The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  The four of us slump again. We had hope there for a while.

  ‘What’s so unique about a bunch of menopausal women?’ Yes, I’ve said it. The M word. Out loud. The ground did not split asunder. The sky did not fall down.

  ‘Nothing a bit of HRT can’t sort out,’ says Jackie.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ says the Silver Fox and the five of us bump fists like we’re in an American movie, not a shabby seaside town with its best years behind it.

  I HAVE A lie-in the next morning, Saturday. No one to get up for. The word ‘redundant’ floats around the bedroom. My head pounds. My heart is heavy, like it’s been marinated overnight in cement.

  Redundant. Though there’s Dad, of course. Mum used to say he was a full-time job but mostly he’s self-maintaining, just needs regular feeding and an occasional reminder to put on some normal clothes when in public.

  And there’s Bob. I can hear the pint-sized menace barking in the garden. I contemplate putting the pillow over my head and trying for more sleep but the yapping goes on and on. I’ll have to get up.

  Dad is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea. He takes one look at me and pours me a mug, two sugars. ‘I suspect you need this, Jennifer Juniper.’

  Jennifer Juniper. My childhood nickname. He and Mum were Donovan fans, used to sing the song to me when I was a baby.

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘You look like you’ve been dug up.’

  ‘Again, thanks, Dad.’

  ‘We’re all decaying, love. Just some faster than others.’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Can you manage some toast?’

  ‘Just a slice. With butter. And Marmite.’

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  I’d nod my head but it hurts too much so I muster a weak smile.

  ‘After you’ve had some brekkie, and a shower, I’m taking you and Bob out.’

  Bob has stopped yapping. He’s still in the garden but has given up on the squirrel or whatever in order to wait patiently at the patio door, steaming up the glass with his slobbering breath.

  ‘Really, Dad? I was hoping to spend the day in my pyjamas feeling sorry for myself.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You’re not going to waste your weekend. We’ve got things to do.’

  Oh no. ‘Things’. ‘Things’ means we’re going foraging. It’s that time of year. And whereas I usually love it, I’m not in the mood right now for scratches and rashes and I certainly can’t face the usual embarrassing situation – an angry landowner, a couple having it away, me falling arse upwards into a ditch.

  I don’t have the energy for shenanigans.

  DAD INSISTS ON driving. My car, because he doesn’t have one any more. Bob perches on my lap, head out the window, ears flying, doggy heaven. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is low and the sky soft blue, a cool breeze wafting down from the hills, which is where we’re heading. This could mean we’re in for bad weather. It can catch you out up there, but Dad reckons we’ll be fine. He has a sailor’s knack of forecasting though he’s a total land lubber, never ventured further than the ferry to Exmouth.

  We head up the Devon lanes; narrow, high-hedged lanes we know by heart, every dip and turn, lanes that horrify BMW drivers worried about scratches on the paintwork and no idea how to reverse. We park up in a small clearing and as soon as I open the door, Bob is off, that three-legged run that Jack Russells do so well, slipping under a gate and vanishing in a field of maize, no sheep for him to worry. He never goes far; we track him by the movement of the crop. And there’s no point calling him back because he won’t come until he’s ready.

  ‘Right then, Jennifer Juniper. Sloe time.’ Dad nods at the hedge, hands me a basket, an old one of Mum’s. ‘Pick until you can carry no more.’

  The blackthorn is awash with green leaves, hiding clusters of blue-black sloes. You used to have to wait until the first frost to get the best out of the berries, so they’d crack open, but now we pop them in the freezer overnight and the skins burst. Then we put them in Kilner jars with a load of sugar and fill to the top with Plymouth Gin. Stored in Dad’s shed for three months, we have the perfect delicious dark liqueur to accompany the Christmas pud and it gets us nicely through the Queen’s speech.

  We work in companionable silence. Every few minutes Bob tears back to check up on us, tongue lolling, panting vigorously. You’d never know he was fourteen.

  I’m glad Dad’s brought me up here; the clean air and the big sky have buoyed my spirits and I’ve managed to forget, briefly, my absent family, my perilous job, and that sod, Councillor David Barton. This is part of our routine, our natural annual rhythm, but I miss the kids. And Mum. Though I know how lucky I am to have my dad. Even if he is from another planet.

  After an hour or so we’re done and my hangover has cleared. We wedge the baskets into the boot and get ready to head back home for a cuppa and stage two of the gin distilling.

  ‘Where’s Bob?’

  ‘He won’t be far,’ Dad says.

  We look around but can’t spot him. Anywhere. I call his name. Listen. I whistle. Listen hard. There’s his yap, far off. And a different bark, another dog. And a big shouty man’s voice.

  ‘Bob!’ I yell as loud as I can. Listen again. Another distant Bob-woof. ‘What’s he up to, Dad?’ I scrabble over the gate and into the field and scan the horizon. I can make out a bloke waving his arms, some way off. A tall bloke up to his midriff in maize. Hopefully not the farmer, though there’s a public right of way through this field, so probably a hiker. Maybe a dog owner. Bob’s harmless but his yap can make people nervous.

  ‘Bob!’

  ‘Over here,’ the man shouts. ‘Quick!’

  Oh God, no, please don’t let Bob be hurt. Please don’t let Bob be hurting another dog. ‘Bob!’

  I stumble through the crop, my eye on the tall man so I don’t lose sight of him, though it’s tricky as the maize is up to my chest. As I get closer, his mop of hair catches the slipping sun and turns almost white. Bloody hell, no. It’s the Silver Fox.

  ‘Hi!’ He’s shouting at me, a booming teacher voice, not quite as friendly or comradely as last night in the Thirsty Bishop. ‘This your dog?’

  ‘Bob? A Jack Russell? Where is he?’

  He points downwards, towards his hidden feet.

  I’m not near enough to see anything, but it’s gone all quiet. ‘What’s happened?’ My words come out stuttered and breathless but I’m nearly there. Please let him be OK. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s fighting fit,’ he says, just feet away from me now so I can see his grim smile.

  ‘He’s been fighting?’

  ‘Not exactly fighting, no…’

  ‘What then?’ I’ve reached them now and can see for myself what’s going on. Two Jack Russells, locked together. My dog and his bitch.

  ‘Oh, no, oh, God, no. Bob!’ I go to grab his collar but the bloke – Tom – yanks me back, firm not rough, but a yank all the same.

  ‘You’ll not separate them now,’ he says.

  I pull my arm away, on the verge of having a proper go at him, but he’s obviously trying to help and my dog is locked inside his. I know I’m blushing from the run, the cringeiness of the situation, him touching me, the Silver Fox. So I take a deep breath. ‘I’m really sorry. He doesn’t normally go around humping strangers. Is she on heat?’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ he says. ‘That’s why I brought her up here. Thought it would be quiet and she’d be safe.’

  ‘Safe? You shouldn’t really let her off the lead then, should you, if you want her to be safe.’ Like a mother sticking up for her child, I have to defend Bob’s behaviour.

  ‘I realize that.’ He puts his hands up, a gesture of conciliation. He’s softening. His battleship-blue eyes are kind and a bit crinkly, a life lived on the edge perhaps, a sort of world weariness. There’s colour in his cheeks. Maybe he’s embarrassed too. Who wouldn’t be with their pet rutting at their feet? ‘Sorry I grabbed you. I didn’t want you to get bitten.�
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  ‘Bitten?’

  ‘They both seem… involved. I don’t think I’d be too pleased to be interrupted. I mean, if it was you and me, we wouldn’t want to be interrupted now, would we?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Oh, no. No. I didn’t mean that! I meant in general. Having sex…’ He falters. ‘I’ll shut up now.’

  ‘Probably for the best.’ He is squirming. I am squirming. If this were Dave he’d be loving it but Tom’s clearly as mortified as I am. ‘What do we do then?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘We can’t separate them while they’re tied.’

  ‘This is proper awkward. How long will it go on for?’

  ‘It can last quite a while.’

  ‘You sure I can’t get Bob off her?’

  ‘No, you really can’t. You could injure them. We’ll just have to wait.’

  So we wait. In silence. Somehow it’s hard to make small talk. But the quiet is too much and I have to say something. Anything. ‘Have you done this before?’

  ‘Er, what, watched dogs having sex? No,’ he says. ‘It’s not my thing.’ He watches me have a hot flush, takes pity. ‘Growing up, we had Labs. One of them had puppies and my older brother told me all about the mating part in graphic detail.’

  ‘But they’re facing different ways. How is that even possible?’ I don’t want to look but I can’t help myself. ‘Is she in pain?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She’s moved her tail aside and everything.’

  ‘I don’t even know her name.’

  He laughs then. ‘Would that make a difference?’

  I’m such an idiot. I have to laugh too. At myself. At the situation. From mortification.

  ‘She’s called Betty,’ he says, more kindly, gently. He can see how embarrassed I am.

  ‘After Betty Boop?’

  ‘No, Betty Boothroyd.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I say. And oh, how inadequate those words are for this situation and I conjure up Betty Boothroyd with her curls and glasses and accent but then I remember where I am – in the middle of a maize field with a man I’ve met just the once who happens to be rather attractive. A man who has a dog like my Bob, another Jack Russell, a dog who is currently mating with him in an intimate encounter – much like tantric dog sex. I shake my head to shift the sight which I will never un-see. ‘I’m Jen, by the way.’ This seems important to establish as I don’t think there’s any sign of recognition in his eyes which are far too full of other stuff anyway.

  ‘Tom.’ He reaches out his hand.

  Mine is clammy but I shake his all the same. Nice, firm grip. ‘I remember.’

  ‘You remember?’ His expression is blank for a sec, then the light switches on. ‘Oh, my God, the Thirsty Bishop? I’m so sorry.’ His turn to redden. ‘I’m hopeless with faces. I remember you now.’

  ‘How do you cope being a teacher, not remembering faces?’

  ‘How do you know I’m a teacher? Do you have kids at my school or something?’

  ‘I did. A long time ago.’

  He’s waiting for me to answer so I put him straight, don’t want him imagining I’m some kind of lunatic stalker. ‘I saw you in action with your class. In the museum. Earlier in the day.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  I clearly made a huge impression on him. Though not as huge as the impression Bob is making on Betty. They are still tied.

  ‘I’m assistant manager there,’ I bumble on. ‘For the time being, at least.’

  ‘Were you the one standing on a chair and screaming?’ He raises that silver eyebrow and his eyes twinkle. They actually twinkle.

  ‘Oh, yeah. That was me, mucking about with Carol.’

  ‘Carol?’

  ‘Carol with the… you know.’ I mime an hourglass figure like I’m playing pervy charades.

  ‘I didn’t notice.’ He looks away, can’t meet my eye.

  Of course he noticed – who wouldn’t? – but I let it drop. After all, my dog is humping his bitch.

  We stand there for a few more minutes, that silence again, wrapping around us. Surely it can’t get any worse?

  Then Dad appears, a little out of breath. ‘I see there’s life in the old dog yet,’ he wheezes.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘YOU’VE GOT A nice place here,’ Tom says. He’s sitting at our kitchen table, thanks to my father who insisted he follow us back home for a cup of tea. I’d be happy to never see him again. Not that I don’t like him. I mean, he’s a bit worthy, makes me feel judged somehow, though I don’t reckon he means to. It’s not as if I fancy him. He’s not bad-looking but he’s really not my type. I don’t actually know what my type is. Maybe I don’t have one. My choice in men hasn’t exactly been the best. And right now, I can’t be doing with any more hassle. What if Betty’s pregnant? What if he sues me? And yet. It’s quite nice seeing him here, feet under my table.

  Dad gets on with sorting out the sloes, scooping them into plastic bags. ‘Stay for lunch,’ he says. ‘We need to use up some of the frozen stuff to make room for these small balls of merriment. Do you like fish fingers?’

  ‘I love them.’

  ‘Fish-finger sarnies it is then.’

  My heart bounces. Really, Dad? Lunch? That’s just prolonging the agony. I’m going to have to stop this now. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting Betty to the vet, Tom? Google says you can get the morning-after pill.’ I show Tom my phone.

  He takes it off me, scans the information, fiddles about with it for a while, not as quickly as Lauren, but pretty deft for a middle-aged man. ‘To be honest,’ he says, ‘this is embarrassing, but I’d rather let nature take its course.’

  ‘Oh, right. And what if she’s pregnant?’

  ‘Betty would love puppies.’ He laughs, like he can’t believe he’s saying such a thing, like he’s going to be a grandfather. Which would make me a grandmother. Which I’m really not ready for. I don’t even know if Tom’s an actual father. Of human children. I don’t know much about him at all and yet here he is in my house, talking about having Bob’s puppies.

  ‘What’s Bob’s pedigree?’

  Dad laughs, unhelpfully. I flash him a look that swoops over his head and smacks against the wall.

  ‘Well, he’s never won Best of Show. He came off a farm,’ I say. ‘But he’s a proper Jack Russell.’ Here I go again, bigging up Bob.

  ‘That’s why his tail’s docked?’ Tom asks.

  ‘I suppose. Farmers don’t like their dogs getting their tails caught in hedgerows. When they’re ratting. And stuff.’ I run out of steam, feeling judged again. A woman who drinks too much, mucks about at work, mentions Boaty McBoatface and lets her dog with the docked tail ravage his bitch. But, wait a minute… ‘Didn’t you used to work at Battersea? Shouldn’t you be against unwanted pregnancies? Shouldn’t you own a rescue dog?’

  ‘Betty is a rescue dog,’ he says.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Not from a dogs’ home. I inherited her off my Uncle Jim when he went into residential care.’ He sighs, then checks himself. ‘And I’ve always wanted puppies.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘I sound like a ten-year-old girl, don’t I?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with ten-year-old girls. I used to be one.’

  ‘I’m surrounded by them at school, remember. Tough little buggers but they go soppy over puppies. That’s all I’m saying.’

  I examine him closely, his body language, his expression. He’s hard to gauge. But I don’t think he’s a sexist pig like Dave and Mike. How can he be when he’s had such a do-gooder past? ‘But—’

  ‘It’s hypocritical, I know, but it would be great for the kids in my class. We could do a whole project on it. Plus I’d love to keep one as company for Betty and you could have pick of the litter.’

  Dad’s faffing around, putting the finishing touches to those sarnies, a sprig of watercress and slices of beef tomato, then plonks a plate in front of each of us. It smells comforting, like childhood, the whiff
of Captain BirdsEye and the tang of tartare sauce. He chooses this moment to get involved. ‘Everybody loves a Jack Russell.’

  Dad!

  ‘Imagine having another little Bob running around,’ he goes on, mouth full of fish finger and a trail of watercress stuck to his bottom lip.

  Old Bob is now curled up in his basket, not a muscle twitching, out for the count. Betty is under the table, resting her chin on my left foot. They are ignoring each other like a married couple.

  I’m wondering what else to say when my phone rings. Tom’s still holding it – is he really looking at puppy pictures? – so he hands it over. ‘Someone called Lolly Lol Lols for you,’ he says, the twinkle intensifying. But my heart bounces again. A bad feeling. Is Lolly OK?

  BACK IN THE car with a Jack Russell perched on my lap, pelting down the A38. This time it’s Tom’s Prius and Tom’s Betty. My car wouldn’t start, I couldn’t get hold of Mike, and Tom offered to drive me to Plymouth. I was so worried about Lauren that I said yes, please. And here we are, whizzing past Ashburton.

  ‘Thank you so much for this.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says, all chirpy like he’s trying to keep me positive.

  I’m less worried now that the distance is shortening between me and Lolly. She poured her heart out down the phone; none of it made much sense as it was mostly high-pitched and snotty. I managed to confirm that she’s not in a hospital bed or in a police cell or tied up in a serial killer’s basement. But she is upset.

  ‘You don’t have to hang around for me. I can make my own way back on the train.’

  ‘I’ll drop you off and head into the city centre. I have some things to do. You can text to let me know if everything’s OK – which I’m sure it will be – and we’ll take it from there.’

  Hmm. Things.

  ‘What about Betty?’

  ‘She’ll be OK in the car for a bit,’ he says.

  ‘Why don’t I take her? Lauren and I can go for a walk.’

  ‘OK, great. If you’re sure?’

  ‘Course. It’s the least I can do.’ I try to convey both my humiliation and my gratitude in a smile, though it feels like a tortuous grimace. ‘So… take your time. Though… don’t you have someone to be getting back for?’