The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘Um, yeah. This is Dale.’

  ‘Hello, Dale. Pleased to meet you.’

  With that, Dale embraces me in a matching bear hug and I get a whiff of bergamot and pine and wonder for a sec if he’s actually a Mountie.

  ‘By the way, Mum…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dale’s my boyfriend.’

  Dale shrugs and produces a bottle of maple syrup from his backpack, presumably as a peace offering. I graciously take it from him, heavy as a millstone, clasping it rather hard, but with my very best appearance of nonchalance. I am that mother swan gliding gracefully across the smooth pond of her home whilst frantically kicking for all she’s worth beneath the surface.

  ‘You must be shattered.’ I’m doing my very best not to sound overly breezy but even to my own ears it’s a cross between Sybil Fawlty and Hyacinth Bucket. ‘Do come in. You must be starving. Let me get you something to eat.’

  ‘Have we got baked beans?’

  And with these few small words, Harry is my little boy again, his favourite food, beans with anything and everything, bringing a friend back for tea. Only. Only Harry isn’t supposed to be here. Harry has a beard. And Harry’s friend is a boyfriend…

  ‘HIS BOYFRIEND? ARE you sure that’s what he said? Does it mean something else in Canadian?’

  Mike and I are having a hushed conversation in the living room while the two ‘boys’ fill their faces in the kitchen.

  ‘It means exactly the same, Mike. Our son is gay and he’s got a boyfriend.’

  ‘Right. Gay? Well, I didn’t see that one coming.’

  ‘Really? The boy who loved My Little Pony and the Spice Girls?’

  ‘He liked Lego too.’

  ‘He constructed shopping centres and catwalks.’

  ‘Now you’re stereotyping and being homo-what’s-it.’

  ‘I’m not the one struggling to deal with this.’

  ‘Then why are you necking back that bottle of gin so soon after breakfast?’ He points at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, a wedding present from his Great-Aunt Aggie. It’s not quite eleven.

  ‘I’ve had one. Well, two.’

  ‘And the rest.’

  ‘I can drink as much as I bloody well want, Mike. You’re not in a position to tell me what to do, remember.’

  The whispering must’ve crept up a notch because Harry pokes his head around the door, a hint of anxiety in his face though it’s hard to tell with that beardy camouflage. ‘Everything all right, Mum? We’ll get a hotel if you’re not OK with this.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Course I’m OK with this. You can have your sister’s room. It’s all tidy with clean sheets and everything.’

  The thought of clean sheets and everything makes me blush and not because of the gay thing. Because Harry’s my boy. And he’s all grown up. I didn’t quite understand this, even though I waved him off from Gatwick over a year ago. But now I do. It smacks me in the face like a wet tea towel. But I’m proud of him too. Proud and relieved that he is so sure who he is, and who we are.

  He gives me another hug, like he knows I need one, shoots his father a tentative sideways glance. ‘What about you, Dad?’

  ‘It’s your mother’s home, not mine.’

  ‘I know that. I meant are you OK with this?’

  Mike, for once – Praise the Lord and Hallelujah – steps up. ‘It’s good to have you home, son. And to meet Dwayne.’

  ‘Dale.’

  ‘That’s what I said. Dale.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  They do that awkward man-hug thing before springing apart as quickly as possible.

  Mike takes his leave, says he has stuff to sort out, probably his next bed or sofa for the night, which will no doubt involve him crawling back to Melanie and quite frankly she’s bloody welcome to him.

  ‘Where’s Granddad?’ Harry asks, once we’re alone. Dale is in the shower and Harry’s helping himself to a hillock of cornflakes in his old Postman Pat bowl.

  ‘I expect he’ll be in the shed working on this idea for a new family venture.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Time to give my son and firstborn the low-down on recent developments. He crunches his way through two bowls of Kellogg’s finest while I fill in the details. The museum, the tour, the possibility of making our own gin. I’ve not even talked to Carol or Jackie or Tish but the more I say, the more excited I get. And the more determined.

  ‘Good timing then.’ Harry beams.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Dale and me coming home.’

  Right. Home. So. ‘How long are you staying?’

  ‘Er, not sure, a while?’

  ‘A while?’ It’s always been impossible pinning him down on the finer details of time. Five minutes, a day, two months, a year, it’s all in that hazy area of the future. He was always the same. In a dream world. Chivvying him along to school, to band practice, to swimming lessons, it was all such hard work as he had other things he’d rather be doing. Like climbing trees and trampolining and dancing to J-Lo. Always moving from one thing to the next. I shouldn’t really be surprised that he’s returned from Canada several months earlier than anticipated. I’m not at all surprised by his coming-out announcement though maybe the teensiest bit taken aback over the boyfriend. More specifically the age of the boyfriend who is not at all a boy. But then nor is Harry.

  ‘I’ll go find Granddad then,’ he says, a hint of Canadiana wrapped up in his words and accent. Then he gives me his best smile, like I’m the child. Like I’m the one in need of reassurance, which I suppose I am at this moment in time. The mother swan paddling like mad.

  I FOLLOW HARRY down to the shed. As we approach the door, music booms out at us. Dramatic, classical music. The sort they play in war films.

  ‘Wagner?’ Harry questions, as we poise on the threshold of goodness-knows-what. Then he takes the plunge and I follow him inside, into the full blast of the ‘Ride of the Valkyries’.

  Dad, got up in full evening dress, dicky bow and tails, the works, is brandishing a conductor’s baton, his back turned to his audience, i.e. Bob. Bob is used to such sights and sounds and is absorbed in the intricacies of undercarriage-washing, until he spots a precious member of his pack. He’s up on all fours in an instant, barking and crashing against Harry’s legs. Harry picks him up and gives his snout a kiss, cuddling him like a baby. Dad continues, oblivious to the return of the prodigal grandson, though he gives us an absent-minded half-frown as if we are latecomers to the concert which might as well be in the Albert Hall, not his man-cave. He indicates the cushions on the floor with a wave of his baton, which is actually an old wooden ruler, and we obey and sit down cross-legged, like schoolchildren, waiting for him to finish. As the final cymbals crash and wallop, Dad flings his arms about apoplectically before spinning around and taking a dramatic, arthritic bow. Then he stands up straight again, with his old-man groan, his boy-hair flopping over his eyes, and we clap. Rapturously. What else can we do?

  Finally he notices his grandson. ‘What did you think of that, Harry?’

  ‘Awesome, Granddad. What are you actually doing?’

  ‘Getting together my Desert Island Discs. One down, seven to go.’

  ‘Bravo.’ Harry’s on his feet now, giving his grandfather a standing ovation followed by a hug which Dad accepts magnanimously. It’s a lovely moment. One for the family album. Until.

  ‘What the hell have you done to your face?’ Dad asks. ‘You look like an ape.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘It’s just a surprise,’ Dad says. ‘I thought you were in Canada.’

  ‘I was,’ Harry confirms. ‘But now I’m back. And I’ve brought a friend. Mum will tell you all about him. I’d better check he’s all right. It’s great to see you, Granddad.’

  And he’s gone, leaving me to explain everything, which will be fine seeing as Dad doesn’t care who loves who just so long as they are kind and not a complete idiot which is why I’m so annoyed he let Mike stay o
ver but that’s another story.

  WHEN YOU’VE ALWAYS been part of a couple, all your adult life, and you become a single woman, of a certain age, overnight, life gets tricky. You are now someone completely different in other people’s eyes. You’re no longer part of the team known as ‘Jen-and-Mike’ or ‘Mike-and-Jen’. You’re just Jen. Jen who’s been left for a younger model. Jen the potential husband stealer. Jen the cougar. Jen the sad old singleton. Or worse: Jen the Invisible. Or worse still: Jen the Redundant Menopausal Invisible.

  Usually, I’m not too worried what people think though sometimes, yes, it gets me down. But I’m always, continually, worried about the kids. The impact the marriage breakdown has had on them. They might technically be adults but they are child-adults. I think Lauren’s doing OK. At least I’m pretty sure she will be OK, in time. But Harry? Why’s he back? With Dale? Did he just miss home? Did he just not want to be separated from his new love? What’s the story, Harry?

  I can’t ask him right now because the two of them have gone off for a walk into town. Harry declared his need to show Dale his roots. I warned Dale not to get his hopes up. This is a small, provincial backwater. It certainly isn’t Vancouver, where he’s lived his whole life. Where he met my boy in a bar. A high-end cocktail bar where they were both working. Dale is a mixologist. He taught Harry everything he knows.

  Quite.

  So this Monday morning, standing at the French windows in the kitchen, gazing out at the chilly greyness, the dappled shadows and the frisky leaves, I am home alone. No work, no offspring, not even a father because he’s taken Bob for an amble up the lanes, now his hip has miraculously healed. I could go back to bed, pretend it’s a sick day, read a book, watch crap telly, but that’s the slippery slope they warn you about so I’ll soldier on.

  Firstly, the laundry. Harry’s socks are still a disgrace, fit only for the bin, though his underpants have gone up a league.

  Secondly, raking leaves in the back garden. They’ve been floating like butterflies off the pear tree and Dad will welcome them as mulch for next spring. Half an hour of vigorous work and I’m energized and pink-cheeked.

  Thirdly, time for a sit-down. Maybe I should call Tom to thank him for dinner? But no, that’s not a good idea. He’ll be at school and probably wouldn’t answer anyway. Just as I’m debating whether to leave a voicemail, or a text message, my phone vibrates on the kitchen table.

  ‘Tom? I was literally about to call you.’

  ‘You were? Everything all right?’

  ‘Everything’s the same as it was on Friday.’ I take a breath, gathering my words. ‘With a few family… additions.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Harry’s back from Canada.’

  ‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, really good. I think. Anyway, I’m glad you rang.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I wanted to thank you for dinner.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he says. ‘You left kind of sharpish so I was wondering if you were OK?’

  ‘Sorry about that. I… er… was tired all of a sudden. You know, all the museum stuff.’

  ‘Right,’ he says, not utterly convinced by the sound of it.

  And there was me thinking I was the sensitive one. ‘So how’s Betty?’ I move slickly onto safer territory. Sort of safer.

  ‘She’s in a weird mood. Can’t settle.’

  ‘Does that mean…’ I let the word ‘pups’ hang there with its tongue lolling.

  ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘I’ll take her to the vet’s later in the week. It’s still too early to know for sure.’

  ‘Gosh.’

  ‘Yes, gosh, indeed.’ I can hear a smile in his voice now. He might even be teasing me. ‘Anyway, I was wondering if you fancied a coffee later this afternoon? I’ll escape from school as sharpish as I can.’

  ‘Oh, yes, please. That would be nice. Why don’t you come here?’

  ‘Shall we round up the others?’

  ‘Oh, right, yes, of course, the others. I can do that.’

  The others. Yes, the others.

  And now Tom’s gone, back to his world of book bags and pencil sharpenings. So I arrange with the others to come here at four. Which is good. Really good. Because this is where it will begin. Here. Today. Our adventure. I’m just hoping they will want to come along for the ride.

  BY THE TIME Dad’s back from his walk, I’m finally dressed and more myself. It feels like I’m doing something even if it is a silly long shot. There’s no way I’m lying down and giving up.

  Dad empties the contents of his pockets onto the work surface with a clatter. Conkers. Acorns. Chestnuts. While he sorts them into sets by type, colour, size and regularity and while Bob staggers to his basket, Dad asks, ‘Fancy coming with me to see Old Woman Bates?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘No time like the present.’ This from the man who travels back and forth in his head with little concept of the here and now. A family trait.

  Ten minutes later we’re en route to Donker Farm, heading inland, uphill, deep into the countryside, the lanes so narrow and unused there’s grass growing along the middle, the hedges so tall the brambles scrape and crash against the car.

  In another ten minutes Dad directs me down a right-hand-turn off the lane, onto a track, despite the ‘Not Suitable for Motorized Vehicles’ sign on the verge. He notices my hesitation. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘We’ve not had rain for ages.’ So I go for it, hoping my Polo will stand up to whatever lies ahead. Trees overarch us so that no sunlight can reach through the canopy and I have to flick on the lights. Midday and it’s almost dark. A bit creepy even, like we’re going up the drive to Manderley, pitted with potholes and bumps so I have to take it as slow as possible, while keeping my foot on the revs as it’s steep in places. Who says driving in the country is easy? Piccadilly Circus, maybe. Devon, never. London cabbies don’t have to deal with tractors and stray sheep or ruts the size of the San Andreas Fault.

  Finally we emerge from the trees. This is the end of the track. Ahead is a broken gate, wonky and rotten, and beyond that the farmyard. Dad gets out and shifts the gate with a shove and a kick from his good leg and waves me through, shutting it behind us. I follow him slowly across the yard and stop where he suggests, outside the old, pink-washed farmhouse that’s stood in this spot for centuries. Not a whiff of double glazing or any sign of mod cons. Donker Farm might as well be renamed Cold Comfort. It’s certainly not one of those posh farms bought by Londoners escaping the City to run a holiday-cottage complex. It’s on its last legs, much like Old Woman Bates herself who is currently feeding the chickens squawking about her feet, stooped like a granny from a fairy tale, like Mrs Pepperpot with her tiny stature, fuzzy grey curly hair, and rosy cheeks.

  She acknowledges me only as I pull to a stop right next to her, fiddles with a hearing aid and squints. Dad has hobbled over to her by now and she smiles with recognition, revealing her one front tooth, and ushers us inside.

  Inside is a surprise. I thought it would be a hovel, smelly and dirty. But it’s pristine. There’s a blissful smell of baking coming from the shining Aga. The flagstones are mellowed with age but you could eat off them. But there’s no need because the dining table is hard-scrubbed pine with a jam jar of rosehips as a centrepiece.

  She sits us down and makes us coffee. It’s how I imagine it would be in The Archers, all those endless cups of coffee in farmhouse kitchens. I might be Devonian but it’s not often I’m in a farmhouse kitchen. She offers to make us a sandwich but it seems rude to allow an old lady to wait on us, even though my stomach’s growling. She’s insistent, though. ‘I’ve been up since five so it’s lunchtime as far as I’m concerned and I don’t much care for eating alone.’ She sets about gathering food, heaves a loaf of bread onto the table and lugs over a platter of ham and cheese and home-pickled onions that you absolutely know will strip the hairs off the insides of your nostrils.

  So we cobble together our own sandwiches, wi
th freshly churned butter and home-made granary bread, and we sip the good, strong coffee, while I listen to this charming, spirited lady who must be well into her nineties talking with Dad about my mother, the old days in the market, the fact that her grandson and his wife and kids live here now taking care of the dwindling stock. She says she’ll never leave the farm till she’s taken out in a box. A small box as there’s nothing to her.

  Her eyes light up when Dad moves on to the subject of gin.

  ‘So, you want to have a go at gin?’ She has a very loud voice for such a frail-looking old lady. She probably needs to adjust the hearing aid but neither of us has the heart to suggest it.

  ‘I’ve always made sloe gin, Mrs Bates, you remember that, don’t you?’ Dad bellows.

  ‘I’m not an imbecile, of course I remember. But that’s not really distilling gin, is it? That’s just adding a few berries to shop-bought gin.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Dad agrees.

  ‘You want to do it from scratch?’ She’s put down her sandwich and is surveying Dad as if he’s a young snip of a thing, which he is in comparison to her.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I mean, we’d buy in the grain spirit but then we’d distil it with our own junipers – not sure where we’ll source them yet – and add our own botanicals.’

  ‘There was a time you could’ve picked your own junipers up on the moors. Now you’re looking at Italy or India.’

  ‘I was thinking Macedonia or Croatia.’

  ‘That’s also true. Juniperus Communis?’

  ‘Or Juniperus Oxycedrus.’

  ‘You’ve thought this through.’ She takes a bite of her sarney, chews for some time with that one tooth of hers. There’s silence in the kitchen apart from the ticking of the school clock on the wall above the Aga. And the sound of her mastication. After a final slurp of coffee she asks, ‘How can I help you?’

  I’m not entirely sure what Dad is about to ask her though I have a fair idea.

  ‘You gave my wife some gin recipes.’

  ‘Did I now?’ She makes out like she’s trying to remember when my guess is she knows exactly what she did or did not give my mother. She’s teasing Dad, making him work for whatever it is he wants.