The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘What about Sarah?’ He looks straight back at me.

  ‘Is she… I mean, how do you know her?’

  ‘She’s my sister-in-law.’

  ‘Your sister-in-law?’

  ‘She’s Claire’s sister.’

  ‘Oh. Right. I didn’t realize.’

  ‘I thought I told you she was my sister-in-law.’

  ‘You said she was a friend.’

  ‘She’s that as well. I’ve known her for years. She was the one that introduced me to Claire.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It’s been hard for her too, losing her sister.’

  ‘I bet. I mean, I wouldn’t know because I’m an only child but I know Lauren and Harry would be devastated to lose each other.’

  Now I’m thinking about the death of my children, making it all about me again. Which is stupid. I should just tell him.

  ‘I was a bit jealous.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out?’

  ‘I think maybe you do.’

  ‘Right.’ I take a lungful of air. Two lungfuls. ‘This is the thing. I seem to quite like you. And I thought maybe you liked me. You asked me round for dinner and we had a lovely time and there were fairy lights and everything and I thought about kissing you but I didn’t know if you were interested. Then there was the other night when you hugged me in the hall and I thought you might kiss me but you didn’t though I hoped there would come a time when we might actually manage it and of course I know you’re still grieving so I don’t mind being patient. But then tonight you brought Sarah round and I thought she was your girlfriend and so yes, I felt jealous. Only now I feel stupid. So there. I’ve said it.’

  I’m waiting for Tom to leg it out of here but he stays put. He’s on his haunches stroking Bob’s belly and I can’t help but think how much I wish he would do that to my tummy, despite the stretch marks and all. He smiles at me now, eyes twinkling the way they did when I first met him, and my stomach curdles. That punch was a bad idea, though I’ve been pretty sober this evening all things considered but not enough to stop my hand from shaking when he gets to his feet and says, ‘I like you too, Jen. But I’m not in the habit of, you know, being with a woman.’

  ‘Being with a woman?’

  ‘Er, feeling something like I used to feel for Claire, only different obviously because she was different.’ He shakes his head. ‘You see, I can’t even put words in the right order.’

  ‘Claire must’ve been an amazing woman. I’m just a local girl struggling to keep it all together. We’re different.’

  I look at Tom, in his Carry On outfit. Against the white of his make-up, his eyes are dark, silent pools of emotion.

  ‘Life is precious, Tom.’

  ‘It is.’

  Then I do it again. I lean in towards him and go to kiss his lips with mine but he stops me, a gentle hand to my shoulder.

  ‘Wait,’ he says.

  ‘What is it? Have I got this wrong?’

  ‘No, there’s a spider in your hair.’ He moves to take it but I’m already swatting at my head, making the ridiculous noise of the arachnophobe in contact with an eight-legged monster. It flies to the floor where Bob proceeds to eat it.

  ‘Your dog adores you.’

  ‘At least someone does.’

  ‘Lots of people do, Jen,’ he says. ‘Now come here.’ He reaches out to me and I move towards him, taking him in my arms and giving him a big, fat kiss because let’s be clear about this, if you want something you have to bloody well go out and get it. After all, you’re a long time dead.

  WHEN I WOKE up the morning after the party, All Hallows Day, a soft grey light was creeping in through the gaps of the curtains, and I imagined Tom lying next to me in my bed. But of course he wasn’t there. After a rather lovely kiss in the shed he’d made his excuses, saying he needed to go home and let Betty out. And although I knew he had to do this, I felt a pang of jealousy. Which was stupid. Feeling jealous of a dog, especially one needing extra care due to her belly being full of Bob’s puppies.

  I’m hankering after some TLC myself – particularly as a week has passed since that kiss and I haven’t heard from Tom. Not a dickie bird. Not that I’ve tried to contact him either. I’ve been flat out and no doubt Tom too what with Bonfire Night and the run-up to Christmas which has probably already started at school. And now I’m wondering whether I read too much into the whole thing. Maybe it was just a slip of the tongue.

  And I’m worried. I keep dreaming about my house being destroyed. In a storm. In a fire. In a mysterious alien home abduction. I know enough to realize it’s a manifestation of my anxiety over money. Whether I can make my mortgage repayments on my dwindling savings, relying on Dad as a backup plan.

  Today is important. Jackie and Tish have a meeting with the conservation officer from the council. We need listed-building consent before we can do any alterations or renovations to Clatford House. It’s crucial we’re given the go-ahead because otherwise our plans are dashed before we’ve even passed Go. Meanwhile I’ve agreed to get together an application to the Heritage Lottery Fund. The most adventurous I’ve been in the past is applying for a credit card and that was bad enough. But there’s someone who could help. Someone who knows exactly how to do a funding bid. Who knows what the powers that be need to hear. All those key words like ‘engage’, ‘community’, ‘added value’ etc. Someone who understands and empathizes with the importance of preserving the house, its unique setting, its special features, what it means to Dingleton, to our heritage, our community, our future.

  So I text Tom.

  He texts back.

  I change three times, put on make-up, take it off again. Style my hair, then put on a hat. Then I go to meet him.

  THE LUNCHTIME CAFÉ is steamed up with dog breath and wet coats.

  ‘It should tell the story of Dingleton,’ Tom says, stirring his tea frantically as he only has a half-hour before afternoon registration. ‘The museum must give a voice to those who’ve gone before and it should breathe new life into the town.’

  He’s tucking into egg and chips while I scribble down his words, wishing I knew how to record him with my phone or be competent at shorthand. But it’s been a long time since the Pitman’s course I did in evening class the year after leaving school. Which is how I got out of the amusement arcade and into office work.

  ‘Jen?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You’re drawing a picture of a dog. A very fat little dog. Are you OK?’

  ‘Oh, blimey, sorry. I zoned out for a while there. I’ll be all right once I’ve drunk this coffee.’

  ‘So this is basically what we need to say,’ Tom continues, eyeing me sideways, a whiff of concern about his handsome face. Yes, handsome. Drop-dead gorgeous in a silver-fox way. In any way. ‘We want to include an education element, an outreach programme, get in volunteers from excluded groups. The disabled. The unemployed. Pensioners with too much time on their hands. The homeless.’

  ‘Like Kev?’

  ‘From what you say he’s not technically homeless. He’s got a home up at the farm.’

  ‘I know. But he’s disengaged from society. From everything. Spends his days hanging around town, only going back to the farm for a bath and some food and a bed every few days. It’s people like Kev we should be including.’

  ‘Maybe we could get him to help us with the application?’

  ‘Really? Do you think he would?’

  ‘You won’t know unless you ask him.’ Tom smiles that ridiculously twinkly smile and I have to restrain myself from running my hands through his hair.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Right. OK. When?’

  ‘No time like the present.’ He points outside.

  There is Kev himself, slouched on a bench down by the Brook, snoozing in the autumn sun.

  ‘I’d better go now,’ Tom says. ‘Can’t be late for those Year Sixes. There’ll be anarchy and it won’t
be pretty.’

  We get ourselves ready to leave, making plans to meet up to do this thing.

  ‘How’s Betty, by the way?’ I ask. ‘Not long now?’

  ‘About four weeks.’ He shrugs on his jacket and retrieves my hat from where it’s fallen on the floor and puts it on my head. Which is quite erotic. ‘Do you think you want one?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘A puppy, Jen. Do you think you want a puppy?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think I do.’

  I APPROACH KEV carefully so as not to surprise him. He’s had trouble in the past with drunken scumbags duffing him up, jumping him, and yet he still stays out here. When he has a home to go to. What happened?

  ‘Wotcha,’ he says. ‘You wanna know what happened?’

  ‘Did I say that out loud?’

  ‘You did. Siddown.’

  I sit down.

  ‘Sorry, Kev. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘S’all right.’

  There’s a pause while we watch a couple of black swans sunning themselves, making the most of this late, unexpected warmth. Then he speaks, out of the blue and from the heart.

  ‘I used to have a wife.’

  And straight away I think, oh, he’s a widow like Tom, but—

  ‘She left me.’

  ‘Oh. Right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Only that’s not the worst part.’

  And he tells me it all, what he can. Cuts open his vein and lets the blood pool on the floor by our feet. He tells me how they were childhood sweethearts, him and his wife, and I can’t help but think of me and Mike. He tells me how they got married and had a little boy and that they lived up at the farm with his ma and pa and they had a good life. Only something bad happened. Ripped his world apart. His little boy, David, four years old, was crushed by some sort of farm machinery, while he was on Kev’s watch. His wife never forgave him and, within a year, she’d left him too. And that’s when he lost his way. Started drinking too heavily. Not eating. Taking painkillers. Giving up the farm work. Dropping out of life. So his brother moved in, bringing his own family, and now his nephew has stepped up.

  By the time Kev’s recounted all this I’m crying, full-on snot-nosed crying and then he starts crying too and I actually give him a hug because I am so consumed with this grief. To lose a child. A little boy. Nothing, but nothing can be worse than that. So why the hell do I get so hacked off with life when I have not only my kids but also hope in the future?

  ‘Thank you for telling me this.’ I take out a clump of scrunched-up tissues from my bag and share them out so we can wipe our noses at the very least. Then after a while, as the swans slip into the water one after the other and head downstream, I know this is the chance to reach out. ‘I need your help with something, Kev.’

  ‘Help?’

  ‘Yes. With the museum.’

  ‘Not sure how I’d be of help but I’ll be glad to try. ’Bout time I stopped mucking about.’

  He smiles and I notice his new shiny white tooth. So new it makes the rest of his gnashers look even more yellow.

  WHEN I GET home, Dad is absorbed with something in the kitchen sink.

  ‘What you doing, Dad?’

  ‘Washing up.’

  He starts humming ‘Ten Green Bottles’.

  ‘Are you making a start on the gin?’

  ‘Yes, indeed I am. Harry and Dale are in the shed with Violet so I thought I’d sort these out.’

  ‘Where did you get them from?’

  ‘Oh, you know. The usual.’

  ‘Hanging around the bottle bank at the Co-op? You used to tell me off when I hung around the Co-op car park.’

  ‘That’s because you were usually smoking. Or chatting up boys.’

  ‘True.’ I blink away an image of me and Dave Barton, his hand up my jumper, dirty bastard.

  ‘I’ll pop down and see Harry and Dale.’

  ‘Make sure you knock first.’

  ‘Noted.’

  I make a brew and tread carefully down the garden with the Silver Jubilee tray laden with mugs of tea and a plate of the chocolate digestives that Dale has become addicted to. He’s putting on weight. As is Harry. Being in love can do that to you. I lost a stone when Mike left. If it wasn’t for Dad and Lauren, I think I’d have stayed in bed for ever, just Bob for company. I’d torture myself wondering what Mike and Melanie were doing. Were they in bed? Were they out for dinner? In the pub? Sitting on the sofa in front of the telly with him massaging her tiny, slender feet? And I’d compare myself to her. I’d even write down lists. Was she good at sex? Could she cook? Did she trump at inappropriate moments? What was her pelvic floor like?

  One day Dad caught me out. He came in with a bowl of Heinz tomato soup and a plate of soldiers and he wrestled one of these lists from my hand, ripped it into shreds and set fire to it in the garden, ordering me to come out and watch. Which I did. And it was cathartic. I cried and I laughed and then I got exceedingly drunk and he and Lolly had to put me to bed with a sick bowl beside me.

  After that, each day got a little bit better and I did a little bit more. I stopped the self-destruction and I began to build a new life. And now Dave Barton’s had to come along and scupper things.

  But I will not let him win.

  We have Clatford House. We have planning under way, a grant being applied for, Violet is up and working, we’ve got Kev on board, the campaign is building up and now Harry and Dale are making the first attempts at the gin. This could all come together. Or it could all go down the swanny. But you’ve only got one life and you have to give it your very best shot.

  And because I’m dreaming I forget to knock on the shed door and what I see is not good for a menopausal mother.

  DECEMBER HAS BROUGHT with it a northerly chill and drawn-in evenings. Half four and it’s dark. The time of life for advent calendars has passed but I suppose that will come again. If I have grandchildren. I don’t know why I’m thinking about grandchildren. Is it because I miss holding a baby in my arms? The bedtime stories, the cuddles, the sheer love for and of a child?

  I’m standing at the kitchen sink now, a stew in the slow cooker, jacket potatoes in the oven, clearing up after the latest batch of gin. There’s quite a team been working on it these last few weeks. Dale, Harry and Dad. And Carol, who really does have a nose for it. Between the four of them they’ve come up with various concoctions. Some better than others but none quite right yet. Dad assures me we’ll get there. He found Mum’s recipes that came from Old Woman Bates. They were pressed in the pages of an old copy of Fanny and Johnnie Cradock’s Cooking with Bon Viveur. One of them had a mysterious ingredient called bullum. Dad explained that it was like a cross between a plum and a sloe, found round these parts, if you knew where to look. But we’ve not got to that yet. We’re still on the basics.

  We decided not to distil from scratch as making our own alcohol from mash would need a distiller’s licence from HM Revenue and Customs, tricky to get. So we’re using duty-paid grain-neutral spirit and turning it into gin by re-distilling it with juniper berries and a mixture of other botanicals. For this we need a rectifier’s licence, which Dad already has. Who knows, in the future we could make it completely from scratch, but this seems to be the way forward for now.

  The shed is the still room. I can see it from here, lit up like a spacecraft in the shadow of the naked pear tree. Heads bob up and down and this way and that. Inside they’ll be beavering away amongst the gleaming copper pipes and vessels, all giving their input. I hope this batch is better than the last. That one was bad. Far too much juniper so that was all you could taste. Too piny and peppery. Too resinous. Like the antiseptic smell of a school hall. But the one before that was disastrous. There was so much going on it was overwhelming. It hurt your head. Literally. Our gin needs more subtlety. This is where Carol comes in. Which is ironic as she’s never been subtle in her whole life. But she has a gift. She can tell the difference between cinnamon and cardamom, coriander and cassia whereas I
only know if I like it or not.

  Right now all I can smell is the delicious aroma of beef casserole. Time to get the workers.

  BY TEN O’CLOCK we’ve eaten, cleared up, and the team has returned to the shed. I’m taking the opportunity to put up my feet and watch crap telly in front of the log burner. And now my phone is vibrating. Tom.

  ‘Can you come over? Betty’s in labour and I’m panicky if the truth be known.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  I grab my coat, leave a message on the kitchen table and scarper, heart beating fast but full of excitement.

  Halfway there, I spot Kev walking along the road towards the seafront. I take the decision to stop, wind down the window and call out his name. He does a double-take and then smiles.

  ‘Any good at delivering puppies?’ I ask him.

  ‘I’ve seen a fair few born,’ he says.

  ‘Can you come with me? Betty’s about to have her litter.’

  He gets in, no questions asked, and I put my foot down so that in minutes we’re parking up at the end of Coast Guards Row.

  ‘In here, come on.’

  He follows meekly, going with the flow, his calmness what I need right now.

  Tom opens his front door before I even have the chance to knock. He ushers us in, barely acknowledging Kev, whispering in an almost frantic way, leading the way to the front room where Betty is in her basket, heaving and panting. She glances up at me, sad doggy eyes, perplexed and scared, and I hunker down next to her, soothing her with my voice, telling her what a good girl she is.

  ‘How long’s she been like this?’ I ask Tom.

  ‘She’s been restless all day but only like this for a while. Look at her belly. Those are contractions, aren’t they?’

  ‘They are,’ Kev confirms.

  Just as he says this, Betty strains and lets out a whimper and a little doggy head appears. After a minute or so, nothing more has happened and Tom’s clearly agitated.

  ‘Shouldn’t it be out by now? Is it stillborn?’