The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘Cheers, Dad.’ I chink my glass against his.

  ‘Bottoms up,’ he says.

  I LOVE THE twenty-minute walk to work. It takes me from our house on the edge of town, past the bungalows and retirement flats, down onto the high street, with its pound shops and cafés, then into the park, past the immaculate bowling green, the tatty bandstand, the half-arsed crazy golf. Along the footpath that edges Dingleton Water, a brook famous for its black swans. On past the amusement arcade where I had my first summer job, under the bridge that carries the trains to London, the Great Western Railway carved out of the sandstone cliffs by our hero, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, and down to the seafront with its kiosk, cockle hut and boat trips.

  Next to the two-platform station stands Clatford House, a once elegant, now shabby Regency building, overlooking the beach with its red sand where, from the big sash windows, you can watch the sea in its whole spectrum of glory, from stormy grey through to sparkling blue. On a clear day you can see the Jurassic Coast as far as Portland Bill. It’s a little hazy this morning, the sun yet to burn off the sea mist, but you can smell the ozone, as my mum used to call it.

  The house was built by an infamous sea captain, harbourmaster and profiteer, Thomas Clatford, who turned a blind eye to smuggling in return for a cut of the profits. This was back when Dingleton was thriving, fish were plentiful and booze tax was sky high. This was the town’s heyday and Clatford House was a symbol of its wealth. At the turn of the last century, Captain Clatford’s granddaughter bequeathed the house to the people of the town and it became our museum. I’ve been full-time assistant manager since the implosion of my marriage. Working here has pretty much saved my life, thanks to my brilliant colleagues. Brilliant, if slightly insane.

  We’re busy this morning. As well as the usual visitors, there’s a run on the computers in the archives room out the back. Upstairs, there’s the weekly course on family ancestry run by the manager, Jackie (Exhibit A of brilliant but slightly insane colleagues). Meanwhile, Carol (our part-timer and Exhibit B) is holding the fort at the desk while I am sorting the window display behind her. Across the way, in the Captain’s Parlour, there’s a school visit, a Year Six class from the local primary where Harry and Lauren went – and Mike, Carol and me before them.

  Carol nods towards the class of ten- and eleven-year-olds who are sitting cross-legged, listening to Tish, our faithful volunteer and local historian (Exhibit C). She’s telling them all about Dingleton’s smuggling days of yore, hamming up a Devon accent, dressed like a pirate, complete with a stuffed parrot on her shoulder and a patch over one eye. They are slightly terrified of her. Especially the teacher.

  ‘He’s a bit of all right,’ Carol says in a stage whisper, nudging me in the ribs.

  ‘Who?’ I can only see old Mr Bailey filling his carrier bag with leaflets and Trampy Kev outside on the pavement, picking up fag ends, which at least means we don’t have to.

  ‘Not Mr Bailey, you numpty. And definitely not Trampy Kev. Him.’ She points ever so subtly at the teacher, with a stabbing motion. ‘That’s Mr Winter. The Silver Fox.’

  ‘Is he new?’

  ‘Retrained as a teacher when he hit fifty. Fancied a career change.’

  ‘What did he used to be?’

  ‘Some kind of do-gooder.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  We both linger a while, checking out the Silver Fox, then while I’m balanced on a chair putting up a poster – is Hallowe’en really next month? – Carol attempts to make a spider using pipe cleaners.

  ‘By the way,’ she says. ‘I saw your Mike last night down the Co-op.’

  ‘He’s not my Mike any more.’

  ‘Maybe not, but he was proper sheepish when I accidentally ran into him. Actually more like mutton.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was wearing a hoody.’

  ‘A hoody?’ I nearly slip off the chair. ‘He hates hoodies.’

  ‘I know.’ Carol shrugs like she can’t understand how such a thing could happen. ‘He looked like a right twonk.’

  ‘He is a right twonk.’

  ‘I can come up with a stronger word if you want.’

  ‘Nothing I haven’t called him.’

  Carol laughs, lobs the spider at me and I scream so loudly that the class of children look across at me, petrified. However, the Silver Fox smiles. Quite a nice smile.

  ‘It’s a mid-life crisis is what it is,’ Carol says for the thousandth time.

  ‘Can we change the record? I’m fed up of talking about bloody Mike.’

  ‘Keep your wig on.’

  ‘Sorry, Carol. I’m missing Lauren, that’s all. It’s making me grumpy.’

  ‘She’ll be fine. She’ll be out on the town with all those freshers having the time of her life. You, on the other hand, are a miserable cow and need some spice in your life.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We should go out tonight, take your mind off.’ She gives me a quick hug and it feels nice, the warmth of another human. It’s been a while. ‘Let’s talk about Dave instead.’

  ‘Dave who?’

  ‘You know exactly Dave who.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Dave-Dave?’

  ‘Yeah, I mean Dave-Dave.’

  ‘Do we have to talk about him? He’s another twonk I’d rather forget.’

  ‘Yeah, we do, actually.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  This is how it always goes between Carol and me, this bickering banter; me to you, you to me, like a flipping Chuckle Brothers ping-pong match.

  ‘Why do we have to talk about Dave?’

  ‘He’s called a meeting after work. Didn’t Jackie tell you? We can go straight for a drink after that. I’m sure it’s something or nothing. The bins or seagulls.’

  I feel the need to look out the window and steady the buffs. Where Dave is concerned, it’s more likely to be something rather than nothing.

  Dave-Dave, aka Councillor David Barton, uncle to Miss Melanie Barton, was at school with us, Mike, Carol and me. He was in the same year, but we were in different classes as he was considered ‘academic’. And, for whatever reasons, we weren’t. Dave fancied himself, thought he was the mutt’s nuts with his Morrissey quiff and slim hips. He was good-looking, I’ll give him that, but he was also a plonker. A really self-assured good-looking plonker. It’s no surprise he ended up as our local councillor, not just because politics (in the broadest and loosest and most Machiavellian sense of its meaning) ran in the family, but also because he was always a leader, always wanting to be in charge, even when he clearly wasn’t the best candidate for the job, like the year he was debating captain and the Dingleton team were up against Appleton and the chosen subject was ‘Blondes Are Stupid’ which ended up with Carol giving Dave a black eye and being suspended for a week.

  Bloody controlling show-off.

  It was Dave who told me the news about Mike, almost exactly a year ago. He came in here one afternoon and asked to have a word. I assumed it was something to do with work; I was acting up that week, as Jackie was on annual leave. But he had this weird smile hovering around his lips. The lips that were the first lips I ever snogged. Leavers’ disco, 1984.

  I took him into the office, grudgingly made him a coffee and somehow resisted the urge to pour it over his head.

  ‘I have some information for you, Jennifer.’ He helped himself to a ginger nut and dunked it in his Nescafé. ‘Shocking coffee, by the way.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  A moment’s silence while he finished his biscuit.

  ‘What did you want to have a word about? Is it the bins? I mean, those seagulls are a right pest but we’re doing our best to keep on top of the situation.’

  ‘No, Jennifer. It’s not the bins. Or the seagulls. Though if I had my way, I’d shoot every last one of the little bastards.’

  ‘You can’t. They’re protected.’

  ‘That was a joke, Jennifer.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’

/>   He smiled that smile and I was a schoolgirl again, the burden of virginity weighing me down, him happy to relieve me of it, a snog at the school disco turning into something far more, deluding me into thinking this was as important to him as it was for me. Until he binned me for Sharon Shaw. And I turned to Mike for consolation.

  ‘So what did you want a word about?’

  ‘Your husband.’

  ‘Mike?’

  ‘He is your husband?’

  ‘You were at the wedding.’

  ‘What a day that was.’

  ‘We can’t all have our reception at the Palace Hotel.’

  ‘Indeed not.’ He grimaced at the coffee, but persevered. ‘Some of us have to make do with the RAFA club.’

  ‘Mike’s dad was in the RAF. He was a war hero. Your dad was a banker. And we all know what that rhymes with.’

  ‘Spanker?’

  ‘Ha, bloody ha.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. You know we have this “thing” between us.’

  ‘I wish that thing would drop off.’

  ‘Very good. I’ll make a note of that.’ And then he laughed. I meant to dazzle him with my cutting wit but he bloody laughed at me, a rip-roaring laugh, like I was an idiot. The bastard.

  ‘Enough of this joshing,’ he said, serious all of a sudden.

  ‘What is it, David? Get to the point.’

  ‘I thought it my duty to inform you of something that’s cropped up. I speak with authority not only because the person in question is a relative of mine, but also as chair of directors at the Academy.’

  ‘Just because you call it an “academy” doesn’t change it from being the very same comp we went to.’

  ‘There’s great importance in a name, Jennifer. Miss Barton, for instance.’

  ‘What about Miss Barton?’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Of course I know her. She’s your niece, poor thing. We used to babysit for her, remember. Plus she’s Lauren’s chemistry teacher, gives her extra tuition because she says she’s got potential. Which we pay for, as your academy won’t.’

  ‘You should know that Melanie is also being paid in other ways.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your husband.’

  ‘Mike’s paying her too?’

  ‘Not quite, though there’s an exchange of sorts.’

  Talking in flaming riddles as always. ‘What the hell are you going on about?’

  ‘Temper, Jennifer.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He’s having an affair with her.’

  ‘Who’s having an affair with who?’

  ‘Mike. With Melanie.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not being ridiculous.’

  ‘She’s far too young.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s Lauren’s teacher.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Mike’s not like that.’ I heard all these words falling out of my mouth, I acknowledged them, but even so I felt the need to sit down on my chair for a moment. ‘Mike wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Every man would do that. They’d do her anyway. Not me, obviously, she’s my niece—’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting, you sexist pig. And don’t judge every man by your own shoddy standards.’

  ‘Can you honestly tell me you have a good marriage?’

  ‘My marriage has got nothing to do with you. And anyway, what do you know about marriage?’

  ‘Quite a lot. I’ve had three of them, remember.’

  ‘And three divorces.’

  ‘I’m very happy to advise if that’s the path you choose.’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘I’m going. Got a round of golf booked.’

  ‘Of course you have.’

  A year ago. He was right. I was wrong. Bloody harbinger of doom. Whatever he’s got stuffed up the sleeve of his designer shirt can’t be any worse than that.

  ONCE WE’VE LOCKED up, we head upstairs to the meeting room. It’s cramped what with all the staff gathered and Dave manspreading on his chair. I force myself to look at his double chin rather than his crotch. He’s put on weight. Golf and tennis aren’t keeping the pounds off. Nor are the late hours he keeps or the women he chases.

  ‘Councillor Barton. What can we do for you?’ Jackie is polite and formal; this is a work meeting and she is the manager and the council pay our wages.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ he says. ‘We need to close Clatford House.’

  The room fills with a collective gasp and a lot of what-the-hells.

  ‘But you can’t,’ Tish says. It doesn’t help that she’s still dressed like Captain Pugwash. ‘What about the museum?’

  ‘We’ll incorporate Dingleton museum with Appleton’s. They’ve got a state-of-the-art building, all mod cons, and it’s only three miles away so we’re keeping it local.’ He gazes around the room, making eye contact with every one of us. We’ve known each other for years and yet he can look us in the face and be so blasé about our future. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘But this place is decrepit. It’s just not feasible to keep it going.’

  ‘Clatford House is listed.’ Thank goodness for Tish. She knows her stuff. ‘You have to do the repairs, surely?’

  ‘It is listed, yes. Thank you, Tish, for bringing that up.’ He gives her a charming smile that I want to rip off his face. ‘But we can’t afford to get this place up to speed so we’ll have to sell it.’

  Sell Clatford House?

  ‘There has been some interest from a national company,’ he goes on, all chirpy as if he’s our saviour but I know where there’s a Barton, there’s a cunning plan to make money. His dad was the same. And his dad before him.

  ‘What about us?’ I ask him, throwing daggers. ‘Will we be incorporated into Appleton?’

  ‘Well, Jennifer, realistically that’s not going to be possible for all of you.’ Here it comes. ‘You’ll be offered early retirement or redundancy.’

  And that’s when he clicks opens his briefcase and hands over the letters of mass destruction.

  SO JACKIE, CAROL, Tish and I end up down the Thirsty Bishop, sitting outside on one of the picnic benches that overlooks the green because it’s a balmy evening and because Tish smokes like a 1940s starlet, constantly and glamorously. We share a bottle of Pinot that turns into two, then three, going round and round in circles, trying to get to grips with this news, not only the prospect of unemployment but also the loss of a vital part of our community. And I know David; there’ll be something dodgy at the heart of the matter.

  ‘Can I join you?’ It’s the Silver Fox.

  ‘Course you can,’ says Carol, a little too keenly.

  ‘I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.’

  ‘Oh, girls, we’ve got ourselves a stalker,’ Carol screeches. I kick her in the shins. She shoots me a frown and shifts her bum away from me, tapping the spot on the bench between us with her scarlet acrylics. He squeezes in, careful not to spill any of his pint or brush against any stray body parts. He has dirty fingers and I find myself wondering if this is because he’s a gardener in his spare time, or just a dirty bugger.

  ‘Is it true?’ he asks, conspiratorially, checking all around for spies or whatever. ‘About the museum closure?’

  We look at Jackie. She’s our manager. It’s up to her to say. She’s been quiet all evening. She’s not the most talkative, but she’s a plodder, a dependable plodder who can step up to the mark when needed. Actually, that’s a little unfair. She can be a warrior. A dependable warrior. She wasn’t camped out on Greenham Common with her mum for nothing, standing up to one of the biggest superpowers in the entire history of the world.

  She reaches into her bag and shows him her letter. I’m surprised, she’s normally so discreet, but I can see a fire burning away inside her and I know that she will not let this lie. ‘I hear you used to be a campaigner before you started teaching, Mr Winter,’ she says.

  He raises his
eyebrow. His silver eyebrow. I think we all raise an eyebrow and prick up our ears.

  ‘Call me Tom,’ he says.

  ‘Well, Tom?’ I ask him. ‘What did you campaign about? Brexit? Page Three? Boaty McBoatface?’ I know I’m sounding cynical but I can’t bear the thought of another man thinking he’s God’s gift and feeling the need to mansplain everything.

  ‘Er, well, I’ve worked for Amnesty. Free Tibet. And Mind. Oh, yeah, and a stint at Battersea Dogs and Cats Home.’

  He has me at dogs. I feel so completely stupid and infantile. Boaty McBoatface. My excuse is that I’ve had bad news. And much wine.

  ‘What you need is a campaign,’ he says. He’s on the verge of saying something else but then shuts up.

  Tish notices this. ‘Go on, Tom. What is it?’

  He checks from side to side again. ‘There’ve been rumours,’ he says quietly. ‘About a certain pub chain who like to buy up historical buildings and sell cheap booze.’

  We know exactly who he’s talking about. They took over the Wesleyan chapel in Newton, the old cinema in Tormouth and the family Grace Brothers-type department store in Appleton where I used to buy the kids’ school socks. Are we next on the list?

  ‘They’d never get planning permission,’ says Carol. ‘Not in Dingleton. We’re all about local pubs and indie cafés here. People won’t put up with it.’

  ‘People like cheap booze.’ Tom shrugs. ‘You’ll have a fight on your hands.’

  ‘We can fight, can’t we, team?’ Jackie is fired up.

  We all are. We nod. We even give a little whoop that could be mistaken for a battle cry.

  ‘I’m happy to help in any way I can,’ Tom says. ‘You don’t have to give in to this. You could buy it. Get an investor.’

  ‘What, keep the museum going?’ Jackie sounds surprised, optimistic for a moment.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. But you could stop it being a chain pub. Keep it independent. Keep your jobs going somehow. You might just have to come up with something unique, though. Something that will make you stand out and bring added value to the town.’