18.40: Tom stops me from getting to my feet to shout obscenities at Dave Barton.
18.42: Jackie speaks on our behalf. Cool, calm, collected. Using all the right words but something missing. Mood in the room hard to gauge.
18.50: Jackie sits down, deflated.
18.55: Q&A. Panel asked a series of questions by people obviously planted by Dave Barton. Concerns raised about alcohol abuse and antisocial behaviour. Jackie replies calmly that the gin joint is not about getting drunk, it’s a social experience and will enable us to run the museum. The alternative was a cheap boozer which would be far more likely to encourage irresponsible drinking. Back and forth it goes and it seems even stevens. Just as the Chair is on verge of calling time, an angel steps in.
19.20: Old Woman Bates stands up. For one so small and stooped, she has a foghorn of a voice, especially when handed microphone. She tells us we need Dingleton put on map. That our town was built on smuggling and that this will bring back tourists and day-trippers. She says museum must stay open at all costs. It’s the only place that reaches out to community. It’s our heritage. And our future. Suspect Kev may have primed her. After all, who’d listen to him?
19.25: Rapturous applause which turns into standing ovation. Sometimes a wise old woman is the only person for the job. Usually. Actually, always.
19.30: While packing up chairs, notice Old Woman Bates leaving. Have a word. Then a hug, gently so don’t crush her. Then realize what that magic ingredient should be. When I tell her she says, ‘You took your time working it out.’
19.35: Spot Dave Barton smoking outside as we head to Thirsty Bishop. If looks could kill, I’d be pushing up daisies come spring.
20.50: Arrive home.
21.30: In bed, head whirling with chemical symbols and fabulous botanicals. Is this what it’s like to be my father? Or my daughter?
21.40: Father knocks on door. Tell him to enter. He stands in doorway. ‘Well done, Jennifer Juniper. I never doubted you,’ he says doubtfully.
21.45: Sleep.
THIS IS A time of ups and downs. Good news, bad news. Hurrahs and boos.
The first half of January has all been about getting Lauren back to uni, gin, puppies, keeping busy so as not to worry about the future. I’ve also done a load of eBaying, selling old tat that’s been hanging around for far too long, including all my First Day Covers, my collection of Smash Hits magazines and an eighties bling gold bracelet Mike gave me when we got married. Dad keeps assuring me he’s got it covered, but it’s not fair to deplete him of his small nest-egg and pension.
Two and a half weeks after the public meeting, on a dreary Saturday morning, a letter arrives from the planning department. I can’t open it, not on my own. So I call the others. They pelt round, arriving within minutes of each other, breathless and scruffy. Though Tish manages to make scruffy into a stylish art form, dressed today like a member of Bananarama.
We sit around the table, the letter in the middle, unopened. It’s like a seance. We hope to conjure up good news. It could be good news. Or it could be catastrophic. There’s only one way to find out.
‘Open it, Jen,’ says Carol.
‘Why me?’
‘It’s got your name on the envelope.’
‘And “Associates”.’
The front door bangs and a few seconds later Lauren walks in.
‘Lolly? What are you doing here?’
‘I’m up to date on my work so I thought I’d catch up with my homies.’ She drops her backpack on the floor and empties the contents of a bin bag into the washing machine. ‘So what are you lot up to?’
‘One of us is opening a letter from the council.’
‘Who is?’
‘Your mother,’ says Carol. ‘Only she isn’t doing it.’
‘Why aren’t you doing it, Mum?’
‘You do it, Lauren.’
She doesn’t have to be asked twice. She picks it up and tears it open, starts to read.
We look at her.
She smiles. A huge smile. Her rainbow hair and her nose ring and her Pippi plaits might make her young and studenty, but she is one tough cookie. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘As long as we comply with the conservation officer, we have Listed Building Consent so we can go ahead and do the repairs and renovations to the museum.’
There’s a loud chorus of screeches.
But then a reality check from Jackie. ‘What about change of use?’
‘That’s still being considered,’ Lauren says, handing over the letter to her.
All eyes on Jackie as she takes her time reading the letter. Then she removes her glasses and inhales. ‘We still need permission for change of use and for a licence. Let’s not count our chickens and all that.’
The mood sinks somewhat.
‘How does it work then?’ Lauren asks.
‘We applied for the licence at the same time as the planning,’ Jackie explains, ‘hoping the process would be quicker if the planning officers talked to the licensing officers to agree mutually acceptable opening hours and everything. But the two departments have different criteria for approval and they don’t always agree.’
‘Right…’ Lauren puts her head to one side, thinking it through. ‘What you’re saying is… this could be a risky strategy.’
‘Exactly,’ Jackie says. ‘I have a feeling a certain bastard councillor will make representations against the licensing application whereas if we had planning permission in place, he’d be less likely to do so.’
‘Representations?’
‘A nicer word for “complaints”. “Representations” can be positive as well as negative.’
‘So what happens if they get representations?’
‘It goes to the licensing subcommittee and there’s a hearing. And to be honest, Dave Barton’s just as likely to make representations to the planning department over change of use.’
‘Which would mean a separate subcommittee and hearing,’ Lauren says.
‘Hairy arses,’ Tish says.
‘What can we do?’ Carol asks. ‘We must be able to do something, Jackie? What can people object to over the change of use? Right now the museum’s closed. Surely people will support us if we can find a way to keep it going?’
‘One would hope.’ Jackie shrugs. ‘Planning looks at the impact on the surrounding area – neighbours, parking, highways etc.’
‘We have that on our side then,’ I chip in. ‘There aren’t any close neighbours, there’s parking, and there’s also the train station and bus stop right at hand.’
‘Exactly.’ Jackie is on fire now. ‘Plus it’s in the council’s mission statement to recognize the value of tourism to Dingleton. They want to promote well-managed premises. But it also has to take account of the needs of its residents. And I quote, “who have the fundamental human right to the peaceful enjoyment of their property and possessions”.’
‘But if there’s no one living close by, then it’s not a problem, surely?’ Lauren is now handing out tea. She’s sloughing off the inertia of her teenage years. ‘Isn’t that down to licensing?’
‘Well, yes.’ Jackie nods. ‘Licensing deals with four things: prevention of crime and disorder, public safety, prevention of public nuisance and protection of children from harm.’
‘What’s public nuisance?’ Lauren sounds bemused. I suppose if you live in student halls in Plymouth you might have a different view of what constitutes public nuisance.
‘Noise, basically,’ Jackie confirms.
‘But we’re not having music,’ Tish says. ‘And we’re not having rowdy drunks because we’re not selling cheap booze. We’re selling classy cocktails. It’s a relaxed evening out, pre- or post-food. Not a piss-up. And it’s not like we’re applying for a late licence.’
‘Light pollution?’ Jackie adds.
‘A bit of mood lighting in a gin bar is nothing compared to the coloured light bulbs strung all the way along the seafront,’ Carol says, getting riled.
‘Noxious smells?’
Jackie continues. She’d make a brilliant prosecutor.
‘No food.’ Lauren’s on it. ‘No chips, no burgers. Just a few packets of crisps and maybe some olives.’
‘Always olives, darling,’ Tish says and an image of Noël Coward comes to my mind. And as if she’s telepathic, she quotes him. ‘A perfect Martini should be made by filling a glass with gin, then waving it in the general direction of Italy.’
‘Litter?’ Jackie ignores this theatricality, continues to focus on possible issues.
Now it’s my turn. ‘The only litter we’ll get is what the bloody seagulls leave behind because the council never empties the bloomin’ bins. And we won’t be adding to that because there’s no packaging or take-aways or anything.’
‘All right, Mum, calm down.’ Lauren pats me on the shoulder, offers me a custard cream which I shovel into my mouth, barely tasting or chewing. I’m left with a tacky taste so I wash it away with tea but I feel a bit sick.
‘So what can we do?’ Carol asks again.
‘Wait and see if there’re any representations, I suppose,’ Jackie says. ‘If there are, the council have to inform us. And if they’re negative, then we have to get some nice people to make positive ones.’
Thank goodness for Jackie. Everybody needs a Jackie on their team.
TWO DAYS LATER, I open a group text from Jackie.
There’s a representation. Says we’ve
not addressed prevention of crime or
antisocial behaviour. Time to be
very antisocial and fight back.
SINCE LAUREN’S RETURN to Plymouth last Sunday, we’ve had a week teeming with relentless, soul-destroying rain. Harry and I have taken it in turns to walk Bob. Bob isn’t bothered by the rain. He just wants to sniff for rabbits and roll in poo. Dale is not on dog-walking duties because he has been struck down by a cold much like the bubonic plague. I try to reassure him that there hasn’t been a case of the Black Death in Dingleton since 1666. He says, ‘You guys have so much history.’ As for Dad, I’m not letting him roam in this weather; he gets as drenched and muddy as Bob and I don’t fancy another case of man flu.
Much excitement in the house as we prepare for our new arrival at the weekend. Denis the menace! The place needs to be puppy-proofed, a bed needs to be found, newspaper needs to be gathered. I’m secretly relieved Lauren’s at uni because her excited anticipation would be a lot to handle. Plus I wouldn’t get a look-in on the cuddle front. And right now I need some cuddles.
Meanwhile, I’ve met up with an old school friend and arranged to meet up with another – the first is a genuine friend, the second more of a dirty sod.
On Tuesday, I asked Tracey round for supper. We spent a lovely evening together, just her and me, as thankfully Dale and Harry had taken Dad out for a curry. We ate pasta, drank wine, and slagged off Dave Barton who was one of those snarky lads who was always mean to her at school. She reminded me that once Dave threw a tennis ball at her head and I’d had a proper go at him.
The big surprise was finding out that as well as being a bank manager, Tracey’s also a magistrate. So she’s all clued up on petty crime and antisocial behaviour. Not only that but she genuinely loved the latest batch of gin, which we sampled at the end of the meal. In fact, she was dead impressed.
Today, I’ve arranged to visit Councillor Twonk. I texted him and asked him to meet me for a coffee at the café on the seafront. He texted straight back and said he could squeeze me in. Hmm.
Off I go, taking the car and parking on the seafront. Because of the rain. And so I can make a quick getaway if need be. I’m there early, find a table in the corner, unsure if I want to be seen fraternizing with the enemy, though ridiculously hopeful of some sort of peace treaty.
As soon as he turns up, I can see he’s in one of his most obnoxious, patronizing and aggravating moods. He acknowledges me with a curt nod of his fat head and says my name. Jennifer.
The waitress comes up to the table and he winks at her. Actually winks, despite being old enough to be her father.
‘Two Americanos, please,’ he says, no reference to me or what I might want. But an Americano is what I actually want so I don’t bother to correct him. Pick your battles, that’s what Mum always said.
‘Right, then, Jennifer. What’s this “meeting” all about?’
‘You know what this is all about.’
‘Mother’s ruin?’
‘Why do people insist on calling it that?’
‘People? What people?’
‘People who think they’re funny when they’re really not.’
He smiles at me. I can’t work out if it’s a real smile or a fake one. ‘You used to find me funny, Jennifer.’
‘That’s because I was a naive, impressionable schoolgirl.’
‘Look, we were sixteen. We went out for a few weeks. We fooled around a bit, granted, but it was consensual. You never told me to stop.’
‘I know that. I wanted it too. But that’s not what I’m upset about.’
‘Tell me, Jennifer. What are you so upset about? I mean, we weren’t Romeo and Juliet.’
‘You had sex with me which was a big deal and then, shortly after, you dumped me. You broke my heart.’
‘I didn’t realize I meant that much to you, Jennifer. You need to put that to bed. If you’ll pardon the pun.’
‘You didn’t mean that much to me, not you, yourself. It was the dumping bit that was so hard. Being chucked away like a disposable bottle.’
The waitress brings our coffee and he gives her that look. That look I want to forget but can’t.
‘You’re infuriating.’
‘Me? Pourquoi?’
‘You think you’re God’s gift.’
‘I can’t help it if women fall at my feet.’
‘You’re not all that.’
‘You used to think so.’
‘When I was sixteen. Then I grew up and knew better.’
He slurps his coffee. Stares out of the window, exaggeratedly, then turns back and looks at me, straight in the eye. I force myself to hold his gaze, like in one of those daft competitions you do when you’re a kid.
He looks away first, under the pretence of checking his cufflink.
I win.
‘Why aren’t you more supportive of this venture? We want to keep the museum open. We want to make it better, more relevant, more accessible to everyone, and a gin bar will be something new for the town. It’s not going to be a place to get rat-arsed but somewhere to go out for a nice time.’
‘I’m sorry, Jennifer.’ He shakes his head. ‘I can’t support you. It’ll never work. The people of this town like a cheap drink. My plan would’ve been perfect.’ He drains his coffee. ‘It’s not too late to sell it on.’
‘Hang on a minute. Back up. You’re telling everyone that the gin bar will be a den of iniquity, that mothers will be lying drunk in the street as if it were Gin Lane. That it will be a pustule on the face of Dingleton. And yet you’d happily buy Clatford House off us and sell it to the brewery? You’re telling me that all your arguments against our plans suddenly won’t apply to yours?’
‘Don’t be naive, Jennifer. This is politics.’
‘This is about you taking a backhander.’
‘You can’t say things like that.’ He appears to be affronted but it’s all smoke and mirrors. ‘It’s slander.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I can’t talk to you. You’re an ignorant idiot.’
I get up, push my chair back so that it grates across the tiled floor and so that all the pensioners and builders stop eating their cakes and burgers and stare at the pair of us, wondering if it’s a lover’s tiff when that is the furthest thing from the truth. So I drop a fiver on the table and storm off, out of the café, the bell ringing like an alarm, right out into the pouring rain. And I don’t have an umbrella. But I need the air. Oh, blimey, do I need it. I need to breathe, breathe, because right now I’m about to explode and send little parts of me, all my molecules, al
l my atoms, all my bits of Jennifer Juniper, right across the bay so that they float off into the English Channel, off to the Atlantic and disperse to feed the fish and seals, and dolphins and all marine life including plankton. And it’s at this point that I wonder if I really am more like my father than I ever knew and of course I must be, there’s the science gene rooted in there somewhere, cast in our DNA, because it got passed on to Lolly, my Pippi Longstocking, doing her chemistry degree, doing her stuff.
Trouble is, I’m in such a rage I know I can’t drive and so I keep on walking, across the green, the grass squelchy and boggy, all that rain, all that Devon frigging rain, towards the brook that runs down to the sea, not caring about the drenching, just needing to put some distance between me and Dave Barton. Bloody Dave bloody Barton. And actually it’s welcome after being stuck inside with that pig. The cool dampness is reviving, invigorating, refreshing, the clinginess of my clothes to my body reminds me that I am Jennifer Juniper, with a will of my own, and with absolutely nothing at all to do with some man who once had me in his thrall when I was a maid of sixteen.
But soon, suddenly, unexpectedly, shockingly, I feel someone take my arm and hold it firmly in their grip. I’m about to karate chop this attacker when I realize it’s Dave. Bastard Dave Bastard Councillor Bastard Barton.
The dull, grey rain has gone, replaced with bright red, orange and golden sparks of hatred.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ I’m shouting so loud it hurts my throat. It takes the breath from me and throws it up to the elements.
He’s bending over double, panting, holding up one of his hands as if to halt me in my tracks but there’s no stopping me now. No chance. No, no, no. He gathers enough breath and voice to grunt, ‘I was trying to catch up with you.’
The Juniper Gin Joint Page 17