The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  We’ve not long returned to the waiting room, when a patched-up Kev is delivered to us, clutching a prescription and a letter. The nurse takes me discreetly to one side.

  ‘Is Mr Clatford related to you?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’ I shake my head.

  ‘But you know him?’

  ‘Sort of. Well, yes, I do know him. He lives in our town. Everyone knows him, actually. But no one really does. Except his mother.’ Even to my own ears I sound like I’m talking in riddles but the nurse doesn’t question it. He’ll have seen and heard all sorts in here.

  ‘He needs to get his prescription from the pharmacy. Are you able to go with him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And can you get him home or do I need to call someone? I’m trying not to judge him by his appearance, but he is in pain. Not enough to keep him in overnight, though.’

  ‘What happens now, then?’

  ‘He’s got an appointment with the consultant as a follow-up. He says he doesn’t have a dentist.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

  I look over at Kev. He smiles at me and then winces and holds his hand to his cheek. I realize that his missing tooth, top front left, is the exact same as the only one left in his mother’s mouth.

  ‘We’ll take him back to his mum. I know where she lives.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, clearly relieved.

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  As we make our way to the pharmacy, I glance back and see the nurse dispense a gallon of anti-bac onto his hands before spraying some Lynx around the waiting room.

  THE BIG DAY is here. We’ve been preparing for it by watching Homes Under the Hammer and Flog It! so we now know the value of a damp 1920s terraced house in Sheffield and a pewter tankard from Ipswich. Armed with this knowledge and the information gleaned from the estate agent, the legal pack and the internet, the five of us go together to the auction house in Newton Abbot but on arrival we spread out, dotting ourselves across the room as we don’t want to make it too obvious. It just seems better to play it low key.

  Tish finds it difficult to play it low key. Today she is dressed like the Queen circa 1955 in a powder-blue woollen suit with matching pillbox hat, navy court shoes and handbag, and white gloves. Yes, white gloves. The rest of us are wearing our bank outfits, because that’s pretty much it as far as our business-dress collection goes.

  Jackie is feeling sick, blaming it on the dodgy prawns she ate last night, but I can see through her. It’s nerves. She’s so overcome she has to sit to the side near the door in case she has to make a swift exit. So needs must. I step up and offer to do the bidding. Carol and Tom sit one on either side of me and I prepare to hold up my catalogue, wondering if I’ll get the chance to brandish it or whether the price will exceed our funds before we’ve even got going.

  The room is full. There’s a hum of anticipation, people peeling off coats, delving into handbags, hunting for specs. It’s like we’re at the theatre only I’ve got to perform in some way I’ve never done before. Not counting that school play when I was one of the four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. When I really should have been Jenny Wren but that role went to Char Bannister because she was failing to thrive.

  ‘You all right?’ Carol is looking at me, concern in her eyes.

  ‘What, now? Or in general?’

  ‘Both, I suppose. But especially now.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Tom replies, which is a bit annoying seeing as it was my question to answer but also nice because it shows he has confidence in me and I’m really beginning to think he just might be interested, like interested interested, but I must dash those thoughts now and concentrate because the auctioneer’s appeared like the MC of a variety show in a bright-coloured stripy blazer and those pink chinos that only certain men of a certain age and background can get away with. And even that’s debatable.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he begins after a thorough clearing of his throat. He then gives us a brief run-through of events and rules and we’re under starter’s orders.

  First up is a cottage on the moors that looks like it hasn’t been lived in since the Black Death killed off its inhabitants. But some property developer could turn it into a money spinner so it’s soon sold for what might seem like a crazy price for a pile of granite stones but actually when you consider it’s in a National Park with views that are priceless, it’s a good buy for someone.

  Next is a plot of land on the edge of Appleton which an impoverished farmer is selling off. It’s already got outline planning permission and no doubt some councillor will help steer it through and then the fields will be gone for ever. I know there’s a housing shortage, I know my kids will need to live somewhere when they are ready to settle, but it’s sad all the same, watching the familiar landscape change and disappear.

  ‘Jen? You sure you’re OK? You’re actually twitching.’

  Carol’s right. I must focus.

  Next up is Clatford House. Carol clutches my arm and Tom sits upright. I glance over at Jackie who is a whiter shade of pale and at the Queen, on the other side of the room, sitting demurely next to a ruddy-faced wideboy who is barking up the wrong tree.

  The one person I can’t see is Dave Barton. Where is he? I thought he’d be here, prepared to gloat. Twonk. And yes, here he comes, striding in now with smugness plastered on his fat face, the grand entrance, secretary in tow, flanked by two pinstriped men, a flipping entourage. They’ll have to stand at the back as all the chairs are taken but no, of course someone is keeping his chair warm, three seats away from me. Dave shuffles down the row, apologizing charmingly to the people who have to squash their legs aside to let him through. As he squeezes past me, he looks down. Unfortunately, at that moment his crotch is at eye level and although I immediately turn my head to avert my gaze, he laughs that laugh that makes me want to deck him. ‘Excuse me, Jennifer,’ he says, making it sound sarcastic, as if I’ve encroached on his personal space when it’s him waggling his willy in my face.

  ‘Get knotted,’ I whisper in a shouty way.

  ‘Lot three,’ the auctioneer announces. ‘Clatford House, currently the museum in Dingleton, a fine Regency property, in need of some restoration. We’ll start at one million pounds.’

  Onemillionpounds.

  There’s a moment when I wonder if no one is going to make an opening bid and that the price might be lowered. But that’s soon scuppered as I catch Dave out of the corner of my eye, more specifically the woman who has saved him a seat. She gives a curt nod of her head.

  ‘Thank you, madam. Do I have one million and ten?’ The auctioneer acknowledges someone at the back, a man on the phone

  ‘Thank you, sir. Do I have one million and twenty?’

  The woman puts up her hand again before I get the chance to do the same and I wonder if I’m going to miss out and I wish someone else had the responsibility. I feel sick to the stomach and out of my depth. Who is this woman? And how does she know Dave?

  Before I can move my hand or head or anything because I seem to have suffered some kind of paralysis, there’s another bid from the man on the phone – is he acting on behalf of the brewery? – and then straight back to the woman so now the price is hovering at one million and forty. But it’s soon up to one million and fifty and then someone else chips in, a young couple no doubt down from London with cash aplenty. So we’re at one million and sixty and Carol nudges me and this causes me to shoot up my hand like I’m back at school with the answer to a question when really right now my head is full of nothing. I’m not even sure I can recollect my name or address or who’s the current prime minister – it could be Harold Wilson for all I know. And now she’s nudging me again because the couple have upped their bid so I do the same, shove my hand in the air like a loon and I think we might have it for one million and eighty and that’s not too bad, we can make this work, we’ve come this far, but no, it’s back to the London couple. Then the man on the phone. Then the London couple. And Dave�
��s woman is leaning forward in her seat, hand up high, and there he goes again, the man on the phone, back in the game after some frenzied dialogue with the puppet-master who won’t be able to see the desperation of his hand gestures and when I glance to my left I see Dave mumbling something to the woman and she folds her arms and shakes her head at the auctioneer.

  One million, one hundred and thirty.

  The room is hushed.

  The London couple are hesitating. She looks eager. He shakes his head. She pouts. He grimaces. They’re out.

  I want to be sick on the carpet.

  I’m going to keel over.

  But I feel something on my leg. A hand. Carol’s hand. She gives me a squeeze and my hand shoots up.

  One million, one hundred and forty.

  ‘Thank you, madam.’

  Then: ‘It’s against you, sir.’ More hesitation. ‘How about one million, one hundred and forty-five?’

  The man on the phone nods. I want to punch him but I can barely stay upright. I can also feel the beady eyes of Dave on me like he’s laughing at my idiocy, that I should ever think I could be part of an innovative project that could put Dingleton on the map the way his family have never been able to because they’ve only been concerned about themselves over the people who make up this town. People like my dad and my mum. Like Trampy Kev and his one-toothed mother. Like my kids and my friends. My best friend, Carol. And even Mike. I’m doing this for them. And for me because it’s OK to think about myself too. It actually is.

  My hand goes up, deliberately and firmly.

  ‘One million, one hundred and fifty pounds, madam. Back against you, sir.’

  Silence.

  ‘First time then,’ the auctioneer says. ‘At one million, one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Second time—Ah? Do we have another bidder?’

  Everyone turns round. I’m expecting to see the man on the phone but it’s my bloody father. Dad!

  ‘Are you bidding, sir?’

  ‘What? Me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No, I was swatting a fly. Bloody nuisance.’

  There’s a collective groan. Carol sniggers. I put my head in my hands.

  ‘Third and final time.’

  And the sweetest, scariest sound I’ve ever heard is the fall of the hammer.

  WHEN THE KIDS were little, before they started school, I used to worry about Hallowe’en. I thought they’d be scared of the witches and ghosts and I wanted to protect them from all that. But Mike pointed out that sometimes you need to be scared of something so that you understand what it’s like to feel safe. And then they started school and once that happens you get the slow drip-feed of peer pressure and before you know it you’re taking them trick-or-treating dressed up as the bride of Frankenstein.

  And now, even though my kids are adults, they still get excited at the prospect of a burning pumpkin. I’ve already seen Lauren’s Instagram. She’s got up as a black cat in ripped fishnet tights because of course you always see cats wearing fishnet tights. But she’s having fun, out with her mates in Plymouth. And here’s Harry with his boyfriend who, being North American, knows how to do Hallowe’en. He’s scooped out the pumpkin in super-fast time and put it on the doorstep, only instead of sculpting a wicked face, he’s carved a heart. This is so sweet I get a lump in my throat and take the logical decision to seek comfort in the lethal punch Dad has concocted. Which, it has to be said, is impressive. He has an old baby bath filled with green liquid and smouldering, swirling dry ice.

  I’ve dressed up as Cruella De Vil and have shoehorned a humiliated Bob into a Dalmatian costume. He looks very cute which makes me think of puppies. Tom’s invited so if he turns up I’ll ask him. I could send him a text to see if he’s coming?

  Can you make it tonight? Jen x

  Got someone staying soz x

  You can bring them too if you want?

  Ok, might well do that, ta x

  Don’t forget it’s fancy dress.

  It’s only six o’clock and my ridiculous make-up is already slipping off my face. I can hear a gaggle of kids and parents coming up the road, door to door. Dad, dressed as a zombie Albert Einstein, is on treat duty with a basket of Haribo.

  ‘When are you putting on your costume, Granddad?’ Harry asks.

  ‘Very witty, Harry. Very witty. But I think you’ll find there’s nothing funny about quantum theory.’

  ‘No, Granddad. It’s serious stuff.’ Harry says this deadpan, dressed as Robin to Dale’s Batman.

  By seven, after a face-repair job and a couple of glasses of Dad’s punch, the party is in full swing. The team are all here. Tish as a tattered, dusty Miss Havisham with her partner Miranda as a mono-browed Frida Kahlo. Jackie as a bloodied serial-killer librarian. Carol as an unlikely Rosa Klebb. I’m hoping Tom will turn up. Perhaps that’s why I keep checking my face in the mirror and disappearing to the loo. Or that could be the inroads I’m making on Dad’s cocktail.

  Just as I’m thinking he probably won’t come, there he is in my hallway with his ‘friend’, a stunningly beautiful curvaceous woman got up as a vampish Fenella Fielding in Carry On Screaming. A mass of black hair, pale skin and blood-red lippy.

  ‘This is Sarah, aka Valeria,’ Tom says. Tom is dressed up as Kenneth Williams’s Dr Watt. ‘She’s involved with museums and I thought you could pick her brains.’

  I was hoping she wouldn’t have brains as well as looks but obviously she does and I’ve been asked to pick them. I don’t want to pick them. I want to bar her from the house. I know I’m feeling this anger towards her – yes, it is actually anger – because I’m pretty sure she and Tom have got something going on. And I realize now, seeing him laugh with Sarah, that I really do like him. A lot. But it seems I missed the boat. If there was even a boat to catch.

  To make matters worse, Sarah is charming and sweet and incredibly helpful and tucks into the punch like a pro and gets on with everybody and I can’t work this out because I want to like her but how can I if she’s Tom’s girlfriend? I’ll just have to accept that he’s not interested in me like that. But I thought that he was, I really did, so that’s confusing. And a big pile of pants.

  But right now, I’m wondering about Dad who’s abandoned his sentry post as the kids have gone home. Where is he?

  I head down to the shed, with difficulty as I’m wearing ridiculous killer heels. Inside I find Bob has been relieved of his shameful costume and is curled up in his bed. Dad’s Einstein moustache has gone wonky so he’s even more the mad professor, especially as he’s cleaning Violet, the still, rubbing in salt with half a lemon and buffing with a pair of old St Michael’s Y-fronts.

  It’s working, though. The blue-green is gradually coming off and I reckon Violet will be stunning after her facelift.

  ‘Nice job, Dad.’

  ‘I’m quite pleased with it.’ He sits back on his heels and his knees crick-crack. ‘I’ve had these underpants since Margaret Thatcher was prime minister.’

  ‘Glad to see you’re putting them to good use.’

  Tom turns up at this point and my stomach jellifies. ‘This is where you’re hiding. Figured you’d both be out here. How’s Violet coming along?’

  ‘She’s having a thorough rub-down,’ Dad says. ‘Then she’ll be good to go.’

  ‘You’re cracking on with the distilling?’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ I tell him. ‘While we wait on planning permission and a distilling licence.’

  ‘Fingers crossed for that. And the campaigning. Anything I can do?’

  ‘I reckon we’ve got it under control, thanks.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, that’s good. Let me know if you need any help. Any time.’

  I mutter a pathetic thank-you and this is followed by an awkward minute while we watch Dad continue to work his magic.

  And then Tom makes me jump when he says, ‘Oh, yes! I almost forgot! I came here to deliver some news.’

  ‘About the gin business?’

  ‘No. Actu
ally for that chap over there.’ He points at Bob. ‘He’s going to be a father.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I hear myself getting all emotional. Even Dad has to wipe at his eye.

  ‘It’s puppies all round for Christmas. Though of course dogs are for life and all that.’

  ‘And we really get pick of the litter?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Course.’

  ‘But I haven’t said yes, Dad.’

  ‘No, Jennifer Juniper, you haven’t. But you will.’

  Next in the shed is Carol with Sarah in tow. They seem to have hit it off and I’m even more annoyed now.

  ‘Did you know Sarah works in a museum?’ Carol asks me.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Isn’t that a coincidence?’

  ‘Much bigger than ours,’ Carol blunders on.

  I slink over to the corner and give Bob a cuddle, try to focus on puppies because that’s much happier than thinking about Sarah and her perfect life.

  While she charms my father and Carol, Tom sidles over to my side and asks quietly, ‘You all right, Jen?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine too. You seem a bit, well, agitated?’

  ‘Do I? It’s a busy time. I’m keen to get started on this gin to see if it’s something we can actually do. I mean, we have this massive property and we can’t do anything till we have planning permission and sometimes I don’t know if it’s completely mad.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. Between you lot, you’ve got it all covered.’

  We watch the others who are huddled around Violet. Dad is telling Sarah and Carol about the Hague Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict of 1954. Carol’s completely used to this rambling but Sarah, a newcomer, is also taking it in her stride. And now Sarah and Carol have left the shed to take Dad up to the house for a cuppa as it’s a school night and people are heading off.

  ‘So… what about Sarah?’ I do my very best to look Tom in the eye which is slightly tricky because his make-up makes me want to laugh and I’m trying to be serious.