The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  I feel bad when I reach reception; I know Mrs Tibbs well and don’t like fibbing that Tom is expecting me on a museum visit. But needs must.

  ‘What you got there, Jen?’ she asks.

  ‘Captain Clatford’s telescope.’

  ‘I thought that was long gone.’

  ‘It’s been in store, waiting for funds to fix it. It still works, but it’s old and fragile and needs some TLC.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ She laughs, including me in this which is fair enough.

  I say something or nothing as right now I’m focusing on what the heck I’m going to say to Tom in front of a class of Year Sixes.

  ‘Doing anything nice tonight?’ she asks as I’m signing in.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Valentine’s Day, dear.’

  ‘Valentine’s?’ I get myself in a tangle with the visitor’s lanyard, almost asphyxiating myself. ‘Of course!’ I smack myself on the forehead, trying to knock some sense into my block.

  February 14th.

  Mrs Tibbs buzzes me in and I head down the corridor, past the rows of pegs with coats abandoned on the floor beneath, heaps of backpacks, trails of scarves, and random gloves and plimsolls scattered across the wooden floor. Just because it’s Valentine’s Day, I won’t let this put me off. I will keep going despite the prospect that what I am doing, what I am about to do, all seems a bit… well… staged. Tacky, even.

  But. Then again. It’s… well… it’s romantic, isn’t it?

  The school is eerily quiet because it must be story time, the calm before the storm when the end-of-day bell rings, chairs go up on tables and the hordes of little people are released from their classrooms to hunt down their outdoor wear, book bags and packed lunch boxes.

  I’m outside the Year Six class now. Tom’s class. Penguins, they’re called. If I stand back a bit and peer sideways, I can see through the glass of the door. There they are, cross-legged on the carpet, gazing up at their beloved teacher as he perches on his chair, telling them a story with props. You’re never too old to be told a story with props. And I’ve got my very own prop though I have no idea how I’m going to tell a story with it or even why the hell I thought I’d be better equipped to bare my soul to Tom with a telescope.

  Here goes.

  Rat-a-tat-tat.

  Thirty-one or so pairs of eyes swivel in my direction. Some look tired. Some bored. Dazed. Excited. Annoyed. Take your pick. And then there’s Tom.

  ‘Come in?’ he says, all tentative like.

  So I go in. And I stand like a lemon next to the display of the Shang Dynasty of Ancient China. ‘Nice Pictographs.’

  ‘That’s mine, miss,’ shouts out Amelia Bond.

  ‘Excellent.’ I know I sound like a female, Devonian version of Hugh Grant. I sound ridiculous. I am ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Tom asks, now more concerned than shocked.

  ‘Er, yes, thanks. I’ve just been to a funeral.’

  ‘My dad’s gone there. It’s Old Woman Bates,’ says Jordan Bassett.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Did you see her skeleton?’ This from Emma Compton.

  ‘Retard,’ says Jordan Bassett. ‘It takes ages for a dead body to be a skeleton.’

  ‘Enough of that, Jordan,’ Tom says, all teacherfied. ‘Apologize now for using that word.’

  ‘Skeleton?’

  ‘The “R” word.’

  Jordan Bassett does as he’s told and says sorry to Emma Compton.

  Emma, perplexed at this whole scenario, looks at Mr Winter for assistance but he can’t give her that because he’s currently looking at me, perplexed. And I’m looking from face to face, feeling completely and utterly perplexed even though I’m the one who’s supposed to know what the heck is going on.

  I’ll have to wing it.

  ‘Excuse me, Penguin class, I’ve brought something to show you.’

  Now all of Penguin class look perplexed apart from Amelia Bond who is plaiting Emma Compton’s hair.

  ‘Mr Winter has been helping us get the museum back open,’ I continue, forging on. ‘We need to raise lots of money so that we can restore important objects that belong to our town.’

  ‘What you got in there, miss?’ This from George Thompson who lives down our road.

  ‘I’ll show you.’ I open the case, a little dramatically for effect, and take out the telescope. ‘I expect you’ll know what this is.’

  They shout out, ‘A telescope!’

  Living down here they should flipping well be familiar enough with pirates to know what a telescope is.

  ‘It belonged to a very famous man who used to live in our town. He was a sea captain, but broke the law and didn’t pay his taxes.’

  ‘My dad doesn’t pay his tax.’

  ‘Well, tell him he should,’ I instruct George Thompson. ‘I know your mum, remember.’

  George Thompson turns bright red and I feel bad because he’s only repeating what he’s heard at home so I crack on, diverting attention away from him and back to me and the telescope.

  ‘Anyone know who this man might’ve been?’ I ask. ‘No one? Mr Winter?’

  Mr Winter does a ‘Who, me?’ gesture and says, ‘Why, I believe you’re referring to a Mr Clatford of Clatford House. But why are you showing us this telescope, as interesting and important as it is? History? Science?’

  ‘Ah, well, it’s more to do with affairs of the heart.’

  ‘My mum had an affair,’ says George Thompson. He can’t help himself.

  ‘She don’t mean that, idiot,’ says Emma Compton, on the ball for once. ‘She means biology. The heart.’ Everyone is staring at Emma Compton who has never uttered such a sentence in her life. ‘That’s biology, isn’t it, sir.’

  ‘Er… yes?’ Tom is uncertain what’s going on here.

  If Emma can do it, so can I. I will embrace the tackiness which I know Tom will hate because he’s a politically correct, right on, do-gooder kind of bloke who probably thinks Valentine’s Day is a big con perpetuated by the card companies and Pandora bloody charm bracelets. ‘Can I carry on?’ I ask Penguin class.

  They nod.

  ‘Thank you.’ I smile at them, all those fresh-faced ten- and eleven-year-olds. The biggest in the school. The oldest. The prefects and the monitors. It’ll be all change for them come September, back to the bottom of the pile. Like a game of snakes and ladders. ‘OK, everyone. Bear with me.’

  They bear with me. Not a fidget. Not a squeak.

  ‘What I want to say is that a telescope is used to make faraway things look bigger. It doesn’t bring them closer to you, but it does make them clearer and you can see more detail. It’s like when you meet someone new. You think you know them, then you really aren’t sure you know them at all. And what you need is a relationship telescope so that you can examine the other person close up. And they need a telescope too so they can do the same to you.’

  My speech has at least had the effect of making the class remain absolutely still and quiet. Most definitely perplexed, at any rate. Tom too. So quiet. Really quiet. And now in my head I sound like Donald Trump which is quite enough in itself to spoil the moment, and still no one’s speaking, everyone’s staring, but I power on through, touching the violet brooch pinned to my jumper to give me oomph.

  ‘What I’m trying to say, Mr Winter, is…’ and I look over the thirty heads of the class to his silver foxiness, ‘this telescope needs renovating and then it will be displayed in the museum, up in the observatory.’

  ‘And you needed to tell me this now because…?’

  ‘Because it’s an analogy. Have you done analogies with Penguin class?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve done analogies.’

  ‘Good. Very good. You’re a very good teacher.’

  ‘He is a very good teacher,’ Emma Compton confirms.

  ‘Thank you?’ Mr Winter is blushing now.

  ‘What I’m trying to say, what I’m really trying very h
ard to say despite what it must sound like, is that I wish I had telescopic vision or at the very least twenty-twenty vision instead of this hyperopia.’

  Silence.

  ‘Long-sightedness.’

  ‘You should’ve gone to Specsavers, miss,’ says Emma Compton, on a roll today.

  Penguin class think this is hilarious and I realize I only have a very short time in which to grab back their attention before control has vanished for ever and the school bell rings for home time.

  ‘I mean, I wish I could see clearly,’ I say loudly. ‘Because in my moments of clarity there is something I am completely sure of.’

  ‘What’s that, miss?’

  ‘Well, George Thompson, I’m trying to tell Mr Winter that… I love him.’

  Emma Compton shrieks but, apart from her dramatic reaction, the rest of the class cover the spectrum from fake vomiting to actual weeping, their reactions not defined by gender, but as individuals. Though the one individual who hasn’t said anything is now standing up and walking over to me, picking his way through the huddle of children, trying hard not to tread on any stray limbs, until he’s reached the Shang Dynasty of Ancient China where I’m still standing, wobbly-legged, with a telescope held aloft.

  ‘Is that a telescope in your hand or are you just pleased to see me?’ Tom asks.

  ‘That doesn’t really work. And isn’t exactly appropriate, given the circumstances.’ We’re both very much aware of Penguin class who are now like meerkats, waiting to see what happens next. ‘But yes. I am indeed holding a telescope and I am very pleased to see you.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to see you too.’

  ‘Go on, sir. Tell her,’ Amelia Bond urges.

  ‘Thank you, Amelia. I’m going to tell her now.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Will you give me the chance?’

  ‘Sorry.’ I clamp my mouth shut while my heart bounces in anticipation as Tom gazes at me with that twinkle in his eye.

  ‘I love you too, Jennifer Juniper.’

  Penguin class erupts into an almighty rumpus. They laugh and scream and shout and clap and whoop and one of them even wolf-whistles, making the most of this moment of joy to make maximum fuss without the risk of being told off. They don’t even notice the bell go.

  ‘Nice one, sir,’ says Jordan Bassett.

  The Adventures of a Menopausal Gin Lover

  08.00: Woken by two dogs licking face and man bearing cup of tea. Can’t quite believe that a) I’m fifty today and b) a lovely silver foxy man is bringing me tea in bed.

  Am also handed pile of birthday cards.

  ‘Happy birthday, Jen. Here’s to a good one.’

  We chink mugs. Thinking how nice this is when notice hint of worry about Tom’s now very familiar face.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘There’s a letter.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘From the Heritage Lottery Fund. If they say no, that’ll put a dampener on your birthday.’

  Only one way to find out and, since Lauren not back yet, must be brave and open myself.

  08.05: Start crying. Big, snotty-nosed ugly crying. Tom alarmed. Reads letter. Yelps in manly fashion. ‘You did it!’ Yes, we bloody did it. Awarded major grant for Clatford House. Project Gin is a go-go.

  09.00: Dale prepares peach champagne cocktails for birthday breakfast slash celebration. 25 ml gin, 25 ml peach liqueur, ¾ glass champagne. Lovely. Lethal. Lush. Dad serves eggs Benedict to soak up booze. Wishes me happy birthday. Puts present on table. Small and box-shaped and wrapped in the pages of Amateur Gardening. Mum’s eternity ring. Sob.

  10.00: Lauren, hair dyed gorgeous shade of violet, lovechild of Mrs Pink and Tinky Winky, arrives bearing roses. And boyfriend. Sob again.

  10.30: Exhausted. Return to bed for nap. Happy dreams.

  12.00: Wake in sweaty panic. Action stations.

  13.00: Arrive at Clatford House where Carol, Jackie and Tish already setting up for tonight’s launch which they insist will be combined with birthday party. Juniper Gin Joint now ready thanks to Dave’s hard-hatted army and troop of volunteers conscripted by Kev. Intend to make splash on local landscape before summer season kicks off. Afternoon of cleaning, finishing touches, party prep starts now.

  17.00: Back home and into shower. Wish Tom could join me but at cottage sorting out dogs, including Queenie, now much pampered baby of Tish and Miranda. As hot water pours over my body, offer up silent thanks that am actually here, alive, to enjoy special day. Remind myself to be grateful for family, friends, new love and gin.

  17.30: Find Dad in shed, dressed in dinner suit, conducting ‘Wow’ by Kate Bush. ‘Desert Island Discs,’ he says. I kiss his cheek and he hugs me, whispering how proud he is and how he wishes Mum were here. ‘She liked a knees-up. And a leg-over.’ Dad!

  19.00: Arrive Captain’s Parlour which is indeed perfect place for the Juniper Gin Joint, shiny as new pin, glittering in pink sun, setting on horizon of calm and happy sea. Sparkling glasses lined up on the swish bar, ready and waiting for guests to descend to enjoy our gin. Apothecary-style sea-green bottles with cork stoppers displayed prettily with Edwardian-style postcard labels designed by Tish, a sprig of violets and Dingleton Gin in cursive script.

  My friends are here. Jackie in M&S, Carol in Marilyn Monroe halter-neck, Tish in dinner suit, smarter than Dad’s. I am wearing sparkly violet dress adorned with Ma Bates’s purple, green and white brooch. Suffragette colours according to Tish. Feel bloom of pride.

  Dale and Harry, our smart bartenders, polish glasses and slice fruit, while Dale Skypes parents, reassuring them investment is safe. Have list of planned delicious cocktails, taking inspiration from library book, How to Mix Drinks and Serve Them.

  Lauren and boyfriend in charge of music, thankfully not DJ Nobber but suitable for gin-loving menopausal women, i.e. Michael Bublé.

  Dad man-marked by Carol but will escape leash at some point. Only hope is get people sizzled before then.

  Kev on door, meeting and greeting, his two dogs, Martin and Quincy, in bow ties and on best behaviour.

  19.30: First guests arrive with gasps of delight at Gin Joint rather than me reaching a half-century.

  19.45: Dave Barton turns up with new beau on his arm, a sheepish-looking Tracey. Reassure her Dave’s not the twonk he makes himself out to be. Tracey gives me Mars Bar and coy wink.

  20.00: Room is at capacity. Builders, volunteers, family, friends papped by Gazette. Tonight a free bar, tomorrow a money-spinner. And in time, room by room, a functioning, wonder-filled museum.

  20.30: Dad chinks champagne flute with a knife to grab everyone’s attention, which he does when knife cracks glass, sending shards and booze everywhere. While Carol cleans mess, Dad embarks on speech. Stomach fills with jitters.

  ‘Here’s to the opening of the Juniper Gin Joint,’ he says. ‘May all who sail in her, be happy.’ Raises newly filled flute and all follow suit with accompanying whoops and whistles and applause. But Dad not finished. Oh, no. ‘And here’s to my daughter, Jennifer Juniper, who has reached the grand old age of fifty but I know without a doubt that there’s life in the old dog yet.’

  ‘Dad!’

  Room explodes with laughter. Dad rustles up embarrassment when realizes he’s just insulted daughter.

  Fortunately Tish’s Miranda distracts guests by sitting at donated vintage piano and cranking up ‘Happy Birthday to You’ in the voice of Gracie Fields. Everyone joins in, even soon-to-be ex-husband and partner with bun rising nicely in oven. Despite feeling the love, must sit down. Sob again when my hearts, Harry and Lolly, plonk themselves one on each side of me.

  22.00 or maybe 23.00: People start leaving, chattering that way you do after a great party. Ask Kev to follow me next door, to library. Show him display curated by Tish and Jackie, exhibition of Dingleton’s Violet Festival with blown-up sepia photograph of the Violet Queen centre stage.

  ‘God bless Ma,’ he says.

  ‘Cheers to that.’ I give him a
hug.

  23.50: Tom and I in charge of locking up. Decide to have nightcap first, up in newly restored observatory. He puts pashmina around my shoulders though can’t feel cool night because thoroughly warm, not from hot flush but from rush of love. A few months ago, I thought I’d lost everything but it turns out I’ve found it all. The trick is to keep your eyes open and use that telescope.

  ‘People say life begins at forty,’ I tell him. ‘But that’s not the way it’s worked out for me.’

  ‘There’s life in the old girl yet?’

  ‘If I didn’t know you were joking, I’d get Captain Clatford’s telescope and beat you round the head with it.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he says.

  Then he kisses me and what happens next is not for a menopausal woman to write down. Suffice it to say, gin is this mother’s new beginning. And this man her happy ever after.