seriously for a moment before dismissing it. ‘That’s not possible. The qualities on which you can judge a spirit are finite. I scrutinized the numbers quite methodically. Obviously, you can further improve on the base liquor by serving it in a specific way or embellishing it with specific accompaniments, but centilitre by centilitre, I’d say I can comfortably state that mine is two and a half times as good as the average.’
The Colonel thought about this and, undeterred, continued in pursuit of a deal. ‘So, when do you make your next batch? Can I reserve a case or two?’
Doubler surveyed the weather from the window seat and wondered whether another storm was brewing. ‘It’s a little early to be certain, but I can’t be far off my spring distillation. It should be late April or early May, depending on the conditions over the next few weeks. But I’m afraid to say that the spring batch is already spoken for.’
‘All of it? Every last damn drop?’
‘Yes. But I can put you on a waiting list. A couple of my customers are quite old . . .’ Doubler trailed off, allowing the Colonel to realize the significance of this without further elaboration.
‘You are joking. I had no idea this was going to be so difficult.’
‘I’m not trying to be difficult. I just don’t make very much. I make a thousand bottles in the spring and a thousand bottles in the autumn. The two distillations are quite different. It is always my recommendation – in fact, I feel quite strongly about it – that you drink the spring distillation in the autumn and vice versa.’
‘Interesting. Which were we drinking the other day?’
‘Autumn,’ said Doubler emphatically, as if that should have been obvious.
‘Marvellous. Bloody marvellous,’ said the Colonel, remembering the taste.
Doubler cleared his throat and asked, a little tentatively, ‘How did it make you feel?’
‘Feel? It made me feel like I’d had the best bloody G and T of my life. And you’re talking to a man who’s sunk a few of those in officers’ messes over the years.’
‘Yes, yes. But beyond liking the taste, how was your mood impacted when you were drinking it?’
The Colonel thought back. ‘Well, it’s rather hard to articulate. I might need another to crystallize the feeling. But I’d say it made me recall some of my most glorious days. Is that possible? Is that overstepping the mark?’
Doubler was very pleased with this as a response. ‘No, that’s more or less what I would expect.’ Doubler hesitated before continuing with uncertainty in his voice, ‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’
‘Yes,’ answered the Colonel quickly, ‘if it means you count me in when you keep a few bottles back for your nearest and dearest.’ Maxwell guffawed loudly. When Doubler didn’t respond, Maxwell added, sincerely, ‘Of course, old man.’
Doubler continued, ‘The fact that I blend a very good gin is no accident. I start with exceptionally good vodka and I use superior botanicals. Making gin is a science. It uses a certain skill, the nose of a chef, the molecular knowledge of a chemist and the eyes of a botanist. And I like to think I’ve come close to perfecting that science. And’ – he could hear Maxwell clearing his throat as he prepared to interrupt him – ‘I’m certainly not about to divulge the ingredients. The recipe will almost certainly go to my grave with me. But let me share a few thoughts with you.’
The Colonel grunted in agreement.
‘I insist that my autumn distillation is drunk in the spring and that my spring distillation is drunk in the autumn. My customers respect this. When I make gin, I like to create memories and promises in equal measure. I will make a thousand bottles soon; they’re all spoken for. I will ship those in the autumn for the lucky recipients to drink as the days shorten and the year’s final flora heralds the dying days of the season. Those bottles that I have just shipped are from last year’s autumn batch. That’s what you sampled. I have a theory that by drinking the gin “off season”, I can broadly put the drinker into one of two categories: nostalgic or hopeful.’
‘How do you figure?’ Doubler could tell from the Colonel’s tone that his interest was piqued.
‘I believe the drink will make you dwell on your autumns past or look forward to the autumns your life yet has to deliver, depending on your outlook.’
‘So I am . . . ?’ wondered the Colonel, uncertain what verdict might be delivered.
‘I suggest you’re probably of the nostalgic persuasion. You think your best days are behind you.’
‘Well, that’s a bit of a blow.’ The Colonel tried to sound lighthearted, but it was hard to disguise the disappointment in his voice.
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s a bad thing! It’s statistically likely at your age that your best days are behind you. But if you can look back upon them with pride and happiness, then that is a very positive attribute. It doesn’t mean you haven’t got some autumns to look forward to, but you should certainly think about making each one count.’
‘Golly. I called to buy some gin. I didn’t think I was asking to have my fortune read.’
‘Ha! Yes, I suppose that does make me sound like a fortune teller. But the response doesn’t lie and it’s there for us all to consider, even me, after so many years. For instance, I noticed when I drank my gin with you up here at Mirth Farm recently that for the first time in my memory, the drink made me imagine the future rather than dwelling on the past.’
Doubler dragged the telephone back with him to the kitchen, and planting it on the butcher’s block by the Aga, he set about boiling the kettle. He turned to lean against the range, continuing thoughtfully, ‘I took a sip and wondered what the seasons would have in store for me. I wondered whether I might try my hand at some bramble jelly or whether it would be a good year for the crab apples. I imagined myself with a companion, well and strong and gathering the year’s final burgeoning harvest, by my side. It made me feel hopeful.’
The Colonel made a noise as if he were about to interrupt again, but Doubler was finding himself able to voice a gradual realization and he didn’t want to lose his train of thought. ‘Where perhaps until recently I’d worried that I’d never again feel that sense of fellowship, I realized instead that I could see two of us tramping round the perimeter of our shared life. And once I’d seen that image, I knew then that it could materialize. It made me not just hopeful but confident about the future.’ Doubler sounded surprised by his own revelation, but he’d been carrying this image with him and had found the more he examined it, the more he believed in its possibility.
‘And you got all of that from a sip of gin?’ The Colonel’s excitement was rising; he was now even more determined to get his hands on some of this spirit with its magical soothsaying properties.
‘Yes. The botanicals are straightforward. They are an autumn hedgerow captured and suspended in the alcohol. The vodka I make is the perfect vehicle for holding those flavours, those feelings, if you like, and releasing them directly into your brain as soon as the liquid hits your tongue. I believe that your brain must then analyse the flavours and will invite you to imagi
ne your future autumns or inspect those that have passed.’
The Colonel was not at all sceptical and did not make Doubler feel foolish. Rather, he sounded enthusiastic about these unimagined properties. ‘All sounds feasible. The drink shook me up. Made me think. Now I reflect on it, it made me remember the happiest days of my life. Perhaps that’s why I’m so keen to get my hands on some more.’ He paused. ‘You know, Doubler, I was somebody. I was a leader. I had men looking up to me, taking my word as the final say. Nobody doubted me or questioned my authority. One word, one nod and they’d follow my command. It was a wonderful feeling and one I know I will never recapture.’
Doubler heard the truth in the Colonel’s words and was quick to reassure him. ‘I can understand what a shock the change must be, but it really needn’t be a sadness to you. Take those years as your glory years and relive them. Know that you lived a life you can be proud of. Take that knowledge to your deathbed and you will die a happy man. Not only did you live a fulfilling life full of purpose, you are cognisant of it now. No regrets, just great memories. That’s an enviable state to achieve.’
The Colonel sighed, unconvinced. ‘I suppose so. I think it’s hard to adjust, though. To realize that you are no longer of consequence.’
‘I am sure you’ve plenty yet to offer. And we are all capable of change, you know. Even me. I’ve spent so many years concerning myself with my potatoes, but Mrs Millwood made me realize that anything I’ve learnt from them I might perhaps be able to apply to myself. I never even knew I was a kind man until she told me I was kind to my potatoes. I didn’t know kindness to potatoes counted. But I’m very grateful to her. She made me feel more courageous and more responsible, more capable. And, Maxwell, one bad season – even several bad seasons – can be followed by an exceptionally good one. Just as bad cycles can be interrupted with kindness. I suppose we’re all prone to blight, but for most of us, it’s most likely just in our leaves, and providing it’s not yet rotted our core, we can probably stop it doing any further damage.’
Doubler realized by the prolonged silence that he had lost the Colonel at the first mention of potatoes. He turned his attention back to his subject and pressed on. ‘You might not be leading an army to war, but you needn’t waste the next few years wallowing in self-pity. Trust me, I’ve dedicated my latter years to just that. It’s only a suggestion but I don’t think that paying close attention to those you depend on will mean you waste the rest of the time you have on earth.’
‘I don’t know quite what to feel, old man. I called to buy some gin and now I feel quite unsettled.’
‘Retiring must be hard on you. But remember it’s probably hard on your wife, too.’
The Colonel sounded ruffled. ‘Goodness, I don’t think so. I think she’s been very much looking forward to our retirement. I led a very busy life, you know, so she was probably frightfully lonely, twiddling her thumbs and waiting for me to get home. Being there for her now is one of the few benefits.’
‘I am sure it is. But don’t forget to be the husband she needs you to be, Maxwell. Notice what she does for you and for everyone else within her orbit. It’s not enough to wait for the regret that comes as a side-serving with loneliness, and I am beginning to understand that true love doesn’t count if you can’t express it with commensurate action. If you can do that, I’ll see if I can find a spare bit of capacity for you. Who knows, perhaps I’ll make an extra case of the good stuff just for you.’
‘You’d do that for me?’
‘I think you’ve got goodness in you, Maxwell. You just need to find some means of showing it. Goodness left inside you, unshared, is worthless.’
The Colonel’s response was lost to the kettle’s noisy exclamation as it reached its boiling point in a rush of steam. Doubler hung up the telephone and set about making his tea.
Chapter 23
When Mrs Millwood next called, Doubler answered the telephone with an enthusiasm that a few weeks ago would have been unprecedented.
‘You’ll be glad to know that while you’re idling your time away in that hospital you seem so partial to, spring is getting on with being spring, and it seems there’s no stopping it. Mirth Farm is bursting with life; it is burgeoning.’ Doubler was pleased with himself, revelling in his own jollity and buoyed by his own delight, which soared in ever-increasing escalations of elation.
‘That’s nice,’ said Mrs Millwood quietly, unable to match Doubler’s joy.
‘And the pond – you know the small pond, nearest the gate? – it’s got a pair of mallards on it. I’m rather delighted. I’m not sure we’ve had ducks there before. That’s a sign of something good, a positive omen, wouldn’t you say?’
There was an almost imperceptible sigh on the other end of the phone. ‘There are ducks there every year,’ Mrs Millwood answered in a dull monotone.
‘No, no, on the little pond, the dew pond nearest the gate. There’s a pair of ducks there.’
‘I know the pond you mean and there is always a pair of ducks there. They’ve hatched ducklings by that pond before, and I quite often see them walking along side by side. They cross the drive and make their way slowly back to their home, looking like they’re completely lost in conversation.’ Mrs Millwood sounded wistful, but Doubler still failed to hear the dissonance above his own ebullience.
‘Are you sure? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen them.’
‘Yes, I’m sure, Mr Doubler,’ she snapped a little. ‘Just because you don’t stop to look at it, it doesn’t mean to say it’s not happening. Throughout the dark years in that chasm of yours, the daffodils still flowered, the ducklings still hatched, the pussy willow still burst from bare stems overnight – it’s still all there. Spring gets on with it regardless, Mr Doubler. It doesn’t need you to notice it.’
Doubler had been so excited to share his news that it had taken him a while to register the deflation in her voice. But he stopped now, as he noticed the irritation creep in.
‘Are you all right, Mrs M? You sound a bit out of sorts. Are you fed up?’
‘Yes, I’m fed up. Of course I’m fed up, Mr Doubler. I’d like to be on the mend and I’m not.’
Doubler felt his heart thumping painfully in his chest as his mind raced through the possible reasons for her decline. ‘You’re supposed to be in hospital to get better, Mrs M. What on earth are they doing to you in there?’
‘I’m not sure they know anymore. I’m a bit of a puzzle to them, apparently.’
‘But they’re going to fix you. They’re going to give you your treatment and get you up and about in no time, aren’t they?’
Mrs Millwood was quiet for a while, but her voice was bright and strong when she spoke again. ‘Yes, Mr Doubler, that’s the plan, and I’m not in the mood to be told otherwise, but I do miss my own bed and I’m so very, very tired.’
‘Oh heavens, shall I leave you be, let you rest?’
‘I wish it were that easy. I need to sleep, but sleep doesn’t come. I suppose it is all this inactivity. My mind doesn’t seem to want to shut down when I’ve given it so little ammunition with which to exhaust itself.’
‘Well, yes, of course, inactivity can be utterly draining. I remember that only too well from my days in the chasm. Sometimes I was so depleted of all energy I could barely get myself out of bed in the morning. So, let’s have a think. Is there anything you can do there to tire yourself out?’
Mrs Millwood didn’t even attempt to make light of the question. ‘Here? You’re joking.’
‘I could visit?’ he asked tentatively, knowing he would be in the car racing down the hill in a heartbeat. She only had to say the word.
‘I have plenty of visitors, Mr Doubler. They’re the wrong sort of tiring.’
‘I see.’ Just as she hadn’t disguised her despondency, he failed to disguise his jealousy in those two small words.
She registered his disappointment and immediately moved to rectify it. ‘You really don’t need to visit – trust me, I’m doing you
a favour. The wards are noisy at visiting time and, understandably, the staff can be quick to lose their patience. They’re good with the sick, but they just haven’t got the time for the healthy, and in my experience the healthy can be very, very demanding. And the car park? It’s a joke. You take your ticket when you enter the car park and then, if you’re lucky, it takes an hour to find a free space. Meanwhile you’re paying a king’s ransom for the privilege of not being able to park. By the time my visitors get to my bedside, they are often seething piles of rage and they quite forget that I’m lying here longing for an adventure as thrilling as a race for a space in a car park.’ She paused for breath and then said, quietly again, ‘These calls are perfect, aren’t they? They’re every bit as good as our lunches. Do you remember our lunches, Mr Doubler?’
‘Of course I do! How could I not? We had lunch together every day for fifteen years! Those lunches saved my life.’
‘That’s funny. I was thinking about our lunches just the other day. I was never quite sure if we were having lunch together or just having separate lunches near each other.’
‘Oh, we were most definitely having lunch together. I’d go as far as to say we communed.’
‘But we didn’t eat the same thing.’
‘I might have thought the same, but since you’ve been gone, my potatoes don’t taste quite right. I’d go as far as to say that I’d choose to eat one of your dreadful sandwiches with you over eating my home-grown potatoes on my own.’
Mrs Millwood laughed, delighted. ‘There’s an admission, Mr Doubler. I knew you’d been eyeing up my lunch all those years.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as that. But I don’t think you need to eat the same food to commune. Our lunches weren’t about the food, were they? And anyway, we’re sticklers, you and me. You liked your sandwiches and I liked my potatoes, but we still ate together every day.’
‘Communed. I like that. It sounds holy.’
‘It was holy, Mrs Millwood.’
There was a long silence while they both contemplated this.
Mr Doubler Begins Again Page 20