The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘We’re going a tad off piste now,’ says Jackie. ‘This endeavour should be far more than keeping a museum open for people to walk around and point at stuff. We’ve always tried to make it about the community we live in. I’m adamant that’s not going to change. We need to get everyone involved, especially the ones on the edge.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Tom agrees.

  ‘So where does the gin fit into this?’ Jackie asks. ‘Surely the museum is for families?’

  ‘It’ll be another string to our bow,’ I tell her. ‘A way to generate money, to employ locals. Something for Dingleton to be proud of.’

  ‘Booze needn’t be about getting drunk,’ Dad chips in.

  ‘Granddad’s right,’ says Harry. ‘We can encourage a healthy attitude to drinking.’ This is astonishing for a twenty-year-old, especially one who grew up in a seaside town. I have a violent urge to applaud but I’ve embarrassed him enough as it is. I’m just grateful he’s enthusiastic about getting involved.

  ‘Shall we have a top-up?’ Dad suggests. ‘After all, low to moderate alcohol consumption can have some health benefits. It may reduce the risk of strokes, heart disease and diabetes.’

  THAT EVENING, MUCH later, once the others have gone home in a daze and a fug, Tom stays on for supper, rustled up by Dad with Carol’s help. Corned beef hash, Dad’s signature dish, with runner beans and carrots, a working supper of comfort food while we update Facebook and Twitter to get the public behind the drive to keep the museum open.

  ‘You should start a blog, Mum,’ Harry suggests. ‘The Adventures of a Menopausal Gin Lover or something.’

  ‘Blimey, Harry. You know how to make a woman feel special. Just as well you’re gay.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jenny,’ Dale says. ‘He’s rude to me too. Keeps reminding me how old I am.’

  ‘Which is?’ Carol puts down her fork, stares at him, waiting for an exact response, including star sign and position of moon as he was heading down his mother’s birth canal.

  ‘Thirty-two,’ he says.

  There’s a moment’s hesitation. I slug my wine in an attempt to unclench my toes.

  ‘Age is just a number.’ Carol’s a fan of motivational quotes plucked off the internet.

  Soon after this, we drift away from the table. Harry and Dale go for a late-evening walk to get some air. Carol goes with Dad down to the shed so he can show her Violet. That leaves Tom helping me wash up.

  ‘You should head home,’ I tell him once we’re done. ‘It’s a school night.’

  ‘Trying to get rid of me?’

  ‘Not at all but I was thinking about lighting the log burner and having a nightcap.’

  ‘I’ll join you. Just for one.’

  ‘You’re not driving?’

  ‘Nope. I like to walk as much as I can.’

  ‘Great.’ I grab two glasses and the bottle and lead the way to the front room. He lights the fire and soon there’s a good heat coming out.

  We sit side by side on the sofa, a gin apiece, awkward until Bob skitters in, leaping up, settling himself between us.

  ‘So,’ Tom says. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure…’

  ‘It’s a bit personal. I mean, you’ve told me some of it, but what happened between you and your ex? I know there was another person involved but they say there’s usually something wrong with a relationship for that to happen.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m asking. Forget it. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. I haven’t really thought about the reasons why. I’ve been too busy dealing with the fallout. Which I know isn’t healthy.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘I’m not sure what to say really. I thought we had a happy enough marriage. Not that I ever thought explicitly about it. You just sort of get on with your life, don’t you, and when kids come into the picture it’s like a treadmill that you never get off. You lurch from one drama to another and all the while there’s a monotonous backdrop of dirty socks and packed lunches and music practice.’

  ‘Maybe I didn’t miss out on having kids?’ he teases me.

  ‘Oh, no, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t change anything. And I’m sorry it never got to happen for you and your wife. I guess my life didn’t turn out the way I planned it, like it didn’t for you. We both made marriage vows and both our marriages ended. Only I’m half to blame for the break-up, if what you’re saying is right. And none of it was your fault. Cancer bloody sucks.’

  ‘Yes, it is a right old shitter.’

  He fills up my glass. Then his own. We’re drinking it straight and it’s warm and comforting only now the room is spinning ever so slightly so I tell him I need to get some air. I also need to check up on Dad and Carol.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ he says and as we move into the hallway, Bob gets tangled up in our feet and I’m pushed against Tom, close enough so I can feel the warmth of him, and smell that man smell – not the bad one but the lovely one. I almost make a grab for him but before I do, he takes me in his arms and gives me a hug. Which is a surprise. A nice surprise. Only just as I reckon we might be about to kiss, he says he has to go.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘It’s a school night,’ he confirms. So organized. So prepared. So… annoying.

  But, actually, I don’t buy it. I’m not asking him to sleep over. I’m just wanting him to kiss me. Which would take two minutes of his time. But he shrugs his shoulders and says a reluctant goodnight. And I do nothing to stop him because I don’t want to make a fool of myself. So I let him go.

  And he does. He goes.

  ANOTHER THURSDAY MORNING without work, though that doesn’t mean I don’t have a whole bunch of stuff to do. First up is going with Tish and Jackie to the bank to see if we can raise a mortgage as, so far, we are half a million gazongers short of the guide price for Clatford House. Halfamillion. If I say it fast enough it doesn’t sound quite so daunting though I know it really is. It really, really is. What are yokels like us doing, thinking we can buy such a huge place? How in the heck will we compete against the big guns?

  Still, there’s a ray of hope. Just as I’m putting on some make-up, squinting into the hall mirror, having already dressed in the smartest outfit I could cobble together, Dale asks if he can have a quick word. They’ve been away for a couple of days, exploring, but now they are back they want to help, he says.

  ‘That’s kind. We need all the help we can get.’

  ‘More specifically, I want to help financially.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘With money,’ he says.

  ‘Ye-s… but how?’

  ‘I’ve got a proposition.’ He sits me down at the kitchen table with a strong mug of coffee. He makes it better than anyone else in this house which must be the North American in him so I’m happy to oblige, curious to hear what he has to say.

  ‘You know Harry told you my parents own this chain of bars?’

  ‘Yes. They’ve done very well for themselves.’

  ‘They have. But they had some help off of my grandparents to get started, else I don’t think they would have made it this far.’

  ‘We all need a helping hand off our parents, if we’re lucky enough to have them. And then we try to pass that help on to our kids.’

  ‘Uh-huh. But it can work the other way.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look, I know I’m not your son or anything. I’m your son’s boyfriend – and while we’re on the subject, I know you’re concerned about the age gap but I want you to know I love Harry very much and I’m never going to do anything to hurt him.’

  Maybe I don’t appear to be convinced because he carries on.

  ‘I appreciate he’s young. He still has his twenties to live through. It’s an important decade to find yourself. I won’t do anything to hold him back. I don’t want to cramp
his style.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that Harry had much style.’

  ‘I know,’ Dale says. ‘He needs to chuck that Adidas jacket in the trash. Slavic chic doesn’t quite work on him.’ He laughs, understanding that my poor attempt at humour is my way of saying I appreciate his words and sentiments and knowing that if he reciprocates, then we have an agreement. We both want the best for Harry.

  I check my watch. I don’t have much time but this is important and I don’t want to scupper my chances of finding out as much as I can about Dale and Harry. Though I can’t help but think that every decade you live through is important in finding yourself. I mean, look how lost I’ve become. But this gentle man seems to have it sussed.

  ‘Harry aside,’ Dale goes on. ‘I’ve been talking to my parents.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They’re always expanding their portfolio in the hospitality industry, and they want to invest in your project.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘They want to invest a considerable amount in your venture to enable you to purchase the property. They’d be back-seat investors, wouldn’t get involved in the nitty gritty, but they’d be there for support and expertise when required.’

  ‘Wait. What?’

  ‘I appreciate this is short notice but, well, what do you reckon?’

  ‘What do I reckon?’ I sip the coffee, feel the buzz of it in my brain. ‘Why would they want to invest in a mad enterprise, in an uncertain Britain, with four crazy ladies?’

  ‘For those very reasons.’

  I can’t help myself then. I get up and I hug him and tell him he’s a miracle. A big whopping bloody miracle.

  SO IT TRANSPIRES that Dale’s parents are willing and able to commit half a million pounds to this project. That means we have the guide price amount but no certainty of a purchase as we will no doubt have at least one competing bidder, otherwise known as Bastard Barton. I ask Jackie, Tish and Carol to meet me at the jetty, pronto, despite the blusteriness of the day. They turn up, wrapped against the wind, and I shepherd them halfway along the concrete wall and then we are able to look back at the town. The place we know inside out and yet it always surprises me when I see it from this perspective. This is how the smugglers would have approached Dingleton. Captain Clatford would’ve been watching from his observatory, telescope at the ready. The telescope that’s been wrapped up in storage because we’ve never had the money to repair it and display it properly. The observatory itself, up on that loose-tiled roof, is unsafe. All that could change.

  Waves crash below us, roaring and angry. All my bad thoughts about Mike and Dave Barton, all my confused thoughts about Tom, are swept aside by the news from Canada, as if the wind itself has emptied my head of nonsense and worry and made one thing perfectly clear.

  We have to go all out now and purchase this place.

  I spill the beans to my friends as calmly as I can, which is tricky with the elements going haywire. I tell them what’s happened and they are delighted. Amazed and flipping delighted.

  ‘Zounds!’ Tish exclaims.

  ‘Marvellous,’ Jackie adds.

  ‘Shitting fantastic!’ Carol screams, so loudly a flock of seagulls disperses into the distance.

  Then there’s a silence that holds all our thoughts and dreams, just the wind rushing into our backs, pushing us back to shore.

  ‘Coffee?’ Jackie suggests. ‘Before we head to the bank?’

  We nod and trail after her, aiming for dry land and the nearest café.

  THE BANK MANAGER is Tracey Hillman who was in our year at school. I didn’t realize it was the same Tracey as she has a married name now but I recognize her as soon as she ushers us in to sit down, like schoolgirls summoned to the head to account for their misdemeanours. I have to remind myself that we are a team of strong women with a plethora of experience between us and quite a sum of money. Surely she will at least consider the possibility of the bank allowing us to have a mortgage?

  We let Jackie take the lead. Tish, Carol and I sit quietly and sedately, nodding and making reassuring noises, as Jackie lays out our plan. She has handouts and spreadsheets for Tracey, fortunately not a PowerPoint this time as I’m not sure that would be entirely appropriate.

  After an hour of discussion, we leave the bank, feeling that we actually have someone on our side. Tracey was receptive and keen to help.

  ‘I remember you lot from school,’ she said. ‘You were always nice to me. Especially you, Jen. A lot of kids weren’t.’

  I remember that too. She was picked on. She might be a svelte, well-dressed businesswoman now but then she was on the large side. She hated PE. Must’ve been torture for her, all the lads making snarky comments. Once she and I were lagging behind on a cross-country race up on the moors and she was in tears. I sat with her behind a rock and we shared a Mars Bar and after a bit she stopped crying. Then we managed to get a lift off Mr Mole, the butcher, who was a friend of Dad’s. He dropped us off round the back of school and we sneaked past the science labs and were first back in the gym. Mrs Rowland almost fainted when she saw the pair of us.

  ‘And I love gin.’ Tracey shook our hands one after the other, like she was the Governor of the Bank of England rather than manager of a remote local branch struggling to stay open. ‘About time Dingleton had something new to offer and God forbid that Dave Barton gets his way.’ She had this knowing look. ‘I’ll ring you later, Jackie.’

  Maybe things just might go our way?

  ‘Is it too early to celebrate?’ I ask the team.

  ‘Course it is,’ Jackie says. ‘But that’s not going to stop us.’

  WE’RE WAITING IN the Bishop, drinking G and Ts and talking about the future which might not be our future but we’re too excited to avoid the subject.

  ‘So what’s our top bid?’ Carol asks.

  We all turn to Jackie.

  ‘Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves,’ Jackie says. ‘Tracey could still say no.’

  ‘Hypothetically then?’ Carol won’t let this go. ‘Come on, don’t be a spoilsport.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ Tish says. ‘Poppycock, Jackie. We rely on you to always know.’

  Jackie sighs, exasperation not far out of reach. ‘Funnily enough,’ she says, ‘I used to manage a small provincial museum. Never have I ever part-owned a distillery slash cutting-edge museum in what appears to be the most unexpected co-operative in history.’ She downs the rest of her gin like an old sop. ‘Let’s take one step at a time, shall we? How about that?’

  We sit there quietly, reprimanded and remorseful, muttering apologies until Tish chips in her two penn’orth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, which you know means the opposite. ‘But enough already of this platitudinous verbiage. We just want this to work so badly that we can’t help but think ahead.’ She crosses her arms, jangling her bangles like she’s Mike Oldfield’s percussionist and then that sets me in mind of The Exorcist that Carol, Mike and I watched together when we were sixteen and I couldn’t sleep properly for six months without having to check under the bed and in the wardrobe.

  I nearly jump out of my skin when Jackie’s phone vibrates on the table, so dramatically that it leaps off the end and is heading towards its doom when a hairy dirty hand appears out of nowhere and deftly catches it with the reactions of a first-class cricketer.

  ‘Here you go.’ Trampy Kev hands it over to Jackie before shambling to the gents.

  In all the kerfuffle the phone is still vibrating and Jackie only just remembers to answer it in time.

  ‘Tracey, hi. Thanks for getting back to us so soon.’ She heads out of the pub so she can hear and presumably so that it doesn’t sound like we’re all piss tanks.

  We shuffle after her and huddle around while she listens intently, nodding and uh-huh-ing, spare hand covering her other ear to block out the wind. If only she’d put it on speakerphone but she won’t know how to do that and she won’t want anyone else eavesdropping so I practise
patience. Try to work out her body language, the muffled words of Tracey who holds our future in the palm of her hand. After five agonizing minutes, Jackie says ‘Goodbye’ and ‘Thanks’.

  We’re hopeful, though the expression on her face suggests we are quite possibly wrong. Her eyes are watery and she fans herself with her hand at which point Tish withdraws a lacy fan from her Mary Poppins carpetbag and elegantly wafts Jackie’s face for her.

  I take a deep, deep breath. ‘Well? Put us out of our misery.’

  ‘Tracey from the bank… she says – Yes!’ Jackie chucks her phone recklessly in the air, forgetting she’s not got the best eye–hand coordination but help is close by again in the form of a flying Kev who catches it one-handed but knocks out a tooth in the process as he falls to the ground, a rough patch of tarmac, so that all thoughts of gin palaces fly away and we gather around this man who isn’t what we thought he was. Who can teach us all not to judge.

  BACK IN TORBAY hospital. Kev, Carol and me. We get some strange looks, two power-dressed women and a beat-up, bleeding hobo. Luckily, Mondays are convenient for an accident or emergency and he’s seen pretty quickly. But then we have to hang around for someone to come down from maxillofacial. In the meantime Kev, who has a row of chairs to himself, spreads himself out and nods off. A nurse suggests the League of Friends café to Carol and so we head there and order tea and Chelsea buns.

  ‘So you reckon we can do this thing?’ Carol asks, icing stuck to her lipstick.

  ‘It won’t be easy but I reckon we can, yes. People are making their own gin all over the country so there’s no reason why we can’t have a go.’

  ‘But combining it with the museum? Has anyone done that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Museums often have cafés, so why not a gin bar?’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that…’ She shovels the rest of her bun in her mouth.

  I’m glad I sound convinced, because I don’t particularly feel it but we spend the next hour or so pitching ideas to each other, talking them through, and I can see the light in Carol’s eyes, brighter than it’s been in a long time, confirming that we must give this our very best shot, for all of our sakes.