‘Nope.’ He shakes his head, a little forlornly it has to be said. ‘There’s just me and Betty.’
‘I’d have offered for Betty to stay at ours but, well, there’s Bob.’
‘Really, it’s fine. She likes a car journey.’ He switches on the radio. Radio 2. We’re of an age. ‘What about you?’ he asks a bit later.
‘Do I like a car journey?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Do you have someone to be getting back for?’
‘Just Dad and Bob.’
‘So… what’s your, um, family situation?’
My family situation. That’s a new one. ‘Harry, my oldest, he’s in Canada on a gap year. Lauren’s a fresher, as you know. And last, but certainly not least, there’s Dad.’
‘He lives with you?’
‘Since my mum died last year.’
He gives me a sympathetic smile, understands there’s no need for words. Betty takes the opportunity to lick my face. ‘She likes you,’ he says.
‘I have no idea why after what my dog put her through.’
We manage a coy laugh between us.
‘And your husband… partner… doesn’t mind your dad living with you?’
‘It was his idea.’
‘That was generous of him.’
‘It was. But he spoilt it by buggering off with Lauren’s chemistry teacher two weeks later.’
‘Ah.’ A small word full of meaning.
‘Ah, what?’
‘You don’t like teachers then?’
‘I never said that.’
‘I’m teasing. That must have been shite, though.’
‘It was at the time. I was getting my life back on track. Only then we’re given those redundancy letters and suddenly everything’s up in the air again. And now Lauren…’
‘She’ll be fine. Just wants to see her mum and cadge some money.’
‘You’re right, I’m sure.’
TOM IS INDEED right.
I knock on Lauren’s door which is already covered with stickers and Post-it notes with emojis.
‘Come in,’ she says, her voice wobbly.
I poke my head around the door. She’s lying on the bed, wearing her fleecy Batman pyjamas, cuddling Mrs Pink. This isn’t unusual for a Saturday afternoon but her face does look pale, her freckles almost disappearing into oblivion.
‘Dad delivered Mrs Pink safe and sound then?’
‘He came yesterday.’
‘Yesterday? He took his time.’
‘Yeah, I know, right. But he did take me to Aldi and paid for a bag of shopping. Have you brought Bob?’
I enter the room which smells of daughter. Joss sticks and patchouli. The little hippy.
‘That’s not Bob,’ she says, as if I haven’t realized this. ‘What have you done with Bob?’
‘He’s at home, don’t panic.’
Betty wags her tail round in circles like a little propeller. Lolly pats the space next to her. Betty doesn’t need much persuading. Once I’ve let her off the lead, in less than a moment she’s up on the bed, licking my girl’s pale face. She takes it on the chin. And the nose. And the mouth. She doesn’t care, lets Betty get on with it. Once the dog’s had enough, Lolly is able to ask, ‘What’s going on? Why the dog swap? Are you sure Bob’s all right?’
‘He’s tired.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘He’s had a very busy morning.’
‘Oh. Who’s this then?’
‘Betty.’
‘Hello, Betty. Who does she belong to?’
‘The bloke I got a lift off. My car wouldn’t start, I couldn’t get hold of your dad, and he offered.’
‘A stranger?’
‘Not quite a stranger. I’ve met him before. He’s the Year Six teacher at your old school.’ I then explain how I met Tom and what’s been going on at work.
‘Poor you,’ she says and she holds out her lanky arms for a hug, and I lean down to embrace her, a cuddle that reminds me why it’s good to be a parent, which can be hard to remember at times.
‘What’s going on, Lolly? Why the crying?’
‘I miss home.’
‘Have you made any friends? Been out?’
‘Yeah, I’ve met like loads of people. They’re really nice, mostly, and we went out last night. Apparently they won’t serve you snakebites any more. We stuck to Jägerbombs instead, seeing as it was two for one.’
‘So basically you’ve got a hangover.’
‘I s’pose.’ She has the decency to look contrite. ‘But I did feel low, I really did.’
‘Right, how about we go out for something to eat? It’s five o’clock. We could get pizza?’
‘What about Betty?’
‘There must be somewhere we can eat outside?’
‘Yeah, I know a place.’ She hauls herself up off the bed. ‘What about your… friend?’
‘Tom?’
‘Tom.’
‘I’ll text him. See if he wants to join us?’
‘He’s not some weirdo, is he, Mum?’
‘He’s all right. Besides, we might be getting a puppy.’
‘A puppy?’ She squeals with delight, almost loses her balance as she struggles to insert a lithe leg into her venetian-blind jeans. I can’t help smiling. She’s still a child. A woman-child. And I explain how I happen to be here with Betty rather than Bob.
‘Embarrassing, or what?!’ she snorts. ‘Naughty Bob.’
‘Naughty Betty.’
Betty woofs and wags her undocked tail.
WE’RE FINISHING THE remains of our pizza, sitting al fresco at a nice place on the Barbican, the old part of Plymouth not blitzed by the Luftwaffe, Lauren smuggling crusts to Betty who is lounging on her lap, when Tom arrives loaded with bags. He texted me earlier to say he was meeting a friend and would grab a bite with them. I’m assuming it’s a woman friend, a hunch, despite the firm, sad shake of the head earlier in the car, when I asked him if there was someone he had to be getting back for. Did he go shopping with her?
‘I didn’t have you pegged as a shopaholic.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause you’re a Green and that.’
‘I buy as ethically as I can. Good quality, as much as I can afford, and then not very often.’
‘Oh,’ I mutter feebly. He has an answer for everything. ‘So you’ve eaten, then?’
‘Yes, thanks. Thai. Very nice.’
Is it me or is he a bit dismissive, like he doesn’t want to go into detail, some kind of secret? Which he’s perfectly entitled to. I hardly know him. We’re practically strangers, not that I’d tell Lauren that or she’d be back to worrying about her poor old mother’s safety.
‘It looks like Betty’s eaten too.’ He removes a stray pizza crumb from her doggy head. She’s clearly not as pro as Bob; he’d never let a pizza crumb, any crumb, go awry.
‘Whoops, yeah, sorry about that,’ Lauren giggles. ‘I couldn’t resist those eyes.’
‘It’s not easy,’ he says, chuckling. He’s actually chuckling. ‘I’m Tom, by the way.’
‘I’m Lauren,’ she says, best behaviour, reassuring to know she can step up to the mark and be polite when required. ‘Thanks for driving Mum to see me.’
‘No problem. So… is everything… all right?’
‘Yeah, it’s all good. In fact, I was just about to duck out and meet some friends at the union. There’s a band. They sound all right.’ She gives me a hug, looming over me. My Pippi Longstocking. Then she gives Betty a bigger hug, plonks a kiss on her snout. ‘Love you, Mum,’ she says, that easy way teens use those words. Life is all love and hate, up and down, crap or lush. No in between. ‘Kiss Granddad and Bob for me.’
‘Will do.’
She’s turning to go, WhatsApping her friends, already on to the next thing, when she remembers. ‘Soz for dragging you down here, Mum.’
‘Any time, Lolly. Except maybe not every weekend.’
She blows a kiss which I have to ‘catch’ and then she’s gone, lop
ing away from me, blonde plaits looped into buns, one on each side of her head. I watch her weave through the Saturday-evening crowds of young people, out on the town when I’m ready to be going home to my bed. Alone. No babies. No husband. Redundant.
‘Shall we go?’ Tom says. ‘You look like you’ve had enough for one day.’
‘You’re not wrong.’ I swig the last of my Chianti. ‘Do you need a hand with those bags?’
‘You’re all right, I can manage. You could take Betty, though?’
‘I’d love to take Betty. We’re bezzie mates now.’
‘I can see that. Mind you, she loves anyone who’ll give her pizza.’
‘Well, she could be eating for… How many pups in a Jack Russell litter?’
‘Er, about four, I think. Though possibly as many as eight.’
‘Eight?’
‘Probably four.’ He shrugs, hands me Betty’s lead. ‘Hold on tight,’ he warns. ‘We want to be clear who the father is.’
‘Great.’
And we head off, across the quayside, past the Mayflower Steps – though the steps aren’t there any more – where those Pilgrim Fathers (and Mothers) left Blighty behind, and where Betty does a poop that Tom disposes of. Then we carry on, the smell of ozone in our noses, and chips, past the Mayflower Museum, yes, the museum.
Sigh.
I don’t want a pub chain invading our town. A place like that would make our town more like any other town when what I love about Dingleton – what Dave is fighting against – is its character and grit. And I don’t want the museum to close. And I really don’t want to lose my job.
‘I love my job.’ I watch the words float out into the darkening evening. ‘I know I’m not a doctor. Or a social worker. Or a teacher.’ I nod at him, acknowledging his profession. ‘But I believe what we do is important for our community. It gives us a sense of identity. We’re not just any old down-at-heel seaside town with its amusement arcades and caravan parks. We have a heritage the town should be proud of. We get passed over all the time down here. No decent trains. No decent jobs. But I wouldn’t swap it for all the money in London.’
‘Get you! Spoken like a true campaigner.’
‘Ha, ha.’
‘No, really. I’m being serious. You’re passionate about your work, that much is clear. It must be stressful. Not knowing.’
‘If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Councillor Barton won’t let this go.’
‘Does he have a history of being a bastard?’
‘He comes from a long line of bastards. His father. And his grandfather. All the way back to the beginning of time.’
We’re on Southside Street now. It’s busy, young people on the razz, couples on dates, some straggling holidaymakers. The sun is slipping behind the chimney stack of Black Friar’s distillery, home of Plymouth Gin. Betty stops for a moment to have a wee in the gutter.
‘I could do with one of those.’
‘A wee?’
‘No! I mean a big fat G and T.’
‘Come on, then,’ he says. ‘What are we waiting for? There’s a gin bar in there.’
‘But you’re driving.’
‘I’ll have tonic, don’t worry. Just let me check if it’s all right to bring Betty inside.’
While he’s checking – what is he doing in there? – I have time to think about how weird life is. One minute you’re chugging along quite nicely and then something happens and everything changes. And you get used to that change, that new life, and then it changes again. So I feel surprised to find myself here, outside a gin distillery, holding another man’s dog. A man with silver hair, a nice man, but one I can’t quite fathom. Usually men are simple. You can suss them out pretty damn quick. Though I was surprised at Mike, but maybe not that surprised.
Tom’s back. ‘Yes, we’re allowed, if she’s well behaved. It’s members only after seven p.m. on a Saturday but the bartender said it was OK seeing as it’s still early.’ He ushers me inside, upstairs, to the Refectory Bar. There’s a table and a deep leather sofa and it’s really nice in here. He hands over a gin menu. The Gimlet. The Pink Gin. The Marguerite. The Pennant. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘I’m not sure. Which one’s the strongest?’
He concentrates on the menu, holding it at arm’s length. ‘How about the Pink Gin? Plymouth Navy Strength Gin, a dash of Angostura bitters with a lemon twist.’
‘If it’s good enough for naval officers, it’s good enough for me.’
‘It’s fifty-seven per cent?’
‘Excellent.’
He goes to the bar while I sit with Betty by my feet, conked out now. I feel like having a sneaky rummage through his shopping bags but that would be too much. It’s probably all Oxfam and Neal’s Yard.
I have a look around instead, soak up the atmosphere. It’s like going back to the time of the Pilgrims, some of whom actually stayed here on their very last night before setting out on the biggest adventure of their lives, according to the leaflet. I don’t suppose they drank gin, what with being Puritans.
He’s back, handing me my cocktail which comes in a stemmed Martini glass with a gold rim. The drink is more orange than pink, from the bitters. I’ve had one of these before, mixed by Dad, so I know they’re good. Dad says even people who don’t like gin (incredibly, such people exist) like a Pink Gin. Something to do with chemistry. Must ask Lauren.
I take a sip. It’s definitely gin. A very strong gin. But surprisingly smooth. A bit flowery. And earthy. A hint of liquorice. Or is it fennel? Dad would know. His nose is far sharper than mine.
‘Good?’
‘Very good.’ I chink my glass against his tonic water.
‘Cheers,’ we chime in unison.
The alcohol warms my insides and is calming my head. One of these is certainly enough if you want to keep your wits anywhere near you.
‘Anything interesting in that leaflet?’
‘Very. Who knew there was so much history connected to gin?’
‘Tell me,’ he says.
So I tell him what I’ve discovered. That this used to be a monastery and the monks distilled gin, believing juniper to prevent the plague. That they use Dartmoor water which is soft and clear and makes Plymouth Gin one of the smoothest in the world. That the botanicals include coriander seed, orange and lemon peels, green cardamom, angelica root and orris root, which has a hint of violet and is a natural preservative.
He’s leaning in, listening intently as I read to him, until I start to get self-conscious and wonder if I’m going on too much.
‘Am I going on too much?’
‘Not at all. It makes a change to be read to.’ He smiles at me. He has an overlapping front tooth with a tiny chip which makes him seem the teensiest bit vulnerable and raises all these questions in my head. What lurks in his past? Why is he single? Is he single? Does he have kids? What music does he like? Does he have any hobbies? Any skeletons in the cupboard? Disgusting habits?
I must be squiffy. I’m staring at him like a demented lush. Back to gin.
‘I wish there was a place like this in Dingleton. I mean, our pubs are great, the Thirsty Bishop will always be my local, but this is lovely. And this gin is blooming gorgeous.’
‘As good as your dad’s?’
‘Almost.’ I take the last sip, savour it, swallow it. ‘I suppose we should be getting back.’
‘I think so. It’s been a long day.’
‘It really has. I’m just popping to the loo.’
Going to the ladies gives me a chance to take a breather. I’m feeling light-headed and although I’m trying to ignore the full-length mirror, I can see I’m flushed, and unfortunately not in a pretty way, but in a menopausal, boozy way. I splash some cold water on my face which makes my mascara run so I have to do a quick repair job. What I really need is a good night’s sleep but such a thing has been harder to achieve of late.
Tom is waiting for me by the entrance with Betty and his bags. ‘So,’ he says. ‘I bought you som
ething.’ He’s grinning like a shy schoolboy who’s done his good deed for the day but who’s not entirely sure if he’s done the right thing.
‘Did you?’
‘Thought you needed cheering up.’ He hands over three tickets. For the distillery tour. ‘Next Saturday. Half past two. You can bring Lauren. And your dad.’
‘Really? That’s so sweet of you. Thanks.’ I am now blushing violently so it’s a huge relief to get outside into the cool evening, to be walking, quickly, to the car park. Better still once we’re obscured in the dark interior of his Prius.
And on the journey home, I’m most definitely going to do some digging. I need to excavate his family situation. Not for any other reason than that we might be having puppies. Some people might not think it any of my business but I reckon I really ought to know.
SUNDAY IS A quiet one and the first day of October. I almost miss the vibrations of drum and bass from Lauren’s room and can’t muster the energy to make Sunday lunch for just Dad and me. We make do with potato-and-leek soup and a cheese-and-pickle sandwich. Dad eats his in the shed where he’s busy reading a magazine article and making notes. He’s in one of his thinking moods and is best left alone when he’s like this. I have mine at the kitchen table, Bob on my feet, where yesterday it was Betty.
A lot has happened in the last forty-eight hours. I’ve had my job possibly taken away from me. The town is losing a museum. I’ve had a run-in with my nemesis. I’ve visited my daughter in her new environment. And I’ve met a bloke who doesn’t appal me. Actually, a bloke with a sad story.
‘So what’s your family situation?’ I asked him last night as we made our way back to Dingleton.
‘Do you mean why am I single?’
‘Not just that, no. But yes. Also, I mean, do you have children?’
‘I was married,’ he said.
And I thought, ah, just another middle-aged divorced man. Two a penny in Dingleton. Two a penny anywhere.
I looked across at him. His eyes were focused on the road. It was dark by then and still a fair amount of traffic. ‘Go on, let’s have it.’ I tried to encourage him, a bit jokey because he knew all about me and maybe we were in the same boat.
The Juniper Gin Joint Page 4
