The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘Come in. Have a seat, why don’t you.’

  I’ve already sat myself down and dumped a pile of papers on his big-boy desk. ‘Why do you insist on being called Councillor when you’re at work? Surely you’re plain old Mister here?’

  ‘I assumed you’d be here on council business, Jennifer.’

  ‘You assumed right, Dave.’

  He smirks his Dave smirk and I know he’ll avoid the discussion I want, as his mind is elsewhere, or he’s at least trying to give me that impression. ‘Remember when this was Dad’s desk?’

  I decide vagueness is the best option. ‘Was it?’

  ‘Surely you remember, Jennifer? I know it’s thirty-plus years ago, but pretty unforgettable, I’d say. We snuck in and you—’

  ‘Don’t. Even.’ I put up my hands to cover my ears in a gesture of despair and horror. It’s bad enough it happened – I don’t need to dwell on it all these years later.

  ‘Honestly, Jennifer, was it actually that bad?’

  ‘You were that bad. You dumped me when someone with a bigger bra came along.’

  ‘I was sixteen years old. It wasn’t like we were going to get married.’

  ‘As if I would have married you.’

  ‘My parents would never have approved of the daughter of two eccentric hippies.’

  ‘My parents were the best parents.’

  ‘Yes, Jennifer, I’m sure they were.’

  He is doing his damnedest to wind me up and I am like a coiled spring, rusty and likely to give him tetanus. But I can do this. I can tell him what I think about the plans, I can even beg if need be, but I am not going to get upset about a crappy boyfriend from the distant past. ‘So what’s going on, Dave? Why are you encouraging this sale to a chain that will jeopardize the local pubs and the indie cafés? What good will it do Dingleton? And what about the museum?’

  ‘Firstly, Jennifer, don’t get irate.’ He does this ridiculous in-and-out breathing exercise to emphasize the fact that he thinks I am getting hysterical and out of control when I am actually simply angry. ‘It will be an asset to the town. A meeting place full of countless opportunities.’

  ‘For cheap drinking?’

  ‘For family brunches, Sunday lunches. Where else can you get a meal for a family of five so cheaply round here? Quite frankly, I think you’re being a snob.’

  ‘That’s outrageous! You’re forgetting all the clubs and events we run for the community. All the outreach. It’s free.’

  ‘That’s also the problem, Jennifer. And my second point. The museum’s not bringing in money.’

  ‘It’s not supposed to bring in money.’

  ‘In this economic climate, it has to earn its keep.’

  He’s got an answer for everything.

  Think, Jennifer, think.

  ‘All right then. What if we were to bring in more money?’

  ‘You, Jackie, Tish and Carol bring in more money?’ he says, astonishment on his big fat gorilla face. ‘I hardly think that’s likely, do you?’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘How?’ He sighs like I’m a schoolchild and he’s the head teacher waiting for me to account for my actions. The bastard. ‘Jackie’s friends and supporters are penniless crusties. Carol is still living off the legacy of being Dingleton Carnival Queen 1983. And you, Jennifer, are wasted there. Cut your losses. I’ll make sure you get a job in the new place. Customer services. That’s what you’re good at.’ He thumps his desk to emphasize his point.

  And that’s when I lose it, that control I’ve been clinging on to. The tears start to fall. Which takes him aback. He’s never seen me cry. No one ever sees me cry. Because if I have to cry, I make sure I’m hidden away on my own, preferably under my duvet with the curtains shutting out the light, and no audience to witness it. Except for Bob. He knows when I’m upset. He follows me upstairs and lies next to me on the bed, under the duvet, cuddled into the small of my back until he gets too hot and I have to drag him out. He did this every night for six weeks after Mike left. Dave fumbles in his pocket and produces a handkerchief. I shake my head. I don’t want his snot rag anywhere near my face. I use my sleeve instead.

  After a gigantic sniff, I draw my dignity around me and say very calmly, and slightly too quietly so he has to lean forward to hear, ‘This isn’t over. In fact, it’s just beginning.’

  Whatever ‘it’ is.

  Only now the mother of all hot flushes decides to strike me down and I have to leave quickly, embracing the cool outside air as if it were a long-lost friend. Or my children. Or my mother.

  I BUMP INTO Tish in the Co-op on the way home, after a brisk walk on the beach and a hundred pebbles chucked into the sea. I’ve cooled down on the outside but not inside. She can see me taking it out on a bag of spuds and intervenes.

  ‘Someone needs a tonic.’

  ‘As long as it has gin in it.’

  ‘Come on, then. Quick visit to the Bishop.’

  I leave the potatoes. I leave all the shopping in my sad basket. The Fray Bentos steak-and-onion pie, the tinned carrots, the Baxter’s cock-a-leekie soup. Dad will have to make do with fish and chips from the Chipping Forecast that I’ll pick up on the way home. Tish meanwhile has paid for her and Miranda’s supper ingredients – Arborio rice, asparagus, parmesan – before frogmarching me to the pub and plonking me down at a corner table. It’s quiet as it isn’t even four thirty yet. Only the diehard regulars are here. Eileen from the bookie’s, George the postie and Trampy Kev who’s coddling a half of ale in his usual spot by the gents. He raises his half-glass to me in a kind of salute and I manage a smile. I realize that I’m actually quite fond of him and wonder what his story is, if he’s happy. He’s always whistling to himself, always doffs his hat, opens doors and uses a hanky (filthy, admittedly) when he sneezes. Do you need money to be happy? Do we always need more than we have? When is enough enough?

  ‘Right.’ Tish presses a large G and T into my hand. ‘Let’s have it.’

  So I give it to her. The complete low-down of my meeting with Councillor Bastard.

  She makes all the right noises and says all the right things including, ‘Let’s fight to the last gasp,’ and somehow I feel a teensy bit better. I’m not alone. I have good friends. Clever friends. Determined, strong and tough friends. I know I’m going to need them. We’re going to need each other.

  ‘Right then,’ she says. ‘I’ve spoken to Miranda and she’s all in. She’ll do whatever it takes to help us buy Clatford House.’

  ‘That’s fantastic.’

  ‘We can do this.’

  ‘Can we?’

  ‘In the words of the best POTUS, “Yes, we can.”’

  Later, as I’m walking home clutching a warm parcel of fish and chips, I hope Dad is hungry because I’ve lost my appetite. Maybe it’s the HRT. Or maybe it’s the realization that we face a seemingly impossible task. But I won’t let a few truant hormones or an uphill slog put me off. Oh, no.

  IT’S FRIDAY EVENING and I’ve had a bath, washed and dried my hair and changed three times, from jeans to a dress and back to jeans. I’ve put on lipstick but taken it off again because it made my mouth look old and wrinkly. I found some lip balm in Lauren’s room and now all I can taste is cherry so I brush my teeth again and my gums start to bleed.

  This is going so well.

  I don’t know why I’m behaving as though this is a date. I’ve never been on a date. When I was last single, nearly thirty years ago, you didn’t go on dates. Americans went on dates like in Happy Days or Mork and Mindy. We Dingleton teens just used to ‘go out’ with each other. This involved a walk along the sea wall followed by a cone of chips and topped off with a fumble under the pier, if you were lucky, or unlucky, depending on who you were with. Anyway, this isn’t a date. It’s a meeting. Just the two of us. Tom and me.

  I check on Dad before I leave. He’s in the shed, wobbling on the top rung of his paint-splattered wooden stepladder, searching for a book.

  ‘Dad. Get down of
f there. Have you learnt nothing?’

  He wields a tatty old book in triumph as if he’s proved a point though I’m not really sure what that point is. ‘I’m always learning, Jennifer,’ he says. ‘That’s why I was searching for this and now I’ve found it. The Art of Distillation by John French. It’s the earliest book on distillation.’

  ‘How old?’ As if this is the question I should be asking now with him so perilously high.

  ‘1651.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Distillation is basically alchemy, Jennifer Juniper.’

  ‘OK, Dad, get down now, please, and you can tell me all about it.’ I feel like I’m negotiating with a man about to jump to his death rather than one who might just fall to it but at any rate, he does as he’s told, obedient for once, handing over the book before descending the half-rotten rungs. Once his feet are on terra firma, balanced and less precarious, I get cross with him.

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I want to experiment with my gin this autumn. I might try something different.’ He beams at me, as if he’s been waiting a very long time for this eureka moment.

  And the book in my hand does feel special, like there’s a little magic in it, old and scruffy, not a first edition, obviously, but a vintage one. Like something from Harry Potter, a compendium of spells.

  ‘It does look interesting, Dad, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Don’t go thinking you can borrow it until I’ve read it.’

  ‘I can wait.’

  ‘So you do want to read it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Fancy yourself as a master distiller?’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Read the book and then you might know.’

  ‘I thought I had to wait till you’d finished it.’

  ‘All right, Jen. Don’t get maudlin on me. You can borrow it over the weekend.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. Now, please come in the house and put your feet up. I’m off out, remember, and I’ll worry if you’re not inside. Safely in a chair. Not up a stepladder.’

  ‘I’m not an invalid. I’m simply getting old. Which is no reason for my brain to seize up.’

  ‘I entirely agree, but you can loosen your brain sitting down. Borrow my iPad and do some googling. You know how much you like to google.’

  ‘I do like to google. On a Friday night.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  ‘You’re keen all of a sudden. Do you fancy this Tom? He’s a nice enough chap.’

  ‘I reckon he is, yes. But this is just dinner and I want to run some stuff past him.’

  ‘Right.’ Dad dismisses thoughts about romantic feelings and moves on to the next. Dogs. ‘Ask Tom if Betty’s knocked up.’

  ‘I might phrase it more delicately than that.’

  Dad shrugs.

  I leave him in the sitting room, feet up, resting that hip, iPad and book on his lap, dog nestled against him, his brain-box head bubbling over with thoughts of alchemy, turning base spirits into the perfect gin. Abracadabra.

  IT’S DEAD EASY to find Tom’s cottage up on Coast Guards Row because I know exactly where it is. I’ve passed it enough times over the course of my life. The Row is a terrace of six or seven old fishermen’s cottages, some gentrified, others a bit drab, all different colours: yellow, blue, cream, Devon pink. It’s a no-through road to cars but there’s a steep, narrow lane at the end, just beyond Tom’s cottage, wiggling down to the coastal path, and eventually to the beach. When I was a kid, an old trawlerman lived here. He’d sit outside on a bench, mending his nets, singing sea shanties, like he was fresh off Poldark. Then, after he’d died, it was rented out for years, summer lets, winter lets, till it got dilapidated and was sold at auction. Tom bought it for a bargain price, which is lucky when you’re a teacher and single and have never been on the housing market because of moving around. Though maybe he has money, from his poor wife.

  Tom has his work cut out. The small sash windows need attention, stripping right back to the grain – that’s if they’re not already too far gone with rot. The roof’s crying out for repairs. There’re weeds growing in the gutters and a constant drip from an overflow pipe. The exterior, which might once upon a time have been crisp white, requires a good sand-down and repainting. But he’s installed a new front door, painted a glossy teal colour. And a shiny brass anchor for a door knocker. I give it a firm rat-a-tat-tat.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he says, once he’s welcomed me inside, into the hallway, standing there before me with a tea towel over one shoulder, a picture of domestication. A rather attractive picture.

  I hand over a bottle of wine. ‘Didn’t know if you like red or white so I went for white because I don’t like red as it gives me a headache, not that that should be a pre requisite for gifts, after all, it’s a gift and I’m not expecting you to share it with me, though I won’t say no if you do.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ he says. ‘I like red and white and that’s very kind of you and of course I’ll share it.’ He has a huge grin on his face. Either he’s extremely relaxed about all this or he’s already made a head start on the booze, whereas I’m clearly a blathering wreck.

  I take a look around me, to avoid eye contact and di vert attention from my burning cheeks. ‘You’ve been busy.’

  The hall has been stripped of its wallpaper. A naked light bulb hangs forlornly from the wood-chipped ceiling, swinging in the draught. The floorboards are bare and stained with years of old paint and grime.

  ‘It’s a wreck, I know,’ he says. ‘It needs boarding out and skimming. The old lath-and-plaster was held together with Anaglypta and once I started peeling… well, you can see for yourself.’ He shrugs. ‘I always knew it would be a project. I never expected it to be this bad, though. Once you start stripping back, you never know what you’ll find.’

  ‘Isn’t that the truth?’

  Tom does a double-take, is about to say something, but changes his mind, leads me to the kitchen.

  He’s made an effort in here, I’ll give him that. It’s tidy and clean and there’s a table set for two overlooking a small courtyard with fairy lights. Yes, fairy lights.

  Once we’ve eaten the shepherd’s pie he’s cooked up, and shared a bottle of Sauvignon, I tell him about the idea to raise funds to buy the museum. He doesn’t dismiss it. He doesn’t laugh in my face. Instead, he fires up his laptop and, between us, we set up a Facebook page and a Twitter account. ‘Save our Museum: Bring Dingleton’s Past into the Future.’ We explain what the council want to do, and what we want to do. And that we need to raise £1.5 million. At least a million for the purchase and another half million for renovations. Which is ridiculous when you see it written down in black and white and posted all over social media. Ridiculous and overwhelming and I almost feel like giving up.

  ‘We’ve not even begun and we’ve already got three hundred and fifty thousand, just from spreading the word locally.’ Tom notices the way I’ve slumped, my head in my hands. ‘We can do this,’ he says.

  ‘How?’

  ‘We need more investors.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to invest?’

  ‘Apart from the good old-fashioned philanthropists?’

  ‘Apart from them.’

  ‘There’ll be people who want to invest as a business opportunity. To get a share of the profits.’

  ‘The profits of what?’

  ‘Well, yes, there is that.’

  We’re both quiet for a while.

  Then he carries on. ‘This is no criticism but…’

  Whenever you hear these words you know you’re about to be savaged so I get myself into defensive mode. ‘But?’

  ‘The museum could be better. I went to Somerset recently, stayed with a friend. She took me to Taunton Museum, a much bigger outfit in a county town, granted, but it’s free entry and it is incredible. We could learn something from it. Our museum needs to reflect the local environment, not just hoard a collection of random old stuf
f.’

  ‘Is that how you see Dingleton Museum?’

  ‘Er, yes. No offence.’

  ‘None taken, well, not much. I know you’re right. There is a lot of stuff that’s only tenuously connected to Dingleton.’

  ‘Stuff people have donated over the years when they’ve been clearing out the loft?’

  ‘Yeah. And it’s really interesting, all that social history. How people lived in Dingleton.’

  ‘But some of it is too general. It could be about anywhere in Devon or any semi-rural town. I mean, Appleton have done something special with their heritage centre. They’ve made the most out of the Carry On film shot on location there. In fact, they’ve milked it for all it’s worth. Saucy postcards, seaside kitsch, the lot. But their main focus is on fishing. The fishermen who went to Newfoundland for cod. The women who hauled massive nets of fish up the beach. What’s Dingleton got to offer – other than the obvious?’

  ‘The obvious?’

  ‘The amusement arcade and antisocial behaviour.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I feel suddenly protective of my town. I am allowed to be disparaging, but not a bloody incomer. ‘It’s a beautiful place with natural features. The red cliffs, the red sand. The rough sea. It’s surrounded by Devon’s rolling hills and country lanes. And it might have seen better days but people have always had to eke out a living here.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s Brunel’s railway.’

  ‘Yes. And?’

  ‘Smugglers. And pirates.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the King who used to come on his holidays here?’

  ‘Right. Trains, illicit booze, royalty. This is what the focus should be.’

  ‘Yes. You’re right. That makes sense. But how will we make money?’

  ‘A café?’

  ‘There are so many cafés in town. I’m not sure Dingle ton could sustain another one.’

  ‘Vegetarian? Vegan?’

  ‘People don’t really go in for that down here.’

  ‘What about a bar? Not a pub or a chain but a cocktail bar?’

  ‘In Dingleton? Are you serious?’

  ‘Why not?’