The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  ‘Or woman. Whatever. You have a large building firm and masses of contacts and Mike’s doing his best to help but it’s a bigger job than he can cope with.’

  ‘Mike’s helping?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Because you’re no longer a couple. He left you.’

  ‘Yes, he did leave me. For your niece. But we are working things out together for the future because… because it’s what’s best for our kids.’

  ‘Plus Melanie’s having Dad’s baby,’ Harry blurts out.

  Dave’s jaw actually drops as he takes in what Harry has just said. As does mine. At least my son has the decency to blush.

  ‘How did you know that, Harry?’ I ask him, bewildered.

  ‘Dad told me.’

  ‘Right.’

  Dave’s on his feet now, pouring a whisky, pacing the room, muttering half to himself. ‘Mike’s got Melanie up the duff? Well, I never. The dirty old dog.’ He stops, remembers we’re here in the room with him. ‘So, Harry.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re going to be related.’

  ‘It looks that way. A bit. Not close or anything. I’m not going to start calling you Uncle Dave or whatever.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘So can you help Mum?’

  ‘Er… I’d like to but no. I don’t think I can.’ He’s saved any explanation by his phone conveniently beeping. And he’s rude enough to answer it. ‘Sorry about this but I’ve got to go. It’s Melanie.’

  ‘Melanie?’ This is too weird. ‘Is she all right? Is Mike all right?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She’s at Clatford House of all places and wants me to go there right away.’

  He’s already heading out the door putting on his overcoat, Harry and I on his tail.

  THE DAMAGE IS worse than I thought. The observatory has lost more tiles. There’re great chunks of plaster sprawled across the terrace and one of the bedroom ceilings has pretty much come down so that the air is thick with dust. Jackie, Tish, Miranda, Mike, the spark, the chippy and other blokey mates are getting their hands dirty and I want to cry when I see them all in hard hats and it’s difficult not to freak out over the amount of work ahead of us and yet I’m in awe that so many people are pitching in.

  Dave is walking round with his hands in his overcoat pockets, examining the walls, ceilings, floors with what might actually be concern on his face. He might’ve wanted to pimp out this building to a cheap pub chain but he also knew that it would conserve the house. So deep down I don’t think he wants to see it go to rack and ruin, even to prove a point.

  He catches my eye, looks away when Melanie appears, tugging at his arm, leading him into the library, and I’m tempted to follow but she closes the door behind them. And anyway, what would be the point of that? He’s not going to help. Maybe we’ve got enough help, in any case.

  ‘Right, Harry. Let’s get cracking.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He salutes and disappears to help his father while I hunt for Jackie.

  I find her upstairs, covered in dust, hauling rubbish across the landing. She’s in her element, far more than just a clipboard carrier. ‘Don’t look so worried, Jen,’ she says. ‘We’ve got this.’

  At which point Tish appears, like Rosie the Riveter, wielding a plunger. God knows what she intends to do with that. ‘Where’s Carol?’ she asks.

  ‘Working on the gin.’

  ‘She gets all the best jobs,’ Tish says. ‘Now I must make haste and do mine.’ She swishes off, plunger at the ready to do battle.

  ‘Do me a favour, Jen. Can you get me some more sacks, please? They’re in the kitchen.’

  ‘Sure.’ To be honest, I’m glad to be given a specific task because I don’t know where else to delve in so I go downstairs.

  As I’m passing the library, the door opens. Melanie comes out, gives me a coy half-smile and disappears fast, leaving Dave standing before me. ‘My niece is very persuasive,’ he says. ‘No wonder Mike fell for her charms.’

  I’m about to give him a piece of my mind when he apologizes. Actually says, ‘I’m sorry, that was below the belt.’

  ‘Can I help you with something, Dave? Because I’m really quite busy right now.’

  He’s about to say something, no doubt facetious, when he stops himself. ‘Come in here,’ he says and I don’t have the energy to argue so I follow him into the library, conscious that he’s shut the door behind us but confident that there’re a lot of burly men and tough women out there if I need them.

  ‘Let’s have it then.’ I purposefully look out of the window at the finally calm sea rather than at Dave. My heart is beating fast but I have no idea why.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to pounce on you and have my wicked way. I’m offering an olive branch.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  I’m standing with my hands on my hips, waiting for the naughty boy to own up to whatever this is all about.

  ‘I’m going to help you out,’ he says. ‘I’ll do the job for you at a discounted rate.’

  ‘How discounted?’

  ‘A lot discounted.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  And the surge of relief is enough to have me throw my arms around him in the biggest turnaround of thirty years. But at the brief moment his arms are fast around me, the library door opens. Before I see who it is, the door’s slammed shut and there’s no one there.

  I WALK ALONG the seafront, examining the damage. It’s not as bad as the storm a few years back that left the train track hanging above the waves when the sea wall was washed away. Even so, there’s a palm tree uprooted and a bench has been knocked over. Sand is scattered everywhere and heaped up against the kiosk and public conveniences. On the beach itself, the tide’s out and people are walking their dogs on the shifted sand. Soon Denis will be able to come down here with Bob, once he’s had his final jabs.

  I keep on walking until I reach Coast Guards Row. The evening is drawing in and there’s a light on upstairs. A strange car parked outside. Despite my best intentions, I feel a creeping nausea insinuate itself into my gut.

  Who’s there?

  Only one way to find out. I knock loudly, three times, hoping that this will alert Tom to my presence, hoping he’s got nothing to hide. There’s a lot of yapping. Betty and Juniper. After a minute or so I’m about to knock again, one last time. Maybe he’s not here after all. Maybe he is here but doesn’t want to answer the door.

  Footsteps approach, accompanied by scurrying scratchy paws and a woman’s chiding voice. Then a pause before the door is edged open.

  ‘Hello.’ There stands a tall woman with short red hair, holding Juniper under one arm while Betty jumps up at me, tail windmilling, before giving me a thorough sniff-over. ‘Jen, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er… Sarah? I didn’t recognize you without your wig. That’s not a wig. Is it?’

  ‘All mine last time I checked. Are you after Tom?’

  There are so many ways I could answer this but none of them seem appropriate right now. So I mutter, ‘Is hein?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ she says. ‘You’ve just missed him.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I must look disappointed because she gives me a sympathetic, knowing smile. How I wish I could disguise my emotions more effectively.

  ‘He’s gone out for milk,’ she says. ‘Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.’ She opens the door wider and Betty skips back along the hallway and through to the kitchen.

  I hesitate.

  ‘He should be back soon.’

  ‘Thanks. That would be great.’

  Great? How is this great? I shouldn’t be here. I’m intruding.

  ‘Sit down,’ she says and, when I’ve sat down, she hands me Juniper. I breathe in her puppy smell and take what comfort I can from this simple pleasure. Has Tom found comfort in Sarah? Would he do that? Would she? If so there’s nothing I can do about it. The imp
ortant thing is to keep him as a friend. What will be will be. Only now I have Doris Day singing ‘Que sera sera’ in my head and I might actually be humming it because she is handing me my mug of tea, asking if I’m OK?

  ‘Sorry. Ear worm.’

  ‘You’re a fan of Doris Day?’

  ‘Well, my dad is so I suppose it’s worn off on me. I blame it on the menopause.’

  ‘Ah, the lovely menopause.’

  ‘You’re acquainted?’

  ‘Intimately. My kids tease me about it.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘They’re both twenty. Both girls. Both completely different. One’s at university, the other’s a bookie.’

  ‘How brilliant.’

  ‘It is. I’m proud of the pair of them. Doing their own thing. Tell me about yours.’ She offers the biscuit tin and I help myself to a ginger nut.

  After a slug of tea, I tell her about my two offspring and what they’re up to. Once I’m done I can’t stop myself from saying, ‘You do have magnificent hair.’

  ‘Er, thank you,’ she says. ‘It runs in the family. The twins have got it. And so did my sister.’

  She looks so sad right at this moment that I can’t ignore it. ‘I’m so sorry about Claire. You must miss her terribly.’

  ‘God, I do. Every day I wake up and she’s the first person I think of. I mean, I always used to worry about her, doing her stuff in war zones, the most dangerous places on earth, but at least I knew she was out there somewhere. Now, I don’t know where she is.’

  I feel a twist of pain in my stomach and know I must say something, acknowledge this somehow. Words are not enough, not by any means, but they can help, even if you say the wrong ones. Better something naff than nothing at all.

  ‘She’s in your heart,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t mean to sound schmaltzy but she’ll never die as long as she’s there.’

  Sarah smiles at me, a smile that lights up her eyes, and I think that if Claire was anything like her then no wonder Tom hasn’t been able to get over her. Not that he should have to get over her. But he does need to find a way to live without her and then maybe – selfish, I know – he could squeeze me into a little corner of his heart.

  And as if by magic, the front door goes, setting off Betty and Juniper into a frenzy of excitement and tail-wagging and yapping. And there he is standing in the kitchen, taking in the mugs of tea, the biscuit tin.

  ‘Jen? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Now that’s a nice welcome,’ Sarah chides, only partly playfully.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you, Tom.’

  ‘Right, well, I don’t think there’s any need for that.’ He shakes his head. ‘I saw it with my own eyes.’

  ‘You saw what?’

  ‘You and Dave.’

  ‘Me and Dave?’

  ‘You were hugging.’

  ‘That’s because he’d just told me his firm will help us out with the repairs, mate’s rates.’

  ‘You’re mates now?’

  ‘It’s a figure of speech. We’ve come to an agreement. With Melanie’s help.’

  ‘Mike’s Melanie? Why would she help?’

  ‘Because she’s Dave’s niece and she’s having Mike’s baby and somehow she wants us all to get on. At least not be at loggerheads. Plus, I think she’s feeling guilty for swiping Mike and she was always one of Lauren’s biggest fans.’

  ‘Right.’ He sits down at the table, rubs his stubbly chin. Looks from me to Sarah and blushes, embarrassed to have his two worlds collide. His old life. His new life. Boom.

  Sarah picks up the slack. ‘Jen’s been telling me all about the museum. How you’re going to fund it by selling gin. Genius. Claire would’ve loved that.’

  Is this a test? Sarah saying her sister’s name like that? Is it a challenge? Or is she saying it’s OK to talk about Claire? That she needn’t be the uninvited guest at the table. But Sarah carries on chatting, somehow making this all normal, that it’s fine to drop the C-bomb into conversation and there will be no fallout. I’d be happy to stay longer, getting to know this woman, gaining an insight into Claire and, through her, into Tom. But I can’t stay because my phone beeps and there’s a text from Carol.

  Get home quick. Have made perfect gin.

  I tell them what’s happened, that I have to go. Sarah wishes me luck, offers help with museum curating if we ever need it and then, because Tom is not moving, not saying a word, she sees me to the door.

  Right now I’d swap one of his smiles for all the gin in the world.

  As I step outside, I’m relieved to find the rain has stopped and I start my walk home but I haven’t got very far when I hear my name called out in a hushed shout.

  It’s Sarah, standing outside the house with a bin bag in her hand. I retrace my steps and she apologizes, says she offered to put out the rubbish on a pretext.

  ‘Pretext?’

  ‘I need to tell you something, without Tom’s ears flapping.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’re going to have to take the bull by his horns, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’re going to have to take the next step.’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘OK.’ She grins, realizing she has to spell things out. ‘If you want Tom, tell him. Claire had to.’

  ‘Really? I thought he wasn’t that bothered.’

  ‘Oh, he’s bothered all right. Hot and bothered. I’d go as far as to say he’s in love.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘You, of course.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. But he doesn’t know it. He’s scared and insecure and completely hopeless. You’ll have to take matters in hand.’ She winks, dumps the rubbish into the wheelie bin, and disappears inside.

  WE HAVE A late supper by the time we’re all gathered together. Dad insists the lamb must be eaten before we test the gin. And it’s delicious, cooked to perfection. Dale is in heaven and proper impressed that a man of Dad’s generation can cook without a barbecue. All that’s missing is Lauren. And I suppose family is like that. For a while, just a short while, if you’re lucky, you have a loving partner and kids and your own family unit and, from the day you bring that firstborn home from hospital, you think it will last for ever. You think the hamster wheel will never stop but it slows down when one of them gets off, and stops when the other follows suit. And you’re left wondering what that was all about.

  And then your family is the same but different. You live in separate places, sometimes across continents, sometimes in Plymouth, but always under the same sky. Then more people get added to your family. You spend more time with friends. And you stop hating your ex-husband for leaving you in the lurch because he has every right to be happy, the same as you do. And Mike is happy. You really think he is. But you don’t envy him. He’s about to clamber back on the hamster wheel, only this time with dodgy knees and less energy, and you’re really quite grateful for that hysterectomy. And for the HRT because it finally seems to be kicking in.

  Not only that, Dave has stepped up to the mark with Melanie’s guidance and there’s the small matter of Tom. Who’s allegedly in love with me. But angry and hurt. And I’m just so bloody tired only now I have gin to try in the shed. Carol’s handing me a glass.

  ‘Right, Jen. Now we need to do this properly. Sit down,’ Carol tells me, all schoolmarmy.

  I sit down on one of the deckchairs. The others are my audience.

  ‘Let’s start with the nose,’ Carol instructs. ‘The first sniff. The top notes.’

  I inhale deeply.

  ‘Well?’ She has a notebook and pen in hand.

  ‘A good gin presence but the juniper doesn’t punch you in the face?’

  ‘Good. And?’

  I give it another sniff. ‘Actually, it’s a lovely scent.’

  ‘Be specific.’

  ‘A zesty, floral perfume followed with bright juniper?’

  ‘Excellent. Right, now the p
alate. Drink it neat. Hold it in your mouth for a bit before swallowing.’

  I do as I’m told. ‘The juniper’s more earthy. And I’m getting the sweetness of liquorice… and orris root… and yes, violet?’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘Like a childhood sweet shop. Or a spring garden.’

  ‘All right. You’re showing off now. And the finish?’

  ‘A long smooth floral finish with lasting notes of orange blossom?’

  She nods encouragingly.

  ‘And hints of apple?’

  I get a round of applause.

  ‘But we can’t drink it neat. What mixer do you propose?’

  ‘Nothing too shouty,’ says Carol, who’s wearing the shoutiest of shouty outfits, a neon nineties shell suit. ‘We’re aiming for light and refreshing so probably a non-quinine tonic, or a soda, or even a bitter lemon.’

  She indicates the bottles lined up on the table, a selection of supermarket own brands and bespoke gin mixers. ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘The Sicilian lemonade.’

  ‘Excellent choice,’ Dad says. ‘Reminds me of serenading your mother in a hotel in Palermo. Hot sultry nights, with the rustle of the breeze in the olive trees and the ever-present threat of a mafia abduction.’

  He helps himself to an olive, as if re-enacting that night. And I’m hoping no one will ask but obviously Dale does.

  ‘What did you sing to her?’

  ‘What makes you think I was singing?’

  ‘Isn’t that what serenading means?’

  ‘It’s a euphemism for making mad, passionate love.’

  ‘Dad.’

  He chuckles. So I don’t know if he’s joking but I suspect he’s telling the truth. ‘Can we change the subject?’

  ‘All right,’ Dad says and veers off on a tangent. ‘Did you know that gin was created by Dr Franciscus Sylvius, a Dutch chemist, in the seventeenth century as an attempt to cleanse the blood of those suffering from kidney disorders?’

  ‘No,’ we chorus.

  ‘He called it genièvre, French for juniper.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what we could call the gin,’ Harry says. ‘Name it after Mum. Jennifer Juniper?’

  ‘Or maybe that’s what we call the bar. The Juniper Gin Joint,’ Dale suggests.