The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘Leave me alone.’ This time I know I’m quieter because the force of my words doesn’t hurt so much. Because I can only just make out the spat sentence. Leave me alone. Something I should have said a long, long time ago.

  ‘You forgot something,’ he says. And to my ears he sounds like a little boy. Not the adolescent who thought he was Morrissey, who thought he was the bee’s knees, who took my heart and squeezed it till there was nothing left but a shattered teenage dream.

  ‘What? What did I forget?’ I’m whispering now, the life gone out of me, the fight buggered off. ‘Did I forget to tell you I actually hate you?’

  ‘This,’ he says. ‘You forgot this.’ And he hands me my bag. My handbag with my purse and my phone and my address book and everything that is personal to me.

  ‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’

  ‘Are you all right, Jennifer? You look flushed.’ He reaches out, slowly, touches my forehead, gently, and there’s a fleeting notion that he might actually be concerned for me, that there might be a residual element of care, only then he goes and ruins it.

  ‘I’ve always fancied you,’ he says, eyes dark and steamy. He gives me that Dave Barton smile, which was cute when he was a young lad, yes, it was bloody cute and to die for, but now it’s not. I don’t know what it is but it’s certainly not cute. ‘I’m sorry I treated you badly back in the day. I really am.’ He lays his hand on my arm, touchy-feely as ever. A tingle shoots through my veins. I have no idea what that’s all about.

  Before I can decide, another man appears.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Jen?’ He’s clocked Dave’s hand which is still resting on my arm. I snatch my arm away, shove my hand in my pocket. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Dave says. ‘I’ve got it.’

  I’m speechless.

  But Tom speaks for me. ‘It? You’ve got it?’

  ‘It’s a manner of speaking,’ Dave says. ‘A phrase.’

  ‘Words are important, mate.’

  ‘So are actions. Mate.’

  ‘What, like this?’ And Tom makes a swing for Dave, only he slips on the grass and misses. By which time Dave is ready to have a pop. I’ve never seen two more unlikely men to have a fight. It’s so ridiculous I can’t think straight. I want to laugh but I also want to shout at them. Both of them. But they’re not listening. Now they’re on the muddy ground, rolling around like idiots, scrapping like toddlers on ice, sending ducks squawking and flapping, edging towards the edge of the brook. A nearby swan has a vicious glint in his eye.

  And I am equally angry. How dare they speak for me? How dare they fight over me? Just as they topple into the water and splash around like they need arm bands, I turn away and stomp off. It’s not like they’re going to drown. The water is knee deep. But that swan does look murderous.

  TODAY’S THE DAY we get our puppy. Much excitement only tainted by the prospect of having to see Tom. I’m still angry with him and I’m angry with myself for being angry with him and that makes me even angrier. I don’t know if this is all worth it, all these disturbing, agitating emotions whipped up by another man, an unknown quantity. I almost miss Mike. I knew where I was with Mike. Only I didn’t, though, did I? And now I’m annoyed because I’m already breaking my resolution of not getting cross with Mike.

  I’m going to find Dad and see if he’ll come with me to Tom’s. I can’t face any kind of chat. I just want to bring home Bob’s puppy.

  Dad’s in the shed. ‘You’re looking glum, Jennifer Juniper. What’s the matter?’

  I tell him about the idiotic fight between Tom and Dave.

  Dad coughs, a poor attempt to suppress the urge to laugh. ‘Boys will be boys,’ he says.

  ‘No, Dad. That theory doesn’t wash. They’re men and they should behave like men. Proper men.’

  ‘We all make mistakes, Jen. In the heat of the moment. Anger can take over and nothing else matters when all you can see is a fuzz. You should know. You’re prone to outbursts. Why is it OK for you to get angry and not them?’

  ‘I didn’t ask them to get angry. I didn’t ask for them to get involved.’

  ‘But they are.’

  ‘So what should I do? Will you come round with me to get Denis?’

  ‘You’re a grown woman, Jennifer Juniper. You can do that on your own.’

  ‘Oh, Dad. Why do you have to be so… so…’

  ‘Clever?’

  ‘I was going to say annoying. But unfortunately I think you’re probably right.’

  Dad sits at his desk and opens his diary, starts writing.

  ‘What are you doing, Dad? I’m trying to have a conversation with you.’

  ‘I just need to make a note before I forget. This is an historic day. My daughter admitting I am not only clever but probably right.’

  ‘Dad.’

  TEN MINUTES LATER, I turn up at Coast Guards Row, alone, because Dad’s so annoying I didn’t want him to come in the end – which, thinking about it, was probably his plan.

  Tom takes his time answering the door, long enough for me to turn and walk away but—

  ‘Jen. Come in. Please.’

  Tom looks tired, worn out, so I go inside, hauling the travel crate to transport Denis home with me.

  ‘He’s asleep right now,’ Tom says. ‘They all are.’

  He shows me into the front room. The pups are scattered across the wooden floorboards in various soporific states.

  ‘I got rid of the carpet,’ he says.

  ‘Probably for the best.’

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  I say yes, because it’s polite, the civilized thing to do, and I sit down on the sofa, next to Betty who has clearly had enough of being a mother to so many. Her ears are soft like Mrs Pink’s and I wish Lolly was with me now. Betty sighs and rests her chin on my leg. She’s warm and solid and I realize that she and I, we’re in the same boat. Empty-nesters. Though Tom’s keeping Juniper so she’ll not be rid of all her offspring. Having said that, I have Harry back home and Dale for good measure. Maybe your kids never actually leave. If you’re lucky.

  Tom returns with the tea. He smiles, hesitant, awkward, and I notice again that vulnerable chip in his front tooth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘About that stupid fight. I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘OK, yes, I do.’

  ‘What? Tell me.’

  He hesitates again, opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. ‘I don’t like seeing you upset.’ A pause. ‘Because you mean a lot to me.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Surely you know that?’

  ‘Well, no, not really. I mean, I’m not really sure what to think.’

  ‘OK, then, right, well,’ he says, not so eloquent today. ‘Er… Is it enough for me to say, for now, I really, really like you?’

  ‘It’s a start, I suppose.’ I give him what I hope is an encouraging smile.

  ‘Right then,’ he says, clapping his hands, teacher mode, like he’s sorted out a squabble. ‘Drink your tea and we’ll get Denis into his crate.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Is that the end of this conversation?’

  ‘No. It’s just on pause.’ He scoops up Denis, who is snuggled next to Martin and my heart lurches at the thought of separating the siblings but this is the way it has to be. ‘Have a hold of the bruiser.’

  I have a hold of the bruiser. Betty lifts her head from my leg and sniffs Denis’s bottom. Satisfied with that, she curls up and goes back to sleep. I can feel a tear creep into my eye and so I busy myself putting Denis in his crate. Tom pops a small blanket in there.

  ‘It smells of his mum. Just till he settles. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. He’s a lucky boy. He’ll be living with his dad and he’ll be seeing Betty all the time.’

  And with these words of reassurance, I reach up to Tom and plant a kiss on his lips. ‘I really, really like you too,’ I tell him.

  AFTER A FE
W sleep-disturbed nights, I give in and let Denis sleep in the sofa bed with me, much like I did with Harry as a baby. He snuggles into my feet while Bob takes up his place curled into my back. I don’t know why I bothered trying to sleep-train Denis as this was inevitable.

  Bob was very sniffy when I brought Denis home. He kept eyeing him, askance, probably hoping I’d take him away again. But he’s slowly getting used to him. I’ve even caught him letting Denis into his basket which is alongside his in the kitchen.

  Anyway, much coffee is needed this morning as today is the licensing hearing. And I’m hoping that Dave will have met his match with our secret weapon. Sometimes living in a small town has tremendous benefits. Who knew that a cross-country run in the early eighties and a shared Mars Bar could lead to a potential breakthrough in my career thirty years on?

  THE HEARING IS at 11 a.m. in the council offices. There are three councillors on the subcommittee plus a reserve. Two of them are middle-aged, paunchy know-it-alls, and the reserve is an old duffer, who’s been on the council since the Jurassic Period. But the fourth one is a youngish woman whom I recognize. She used to work in the bakery. Helped run the Brownies. She’s proper local, proper Devon and she knows what this town needs. And I reckon she’ll put those needs over and above her own wants.

  The others attending include the various officers who’ve been involved in the process, the council solicitor, and the woman who was with Dave that day at the auction, who bid on Clatford House on his behalf. Turns out she’s an accountant. Well, well, well, of course she is. But we have a magistrate speaking on our behalf because sitting alongside Jackie, Tish, Carol and me is Tracey, our agreed speaker. I hope she has a tennis ball in her pocket and that she’s improved her aim since school.

  Game on.

  First on the agenda is to elect a Chair. Paunch 1 is voted in and opens proceedings, asking for confirmation that there are no Members with disclosable pecuniary and non-pecuniary interests that relate to the business on the agenda. I look pointedly at Dave, a Member with a capital M, who gazes nonchalantly ahead at the Chair.

  The Chair, easily satisfied, reads through the basics of the application, informing us that there are no representations from the Responsible Authorities. I can tell already that he’s biased, that he completely supports Dave’s claims that we intend to open a gin palace and that crime and disorder will ensue, plunging Dingleton into a gin-soaked no-go zone.

  Then he invites the woman, Miss Jones, to speak. She is dressed like Melania Trump, trying to look classy, but there’s a certain fakeness lurking behind the foundation and the kohl-rimmed eyes. She talks about how we haven’t addressed the issue of antisocial behaviour, Dave nodding along. Dave who displayed and continues to display the most antisocial behaviour I have ever known. And then, unbelievably, she talks about the bloody bins. How the seagulls are out of control and that the museum has not helped with this. How opening a bar would exacerbate the problem. Bloody cheek of it.

  Next up is Tracey. She addresses these points head on.

  ‘This is not about gin palaces, Gin Lane or Mother’s Ruin. This is not the slippery slope. This is going to be an artisan endeavour. These local women are making small batches of craft-distilled gin using locally foraged ingredients. This is about Dingleton. The gin will tie into the museum – there will be links to our smuggling past, to the engineering of Isambard Kingdom Brunel and the science behind his atmospheric railway, to the violets that used to be sent by train to London. In fact, violet will be a key botanical in our gin. We could reinstate the Violet Fair which would both unite our town and bring in the tourists and day-trippers who’ve fallen away in recent years.

  ‘As for crime and disorder, there will be CCTV. There won’t be a late licence. There are no issues with parking, or noise, or light pollution. Most importantly, the gin bar will raise revenue which will enable the museum to reopen, and be bigger and better, more relevant and a beacon of outreach to all, including the disadvantaged and the excluded. All in all, I heartily support this new business venture.’

  I want to leap to my feet, shout and stamp, but I just aim the biggest smile at Tracey for being our champion. I’d buy her a multi-pack of Mars Bars only that might be considered a bribe and we must remain squeaky clean.

  In the end, it’s a close-run thing and we owe something to the Jurassic councillor who votes in our favour.

  ‘My wife and I used to enjoy a gin and tonic before supper,’ he says. ‘It saw us through the good times and the bad times. As Churchill said, “The gin and tonic has saved more Englishmen’s lives, and minds, than all the doctors in the Empire.”’

  By gin-go. He’s got it.

  And we have a licence.

  THAT EVENING, AFTER supper and under the ginfluence, I text Tom to thank him for his support.

  He pings straight back.

  How’s Denis?

  Denis on my bed. On my pillow.

  Sleep training going well then?

  Couldn’t be better. Can u meet us at

  museum tomorrow? After school?

  Yep, can do. What about?

  Ideas. We need ideas.

  I’ll be there.

  Maybe after we can go for a drink?

  Steady on. Next you’ll be proposing.

  I’m still married.

  Maybe you need to do something about that?

  Maybe I do.

  Yes, maybe I really do need to do something about that. Must arrange to meet up with Mike and discuss. After all, this is a week for doing business. I’m on a roll.

  WE ARE SITTING on the window seat in the library of Clatford House, extra chairs gathered round, drinking coffee. It’s a stormy February morning and we watch the waves wash up and over the sea wall and onto the railway track below us. The Paddington train chugs along slowly and there’s a sense this could be the last train out of here. We really need this line. It attaches us to the rest of the country and, as much as we all love Dingleton, we need it to stay open so we know we’re a part of the world beyond. We all need ambition and dreams. If we’re lucky enough to be able to stay here, make a life here, then good, that’s great. But some of us want to head off into the big wide world. Stay, leave, return, all of us are connected in some way to the landscape, to the slightly scuzzy town that has so much potential.

  Tom has congratulated us all on our triumph – we have not only a licence but also change of use – because one would be useless without the other. We are all still beaming. ‘Let’s hope the grant comes through from the Heritage Lottery Fund,’ he says.

  And the butterflies in my stomach that have been flapping for the last few weeks, which stopped briefly after yesterday’s news, start up with their fluttering again. We are really going to need that money. So much for all the ridiculous beaming.

  ‘What’s the plan today, Jackie?’ Carol asks.

  ‘I thought we should have a tour of the building, generate some ideas, construct some sort of plan of action. I know nothing’s certain at this point, but we need to be looking ahead.’ Jackie has her clipboard and means business.

  Tish, dressed in a sixties miniskirt and boots, hair in a band and big hooped earrings, is languishing on the window seat, like she’s posing for David Bailey. ‘I know we’re supposed to have an eye to the future, but obviously being a historian, and working in a museum, I can’t help but glance back over my shoulder. And yesterday is a day I want to remember for the rest of my life. I only wish I had a photograph of the expression on that gouty-legged ninnycock’s face.’ She reaches into her hippy bag and pulls out a vape. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m popping outside for five minutes.’

  ‘You’re vaping now?’ Carol asks.

  ‘I told Miranda that if we got the licence I’d give up the cigs. This vile contraption is a step towards that goal.’ And she swaggers off, leaving a trail of Je Reviens in her wake.

  We spend the next hour thrashing out ideas for the museum, building on what we wrote in the funding application
, Jackie making notes. These are the items agreed:

  • A callout in the local paper and on social media for people to search in their attic for objects of historical interest. Stuff connected to their grandparents etc. that shed light on how life was lived in Dingleton.

  • Making our collections more accessible through digitization and by getting the community involved in creative, fun ways.

  • Improve visitor access and facilities (new lavs, a lift and a ramp).

  • An education programme.

  • An outreach programme.

  • Recruiting volunteers who may be long-term un employed, socially isolated, or living with mental-health challenges.

  • Creating and maintaining a strong sense of community and place. Giving our town a focus.

  ‘Time for a comfort break.’ Jackie stretches and I notice for the first time how tired she looks. Tired but that glint is still there. ‘Then we’ll wander round the building, wrestle with how we want this vision to be.’

  ‘Where’s Tish?’ Carol asks. ‘She never came back.’

  ‘Maybe she went to buy fags?’ I suggest.

  ‘Have you seen it out there?’ Tom nods towards the window that’s rattling in the wind, fat rain splashing off it so we can barely make out the angry sea below.

  ‘A hurricane wouldn’t stop Tish getting fags,’ I point out.

  ‘I’ll text her,’ Jackie says but it’s unlikely she’ll get any response as Tish, not being one for new-fangled contraptions, will either have left the phone on her kitchen table or it’ll be out of battery.

  By the time we’ve had our comfort break, she’s still not returned.

  ‘Right,’ Jackie says. ‘While we’re waiting for Tish, let’s carry on. She’s probably sheltering from the rain somewhere.’

  So we do the tour of the museum. We visit each room in turn downstairs, the smaller rooms currently used for archives and exhibits, the less salubrious rooms in the old servants’ quarters which lead off dark, dank corridors. Then the library, with its old books, some of which could be sold seeing as they’re not connected directly to Dingleton and could raise extra funds. Then the Captain’s Parlour which we’re all agreed is the obvious place for the gin bar. Not only does it have access from the street but it also has French windows leading onto the terrace with its stunning view of the bay. A lovely room, with grand proportions, but needing a ton of work. It’s all going to be a ton of work and it’s completely and utterly terrifying. But it’s also exciting and energizing and hopeful. Then upstairs. As we reach the large airy landing, the light is mysterious, a storm flickering on the horizon. From the window of the master bedroom, where Captain Clatford no doubt woke of a morning and could look out to sea while having his first grog of the day, we can see how angry the Channel is, in turmoil, waves arching over the railway line which surely now must be closed. But over and above this roar we can make out an unmistakable drip-drip. A leak. The bloody roof. There’s a puddle in one of the corners so we hunt for a bucket to put under it and towels to soak up the water. We check the other rooms too. More leaks. More puddles. And a rattling window in the maid’s room that you can feel the wind rush through.