‘Jennifer,’ he says, back in the room. ‘Never forget that we human beings and this world we inhabit, well, it’s all remarkable.’
‘Yes, Dad. In the words of David Coleman, “quite remarkable”.’
‘That’s my girl.’
I give him a look.
‘Woman,’ he corrects himself. ‘Woman.’
TOM’S ALREADY THERE when I arrive at the pub, sitting in a nook next to Carol who’s wearing one of those gypsy off-the-shoulder blouses that gives her the look of a serving wench from a Dickensian tavern. Which is ungracious of me. Since her divorce a few years back, she’s regressed to her teenage years, which were also my teenage years, and not a good thing. But maybe it’s better second time around. Though I very much doubt it. Your problems just get bigger.
Jackie’s at the bar but she clocks me as I come in, flushed from the walk. ‘What’re you having?’
‘G and T please, Jackie. Lots of ice.’
‘Right you are. Sit yourself down.’
I do as I’m told and sit in the space opposite Tom seeing as Jackie has already taken up the other half of the pew with her briefcase and fleece and a stack of papers. I pick up a handful of them and waft myself as it’s so flipping hot in here.
The mood is sombre.
‘Here you go.’ Jackie plonks a tray of booze on the table and we help ourselves, each of us taking a slug without bothering with the usual niceties of ‘Cheers’. The familiar, comforting taste, the lovely shock of ice, the slice of lemon are just what the doctor ordered though I can’t help but compare it to the cocktail I had in Plymouth. The Pink Gin. If they sold them here, I’d have one. I’d buy a whole round. But I’m not sure June the barmaid is up to mixing anything fancy. They don’t even serve diet Schweppes. At least I’ve got the distillery tour to look forward to this Saturday, with Dad and Lauren. I might try one of the other cocktails.
Jackie’s gathering her papers like a newsreader and on the verge of launching into organized default mode when Tish falls through the door in a blur of colour and Shakespearean expletives. ‘That earth-vexing step gets me every time.’ People smile and say hello. Everyone knows Tish. We’ve been so lucky to have her as a volunteer. All that knowledge and passion, her way of sharing it with the kids and the olds and everyone in between. What a waste. We can’t lose her.
She spots us and hurries over. ‘Sorry I’m late. I had a run-in with Edgar over a mouse.’
Carol explains to Tom that Edgar is Tish’s cat.
‘I did wonder,’ he says.
‘I got you a pint of ale, Tish,’ Jackie says. ‘That OK?’
‘Splendid.’ Tish beams and squeezes herself in next to me. She’s wearing a hot-pink floaty dress and her long curly hair is piled on her head, tendrils and tufts hanging down artistically. A sea-glass pendant on a silver chain hangs delicately around her elegant neck. The glass changes in the light from green to blue and then back to green. She always wears interesting stuff, has a sense of flair and design that she cherry-picks from history. This one is from the twenties, flapper style. I’d look like a drag queen if I tried it. I’m happier in jeans. But why am I thinking about clothes? I need to be present. In the here and now.
‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ Tish says when Jackie’s given her the low-down. ‘I mean, I know the building needs work, quite a lot of work, but he can’t just close us down and sell it. It was bequeathed to the town.’
‘Actually, it was sold,’ Jackie says. ‘For a pound. So it does belong to the council, legally, if not morally.’
‘Plague sores,’ Tish says.
Jackie goes on, giving us the bad news, all of it in one go as if it will be easier to swallow. But it’s making me want to spit. Right into Dave Barton’s smug, fat face. I can’t believe I ever let him kiss me, let alone sleep with me. I can’t believe I ever liked the smarmy bastard, that I wasted all those teenage tears over him.
‘We need a campaign to fight this,’ Tom says. I like how he says ‘we’, like he’s become a part of us without even trying, and we all listen, not because he’s a bloke, but because he’s someone new to the town, an incomer who appreciates what we do and who has half a notion of how to help. ‘Do you have a contact at the Gazette?’
‘They love us,’ Carol says. ‘They’re always covering events.’
‘OK, that’s good,’ Tom says. ‘So maybe divide up the jobs? One of you talk to the Gazette. One of you speak to the council. One of you set up the social media. A Facebook page, a Twitter account, etc.’
But what if we can’t stop it? What if the sale goes ahead? What will happen to the museum? To those school trips and the memory café and Trampy Kev? These questions fizz about my head, and no doubt are crashing around the heads of all of us round this table, but no one speaks them out loud. They can’t be said. Because they can’t be true.
We have to fight this. And we do this now by talking. Fighting talk. After another pint or two we are still talking when Carol stops Tish who’s in mid-flow.
‘Someone to see you, Jen,’ she says.
‘Oh?’ I can’t see anyone. Though there’s a nudge on my knee. A slobbering head against my thigh. ‘Bob?’ Dad must have brought him out for a walk and thought he’d pop in but there’s no sign of him. And Bob’s not on the lead. And now he’s barking. And barking. ‘Bob?’
Tom notices the panic on my face because he’s up and out of the pew, disentangling himself from Carol, saying, Let’s find Reggie, he’ll be around somewhere. So we leave our drinks, Tom and I, with quick goodbyes and reassurances and a plan to meet up again tomorrow, and we go in search of Dad. But he’s nowhere to be seen. Nowhere.
WE EVENTUALLY FIND him at home. In the shed. On the floor. Only it’s not a yoga position I recognize and he’s not talking to the dog because the dog left him to fetch us. Because the dog is now licking his face and whimpering.
‘Dad?’
‘Sorry, love. I can’t seem to get myself up. I must’ve tripped.’
‘You had a fall?’
‘No. A trip.’
‘Are you OK?’
I’m a bit flappy but Tom’s got it. Those years married to a doctor have rubbed off. He’s asking Dad all the right questions and checking him over, his pulse, his vision, hunting for signs of broken bones. Concussion. A stroke. A heart attack. Oh, God, no. A heart attack?
‘Has he had a heart attack?’ I don’t mean to shout this quite so loudly.
‘No, he hasn’t,’ Dad says, quite cheerfully like this is a game.
Tom makes a point of looking directly at Dad and speaking to him, not me. ‘No heart attack but I think you might have damaged your hip.’
‘It’s been dodgy for a while.’
‘How long?’
‘Since 1967. A yoga retreat in the foothills of the Hima layas. I overdid it. Jen’s mum was a hard-core fanatic. I was trying to keep up with her. No, hang on. I think it was in Crediton.’
‘Crediton?’
‘In one of the rooms at the Lamb Inn. I was trying to keep up with her there, too.’
‘Dad.’
‘I see there’s life in the old dog yet,’ Tom says.
Dad laughs but winces in pain so we decide after all it’s best to phone for an ambulance.
AFTER A LONG night in Torbay Hospital, the X-ray shows it’s not a break or a fracture, just a deep bruise. Though it’s enough for me to realize that Dad is actually quite vulnerable so I persuade him to get a medical-alert alarm thing seeing as he’s on his own in the shed so much. And a mobile phone.
Yet again Tom’s been a huge help, driving me in his car so we could follow the ambulance, keeping me company and topping me up with tea. By the time we’re back, it’s gone midnight, but we’re all hungry so I make us bacon butties, then Tom helps Dad up to bed.
Maybe it’s time for Dad to sleep downstairs. We could turn the study into a bedroom. Thank God it wasn’t a heart attack or something life-threatening. I couldn’t bear to be without him, how
ever frustrating he might be. He’s my rock. Without him, I’d be sinking. And though I don’t want to think about it, can barely imagine it, I know he won’t be around for ever.
I have to make the most of him. And learn the art of floating.
‘You all right?’ Tom asks, job accomplished. ‘You look done in.’
‘I’m shattered. Thanks so much for your help. You’re making a habit of this.’
‘If we’re going to be related…’
‘Related?’
‘The puppies?’
‘Oh, the puppies, yeah, of course. When will you know if Betty’s up the duff?’
‘In a couple of weeks, I think.’
‘That soon?’
‘They have a short gestation – eight to nine weeks.’
‘Blimey, that’s quick. Longer than any of Lauren’s boyfriends have lasted.’
He laughs, then comes over a bit serious so I wonder what’s on his mind.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘Do you want to come round for dinner one night? I mean, we could talk about the museum. I could help you do the social media—’
‘Yes, please,’ I answer a little too keenly, kick-starting a blush.
‘Great.’ He smiles, tries to disguise a yawn. ‘Friday night suit you?’
‘Sounds good. What about the Thirsty Bishop tomorrow?’ I check my watch. ‘Well, tonight, actually. Can you make that?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He hesitates, avoids eye contact. ‘I might have something on. Text me if I can do anything in the meantime.’ And he gives me a sort of pat on the shoulder and stumbles over the doorstep on his way out to the car.
I lock up, switch off the lights, head upstairs with Bob at my heels. ‘Time for bed, Bob.’
He doesn’t respond. He’s a dog. But he’s by my side as always, leaping onto the duvet and falling asleep before I’ve even got into my PJs. Just me and the dog. Which is usually fine though sometimes I wish for a human body to cuddle up to. Only not when I’m having one of these horrendous hot flushes. Must make an appointment to see the doctor.
IT’S 8.30 A.M. and I steel myself to phone the health centre, prepared to beg for an emergency appointment to see one of the women doctors.
‘Is this really an emergency?’ the receptionist asks once she’s demanded to know what I need an appointment for. ‘We’re already chock-a with sick people.’
‘I am a sick person. If I don’t get help I am likely to murder half the town and injure the other half.’
‘Right,’ she says. ‘In that case I can fit you in at eleven-forty.’
While I’m waiting with coughing children and anxious mothers, I attempt to engage with an ancient magazine full of celebrities who have been completely forgotten about. I have time to think about our conversation last night in the Thirsty Bishop and wonder what was so important that Tom would miss it. Which is ridiculous. He doesn’t owe us anything. We can manage without him. Only it’s nice to have his experience on hand. And his enthusiasm. It’s got nothing to do with his eyes. Or deep voice. Or nice legs. Or caring manner. Or strong sense of justice. Nothing whatsoever.
Tish did make a suggestion during last night’s powwow, though. Which we all pooh-poohed as it seemed so unlikely and quite frankly impossible. And which I can’t stop fantasizing about now. She’d found out from her estate-agent other half, Miranda, that Clatford House is up for auction with a guide price of £1 million.
‘How about we raise the funds to buy it?’ Tish asked overly casually like she was suggesting a whip-round for a colleague’s birthday.
‘One million pounds?’ spluttered Carol. ‘Are you having a laugh?’
‘I most certainly am not having a laugh. I have some savings. When I was made redundant from the museum in London, I invested it and it’s probably worth a hundred grand or so. Miranda is bound to have a nest egg. And surely the three of you could raise some cash?’
We three – Carol, Jackie and me – looked at each other. I kept quiet knowing that 50p from down the back of the sofa was probably all I could muster.
‘I could sell some clothes on eBay?’ Carol offered. ‘I’ve got some lovely designer stuff in my wardrobe.’
We ignored that, what with Carol’s lovely designer stuff being knock-off and worth no more than £12.50.
‘What about your dad?’ Tish aimed this question at me. ‘He used to be a scientist. Surely he’s got something stashed under the mattress?’
‘He worked for the government, so no, I don’t think he’s got much in the way of savings.’
Tish maintained the Paddington stare into my eyes, trying to fathom if I was hiding anything from her. No way she’d let this go without exhausting all of her ideas. ‘What about the house he sold?’
‘I can’t ask him that.’
‘No. Sorry, Jen. Of course you can’t. Can you? No.’ She slugged back her ale, rebooted her thoughts. ‘Who else do we know with money going spare?’
‘In this town?’ Carol sounded very cynical. And realistic, to be perfectly honest. Dingleton’s not a rich-second-home-owner-yellow-welly-brigade kind of place.
‘Hmm.’ Tish shook her head and more curls escaped her Liberty headband, dressed as she was like an Aubrey Beardsley illustration. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘It’s a long shot but we could start fundraising.’
‘The auction’s in a month,’ Jackie reminded us. ‘And what if they get an offer beforehand?’
We turned to Jackie who until this point had been very quietly sipping her lime and soda. ‘I’ve got fifty thousand pounds in premium bonds,’ she stated. ‘And another fifty left by my mother in 1994 in an offshore savings account.’
A moment’s silence.
‘Let slip the dogs of war.’ Tish’s earrings fluttered and her bracelets jangled in excitement.
‘It’s a heck of a lot of money to raise.’ Jackie was calm but channelling that determination gained from camping out in the cold, wet mud for weeks on end outside the US army base when she could’ve been down the youth-club disco with the rest of us, drinking Malibu and acquiring love bites. ‘It’s not only the purchase we have to consider, but the renovation too. Also, how exactly are we planning to make an income from it? There’s nothing to be made from museums. A small entrance fee and a few keyrings won’t do it. We need to live.’
And that’s when the seed of an idea took root in my brain, though at that point it was barely formed and slippery as a mackerel, and not at all a sensible idea, if it was even an idea at all. ‘We’ll have to think outside the box,’ I told them. ‘Diversify. What can we offer that’s unique to this area?’
The three of them stared, expecting me to give them an answer, a suggestion, anything, but I had nothing to offer. Not last night. Not today. Maybe soon.
‘Jennifer?’
Now I’m back in the waiting room of the health centre with its screechy babies and worn-out carers. The receptionist is clocking me, sideways, warily, probably to see if I have a dagger about my person. I scuttle along the corridor to Dr Morris.
I slump in the chair by her desk and am hopeful she might understand as she has a kind face, surrounded by messy grey hair and stress lines on her forehead. There’s a plethora of photographs of teenagers on her desk. Teenagers. I tell her everything. The flushes, the night sweats, the broken sleep, the snappiness, the dry skin. The feeling that I’m not quite myself. She quizzes me on my home life, my work life, my sex life and I give her the briefest of rundowns, making light of my losses, that way we do when we’re asked straight out, the British way, and also because I’m pretty sure she’s mentally ticking the boxes of the mental-health questionnaire that she’s about to slip out from her drawer and wave in my face.
‘I’m not depressed. I’m menopausal.’
‘Right.’ She sounds doubtful. ‘When did you have your last period?’
‘In 2010 when I had a hysterectomy.’
‘Ah, yes, let me see.’ She scrolls through my notes. ‘And they left your ovaries?’
�
�They did,’ I confirm.
She’s quiet, reading and sighing, so I ask her, because my mum always used to say, If you don’t ask, you don’t get, ‘What do you think about HRT? Wasn’t there some scare?’
‘Have you been googling?’
‘A bit,’ I admit, feeling as guilty and ashamed as if I’ve been on Tinder.
‘Well, then, Jennifer, you’ll probably have noticed that opinion is divided.’ Dr Morris goes on to say if I asked ten doctors for their opinion on HRT, I would get ten different answers. When I tell her I’m feeling vengeful and violent she decides it best to prescribe it. ‘Let’s see how you go on a low dose and then we’ll take it from there.’ She rushes me out of the room and I head straight to the chemist’s and swallow a pill as soon as I get home, washing it down with the last of the sloe gin before I have time to think about potential side-effects, knowing that I’d sooner have twenty good years than thirty-plus rubbish ones. Besides, I could get run over by a tractor tomorrow.
I am armed with HRT and ready for battle.
AFTERNOON AND I’VE not achieved much other than acquiring some fake hormones that might or might not improve my quality of life. I can’t help but think it’s jamming a finger in the dam while Rome burns which I know is mashing my metaphors and historical periods and geographical locations, but my brain’s too fogged up to think coherently. But one thing is clear: I love this town. I mean, it’s not perfect, it can be a proper pain in the bum, and sometimes I wish I didn’t live in a place where everyone knows everyone’s business. Where your next-door neighbour’s sister-in-law didn’t used to bully you at school or your first love didn’t have the power to scupper things for you thirty years on. But it’s my home.
‘Councillor Barton will see you now.’ One of the minions, the receptionist at the family construction company, ushers me into his father’s office, taken over by Dave since the old man’s retirement a few years ago.
He’s sitting behind a desk the size of Lincolnshire. Clean, neat and polished to a shine. And the desk.
The Juniper Gin Joint Page 6