The Juniper Gin Joint

by Lizzie Lovell

  There’s a general consensus that this is a good idea. We’ll think on about the gin itself. And, though we’re trying not to get ahead of ourselves, we discuss the possibility of producing different gins, with variations on this, our signature one.

  ‘I reckon we should get Jackie and Tish round here sharpish,’ I say, feeling guilty they’re missing out on this historic moment.

  Carol hunts for her phone in her voluminous handbag and starts punching in numbers.

  Meanwhile, there’s someone I have to see. Someone I promised would have a bottle of every batch we produce. This might be the only one she gets to try.

  ‘Will you come with me to the hospital, Dad?’ I ask.

  He understands without me having to spell out why. Which is a first. ‘You’ll have to drive,’ he says. ‘I’ve had an opener, a brightener, a lifter, a tincture, a large gin and tonic without the tonic, a snifter, a snort, a snorter and a snortorino.’

  Everyone looks at Dad as if he’s finally and completely lost the plot but I happen to know that he’s conjuring up the ghost of Denis Thatcher.

  ‘Let’s go, Dad.’

  ‘Right with you, Jennifer Juniper.’

  And Carol hands me a precious bottle of our Heavenly Devonly Violetty gin.

  WE EVENTUALLY REACH the hospital, after Dad directs me on a detour up one of the back lanes, insisting I pull over by the ford to forage for something that he’s absolutely sure is necessary right then and there. He’s rooting around in the dark by the light of his headlamp while I keep the engine running and the heating on.

  Visiting time has long gone but a kind, lovely nurse lets us in to see Ma Bates. She’s in a side room with Kev who’s snoozing in the chair by her bed. He stirs when we tiptoe in, smiling in recognition when he comes to.

  ‘Evening,’ he says, straightening up and wiping the drool from the side of his mouth. ‘What you got there then?’ He nods at my Co-op bag for life.

  When I take out the bottle, Kev’s eyes quiver with a spark.

  ‘This is the one,’ I tell him dramatically and he nods, knowing exactly what I’m talking about.

  ‘You brought it for Ma to have a taste?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Ma,’ he says softly, leaning in close to his mother’s ear which is nestled somewhere in those soft, grey curls.

  Her eyelids flutter open and a smile passes over her lips. You can see how much she loves her son, her weird and wonderful son, who’s lost so much and is about to lose more. ‘My boy,’ she whispers.

  I can feel my throat tighten, my grip on today’s emotions slipping.

  ‘Our friends have brought something for you to try,’ he says.

  Dad nears her, so she can see him, and she reaches out her hand to pat the bed next to her. He sits down. She’s so tiny, like a child, but with a lifetime’s experience flowing through her veins, though the flow isn’t what it was. More of a trickle, that’ll soon run dry. So why not give her one last taste of heaven on earth before she leaves for the next world and all that has to offer?

  He shows her the bottle.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Yes, Violet. It is.’

  ‘Well, pour us a drop.’ She smiles and the room is filled with essence of Devon.

  Kev gets one of those hospital beakers meant for water or weak squash and he empties a generous amount of gin into it. Dad moves over so that Kev can hold the cup to her mouth for a sip. A sip that’s actually more of a gulp. A snortorino for a tiny woman.

  The three of us wait on her verdict. I can actually feel my heart thudding and I have to remove my jumper to counter the flush that’s swarming up from my toes, up my legs, over my torso and right on up to the top of my head.

  ‘That’s the one,’ she says. ‘It’s lush.’

  I try not to whoop but her praise is a real boost. Just what I need.

  ‘I can die happy now,’ she says. And she even manages a wink. ‘But you two best leave now. My Kevin promised to read to me.’

  ‘Goodbye, Violet,’ Dad says and out of the pocket of his tweed jacket he produces a sprig of Devon violets, bluey-purple with those dark heart-shaped leaves, still wet from the hedgerow where he picked them earlier. He lays them carefully on her bedside table where she can hopefully see them and smell them.

  Then we slip away, Dad and I, out from that sacred place between mother and son and off into the dark of night.

  THE MORNING AFTER our visit to see Ma Bates, I woke to find a note pushed through the letterbox, which was strange because neither of the dogs had barked. Bob always barks at the rattle of the door, the brush of the letterbox, footsteps up the path, the wind. But nothing. Both dogs lay fast asleep, Bob curled into my back, Denis on my feet.

  The note was almost illegible. It was scrawled on the back of a lottery ticket in a biro that was on its last legs or the writer had been upside down. Anyway, I had to hold it up to the light so I could make out some of the indentations. But I think I knew what the message was. It was from Kev. And he was telling me that his dear old mum had passed away during the night. Dear Violet.

  And what of Tom? I went round to see him that after-noon. Only he wasn’t there. Turns out he’d gone back with Sarah that morning to Taunton, to see the twins who were both around that weekend. He took Betty and Juniper with him, knowing what a popular uncle that would make him. Only then he got the flu – like proper flu, not just a bad cold – and was in bed up there for the week. And so yet again, the question of Tom and me, us, was left hanging, unanswered.

  TODAY IS THE funeral to be held at the Saxon church that’s nestled half a mile away from Donker Farm in a bucolic setting, a lush Devon valley. It’s one of those churches that has a vicar in rotation with three or four other parishes as numbers have dwindled but you can imagine how many feet have trodden over its threshold, how many knees have knelt in the nave over the last millennium. How many baptisms, marriages and funerals. Christmas, Easter, Morning Prayer, Evensong. Communion and Confirmation.

  Today St Martha’s is packed with mourners. Church members, villagers, people from the market days, officials from Dingleton, familiar faces dotted everywhere amongst the pews. And at the front, the family. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. The simple oak coffin is decorated with violets. The fragrance surrounds you as you enter the church, comforting and beautiful. Reminiscent of another era.

  The vicar’s dressed up in his finest, rotund and jolly, with a head shiny as a new penny. We kick off with his hearty welcome and then move straight into ‘Morning Has Broken’, a hymn that gets me because Mum had it at her funeral.

  Dad and I sit quietly towards the back. I say quietly, but Dad keeps whispering violet facts to me during each lull in the service.

  ‘Did you know that in France, the violet was worn by Napoleon’s followers when he was in exile to show their allegiance to him?’

  ‘Funnily enough, Dad, no, I didn’t.’

  ‘And Ophelia had them too, amongst other flowers, when she went off her rocker.’

  ‘Sensitively put, Dad.’

  ‘Shakespeare gave flowers meanings and symbolism but I can’t for the life of me remember what violets stood for.’

  ‘Death?’

  ‘Really, Jen. You can be morbid sometimes.’

  ‘We’re at a funeral. I can’t help being morbid at a funeral.’

  ‘No. I think it might be faithfulness.’

  ‘Ssh, Dad. It’s time for the eulogy. I hope Kev can keep it together.’

  ‘He’ll be fine. I spotted him earlier, hanging around the tombstones having a smoke and a nip from his hip flask.’

  Kev walks over to the microphone, dignified and cautious, uncomfortable in a suit that’s too baggy and a collar that’s too tight. He pulls at it, like he’s trying to breathe better. He’s bewildered by the technology. The microphone squeals and he visibly jumps. He says, ‘S’cuse us,’ and has another nip from his flask, bold as you like in front of the vicar who takes it i
n his stride, even jokes that Jesus liked a drink so all’s well.

  Despite the Dutch courage, Kev gets off to a shaky start, stumbling over his words and coughing. But then he takes a moment. He turns towards his ma’s coffin, touches it with his freshly scrubbed fingers, and somehow scrapes together enough courage to help him start over. And once he gets going, he’s on a roll, telling us how much he loved his mother, how she’d kept the farm going through good times and bad. She was born there, left school at fourteen, and worked hard all her life. And what had got her through? Her beloved farm. The support of a good husband. The sweetness of motherhood. And gin.

  We laugh briefly, that way you do at a funeral to let out some tension, only then he says something that makes me reach for a tissue. But I can’t find the packet of Kleenex I swear I stowed in my bag before we left home, knowing I’d probably end up a snotty mess. Which I have. Which I am. But it’s all right. Dad to the rescue. He gives me his handkerchief, which thankfully is clean.

  And why am I crying? Because Kev is talking about his lost little lad. How his mum never cast any blame on him, or on his ex-wife for leaving. She just made sure he always had a bed and a hot meal, somewhere he would feel safe, though after what happened I’m not sure Kev has ever felt safe again. I’m not sure that there’s any place on earth where he could feel that. And now she’s gone, what will happen to him?

  Dad understands. Once Kev has finished his homage, there’s a spontaneous round of applause and Dad tells me something. He says, ‘Did you know Kev can turn his hand to anything? Maintenance and the like? He’s his mother’s son after all.’ And, before I can answer, the organist strikes up ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ which throws me back into childhood, school assemblies and harvest festivals. Mike and Carol. And Dave Barton before he morphed into an idiot. Though everyone can be redeemed, can’t they? Even Dave Barton.

  The congregation are standing now, voices at full throttle, and when the organist does her final flourish, it’s time to go. There’s a wake up at the farm and everyone’s invited. The least we can do is pay our respects. We owe Violet so much.

  THE WAKE IS like one of the best parties ever. There’s the usual spread – cocktail sausages, a massive ham, hard-boiled eggs, cheese-and-pickle sarnies, fruit cake, Victoria sponge. And as well as tea and coffee, there’s sherry and ale and of course gin. So by the time we’ve said our condolences to the family, had our fill of food and drink, I’m feeling squiffy. Dad has gallantly been abstemious and I’ve fully taken advantage of his offer to drive. He didn’t seem that disappointed so I’ve ploughed on.

  I duck upstairs to find a bathroom because the downstairs loo is jammed and as I pass a bedroom, trying not to appear like a snooper, I catch a glimpse of Kev, sitting on a bed.

  ‘How do,’ he says, looking up. ‘I’ve got something here might interest you.’

  ‘Oh?’ I’m intrigued, so I go inside what must’ve been his mum’s room. I don’t suppose it’s changed much at all since the war, when it was no doubt her parents’ bedroom. The sash window overlooks the Devon hills. The curtains are chintzy and sun-damaged. There’s a pretty dressing table covered with cross-stitched linen and displayed with an amber-coloured glass set and a tortoiseshell brush and hand mirror. A tin of talc and a WI enamel pin.

  The central focus is the bed, a big old Victorian monstrosity with header and footer, a faded rose-pink satin counterpane, white cotton sheets, thick heavy blankets. A bolster lies across the width of the bed under two plumped-up pillows. You could imagine a room staged like this in the museum. Dingleton Farm Life.

  ‘I were born in this bed,’ Kev says.

  ‘Really? Wow, that’s quite something.’

  ‘Nothing special about that. Lots of babies were born in this bed over the years. There were a few deaths too. It’s a pity Ma didn’t spend her last moments here rather than in hospital.’

  ‘She was well cared for, though?’

  ‘Can’t complain. Just not the same as home.’

  I want to ask him what ‘home’ actually means to him but this isn’t the time or place and now he’s rummaging in a carved wooden jewellery box.

  ‘Ma asked me to give you this,’ he says. ‘So here, it’s yours.’ He hands me a brooch.

  ‘Violets?’

  ‘My father gave it to her on their wedding day.’

  ‘I can’t accept this. It belongs in the family.’

  ‘She insisted. It were her wishes.’ He puts it in my hand.

  It’s delicate enamel. Purple-blue petals, green heart-shaped leaves, tied with a white bow.

  ‘She said you’d know what it means.’

  ‘Gin?’

  ‘And something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t have a clue. You should ask that Tish woman. She knows all about the old days.’

  ‘I will. Thanks, Kev. I’ll treasure it always. But I’d like to ask you something.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We’ve applied for funding. If we get it there’ll be work going. Would you be interested?’

  ‘What type of work? Would I have to wear a suit?’ He tugs at his jacket.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have to wear a suit. I hear you can turn your hand to most things?’

  ‘I get by.’

  ‘We’ll be needing someone to look after Clatford House. Like a caretaker.’

  ‘A caretaker? I could do that. I don’t need money.’

  ‘How about you start as a volunteer and then, hopefully before too long, we’ll be able to pay you a salary?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he says, a question in his deep, sad eyes. ‘On one condition.’

  ‘Right… What condition?’

  ‘That you sort things out once and for all between you and that Tom.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s frustrating for everyone, watching you two dance around each other.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m sure it’ll work itself out in time. There’s no hurry.’

  ‘You could die tomorrow. And you’re a long time dead.’

  ‘But I’m not sure he’s interested.’

  ‘Course he’s interested.’

  ‘But I’m not sure he’s interested enough to want a relationship. His wife’s still very much in his mind and I don’t know if I can compete with that.’

  ‘It’s not a competition. But if it were, you’d win because you’re the one that’s here, living and breathing, and he needs a woman that’s alive.’

  I must look somewhat horrified at this and Kev realizes the implications of his argument.

  ‘That came out all wrong,’ he says with a doleful smile. ‘I’m not good with words.’

  I laugh, a little guiltily. ‘I understand what you’re trying to say.’

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘I don’t mean no ill will towards the dead.’ His eyes well up and I hold his hand, the two of us side by side on the old farmhouse bed, listening to the sheep out in the field, the hum of talk downstairs.

  ‘I’ll tell him tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘That I have feelings for him.’

  ‘What might they be?’

  ‘Er… Well… That I love him?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. I actually do.’

  ‘Then tell him now. Right away.’

  ‘But he’s at school.’

  ‘So drive there.’

  ‘But I’m over the limit.’

  ‘So get your father to drive you there.’

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

  ‘Plenty of times I’ve given up.’ He sighs, the weight of years on his shoulders. This must be such a hard day for him to get through so if I can do something positive, lighten a little of that burden, then who am I to say no?

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Dad and I are back in the car en route to Dingleton. Despite winter weather, we manage to negotiate the track without a repeat of last time’s shenanigans when we got stuck in the mud.
r />   ‘Let me get this straight,’ Dad says. ‘You want to go up the school to tell Tom you love him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you love him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You sure you don’t just fancy a go at him?’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘Well, you’re a grown woman, Jennifer. You have needs and desires.’

  ‘Dad. Just no.’ I have to wrestle off my black woollen coat now. ‘I love him and I promised Kev I’d tell him now.’

  ‘You promised Kev?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Trampy Kev?’

  ‘Yes. And can we not call him that any more? It’s not very respectful. He’s a good man.’

  ‘I never doubted it. So you’re going to barge into Tom’s classroom and tell him? Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  We’re passing along the seafront now and an idea smacks me. Of course. Maybe ‘just like that’ isn’t enough. I need a reason to be in school at this time. I know the staff up there. I go in every term to give talks to some of the classes, depending on what topic they’re learning. Until Dave Barton’s intrusion they visited the museum all the time. I’m a responsible adult with a DBS check.

  ‘Can you stop at Clatford House, Dad? There’s something I need.’

  ‘Your marbles?’

  ‘Funny. I’ll be two minutes.’ I leap out of the car before he’s finished parking on the double yellows and bounce up the steps, hooking out my set of keys and letting myself in quick smart.

  WHAT I NEED is in the storeroom and has been for a very long time, awaiting restoration, so I head straight there, acknowledging the workers, saying I’ll be back to help in a little while but that I’ve got something to do.

  My footsteps echo up the stairs and the smell of old dust and damp is stronger up here, the air cooler. The storeroom is in one of the old bedrooms at the back, where the curated objects are safe. Captain Clatford’s telescope is in an old suitcase, tucked on a shelf behind a case of stuffed Victorian budgies. Poor things.

  It’s quite heavy but I manage to stagger down the rickety stairs with it and out to the car where Dad has Radio 3 on full blast. Once I’m in, he puts his foot down, sensing the urgency in my body language. We head to the other side of town and Dingleton Juniors. He parks in the one visitor spot and wishes me luck.