The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  The chat round the table, after a brief stutter, flows again. Dad fills our glasses with wine and we’re back on the subject of gin.

  ‘The second key ingredient is coriander seeds,’ Lauren announces. ‘Two parts coriander to one part juniper.’

  Back and forth we chat, chipping in with ideas for the botanicals, with ideas for the future, until suddenly I realize that Mike has gone. I excuse myself discreetly in order to look for him. I can’t hear him in the loo. He’s not in the office. I try the front room. He’s not there either. But the tree is standing proud, twinkling softly and waiting for the decorations, in its usual place in the bay window, its lights reflected in the glass.

  There is one decoration already in situ. The silver tinsel star at the top. That was always Mike’s job, putting on the star. I feel a wave of annoyance that he should do it without us, this tradition of ours, on his own. What’s he playing at? And when I check out the window, seeing the space on the driveway where his van was, sadness bubbles up again. That he felt he had to leave without even saying goodbye.

  I hurry back to the kitchen and join the warm hum of chatter and food and friendship.

  CHRISTMAS DAY AND for the second year on the trot I wake up to Bob licking my nose, my stocking unfilled. All those Christmases hoping and praying the kids would make it past six o’clock, and here I am at seven, a dog breathing on me in the dark, in the office downstairs.

  He growls quietly and I listen out. I can hear water pipes clanking and the boiler firing up. Dad most probably.

  I heave myself out from the warmth of my duvet, whip on my dressing gown and slippers and head to the source of the noise, Bob ahead of me, my mini protector.

  ‘Lolly? You’re up early.’

  ‘I came down to see if Father Christmas had been.’

  ‘Of course he has. Have you checked under the tree?’

  ‘I did. It looks amazing though I’m not sure how he afforded it this year.’

  ‘A little helper called eBay.’

  ‘Praise the Lord for eBay.’ She gives me a kiss. ‘Happy Christmas, Mother.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Daughter. Are you making a brew?’

  ‘Go back to bed and I’ll bring it in.’

  ‘But the turkey…’

  ‘It’s already in the oven, as per the instructions you left for yourself last night. What time did you get to bed?’

  ‘Um, well, quite late, I suppose.’

  She raises her eyebrows.

  ‘About half one?’

  ‘Half one? Blimey, Mother. What were you doing?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual Christmas Eve stuff a parent does.’

  ‘Go back to bed then. About time someone helped out around here.’

  I don’t mention the extra washing I’ve been doing since she came home, or the trail of empty mugs around the house, or the odd socks discarded into corners and under chairs. Instead I head back to the sofa bed and within minutes I’m asleep.

  TWO HOURS LATER I’m woken up by Dad who brings me a cuppa and takes away the cold one left by Lauren.

  ‘All under control,’ he says. ‘Take your time.’

  Which is all well and good but if we want a proper Christmas dinner today, someone will have to direct proceedings. The spuds need peeling, the table needs laying, Mum’s final Christmas pud needs boiling. And on and on.

  Dad’s shuffled back to the kitchen, leaving my door wide open so I can hear him going out to the garden. Even on Christmas Day, he needs his shed.

  My next visitor is Harry, bleary-eyed, a reminder that some things are constant. Harry and mornings have never mixed particularly well.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Mum.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Harry.’

  ‘You all right down here? I feel bad tipping you out of your room.’

  ‘I don’t mind. It’s just lovely to have you home.’

  ‘And you’re OK with Dale being here?’

  ‘Absolutely. Let’s show him a right old British Christmas. Starting with a Buck’s Fizz while you two sort the sprouts. And carrots. And swede.’

  ‘All right, all right…’ He leaves the room before I can finish reciting his list of jobs.

  THREE HOURS LATER and we’re on track. We’ve also finished the third bottle of Buck’s Fizz and are now on to gin. Not one of ours as it’s not there yet but we’re hopeful it’s not far off. Lauren was right about the infusion basket which Dad rigged up and with Carol’s newly discovered talent we’re pretty much there with a smooth-tasting gin. We just need to give it that Devon twist. The magic ingredient that will make Dingleton Gin unique.

  AN HOUR AFTER that, dead on time, we sit down together at the kitchen table, which is all pimped up, glitzed out and candlelit. Arms linked, we pull our crackers simultaneously and the smell of sulphur competes with the crazy array of food: turkey, bread sauce, stuffing, pigs in blankets, roast potatoes, parsnips, sprouts, carrots, swede, cauliflower cheese, gravy.

  ‘Put your hat on, Dale,’ Lauren orders. ‘Otherwise no food for you.’

  He does as he’s told, a little sheepish in that Canadian way. ‘Don’t you say grace?’

  The rest of us chorus, ‘Grace!’ and Dale shakes his head, a wry smile on his face.

  ‘The old ones are the best,’ Dad says. ‘But I take your point, Dale.’

  I’m wondering if Dad has suddenly come over all religious but no. He chinks his glass with his knife and says he’d like to make a toast.

  I groan inwardly.

  ‘In Japan eating Christmas dinner at KFC is so popular you have to queue for two hours in some places. And if we were in Greenland we could be eating fermented birds, kiviak, that have been kept in a seal carcass for seven months.’

  ‘Is this going somewhere, Dad?’

  ‘Does it have to go anywhere?’

  ‘We don’t want dinner to get cold.’

  ‘True. Sprouts need to be warm.’ He coughs dramatically. ‘I just wanted to say a big welcome to Dale on his first Christmas here. And of course to Carol too.’

  They both murmur thank-yous.

  ‘And welcome home to my grandchildren.’

  They both look slightly horrified.

  ‘And lastly I’d like to make a toast to my daughter, Jennifer Juniper. For being a top banana.’

  ‘A top banana?’

  ‘That’s what I said. To Jennifer Juniper.’ And he raises his glass of fizz and we all follow suit, apart from me because that would be weird, toasting myself, the top banana, so I just drink.

  The mood is happy, jolly, easy and it’s not till we get to the pudding that I think about Mum. This is the last pudding from the final lot she made. It will have the usual sixpences that she’d kept from the old days. And I think of Mike because that was his job, setting fire to it with brandy, making the kids go all quiet in awe.

  But now Lauren steps up. ‘I’ll do it, Mum,’ she says, reaching in the larder cupboard for the Aldi brandy and a box of matches. I watch her do the honours while Dad uncorks the sloe gin.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he says. ‘Other room. Queen’s speech.’ He’s on his feet, so nimble you’d never think he’d recently had a fall – or even a ‘trip’ as he still refers to it. ‘We can’t miss it. Who knows how many more she has in her?’

  ‘She’s getting on,’ Carol agrees.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dad says. ‘There’s an Indonesian man who claims to be one hundred and forty-five years old. She could have loads left.’

  ‘I haven’t watched it since about 1978.’

  ‘Wash your mouth out, Carol.’ Dad’s only half-joking. ‘She’s your queen and sovereign. Or to use her full title: Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.’

  By now we are squeezed together in the front room, Dad in his armchair, Dale in the other armchair, Harry on a big cushion at his feet, Carol, me and Lauren on
the sofa, Bob sprawled in front of the log fire. The tree’s pretty in the soft afternoon light. The pile of presents has been decimated, with only half a ton of needles piled up in their place.

  We eat the pudding with lashings of brandy butter and its perfect accompaniment of sloe gin. Which of course makes me think of the afternoon we picked the berries. The afternoon Bob fathered a litter. The evening Tom and I spent in Plymouth.

  Tom.

  He’ll be at his sister-in-law’s in Taunton now. Said he’d just go for a few hours because he didn’t want to leave Betty or the puppies for long. I might pop in and see how they’re getting on. Besides, Bob needs a walk. He’s eaten twice his body weight in giblets.

  ‘Anyone fancy some fresh air?’

  No response apart from a few sleepy murmurs and a massive snore from Dad.

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  BOB AND I have a brisk walk to Coast Guards Row and it’s only as I reach Tom’s place that I wonder if it’s a good idea, bringing Bob with me. I’m not sure what he’ll make of the puppies or what Betty’s reaction will be to seeing him again. I’m about to retrieve the key from under the flowerpot when the door mysteriously opens.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Jen. Come in.’

  I pick up Bob like a rugby ball and step into the warmth of the hallway which looks tattier than ever.

  ‘I thought you were in Taunton.’

  ‘Decided not to go in the end.’ He shrugs.

  ‘Worried about leaving them?’

  ‘Yeah—’ He stops, like he was about to say something else but decided against.

  ‘And…?’

  ‘Well, as much as I love Claire’s family, I couldn’t face being there. Without her. You know.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’ve been better,’ he says. ‘But this lot are keeping me busy.’

  ‘Can I see them? I was just coming round to check everything was all right. But I’m not so sure about Bob now.’

  Bob is wriggling under my arm, desperate to get down and investigate the smells beyond the closed door.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. Betty might have other ideas.’

  Betty does have other ideas. As soon as Tom shows us into the living room, she growls ferociously at Bob and I’m not sure if it’s because of their previous encounter or because she’s protecting her young. Tom tells her not to worry and she seems to understand. Bob’s a coward anyway, hiding behind my legs and then hurling himself onto the sofa when he spies the pups. The gorgeous pups, on the move, one after the other, scaling the whelping-box walls and dropping over the side onto the floorboards, like they’re escaping Alcatraz. They’re here, there and everywhere, the little ankle biters – or ‘angle twichers’ as Kev calls them – Tom trailing around the room wiping up puddles of pee and poo.

  ‘They’ve started on solids then?’

  ‘Oh yes, they have indeedy. It gets quite messy.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  He’s on his hands and knees, cleaning up after Queenie. Or is it Olive?

  ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

  He nods apologetically and Bob skitters after me into the kitchen, which is remarkably clean. No sign of a Christmas lunch. I make us some tea, looking in his cupboards, wondering if Claire chose the Orla Kiely tea caddy, an echo of Mum’s Poole pottery. The seventies. That was the time to be a kid at Christmas. Everyone watch ing Morecambe and Wise, the one day a year you were allowed to pig out on a selection box. The one day you weren’t left feeling a little bit hungry at the end of a meal.

  But still. The whole Operation Yewtree scenario kind of blighted some of our best memories.

  Tom interrupts me while I’m adding milk to the mugs.

  ‘Look at this little fella.’

  ‘Oh. Is that Denis?’

  Tom nods. Denis has that fetching black patch over his eye and a mischievous glare. ‘He won’t leave his poor mother alone. Thought you might want a hug while the others get their share?’

  ‘I’d love to. Hand him over.’ I sit at the table and notice the fairy lights in the courtyard and remember how that night ended, on the date that wasn’t a date, with me running home like a love-struck teenager.

  Now Tom plonks Denis on my lap and Bob edges closer to see what the heck is going on. He sniffs and sniffs and then flops down by my feet, either in a mood, or in exhaustion. Meanwhile pandemonium breaks out. Tom forgot to shut the living-room door and there’s a stampede of puppies, running amok all over the kitchen, in and out of our feet, harassing Bob who lies there in submission, even when they try to latch on to him. We spend the next five minutes herding them back to their box. Two minutes later, they’re all sparko, including Betty, while Bob waits by the front door, staring hopefully at the handle as if by the power of psychic manipulation he will be able to open it and escape from this craziness.

  ‘Someone wants you to go.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’d like you to stay.’

  ‘Oh. Well. I’d like that too…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I should be getting back. I’ve been gone long enough.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sounds deflated. Knackered. But is gracious. ‘Course. It’s Christmas.’

  ‘Talking of Christmas, have you eaten today?’

  ‘Boiled egg and soldiers,’ he says.

  This paints such a piteous picture I want to hug him and take care of him but also do things to him that are quite filthy. But I must pull myself together. ‘No turkey?’

  ‘Not so much as a whiff of Paxo.’

  ‘Right, then. Have you drunk anything?’

  ‘Nope. Just several pints of tea. Why? Would you like a lift home?’

  ‘That would be lovely. But really I was thinking you could grab a bite to eat with us?’

  He looks doubtful. ‘Not sure I’d be the best company…’

  ‘At least let me plate you something up and you can warm it in the microwave and eat it in front of Call the Midwife.’

  And now I feel bad, in case that reminds him of his own doctor wife but he’s smiling.

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ he says. ‘I’d like that.’ And he grabs his car keys from a hook in the hall and I put Bob back on the lead.

  The town is deserted. The amusement arcade in darkness. The Co-op shuttered. The streets and pavements empty of cars and people. No sign of Kev who I hope is enjoying Christmas in the comfort of his home up at Donker Farm.

  When we turn into the road, my heart sinks. Mike’s van is on the drive.

  ‘You all right?’ Tom asks.

  ‘It’s Mike. Come to see the kids.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Christmas makes you realize what you’ve lost.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom. That was naff of me.’

  ‘You’ve had a loss too. It’s not a competition.’

  ‘I know. But still. You coming in?’

  ‘Do you mind if I wait here?’

  ‘Course not. I’ll be as quick as poss.’

  So I leave the poor man in his car while I let myself in. It’s all quiet. Either everyone is still asleep or watching telly. God knows where Mike is. Bob makes a beeline for his basket and curls up. I follow him into the kitchen and start making up a plate of food, surprised and relieved that someone has tidied up. Whoever it was has wiped down the sides, put cling film over the veg and shrouded the turkey with a tea towel. Carol, I suspect. Carol. I’d forgotten she was even here.

  ‘Jennifer? Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Dad! You made me jump.’

  ‘I’m after a turkey sandwich.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Why not? Are you helping yourself to a second dinner?’

  ‘It’s for Tom.’

  ‘Where is he?’ He scouts the kitchen as if Tom might be lurking in the shadows.

  ‘He’s in the car.’

  ‘Right.’ And with an astonishing lack of questioning, Dad constr
ucts his sandwich with doorstop hunks of bread, slabs of turkey and lashings of cranberry sauce before heading back to the living room. ‘Mike’s here,’ he says as an afterthought.

  I’m tiptoeing out with the plate of food, wrapped tightly in foil with a small jug of gravy, when Mike opens the living-room door and appears in the hall. My hall.

  ‘What are you up to?’ he asks.

  I feel myself blush and am cross that that’s the reaction I come up with. It’s not as if I’m doing anything wrong. I’m giving a lonely widower Christmas dinner, that’s all.

  ‘None of your beeswax.’

  ‘I wasn’t interrogating you.’ He throws his arms up in surrender. ‘I was trying to be friendly, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Jen.’

  ‘Are you being facetious?’

  ‘No, I mean it. Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks. It’s been all right actually.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’ He smiles half-heartedly. ‘Mine’s been miserable.’

  ‘Spending the day with the Bartons? Miserable? Surely not.’

  ‘They weren’t too bad. Considering.’

  ‘Considering?’

  ‘Considering they’re the Bartons. I missed the kids, though.’

  ‘I really don’t know what you want me to say to that, Mike. I mean, I know exactly what I want to say but you won’t like it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Of course, in the spirit of Yuletide I should button it, keep those thoughts to myself but I can’t, I really can’t.

  ‘You’ve only yourself to blame. You’ve made your bed. You reap what you sow. Will that do?’

  He’s speechless, his eyes glistening. I probably shouldn’t have rammed that home quite so hard but I won’t let him make me feel bad. Not any more. He does only have himself to blame. But now he’s puffing out his chest, about to come up with a retort. ‘Maybe I wouldn’t have left you if you were kinder,’ he says. ‘Maybe I’d have stayed if you gave me more respect. If you weren’t always running around after other people.’

  It’s like a slap. A cold hard slap in the face. Only it’s not my face that’s getting slapped. It’s Mike’s.