‘Happy Christmas, you pillock.’
And with that, I leave him holding his cheek, dis belief on his face, while I flounce off to the kitchen, shove a portion of Christmas pud into a takeaway container and then storm out of the house and into the cold, crisp evening.
Tom is ready and waiting with the engine running.
‘Drive, Tom. Just drive.’
And he does. He puts his foot down and he drives, me balancing a full Christmas dinner on my lap, my face burning, my heart raging. So much for not getting wound up.
TOM HAS HIS dinner in the kitchen while I have a boiled egg with soldiers, calmer now in the safe haven of Coast Guards Row. We drink tea and we talk about Christmases past. We toast absent friends and we share a few laughs and even a few tears and suddenly it’s twenty past nine and Lauren is texting me.
Where r u, Mum. U ok?
I’m at Tom’s. A bit sozzled tbh.
Go, Mother!! How are you getting
home? Or are you staying there?!
Everything fine here.
Would you mind if I stayed?
Granddad’s gone to bed, Carol’s
passed out on yours, me and the boys
playing whist. It’s all good.
Thnx Lol xxx
Happy Xmas Mama xxx
I switch off the phone.
Tom’s still eating his pudding.
‘Can I stay over?’
He pauses, spoon midway to his mouth. ‘Course,’ he says. ‘If you want to. Do you want to? I can make up the spare bed?’
‘Tom.’ I can’t help laughing at his confused reaction. ‘That’s not really what I had in mind.’
‘Oh? Oh. I see.’ He carries on eating his pudding but then he starts coughing. Like really coughing. Choking actually. He’s choking. Ohmygod he is actually really choking.
I rush over to him and somehow wrestle him to his feet, then, relying on the first-aid course we recently did at the museum, I do the Heimlich manoeuvre.
‘Ueugh!!!’
Something flies through the air and hits the kitchen window before bouncing to the floor. What was it?
I stop worrying about Tom who has recovered and is now drinking water and I check on the floor where something small and silver is glinting in the glow of the fairy lights.
One of Mum’s sixpences.
I pick it up and show it to Tom. ‘It seems my mother tried to kill you.’
He looks up, heavenwards. Then he looks at me, takes a step and as I hold my breath, I feel his arms close around me and hold me tight and I am just where I want to be. Happy Christmas.
CHRISTMAS HAS BEEN and gone in a flash and blur of food, washing, low-grade bickering, telly, card games, dog walks and gin. Today is a new year and I’m feeling almost upbeat. I’ve seen Tom a couple of times over the last week. I didn’t stay the whole of that Christmas night as I thought that was a bit much so I crept home in the early hours like a dirty stop-out, which technically I was, and had to share the sofa bed with a sizzled, snoring Carol.
The puppies are coming along nicely. Lauren and Dad went for a visit and decided Denis was definitely the one for us. So in a couple of weeks we’ll have a new addition to the family. Lauren’s annoyed she’ll be back in Plymouth by then, but no doubt she’ll come home more often this term. Denis will be hashtagged relentlessly.
As for Tom. He’s spent the holidays running with his pack. School returns on Thursday so I’ve said I’ll pupsit while he’s at work. He’s more than happy with this arrangement. As am I. Though it would be nicer if he were with me too instead of with a bunch of maniacal ten-year-olds.
But today is the annual walk on Dartmoor. We always take a trip to Hay Tor on New Year. A picnic in the car, a walk up the hill, a climb to the top of the tor, whether it’s windy or foggy. And it’s usually one or both of these, though sometimes you’re rewarded with one of those sharp, bright, clear freezing stunners. But not today.
Right now I’m making up the big flask of coffee, compiling sandwiches, and assembling the tail ends of the Christmas shop. When we return from Dartmoor, that’s it. Yuletide over. No waiting till Twelfth Night. The tree’s on its last legs and the very sight of tinsel makes me want to garrotte myself.
Everyone is up now, tired-eyed and husky-voiced after the previous night’s fairly tame celebrations. The young ones went to the pubs in town, fancy dress as is the custom here, a bemused Dale going along with it, dressed as an ice-hockey player. Dad and I stayed in, grazing on dates and figs and sugared jellies while watching Gladiator. Seeing the New Year in with some full-on Roman death wasn’t the jolliest, but it’s a good film and I cry every time. Last night was no exception. Russell Crowe grieving for his dead wife made me think of Tom. And Dad too, of course, who I noticed surreptitiously wiping his eye. So I sat next to him on the sofa, Bob between us, and held his hand. Sometimes no words are needed.
This morning Dad is on breakfast duties. He can somehow rustle up a decent eggs Benedict even when he’s not mentally present. His mind might be roaming all over the universe but he can still poach an egg to perfection and make a hollandaise sauce that Delia would be proud of.
As we sit together round the table, Lauren pipes up with the words I dread: ‘What are your New Year resolutions?’ She’s addressing everyone. But, game as ever, she goes first. ‘Mine’s to go to all my lectures. Even the one on Fridays at nine a.m.’
‘How many have you missed?’
‘That’s not the point, Mother. I’m stating my resolutions so I can be accountable for going to all the rest of them.’
She’s good at this.
Dale says, ‘I want to find out more about my family heritage. Just to check that Harry’s not my second cousin or something creepy.’
I’m tempted to say he wouldn’t want any of Mike’s genes. Actually I do say it, to which Harry replies, ‘Dale only wears Levi’s. Dad buys his from the market.’
There’s a groan round the table and then I do the decent thing and have my go.
‘I intend to stop saying negative stuff about your father. I mean, he can be a right twonk but he’s your dad and I should respect that.’
Harry and Lauren look at each other, surprised.
‘I’m not that bad. Am I?’
‘Nothing he doesn’t deserve,’ Lauren says. ‘He is a right twonk. But he’s my dad and I love him.’
Harry is quiet. Dale gives him a gentle nudge. ‘I think you’ve done brilliantly without him, Mum. And if you want to call him a twonk, you do it.’ He smiles. ‘And I intend to pay off my overdraft this year.’
‘Overdraft?’
‘It’s a tiny one. I’m just stating my resolutions so I can be accountable.’
‘Right.’
Lauren sniggers into her tea, pulls herself together and turns her attention to her grandfather. ‘What about you, Granddad?’
Deep breath.
‘I’ll do my bit to help get this gin business up and running.’
‘That’s nice, Dad.’
‘Nice? It’s gintastic.’ And Dad laughs helplessly as if this is the funniest thing anyone in the history of the world has ever ever said.
TWO HOURS LATER, with an excited Bob on Lauren’s lap, we pull into the car park at Hay Tor, along with half of Devon. The other half must still be nursing hangovers. As predicted it’s foggy so we decide to eat our picnic first. It’s a squeeze in my car and Dale looks at us like we’re mad. He checks the other cars and sees their inhabitants doing the same.
‘I suppose you have drive-through Tim Hortons in your National Parks,’ Dad asks.
‘Every kilometre,’ Dale responds.
‘There’s a kiosk over there if you want some proper coffee,’ Harry says.
‘I might just do that. Anyone else?’
‘Can you get me an ice cream?’ Lauren asks.
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. Strawberry, please.’
Dale heads out into damp fog, shoulders hunched, hood up.
‘How does he survive the Canadian winters?’ Dad wonders aloud.
‘Canadian winters are nothing like British ones,’ Harry says. ‘He says he’s spent his time here permanently damp.’
‘Maybe I should put the heating up a notch.’
We discuss the merits of Britain versus Canada while we eat. Dale gets back in and declines my offer of a hard-boiled egg, saying he’s all ‘egged-out’.
‘You’ll never make a bodybuilding chess player,’ Dad says.
We wait for Dad to continue but no clarification follows. He gets out of the car and starts putting on his anorak. And overtrousers. And hiking boots.
‘I suppose we’re going now then,’ Lauren says, clipping on Bob’s lead to his new Christmas collar.
IT’S BRACING AT the top of the tor and the fog has miraculously lifted for us to see the dizzying views. I point out Dingleton in the far distance. Dale says it’s awesome. Dad explains how the tor was formed. That it was a combin ation of freeze-thaw weathering and hydrolysis.
‘Hydrolysis?’
‘The decomposition of a chemical compound when it reacts with water,’ Lauren chips in.
‘That’s… interesting,’ Dale says.
I realize we’ve reached the stage where Dale might be happier finding a cosy pub so I suggest we head on to Widecombe.
Everyone’s happy with this idea so we set off back down the hill. Only by now the fog is back, thicker than ever. Suddenly I’m on my own but my feet know their way back to the car park. Just follow the well-trodden path downhill. What could possibly go wrong?
A face appears, followed by a body. It’s unnerving. Like a ghost.
‘Jennifer. Fancy seeing you here.’
That’s all I need. Dave Barton. Here. Now.
‘Happy New Year,’ he says.
I nod and mumble about getting back to the car. But he ignores me and carries on like the windbag he is.
‘Out with the family?’
‘We’re just going.’
‘Run along then.’
Could he be any more annoying?
‘I’ll see you at the meeting on Wednesday, I presume?’
‘The meeting?’
‘The public meeting.’
‘What public meeting?’
‘The public meeting to discuss the impact of your proposal for a gin palace in one of our most treasured buildings.’
‘Hang on, you were proposing a budget pub.’
‘I’m not the owner of Clatford House. I have to listen to my constituents’ concerns.’
He disappears then, melts back into the fog. Of course he can be more annoying. He can always be more annoying. How the hell didn’t we know about this meeting?
I ELECT HARRY to drive because I want a pint. Despite the crush of bodies in the Rugglestone Inn, we find a table. Unfortunately it’s outside and Dale once again fails to hide the astonishment on his face. Honestly, I don’t know how he manages to play ice hockey if he can’t manage a pub garden in January. It’s not as if it’s raining.
I feel a raindrop on my nose. Then another. Dale has doleful eyes.
‘All right, let’s get home.’ We down our drinks and pile back into the car, steaming it up so that Harry has to put the heating on full blast.
ON OUR RETURN, Dale gets the log burner going for Bob to hog. The rest of us do our own thing. Napping, telly-watching, tea-making, reading. I’m just wondering what to do about this public meeting when I get a text.
How R U today? Fancy coming over?
Yes, I do. When?
Whenever you like. I’m not going
anywhere.
I’m not sure if this means Tom is bored and in need of company or if he actually really wants me to come over. Either way, I’m going. I need to ask him about this meeting, apart from anything else. Anything else will be a bonus.
I’M GREETED BY mayhem. Tom’s frazzled, hair dishevelled and cheeks flushed like an alky. There are puppies everywhere.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ he says. ‘I need help.’
Mixed messages again. He wants me? Or my canine assistance? Or medication?
‘I’ve got some aspirin in my bag. And a bottle of the latest batch.’
‘I’ll take both. Now help me gather the pack.’
We spend the next however long gathering the pack. The whelping box is now defunct as they just climb over the sides but he’s made a sort of pen that he puts them in at night. We get five inside it. Betty’s already in there, asleep in the basket. Her offspring join her. But there is one missing.
Denis.
A mad panic to find Denis. We hunt downstairs for him. Under sofas, behind sofas, behind sofa cushions. In kitchen cupboards.
‘Can he go upstairs?’
‘Er…’
I go upstairs and try the bathroom first. Steamy. Tom must’ve had a shower. Then the spare room. Neat, tidy. Nowhere for a dog to hide. So that leaves Tom’s bedroom. The door’s ajar and I push it open with a creak. Clean laundry is piled on the bed. And on top of the clean laundry lies a naughty Denis. How the heck did he manage to clamber up there with those little legs?
‘You rascal. Come here.’ Denis gazes at me with to-die-for eyes and I scoop him up and hold him close, breathe in that puppy smell, absorb his warmth. I’m in love.
‘Are you?’
‘Did I say that out loud?’
‘You did,’ Tom says, standing in the doorway. ‘I’m assuming you mean Denis the Menace?’
‘Who else could I mean?’
He smiles. But says nothing more. This is really getting to be hard work. Is he just out of practice? I know I am.
‘Um, so are they all asleep downstairs?’
‘Feeding. This little fella had probably better join them or he’ll miss out.’
I hand him over, reluctantly. Tom smiles at me again and says, ‘Come on.’
So I follow him back downstairs where he’s made two mugs of tea.
‘You take sugar, don’t you?’
‘One, please.’ He remembered. ‘Then I’d better be getting home.’
‘Do you have to go?’
‘Um…’
‘I mean, you could stay for supper.’
‘Oh, right. That’d be nice, yeah, thanks.’
‘Will omelette do?’
‘Lovely.’
I’ll be a bodybuilding chess player yet.
Day of Public Meeting
08.00: Woken up by Pippi Longstocking, asking me if I’ll proofread her assignment. Tell her I’d rather have a cup of tea.
08.20: Am brought a cup of tea only the tide’s out. ‘Soz, Mum. I tripped over Dale’s shoes. They’re massive. And before you say anything, don’t worry, I’ve cleared it up.’ Assignment is left on my bed.
08.30: Try to have shower but impossibly large queue so I make do with wet wipes.
08.45: Smoke alarm goes off as someone has the audacity to make toast. Headache follows.
09.00: Have a banana.
09.05: Carol arrives. With shoulder pads.
09.15: Jackie arrives. With box file of papers.
09.30: Tish arrives, like the Queen of Sheba.
09.32: Dad leaves for shed.
09.40: Business meeting convenes at the kitchen table. Wish I’d suggested meeting at one of the others’ houses but they always come here for some reason.
09.42: Open packet of Jammie Dodgers.
09.43: The vultures appear.
09.44: The vultures disperse.
09.45: Throw empty Jammie Dodger pack in the bin.
09.50: After five minutes faffing, we begin. Discussion about tonight’s public meeting. Turns into rant as we all call Dave Barton rude names. How did none of us know about the meeting? Apparently neighbours had leaflets pushed through their letterboxes but none of us. And then Christmas got in the way. Hope that no one will turn up tonight. Or at least, just the friendly ones.
11.00: We have plan of action. Jackie will speak on our behalf and the
rest of us will be backup. That’s it.
11.30: They leave, after more rude name-calling.
11.35: Put out recycling. Find leaflet about public meeting in the paper box.
11.40: Go back to bed. Find Lauren’s assignment. Start to read.
11.42: Fall asleep.
13.10: Woken by Lauren asking if I want a sandwich and if I’ve read her assignment yet. Tell her I’ve nearly finished it.
13.15: Lauren brings me a limp ham sandwich and a mug of tea.
13.20: Attempt to read assignment.
13.25: Fall asleep.
13.55: Wake up with a start when Bob barks at the front door. Tom is here.
14.00: Meeting in the shed: Dad, Lauren, Harry, Dale, Tom, me. Still lacking that elusive botanical that will turn our gin from good gin into great gin.
15.00: Tom goes home to finish planning for new term which starts tomorrow. Will see him at meeting later.
15.10: Sneak back to bed to read Lauren’s assignment. Don’t understand much of it but impressed nevertheless. Don’t even fall asleep.
16.05: Take Bob for walk. Cold nip in the air. Forget poo bags so have to pick up deposit with handful of leaves. Squirt masses of anti-bac on hands.
17.00: Dad has tea on the table. Spag bol. Crusty bread. We are all in state of nervous excitement about meeting. Surely people will be happy with our proposals?
17.45: Leave house to set off for town hall where meeting is taking place.
18.00: Help put out chairs. Tish is wearing demure, elegant Queen Elizabeth outfit again. Jackie, Carol and I are back in business suits.
18.15: Dave Barton turns up with woman who bid on Clatford House. Who is she?
18.30: Meeting starts. Chaired by town clerk. Agendas on chairs. Dave Barton and Jackie on panel. Dave Barton first up to speak against proposals. Says museum needs bottomless funding and will become damp squib if run by new owners. Stares pointedly at yours truly. Also says the ‘gin palace’ – as he insists on calling it – will have negative effect on existing local businesses, that it will become eyesore in prime location when it should be focal point of town. This from the man who wanted it to be cheap family boozer. Insists idea of combining it with museum won’t work and that project is doomed to failure.
The Juniper Gin Joint Page 16