The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘Time to batten down the hatches,’ Jackie says, biting her lip. Then she turns to me. ‘I didn’t want to ask you this but is there any way Mike could come down and help us?’

  I’m thinking about the prospect of asking Mike to come down and help us when we hear footsteps clonk up the stairs and an out-of-breath and sodden Tish announces, ‘The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.’ She gasps. ‘Sorry I’ve been so long.’

  We ask what happened and she goes into a lengthy speech worthy of Dame Judi Dench. ‘I went to buy some cigarettes – I know, I know but that vape is most vexatious. Anyway…’ She inhales a lungful of air. ‘I decided to drive to the newsagent’s and that was when I saw Kev walking along, drenched, heading out of town and the fates were urging me to follow him and ask if he needed a lift somewhere. “I must get home,” he said. “Ma’s not well.” He’d been out to buy her flowers but the wretched bouquet was awfully sad and bedraggled by this point, as was he, more so than usual. I ordered him to get in the car, which he did, and then I drove up the back lanes to the farm. It wasn’t easy. I had the wipers on full, the car was buffeted by the wind and at one instant I thought we were likely to get stuck up that cursed track but my car’s as strong as a tank so by the power of Grayskull we made it and I followed him into the farmhouse to see if there was anything I could do.’

  She stops for a moment, gathers her thoughts. Steadies herself.

  ‘You’re soaked, Tish. You should go home and get changed,’ Jackie urges.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I have the constitution of a block of iron. But Old Woman Bates is in a bad way. Kev’s nephew was on the phone to the doctor when we arrived. The doctor called for an ambulance. I left them to it then as it seemed an intrusion to remain. But I do feel something bad in my bones.’

  Tish’s bones are legendary. They feel the weather coming. They feel bad news.

  ‘It’s terrible outside,’ she goes on, as if she needs to underline this when we’re surrounded by drips and buckets. ‘The rain is lashing so hard it hurts what exposed skin I had—Oh.’ Finally she spots the immediate problem.

  I’m really hoping Tish is exaggerating how sick poor old Violet is because I can’t think too much about her now, not when we’ve got to focus on the problem of a very expensive house falling down around us. And I know Violet would be urging me to do something so I swallow my pride and phone Mike, who’s a builder after all. He’s actually very accommodating and says he’ll be with us in half an hour. Which gives us enough time to go up to the observatory and see the state of it – broken panes of glass shattered over the floor. Rotten window frames. A hole in the roof where tiles have slipped and through which you can see the black clouds unleashing their vengeance. And the four of us for the first time really, really understand that this could be an impossible challenge.

  But it’s Carol who comes out with a statement, not from Facebook or a tattoo, that makes me realize how much I underestimate her.

  ‘“I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.”’ And even she is surprised when she adds, ‘Louisa May Alcott.’

  She really is my best friend in the whole wide world.

  MIKE, WEATHER-BEATEN, IN a water-logged hoody, examines the damage and makes that builder noise that yet again strikes terror into my heart. But he knows me well enough to realize this won’t help matters and so he turns all businesslike and says he’ll call in some favours and get the place secured so it doesn’t suffer too much more as the storm’s still raging.

  Over the next couple of hours we have a chippy, a spark and a roofer. Between them and Mike they board up the observatory and patch the roof from the inside as it’s far too hazardous to get out. They do what little else they can to the most vulnerable rooms but I can tell from how they’re talking to each other in low voices that they think we’re mad to have taken on a project like this.

  ‘You get off,’ I suggest to the others. ‘I’ll stay and see the lads out. They shouldn’t be long now.’ They’re all so tired they don’t argue but Carol gives me a hug and says she’ll text later.

  Not long after, I let the builders out with much thanks and appreciation and then it’s just me and Mike.

  ‘Can we have a chat?’ he asks, a bit shifty so I’m wondering if he knows more than the others were letting on. ‘It’s about the kids.’ A smattering of panic while I wonder which of the children is in trouble or maimed but that’s daft because he’d have mentioned it earlier.

  ‘Tell me then.’

  ‘Not here. I need a pint. The Bishop?’

  SOMETIMES IT WOULD be useful to be a dog because you could just shake the rain off. Instead I have to make do with shivering on the pub doormat and drip-drying. It’s fairly quiet inside but with enough body mass to make the windows steamy. Mike nabs a table for two near the wood burner, tells me to sit while he goes to the bar.

  I peel off my coat and hang it like a sealskin on the back of the chair, sit down and wait, watch him wave a twenty-pound note at June. I know he knows I’m watching him; I can tell by his familiar body language. He tells June to keep the change, Flash Harry, and joins me at the table, plonking down the tray which holds four pints.

  ‘Is someone else joining us?’

  ‘Nope.’ He hands me one of the pints, takes one for himself. ‘Cheers,’ he says, uncheerfully.

  ‘Cheers.’ I chink his glass, afflicted still with hard-dying habits. ‘We’re not celebrating, are we?’

  ‘Not exactly, no.’ He downs his pint in one go and makes inroads on the next.

  ‘What is it, Mike? You’re worrying me.’

  ‘We need to talk about our marriage.’

  ‘Mike, no. You can’t come back.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying.’

  ‘Oh? You’ve definitely gone off the idea then?’

  ‘It was wrong of me to put you in that position. I know it’s over, you and me. I was unhappy and wanted our old life back but it’s a different life now.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was such a tosser.’

  ‘You were a mega tosser but what’s done is done. I’m ready to lay the past to rest.’

  ‘I’ve not died.’

  ‘Our marriage has died.’ A wave of sadness licks about my ankles. Thankfully, before the tide rises and swamps me with salty grief, something occurs to me and I know I have to share this little gem with Mike. ‘It’s like gin distilling,’ I tell him.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘In gin distilling, we’ve discovered there’s a fair amount of waste involved and our Lolly’s suggested we put it into an effluent tank and take it to a local anaerobic digestion plant to be turned into bio gas.’

  ‘Hang on, where are you going with this? Are you suggesting we recycle our marriage into bio gas?’ Mike’s confused, but worse than that, he’s playing confused. It’s deflection, an old habit that he’s obviously not shifted. ‘What are you saying, Jen?’

  ‘Let me speak.’

  ‘Sorry, only I did want to chat to you for a reason.’

  ‘Never mind that, you can tell me in a minute. My point is that the cuttings at the beginning and the end of the distillation process are waste because they have impurities and can’t be drunk. They’re called the heads and tails.’

  ‘Where’s this going?’

  ‘My God, you’ve got the patience of a child on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Sorry. Go on.’

  ‘Right. Well. What we’re left with, once the waste has gone, is the good bit, the drinkable section. And guess what that’s called?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘It’s called the hearts.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Don’t you see? Our marriage was distilled and we’ve got rid of the waste. And what we’re left with is our kids. They’re our hearts.’

  ‘That’s a nice way of looking at it.’ He smiles. Takes another gulp of his pint, sighs, then starts drumming his fingertips on the beer mat in f
ront of him.

  ‘What is it, Mike?’

  ‘That’s sort of why I’m here.’

  ‘Right.’

  He says nothing, flips his beer mat with the back of his fingers and catches it. Does it again. And a third time.

  ‘So why are you here?’ I ease the mat from his clasp. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Melanie wanted me to talk to you.’ He shifts on his chair. ‘I mean, I want to talk to you as well, it’s just that she was keen for it to happen right away, so you see, I’ve been sent here to tell you that… well… there’s another little heart.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Melanie’s pregnant.’

  HE FETCHES ME a gin and tonic, a double by the taste of it, while I digest this latest information. Mike is going to be a father again, at the grand old age of fifty. I manage to mumble half-hearted congratulations though I’m not sure if this is the right etiquette, or if he even feels like congratulations are in order. But at least he does attempt to answer my questions.

  Melanie is fine. Melanie has had her twelve-week scan. Melanie is almost over the morning sickness. Melanie is delighted. Melanie wants a bigger place.

  But there’s a final question and he’s avoiding it so there’s only one thing for it. I shall take control of the situation.

  ‘Shall we get a divorce, Mike?’ I’m asking this of the man across the table from me, a man I’ve loved nearly all my life. To my ears, it sounds so ridiculous, like asking him if he wants a cup of tea or something from the chippie, and I never expected it all to end like this but now it has, it’s OK. It’s actually OK.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he says.

  So that is that. Our marriage will cease to exist but we’ll be left with the hearts. Three hearts and who knows how many in the future?

  ‘Right then,’ he says. ‘Just because we’re divorcing doesn’t mean I can’t still help you out. I’ll do whatever I can at Clatford House but it’s a big job.’

  ‘Too big?’

  ‘Too big for me alone. But there’s someone who might be prepared to help.’

  I WAS UP for most of the night what with yesterday’s events tumbleweeding through my mind and the noise of the hoolie blowing outdoors. At one point there was a lightning bolt directly overhead. The room lit up and I could see two small dogs snuggled up to each other at the end of my bed. And a couple of seconds later there came an almighty crack of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. It sounded seawards, hopefully far enough out and away from poor old Clatford House hanging on by its bitten fingernails.

  I lay there, waiting for the next one, and the next. And I thought about the new baby in our lives, because this new baby, Mike’s baby, will be in our lives, a sibling for Harry and Lolly. And I thought about death too, because a baby goes hand in hand with it. My mother used to tell me that. Out with the old and in with the new. And yes, she was an unashamed hippy, but she’d grown up with the old country ways.

  All’s calm and still now. Like the morning after a riotous party. Everyone is pale and tired, shuffling around in dressing gowns, clutching mugs of tea. Dad’s doing the dishes, a bowl full to the brim with bubbles. He calls me over to survey the garden. ‘Lucky there’s no leaves on that pear tree.’ He points his sudsy washing-up brush in the direction of the bald tree, like he intends to conduct a magic spell or maybe a re-run of the ‘Ride of the Valkyries’. ‘The whole thing could’ve come down. Imagine if it fell onto my shed?’ And he slaps his forehead as he remembers. ‘Any news on Clatford House?’

  ‘Not great. Jackie texted to say more windows have blown and more tiles have fallen.’

  ‘I’ll peel the spuds then.’ The obvious answer.

  ‘Spuds?’

  ‘Potatoes. Capsicum annuum. Solanum tuberosum. For the roast dinner.’

  ‘Are we having a roast dinner?’

  ‘Of course we are. It’s a Sunday.’

  ‘We don’t have any meat.’

  ‘There’s half a lamb in the freezer. I got it off Kev.’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘I saw him at the hospital yesterday when I visited his mother.’

  ‘When did you go there?’

  ‘When you were out with Mike.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I passed the Bishop on my way home and saw you walking in together. Why were you out with Mike? Does he still want to come back?’

  So I recount yesterday’s conversation. The divorce. The baby. And he listens, makes no comment, probably thinking about genetics and DNA and what-have-you, but still, he takes it well, even pours us both a sherry.

  ‘How are you going to defrost half a lamb?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Kev cut it up and I’ve kept out a piece. It’s in the shed. I’ll fetch it now, sprinkle on some rosemary, rub in olive oil and garlic, season, pop in the oven. You watch the dogs. I’m not sure Denis is up to raw sheep just yet.’

  ‘I’m going to check on Clatford House. See the damage for myself.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘No, Dad. I’m never on my own.’ And I give him a kiss as I think of Old Woman Bates and how precious our parents are. ‘But I might be needing a strong young man.’ I raise my eyes upwards.

  ‘Dale?’

  ‘No, Harry.’

  I call my son and while I’m waiting for him to appear, I remember I haven’t asked after Violet.

  ‘Ah, no, well,’ Dad says. ‘She’s heading towards her expiry date.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘What? She’s had a good innings and she’s ready to go.’

  ‘But it’s sad.’

  ‘She’s older than the Queen, you know…’

  It hovers there, in the kitchen, quivering thoughts of mortality, big questions of life and death, and I know Harry and Lolly need to be told about the divorce and the baby but maybe that’s something Mike and I can do together.

  Right now, there’s someone I must see before going to the museum and Harry’s my wing man.

  IT’S BEEN A while since I’ve been to this house. It used to be his parents’ but they’ve moved to a bungalow the size of Southfork and he’s lived here alone since his latest divorce.

  I pull up in front of his driveway and cut the engine.

  ‘Nice Jag,’ Harry says. ‘Isn’t this where Dave Barton lives?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘We’re going to have a little chat with him.’

  ‘What are we, the Dingleton mob?’

  ‘No, that’s the Bartons and it’s about time they gave up their reign of terror and put our town first.’

  ‘Reign of terror? Dave Barton’s hardly Robespierre.’

  ‘I’m exaggerating for dramatic effect.’

  We get out of the car.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘The plan?’

  ‘Do we have a script we’re working from?’

  ‘This isn’t a telesales job, Harry. Just back me up. He won’t try any silly business if you’re here.’

  ‘Silly business? Does he have a shotgun?’

  ‘Probably. He’s always out killing pheasants. But no. It’s his hands I’m more worried about.’

  ‘You think he might hit you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh…’ Harry straightens up to his full five foot eight. ‘He’d better not try any funny stuff with my mother. Let’s go.’

  The two of us walk up the driveway. Harry rings the bell. Twice. A dog barks. A big-sounding dog. The door is flung open and a Shih Tzu growls at us.

  ‘OK, big boy. Calm down,’ Dave says. ‘We have visitors. Harry, you’ve grown. To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘Can we come in?’ I demand. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Sounds ominous.’ He stands back, wafts us inside while the dog bares its teeth and we follow him into the front room, or the ‘drawing room’ as he calls it.

  ‘Drink?’ He points at an extravagant trolley full of c
rystal-cut decanters and chunky glasses.

  Tempting as it is, I decline. ‘Shall we sit down?’

  He looks worried for a second. ‘Have you got bad news or something?’

  ‘Just sit.’

  He sits on what must be ‘his chair’ while Harry and I take the sofa.

  ‘So, Jennifer. What can I do you for?’

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘Do you now. In what way?’

  ‘With Clatford House.’

  ‘You’ve seen the light and want to sell it on?’

  ‘No, I want your backing.’

  ‘Are you asking for money?’

  ‘Not unless you’re offering.’

  ‘I’m not offering.’

  ‘Well, I’m not asking for money. I’m asking for manpower to fix the house. As you must’ve gathered by now, the storm’s knocked it for six.’

  ‘Manpower?’