The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘Because cocktails are too pricey for our town. Way too pricey. Plus we’d need a licence.’

  ‘A licence shouldn’t be a problem. Not if Dave’s considering a pub.’

  ‘But he’ll do his damnedest to scupper any plans we have.’

  ‘True. OK. Well, let’s have another think about what type of joint we want.’

  We have a think.

  ‘Somewhere a bit different,’ I tell him, more certain now, a plan forming. ‘A place women can go and feel safe. Somewhere for a special occasion or for a pre-meal drink. Parties. Celebrations.’

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ he says.

  ‘Somewhere people will travel to, like a destination. But also somewhere you can drop in on a whim. Somewhere smart but also casual. Friendly. Inclusive.’

  ‘I like it,’ he says. ‘I like it a lot.’

  And what I’m thinking is, I like you. I like you a lot. And just when I’m also thinking I might want to kiss him, I remember this friend he went to stay with in Taunton and tell myself not to be so bloody stupid.

  Fortunately Betty saves my dignity by leaping onto my lap and we then of course move on to the subject of puppies. If life was just about puppies, we’d all be happy. We’d never go home alone, teary, like an old teenager who’s learnt nothing in life.

  DAD, LAUREN AND I are there in good time the next afternoon. Our tour starts at two thirty and we have ten minutes or so to mooch around while we’re waiting. It’s lovely to see her. She seems to have grown even taller though I know that’s not possible. I even check to see if she’s wearing heels but they’re the same old boots. She witters away about her friends, her tutors, the course, the nightlife, while I ask questions without daring to make suggestions. But Dad remains quiet. He’s not unhappy, just in a contemplative mood. You can almost hear the mechanism of his vast brain whirring with inspiration. It worries me sometimes. That he will come up with yet another completely bonkers idea and I’ll have to talk him out of it. Like the time he applied to go on Dragon’s Den with his Marmite chewing gum that would give you your B12 intake for the day.

  ‘Dad? You OK? Is it your hip?’

  ‘Is what my hip?’

  ‘Dad, the hip you bruised. Remember?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll live.’ He dismisses this concern. ‘After all, I could have a rare incurable renal disease for all we know so you don’t need to worry about my hip.’

  I’m just worrying about his kidneys when the tour is gathered together by a young man who doesn’t look old enough to even drink alcohol let alone be an expert on it. But to give him his due, once he starts telling us about the story of gin, about the origins of the Plymouth Distillery, we are hooked. He is really amenable and funny and full of surprising knowledge and we can’t help but listen to every single word he utters. He then escorts us into the important room, a vast room that houses the huge Victorian copper still where the distilling takes place. He explains the process. How they start with a 96-per-cent-alcohol grain spirit before adding the juniper and other botanicals, then the Dartmoor water. After the still is turned on and reaches boiling point, the gin turns into vapour and rises up and into the swan neck, then floats down into the condenser. Once it cools, the gin returns to liquid, but now it’s far less potent, at 41.2-per-cent proof. Unless it’s the Navy Strength in which case it’s a whopping 57 per cent, but I suppose if you were at sea for months at a time you’d be in need of a daily stiff one.

  Dad’s eyes are wide open in wonder; he’s taking in every detail for future reference. ‘I know someone who had an old copper pot still,’ he says. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask her if she’s still got it.’

  ‘Who’s that, Dad?’

  ‘Old Woman Bates up at Donker Farm.’

  ‘The lady with one tooth?’

  ‘That’s her. Used to come into Newton Abbot market and sell her home brews till she got banned. They were lethal. I seem to remember she made her own gin too, back in the eighties, when it was all vodka and Beau jolais and only certain people still drank mother’s ruin.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, the establishment. The armed forces. Bank managers. The country set. Your mother.’

  ‘But she was a hippy.’

  ‘She was, bless her. But she was also partial to a gin and tonic. She’d visit Old Woman Bates every so often and have a snifter with her. In fact, I’ve got a feeling she gave your mum some recipes. They must be at home somewhere. Haven’t seen them since I moved.’

  ‘We should have a hunt for them.’

  ‘Should we? You fancy having a go at this gin lark? It’s not easy, you know.’

  ‘Nothing’s easy, Dad.’

  ‘True enough. Even breathing can be tricky. If you’ve got emphysema or you’re drowning.’

  ‘Indeed. Where’s Lauren?’

  Lauren is talking to the young tour guide, who’s actually older than I thought, a graduate from Heriot-Watt, the only university in the UK to offer a degree in brewing and distilling. She’s quizzing him on the chemistry side of things, stuff that’s beyond me. Forget the art of distillation, I didn’t realize how much science goes into gin.

  But there’s something else nagging me. That seed of an idea I’ve been wanting to grasp all week, but am too scared to reach out for. Only, before I get the chance to summon it up, this elusive idea, here she is, my daughter, striding towards me, a fired-up gleam in her eye, that intensity she had when she was ten years old and saw a chemistry set in an Argos catalogue and promoted it to the top of her Christmas list. Test tubes, goggles, funnels, pipettes. These became her favourite things. More treasured than her Barbies ever were. More exciting than gymnastics or playing the piano would ever be. Only Mrs Pink has ever been more precious.

  ‘Mum,’ she exclaims. ‘I know what you should do.’

  I don’t think she’s about to suggest a trip to Topshop.

  No.

  Lauren is grabbing hold of my idea and running with it, gripped tightly in both hands, before I’ve even had the chance to speak a word.

  ‘You need to open a micro-distillery and start making Dingleton Gin,’ she says, breathless with enthusiasm.

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Yes, Mother. And don’t stress. I’m going to help you.’

  A STIFF ONE is needed and that’s exactly what we get in the bar. Lauren, Dad and I cosy up on one of those sofas with our complimentary G and Ts – delicious, divine, delightful – and I can’t help but remember being here just a week ago, Tom leaning in, listening intently as I read to him, his smile, the overlapping front tooth with its tiny chip, Betty flopped in a post-coital glow by my feet, and Tom producing these tour tickets. Then the car journey home which passed by in a flash while he told me about his wife, me desperate to touch him which thankfully I didn’t, because it wouldn’t have been appropriate plus now I’m wondering if maybe he has moved on a bit, what with this woman ‘friend’ in Somerset.

  But why am I having these thoughts now? My daughter has a proposition that could change a lot of lives. Not save them, like Tom’s Claire used to. Nothing heroic or dangerous or charitable. But, nevertheless, a prospect that could be a way forward for my friends and my town.

  Right then. No more pondering, or grasping, or resisting. ‘Cocktail, anyone?’

  The dynamic duo nod in sync.

  I’m on my feet, ready for action. ‘Choose your weapon.’

  Dad goes for a Gimlet, Lauren a Little Pink Flower, and I choose a Sloe Gin and Prosecco.

  Oh, my giddy aunt, it’s good. Very good. One of these and I’ll be squiffy. Yippee-doo-dah, thank goodness for Isambard’s railway line.

  MY HEAD IS buzzing and I can hardly remember the train journey home with Dad. He’s quiet, drifting in and out of sleep while I go over and over the conversation we had with Lauren and this dude who took a shine to her. Who is taking her out tomorrow. Who is enthusiastic about the ‘Ginaissance’.

  ‘All you have to do is keep your gin juniper-based and give it a certain alc
oholic content and then you can be as creative as you want.’ His words buzz round my head. Juniper. Alcohol. Creativity.

  And Lauren summed it up. ‘You should make handcrafted gin in small batches using hand-picked botanicals from Devon hedgerows and seashore.’

  This was where Dad’s eyes sparked like the sky on Bonfire Night. This was indeed a forager’s dream. ‘Heather, gorse, elder, honeysuckle, rosehips, crab apples, nettles, blackberries, sloes.’ He whispered the words like an incantation. ‘Samphire, bladderwrack, sugar kelp, sea pinks.’

  Am I turning into my father? Is this like one of his mad schemes? Or is it a feasible proposition? Would people buy our gin? Could we open a bar? Could we get a licence? Could we make money? Could this really happen?

  ‘Stop fretting, Jennifer,’ Dad says now. ‘Take a step into the dark.’

  ‘Thought you were asleep.’

  ‘I was resting my eyelids.’

  Once back home, after we’ve been greeted enthusiastically by Bob, and after I’ve put down his dinner, I notice Dad is flagging, eyes red-rimmed and shoulders stooped. I make him sit in the front room, light the log burner, then disappear to the kitchen to whip him up a cocoa.

  ‘Cocoa? It’s only seven o’clock,’ he protests.

  ‘But you’ve been up since five. And I’ve added a splash of whisky.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He holds the mug gratefully in both hands, warming them up, blows on the surface to shift the skin, has a slurp, then switches on Radio 3 via the telly.

  I do the dishes left over from brunch. As I’m elbow-deep in bubbles, my eyes drift outside to the night garden. There’s a pool of light spilling from the shed windows, illuminating the pear tree and Dad’s beloved compost heap. I have a flutter of a bad feeling about this – why is the light on? – but not enough to be scared of intruders or burglars. Even so, I slip on my clogs and arm myself with a frying pan.

  If there is a burglar/sex maniac/serial killer they’ll hear me clopping down the path and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. It could give them time to run away. Or to hide. Or it could give them the opportunity to grab a blunt instrument, similar to what I have in my own hand. But I’m committed to this now so here goes.

  Once in the garden, I have fleeting second thoughts but it’s cold and the stars are bright and I feel a rush and a push of adrenaline so I shuffle on down the stepping stones and loiter outside the shed for a moment, listening.

  An owl hoots.

  A sheep bleats.

  Wind rustles the remaining leaves of the pear tree.

  I turn the handle, slowly, carefully. I ease open the door, quietly, quietly. I step inside and hold my breath.

  There’s a man asleep on the floor.

  Snoring.

  He’s actually snoring.

  It’s bloody Mike, bedded down on an air mattress and tucked inside a sleeping bag.

  ‘What the frig are you doing here?’

  ‘Shit!’ He sits bang upright. ‘You frightened the life out of me. What are you doing with that frying pan?’

  ‘Thinking about battering you around the head with it. Why the hell are you in my shed?’

  ‘Your dad’s shed.’

  ‘What, so Dad knows you’re in here?’

  ‘He might’ve mentioned that he’d leave a key under the flowerpot.’

  ‘I’ll bloody kill him.’

  ‘Don’t do that. Kill me instead.’ And he shuts his eyes, sticks up his hands in the air, pretending I’m really about to murder him.

  ‘Idiot.’

  ‘I thank you,’ he says, grinning that smile I’ve known since he was five years old. But this is not a time for nostalgia.

  ‘Are you going to tell me why you’re here? Asleep on the shed floor at half seven on a Saturday evening? Shouldn’t you be on the town with your girlfriend?’

  ‘She kicked me out.’

  ‘She’s dumped you?’

  ‘Yes, she’s dumped me.’

  ‘Right.’ I’m not sure quite what to feel at this point. Whether to say I’m sorry, or, That’s karma. Actually, I do know what to say. ‘That’s karma.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’ Mike’s grin has disappeared. He’s a man defeated. Like the Janners have come bottom of the league. Again.

  ‘You can’t stay here.’

  ‘Can I have Lolly’s room?’

  ‘No, I mean you can’t stay here. At my house. On my premises. You don’t live here any more. You gave up that right the day you walked out on me.’

  ‘What would you say if I told you that was the biggest mistake of my life?’

  ‘I’d say that you’re not wrong.’

  I can see my children’s faces reflected in his. The disappointment of a missed party due to chickenpox. The fear and pain of a filling at the dentist. The upset of losing a favourite toy (fortunately I kept a Mrs Pink stunt double). Mother Nature’s playing a cruel trick, urging me to feel pity, which I do, a bit.

  ‘One night. You can stay one night.’

  ‘In Lolly’s room?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  ‘The shed’s fine. It’s perfect. You won’t know I’m here.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll know. And don’t you dare pee in the bushes. I’ll leave the back door on the latch and you can use the downstairs loo. But put the bloody toilet seat down when you’re done.’

  ‘Course. I’ll be the perfect house guest. I mean, shed guest.’

  ‘Like I said, don’t push your luck.’ I move towards the door, take a final look at my once-husband sitting in his sleeping bag like a homesick Cub Scout, but I will not give in. ‘One night, Mike. Just one night.’

  I GIVE IN and let Mike have breakfast. But just breakfast. And that’s because Dad is cooking a fry-up and has already invited Mike to stay and sent him off on foot to the Co-op for orange juice.

  ‘Where’s his van? It wasn’t on the drive last night.’

  ‘He parked it round the corner.’

  ‘You told him to do that?’

  ‘I thought it best you didn’t know, Jennifer Juniper. That way you wouldn’t get upset.’

  ‘So you knew I would get upset?’

  ‘You can be emotional.’

  ‘Emotional? I’m an extremely calm person. I hardly ever lose my temper.’

  He continues flicking oil over the eggs he’s frying in the pan I was going to whack Mike with last night. ‘Sometimes you need to put emotions aside and rely on some logic.’

  ‘What’s logical about hiding Mike away in the shed?’

  ‘He has nowhere else to go.’

  ‘What about Paul? That’s what best mates are for.’

  ‘He’s tried that. Paul’s wife, what’s-her-name, she chucked him out.’

  ‘Mandy. She can’t stand him.’

  ‘He says there’s nowhere else, not since his parents moved to Spain. And his sister’s got that new Cornish bloke who doesn’t like anyone.’

  ‘He’ll have to find a flat. Rent a room. Try the caravan parks. I’m not having him stay here.’

  ‘Are you worried what Tom will think?’

  ‘Certainly not. It’s got nothing to do with Tom. Nothing whatsoever.’

  I’m actually quite relieved that Mike returns at this moment so I don’t have to contemplate Tom. Or the shepherd’s pie he made me. Or the fairy lights he’d strung in his courtyard garden. Or his philanthropic nature. Or his vulnerability. Or the sadness he has burrowed away inside him. I can put all that aside and concentrate on eggs, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms and the cheap orange juice Mike has picked up.

  It’s funny that the people closest to you, the ones who live with you, who share their life with you, can really, really get on your nerves. The way they forget things, pause mid-sentence, smell. Breathe, even. Then when they leave home, when you no longer see them every day, you gradually forget all the irritating stuff and what you’re left with is the distilled good stuff. The way you like watching Mad Men together. The way they know how to make you tea j
ust how you like it. But watching Mike eat at the table, the way he chews and slurps, brings it all back afresh. How I lived with him for so long is beyond me.

  Once we’re done, Dad piles the dishes, Jenga-like, into the sink and leaves the room, saying he has to take care of some business in the bathroom and he could be gone for some time. Mike offers to wash up so I let him. I do the drying and putting away, making sure the radio is on loud so I can listen to The Archers omnibus. This serves two purposes:

  1. There is no need to make conversation with Mike.

  2. This will annoy Mike who can’t stand any radio apart from Kerang!

  Once we’re done, and The Archers has finished, Mike makes more coffee, then ekes out the contents of his mug for as long as possible, reading every last scrap of Dad’s Observer and I’m on the verge of telling him it’s time to go, I don’t care where to, when we hear a key turn in the lock of the front door. We look at each other for a second – it’s been a while; he’s got more grey hair and some of it has been lost at some point over the last twelve months. God knows what he reckons to me but quite frankly I don’t give a crap. Not really. Hardly at all. Anyway, this brief moment we share is because we both know that there are only two other people who have a key. Lauren?

  I’m on my way into the hall when a bearded man steps inside the front door and lurches towards me, grabbing me in a bear hug. It’s only after he lets go that I am finally able to speak.

  ‘Harry?’

  And that’s when I realize there’s another person with my son, standing behind him, awkward and coy. Someone who is well over six foot tall, with a classically handsome face lit up by an Osmond-smile, and topped off with a fine head of blond hair.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ my son says, like he’s just back from school.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?’ I take his hairy face in my hands and kiss his chapped lips. Then I remember my manners, try in earnest to gather them about me, turning my attention to the mysterious stranger who Harry is pulling towards me.

  ‘It was last minute,’ Harry says. ‘Thought we’d surprise you.’

  ‘We?’