The Gin O'Clock Club

by Rosie Blake

He kissed me goodbye. ‘Call me if you need me, I’ll come straight over. I’m not doing anything much.’

  I knew he had arranged to see Adam, his best friend, for a catch-up, knew how much he was looking forward to it.

  ‘Thank you.’ The lump was back.

  Grandad had dressed up too, his grey hair combed, wearing the yellow cashmere jumper Grandma had always loved on him and a pair of chinos.

  ‘You look beautiful, Lottie,’ he said, kissing me on the cheek.

  It would be just us today. Dad had tried to get a flight over for the funeral but hadn’t managed to get out of a conference he was speaking at. Mum and Dad had both been over a few months before Grandma died, a tearful visit reminiscing about family holidays, favourite anecdotes, teasing: reminding her how much she was loved. It had felt like their goodbye at the time. So today it was me and Grandad, still something neither of us were used to. Grandma had always been at the centre of our small family. It felt as if we needed to channel her strength today.

  ‘I made tea and we can toast muffins. I know you like them.’

  His voice sounded bright and I wanted to give him another hug for it. I knew how hard he would be finding today.

  I moved into the kitchen and a breath caught in my throat as I saw it. The urn was on the dresser: Grandma. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it and for a moment we both stood in silence, feeling the occasion weighing on us. It had a deep blue finish and the kitchen lights were reflected in its polished surface.

  We had discussed what we were going to do. I thought Grandad would suggest scattering the ashes at sea – Grandma had loved visiting beaches, being near the ocean. I had wondered if there was a special spot I’d never known about that she had loved, a romantic bay, a bench that overlooked some spectacular sea view.

  Grandad had been sure from the start, nervous, I think, to see my reaction. The moment he suggested the spot I knew it was the right thing to do. We wanted to wait for the right day, and her birthday in September seemed the perfect opportunity.

  Grandma had always loved the garden. Even when her illness had forced her off her knees to rest, she had lain on a padded sun-lounger, directing us both as we weeded and watered under her watchful gaze.

  ‘That’s not a weed: don’t pull on that.’

  I would grumble, bemoaning the dirt under my fingernails, the ache in my lower back, but I loved seeing her face as she rested on the lounger, her breathing more shallow but her eyes peaceful as she took in the coloured beds, her careful creations.

  ‘I said prune, not decimate.’

  We struggled to eat the muffins, toasted and buttered to perfection, but the dough sticking in our throats. We were both aware of the urn in the same room with us, waiting. I almost burnt my tongue on my tea and now was simply waiting for Grandad to announce it was time.

  He played with his paper towel, shredding the paper slowly, lost in another place for a moment.

  This did seem more final in many ways than her funeral. This would be her last resting place.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I reached across and took his hand in mine, feeling the reassuring weight as he squeezed me back.

  ‘I’m so glad we are doing this together,’ he said, looking over at me. ‘I don’t say it enough, Lottie, but I love you, we both did, we were both so proud of what you achieved.’

  I couldn’t stop the tears that spilled down my cheeks now. ‘I love you too, and I loved Grandma, so much. She was amazing.’

  ‘She was.’ Grandad laughed. ‘She reminded me of that fact on many an occasion.’

  I laughed, wiping at my face. ‘Come on then, let’s say a final goodbye.’

  We moved out of the kitchen and on to the patio, the garden lush, laid out before us: borders filled with colourful plants, a wrought-iron bench set back in a small alcove where Grandma had loved to sit. A small apple tree nearby had dropped most of its load. Grandad had clearly been busy pruning and tidying, and in the middle of the lawn stood a beautiful rose bush, ready to be planted.

  Grandad was carrying the blue urn towards a spot on the side of her bench. He had already dug a neat circle in the soil and he rested the urn down next to it. He patted the earth. I felt more tears threaten as I moved to hold his hand. His skin felt dry, soil clinging to the palms.

  Gently Grandad poured the ashes into the hole, like a pile of pale grey sand, stark against the soil. Then, taking a trowel he removed the rose bush from its pot, roots trailing as he transferred it across, pieces of soil clinging stubbornly to the thin tendrils. As he held it straight I carefully returned the soil, gradually covering every trace of Grandma’s ashes. Tears dripped from my nose, making dark spots in the soil. We spent an age ensuring it was packed down before Grandad went to fetch a watering can, dampening the patch and giving it a last pat.

  When it was finished we both stood silently looking at the bush that we knew Grandma would have loved, feeling that she was back in her rightful place in her garden where she was always so happy.

  ‘Well,’ Grandad said, his voice choking, ‘I think we better have a drink.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  I felt lighter moving inside. Grandad left the urn just inside the back door. We could see the rose bush from the table in the kitchen and once we had poured ourselves a glass of cold white wine we both instinctively moved back outside to sit on the patio. Birds swept past overhead, light clouds skittered across a cornflower blue sky and the breeze lifted the leaves of the trees as we stared out at the garden again.

  The peace was interrupted by the doorbell. Grandad looked quizzically across at me as if I had some clue as to who was there.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I said, not wanting him to get up. He seemed comfortable sitting on the padded wicker furniture, sipping at his glass of wine, closing his eyes to feel the sun on his skin.

  The doorbell went again as I was walking down the corridor, shadows moving in the glass panel beyond, more than one person on the doorstep. I frowned, sliding the lock across before opening the door. I’d read the papers; I represented people who preyed on the elderly. Maybe they had been watching, knew Grandad lived alone, were hoping to try their luck on a vulnerable old man. It was perhaps a little unusual to ring the doorbell but surely once they had access they could force their way in and run amok. I felt outrage building inside me as I prepared to face them, my hand shaking as I opened the door to peer through the thin crack. Three faces stared back at me.

  I fumbled with the lock. ‘You!’

  ‘Us!’ Arjun, Geoffrey and Howard all exclaimed as they pushed their way into the house. ‘Knew it was today. Thought you’d both need cheering up.’

  They were all holding carrier bags clinking with bottles. The rustle of jackets, perfunctory kisses on the cheek as they moved past me in the corridor. There was no polite request, no ‘Is he all right?’ ‘Can he face us?’ ‘We’ll only stay for five minutes’, they just bustled past, knowing to come on inside and inject some life and energy into the day. And hearing my grandad’s faux annoyed voice calling from the garden I grinned, knowing they had done absolutely the right thing.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

  Arjun gave my shoulder a squeeze. ‘Geoffrey’s idea, and of course we’d be here. We all loved Cora. So if we miss her, I can’t imagine what you both feel.’

  Oh, the tears were coming again. I didn’t respond, just swallowed, nodded and followed him through the kitchen.

  They were all crowding around the patio table, pulling up chairs, producing drinks from bags, their voices filling the space. Plastic bowls were being filled with peanuts and crisps.

  ‘Bit early for Gin o’Clock but it’s a special occasion,’ Howard said, twisting a bottle and reading from the label. ‘This one is Spanish, flavoured with toasted almonds. Can’t be any worse than that revolting one Geoffrey produced last week.’

  ‘That cost me £36.’

  ‘You were robbed, my man.’

  ‘The garden looks wonderful. She would love
that rose bush,’ Geoffrey said quietly to Grandad. I watched them shake hands, clutching each other with both.

  ‘It’s almost big enough for croquet out here,’ Howard was saying.

  Arjun was sitting on a wicker chair, quieter than usual. I wondered if he was simply thinking about Grandma. He looked a little stooped in the shoulders. Grandad was glancing across at him too, a small frown creasing the skin between his eyebrows before his expression cleared.

  They stayed for hours, telling stories about Grandma, making me laugh. Sometimes the picture aligned with the woman I had known and sometimes things still managed to surprise me.

  ‘What happened to that duck-egg blue moped?’

  ‘Do you remember when she threatened to get a tattoo?’

  ‘Terrified of emus. Never seen a woman so scared. Cheered up that boring outing to London Zoo no end.’

  ‘Did she ever write another children’s book, Teddy? Do you remember the one she said was so bad she threw it on the fire.’

  ‘Oh my God, I had no idea,’ I said, wiping at my eyes as they continued to regale me.

  Grandad looked relaxed and happy and I stared round at this group of men, a group I had often dismissed simply as his ‘golfing friends’, Grandma and I rolling our eyes at each other as he sloped off out with them again. Now I really saw the connection between them, the easy jokes, the ability to be completely truthful, how they just knew what to do and say.

  I wondered for a second if my friends would know to appear when I needed them. I thought of Amy. We had been so close as school friends and then flatmates, always sharing every detail of our lives, giggling, bickering, supporting each other. I had been there for the big moments in her life: celebrating with her when she had finished her PGCE, got her first job in a school, met Will, her now fiancé, been made head of department, then deputy head. I felt the urge to reach out to her, tapping a text to her on my phone, pushing the guilt away at seeing the three previous messages from her, all unanswered. I typed, Love you, Ames.

  Then there was Luke, my other best friend. Here in this garden I suddenly saw our relationship clearly. He had known what to do this morning. He had known to offer to come, backed off when I wanted to be alone, made me feel loved but not stifled. I remembered our first holiday together, to Majorca. A woman had stopped to tell me that after I had fallen asleep on a lilo in the swimming pool, my boyfriend had spent an entire hour doggy paddling round me, stopping me from hitting the sides or other people. I think I fell in love with him on that day.

  I felt a surge of emotion, knowing that in recent weeks, months, I hadn’t invested the same time and energy into us as a couple as I had once done. I used to leave him notes, buy him little gifts for no reason, attempt new recipes with ingredients he loved, made thoughtful anniversary gifts, printed off photos of holidays together to frame on our walls. Now sometimes it was all I could do to get home, persuade him to order a late takeaway and fall asleep next to him. When had I stopped doing those things? When had I stopped investing energy in our relationship?

  Grandad didn’t need me. I stood up, phone in my hand.

  ‘I’m going home,’ I said, knowing exactly where I wanted to be.

  Grandad smiled and nodded at me. ‘Send him our love,’ he said.

  I moved around the table, kissing him on the head. ‘Love you, Grandad,’ I whispered, seeing his eyes water again as I stood back to say goodbye to the rest.

  I heard their laughter all the way through the house and out into the street.

  I headed back home, knowing Luke would still be out with Adam in the pub, planning to spend some time cleaning and scrubbing our flat, making the place shine. I bought fresh flowers from the florist on the corner of the road, enjoying the scent, which brought the morning with Grandad back to me. A little piece of garden in our flat. When I pushed inside, however, I was greeted with a pristine place. Luke had beaten me to it. Every surface tidied, wiped down and polished; all the washing-up stacked up to dry on the side, the living room hoovered, a smell of beeswax wafting through the flat, the curtain billowing from a half-open window. His way of showing he had been thinking about me that day.

  I arranged the flowers in the vase in the centre of the table and stared round at our spotless flat, realising how often I had taken this kind of gesture for granted. I couldn’t remember the last time I had looked under the sink for cleaning things, the last time I had unearthed the hoover from its cupboard. The sight filled me with fresh determination. I took down one of Luke’s favourite recipe books, searching for something truly mouth-watering to make.

  Going out shopping I managed to find everything I needed, enjoying the sun warm on my skin as I made my way back to our flat, past the park opposite where people lay out on rugs, children cycled past, parents watched toddlers on unsteady legs. Everyone looked relaxed and happy in over-sized sunglasses, fading tans: squeezing the last drop out of summer.

  An hour later I was finished, a satisfying smell filling the flat. I had texted Luke summoning him home and, as I heard the front door, felt a little skip in my chest at the thought of seeing him.

  ‘Lottie?’

  ‘Hold on,’ I called, pulling the warmed plates from the oven and spooning out the boeuf bourguignon I had made. It did look incredible, the meat succulent and tender, the sauce rich and thick.

  ‘What have I done to deserve all this?’ Luke laughed, taking in the rare sight of me in an apron that shouted Barbecue King, next to the laid table, wine glasses already full, the flowers in the centre, two candles lit and flickering either side.

  ‘How was today?’ he asked, pulling me to him, concern pulling his eyebrows together as he looked me in the eye.

  I put my arms around him. He was warm, as if he was filled with sunshine, and he smelt of freshly cut grass and beer.

  ‘It was perfect,’ I said, resting my head against his chest for a moment.

  ‘So,’ Luke said, pulling back, ‘talk me through this feast, what have you made?’

  With a flourish and a giggle I presented him with his plate, watching his eyes widen as he took in the sight.

  We spent the evening eating, talking and working our way through a bottle of expensive red wine that someone had given us when we moved into the flat. I felt happy and loved as I closed my eyes that night, Luke already asleep beside me.

  Lying in late the next day couldn’t be part of my plan. Moving through to the kitchen I caught sight of my briefcase and, as I nibbled half-heartedly on a croissant, all the calm and good thoughts from the previous day seemed to evaporate. Taking Luke a coffee I pulled back the curtains, the sun shining brightly. I felt jealous of the people moving past in the street below, imagining their Sunday: a barbecue in the garden, a game of football in the park, reading under the shade of a tree.

  Luke was up and itching to get outside and do something. He could be like a small child, so much energy. I watched him attempt to hide the disappointment when I told him I would have to work all day; the smile he forced, not wanting to destroy our recent fragile peace, as he reached for his phone and dialled one of his friends. Luke seemed to have a steady supply of friends and I was always impressed that he remembered their birthdays, important interviews and more. Last year we had so many wedding invitations we spent practically every weekend in a church, registry office or marquee. I listened to him laughing as he made a plan and stared wistfully out of the window at the sliver of blue sky I could see above the rooftops of the houses opposite.

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ he said, kissing me on the top of the head as I jabbed at the laptop, trying not to take out my frustration on him. Luke had always been impressed by my job, asking me in awe to show him the wig I wore in court, attending a trial to watch me in action from the public gallery. I had never been so nervous as that day, aware of him somewhere above me watching every hand gesture, inflection, fact that came from my lips, watching my manner with the jury. What had he thought?

  ‘I just couldn’t believe it was yo
u,’ he had said afterwards, babbling in the café we had gone to, dissecting the case, wondering what the jury would do. His enthusiasm had reminded me that I did love what I did, I had worked for years to get myself there and found the thrill of debate, the formal atmosphere of the court, the drama that unfolded on a day-to-day basis exciting. It felt important.

  But then on days like this, with Luke heading out of the door and the sun straining at the windows, and the pile of papers in front of me, the endless contradictory statements to work through, I suddenly felt it was the least important thing in the world.

  ‘Bye,’ I whispered sadly as he turned to go, not wanting to ruin his day, a small niggle at my ambitious plans to take on more work, to prove to everyone that I could make silk in record time. That was what I wanted . . . wasn’t it?

  Darling Cora,

  It was your birthday today. You would have been 78. Today was the day we finally laid you to rest in your beloved place: your garden. So after hours dithering over the perfect rose bush, returning to the garden centre with Geoffrey to get his opinion too, I knew the decision was made.

  Lottie came over to join me. She wouldn’t have missed it for anything. It was a still day: as if you were there sitting beside us in the dappled sunshine, holding both our hands on the bench as we thought of you. Some days I feel a weight on my chest and know there is nothing I can do to ease it but today I felt lighter as we moved back inside the house, lighter as our friends appeared too, sharing in the celebration of your life, telling Lottie stories she had never heard: you were so special, my love.

  I try not to be angry, try not to rail that we still had years ahead of us. I try to live like you did, here in the present with joy, but it can be hard. As I lie here now I am thinking of you and all the other birthdays we celebrated together. I hope I gave you the best life, the most jam-packed life. Did we have enough adventures? Did we laugh enough? Sometimes I want to go back in time and be more present, notice more. But I can do that now in honour of you. And I hope I can teach Lottie to do the same.

  I love you, my darling.