Читать книгу Christmas at the Gin Shack - Catherine Miller - Страница 8

Prologue

There was something beautiful about traditions. They were rituals that brought comfort in their routine. Olive’s tradition had always been to toast her late husband, John, and their daughter, Jane, with a G&T at the end of the day. She’d lost them way too early and had spent far too much time trying to recover, especially the relationship with her son, Richard.

For many years that tradition had been followed at her beach hut. It had been a private affair without guests. A quiet moment of acknowledging what they’d had and what could have been. It was a ritual; a chance for her to reflect on the past and an opportunity to try new varieties of gin in the hope of finding the perfect combination.

Little had she realised that a lifetime of keeping things to herself was not the way forward. The way forward had been swinging open her beach-hut doors and inviting people in to join her quest. The way forward had been to talk to her son and celebrate life. It was focusing on what she was capable of, not on the limits the world thought she should conform to.

The small Gin Shack Club that had started at her beach hut as a once-weekly affair had soon escalated when it turned out Olive wasn’t the only person interested in discovering the perfect G&T. Never in a million years would she have thought the Gin Shack would become an actual bar, but an entire community pulling together, with her beach-hut neighbour Tony at the helm, meant it had happened with bells on.

And because of the number of places her heart now belonged to, it meant traditions had grown. In the same way some traditions might evolve from generation to generation, Olive’s was changing with the seasons.

As summer turned to autumn, Olive found sitting alone in her beach hut no longer held the same charm it once had. The appeal hadn’t disappeared, but it was hard to ignore the lure of spending time with friends at the Gin Shack or Oakley West so that she was in company when she had her nightly G&T and said her toast to those past and present.

Something else had changed as well. Her son was no longer not available to spend time with his mother. Richard made time every weekend to come and stay at the Gin Shack and help Tony out if needed. He’d also given up his teetotaller status and started to enjoy the occasional drink. So, they’d started their own ritual.

It was fitting that it took place at the memorial bench that lived in the Sunken Gardens on the clifftop of Westbrook Bay. It had been put there for her son’s benefit when he’d been a boy. He’d needed a permanent reminder of the man they’d both loved. Still loved. There was something very pleasing about meeting at a place that brought together the past and the present.

‘Beginning to get a bit nippy for meeting outside, don’t you think?’ Richard joined her on the bench.

‘Son, remind me who is the eighty-four-year-old?’ Olive wondered if it was too early to resort to getting her son slippers and a blanket for Christmas. He definitely had an old soul whereas Olive did not. Her body, on the other hand, was another matter.

‘I just don’t want you getting a chill.’ There was a chance Richard would never give up being the concerned son, but at least Olive knew it was always with her interests at heart, even if it had caused her much frustration in the past.

‘I’ve got three layers on, Richard. I’m hardly likely to perish. It’s October in Westbrook. We’re hardly facing an arctic freeze.’ Olive’s uniform of kaftan and linen trousers was finished off with a waterfall cardigan and bright pink fleece. She’d wrapped herself adequately enough to house fifteen bottles of gin if she’d chosen to. There was plenty of insulation to be keeping her warm.

‘Maybe it’s me that needs to layer up then. I should maybe practise what I preach.’ Richard was in a shirt and trousers. Less casual than he’d managed in the days when he always wore a business suit, but still not casual enough to lay testament to the fact that he’d in any way learned the art of relaxation. It was progress, though, at least.

‘What’s on the menu this week then?’ Richard said, their new weekly ritual already set in stone.

‘We can’t start until Tony gets here. You know that.’ Olive undid her fleece. Okay, so there weren’t nineteen gin bottles in there, but the internal pockets served very well for thermos flasks.

‘One day I’ll get a sneak preview before he does.’

‘Now we can’t go breaking with tradition and, as Tony runs the Gin Shack, it does seem fitting that he should get to taste the menu he’s going to be serving.’

Sourcing and trying new gins had always been Olive’s “thing”. It was rather lovely that her hobby had become so much more, and yet she was still able to indulge in her love of exploring upcoming varieties. Even though it had been Tony’s idea to turn the Gin Shack into an actual bar, he’d been happy to leave Olive to the sourcing.

Olive did it from her room at Oakley West Retirement Quarters with the help of fellow residents Veronica and Randy. The trio tried the new gins out, choosing what to pair them with, before Olive presented them to Tony and Richard on a Sunday morning.

They met before all the beach-hut neighbours had their weekly group picnic. It was the day the Gin Shack didn’t open until the evening, so it gave them a chance to all get together and catch up.

The menu was always changed on a Monday and they worked a week in advance, so if the two gins Olive had today were met with approval, then Tony would put in a bulk order ready for the coming week. No gin selections had been rejected to date.

Olive loved that her main role was as gin taster. It was a hard job, but someone had to shoulder the responsibility. She felt, at her age, it was about the level of burden she could cope with.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Tony said as he reached the entrance of the gardens and jogged down the steps towards them. ‘Esme asked me to move some stock. I think that’s my workout for the day complete.’

‘Mum wouldn’t let me try them out until you arrived. That’s favouritism, that is.’ Richard spoke to Tony like he was a sibling and, even though they weren’t, there was very much a family feel between Olive and her beach-hut neighbours, even more so considering what they’d been through over the summer. Moving to Oakley West had provided her with more entertainment than she ever could have imagined.

‘She knows my palate is better than yours. We can’t have you signing off on gins without supervision,’ Tony joked as he joined them both on the bench.

‘If you say so.’

Olive ignored the banter as it continued and got to the important task of pouring them all a drink. This week they’d selected a raspberry gin and a bathtub variety. They were both clean and refreshing on the palate and she’d enjoyed both very much.

Tony and Richard demonstrated their agreement with the noises they were making and the expressions on their faces as they took sips from thermos lids. It wasn’t quite the refinement of the Gin Shack, where they prided themselves on presentation, but this was just for the purpose of a taste test.

‘These are perfect before we head into Christmas season.’ Tony admired the liquid as if it had taken on female form. ‘Then it’ll be time to get festive.’

‘What have you got planned?’ Olive asked, like an excited schoolgirl.

‘I could tell you, but just as you’ve insisted with Richard, I can’t be giving away preview information until everyone is gathered. I’m going to arrange a planning meeting.’

Olive realised she was going to have to start being unbearable so he’d relent and give some information. ‘Plllleeeeeesssssssseeeee?’

‘Let’s just say it should be ginspirational.’

‘Give that man a drum,’ Richard said.

‘Now drink up. We’ve got a picnic to get to.’ Tony wasn’t going to say any more on the matter right now.

With the final dregs, Olive lifted her thermos lid to the clouds. ‘To John and Jane, wherever you are.’ It was the toast she always whispered.

‘And to family and friends,’ Richard said.

‘And to the Gin Shack,’ Tony added.

They all three chinked vessels and it always made Olive happy. This new weekly ritual. This nod to how all things change, but how that was sometimes for the better. It didn’t stop her wishing John was there with them. That she could be gifted the knowledge of how he would have aged or what profession their daughter would have taken up. But those thoughts no longer stopped her from appreciating the here and now. The fact she got to sit with her son and her closest friend every week, continuing the legacy she’d started with her husband, was a blessing. One she hoped always to continue. Family. Friends. Gin. They were the most important things in Olive’s life. She felt unbelievably lucky to have a life filled with all three.