A schedule for the gin grottos was very quickly put in place. The decision was that, for two hours before opening the Gin Shack, two people at a time would man the grottos and hand out samples and leaflets to passers-by. If there was anyone causing trouble of any kind, they were to call Richard, Randy and Tony, who would turn up like the heavies they weren’t.
Olive was on the rota with Skylar this week. She was looking forward to it because, hopefully, it would give them a chance to catch up. She’d not really had a chance to talk to Skylar one on one since the night they’d discovered Pete was running the new bar. Everything she’d heard was secondhand through her son, and there was a chance Skylar wasn’t saying everything to him in order to protect him. At least if it was just the two of them, Olive could ask the questions her son might not be in a position to.
Before heading down to the grottos, Olive was going to the Gin Shack. She was having to do up extra portions of her mince-pie gin to prep for the week her cocktail was on offer and allow enough for the samples they’d be giving out.
‘Helen said she’d give you a hand,’ Richard said, when Olive arrived.
‘Great,’ Olive said, her tone not really matching the word.
Even though Olive had been instrumental in her old Matron being about, it didn’t make it any less weird. This was the first night she would be staying in the hotel part of the bar, thanks to the generosity of Tony and Richard.
‘What do you need me to do?’ said Helen, smiling.
Olive wasn’t used to seeing this woman smile. It was quite disarming to see it in action. Not in that way a woman might try and attract a mate, more in that there’s-a-psycho-on-the-loose kind of way. Witnessing it made Olive want to run for her own safety.
‘Richard was going to buy me some kilner jars so we could do lots of batches.’
‘They’re in the kitchen, Mum, along with the rest of the ingredients you asked for. I need to head out to the shop. Give me a shout if you need anything.’
Richard was out of the door before Olive had any chance to shout. And she very nearly did when she turned to see Helen smiling at her in that way. If life provided subtext, Helen’s would state: psycho killer.
Of course she wasn’t. That was just Olive’s imagination being way too active. In reality she was a woman who, in the past, had been an overbearing manager at Oakley West, who’d behaved the way she had in order to try and protect her stepdaughter. Sadly, none of it had worked out in her favour, with her losing her job and her home and her stepdaughter ending up in prison. It wasn’t exactly the rosiest tale, and even though it might have been her own doing, no one deserved to end up in a position where they were having to sleep rough when they weren’t working. So Olive needed to let go of her memories of this woman and attempt to start off on more neutral ground.
‘We best get started then,’ Olive said, wondering if part of the process might involve pouring a gin. A cup of tea might not cut it in the circumstances.
‘I’ve given them all a wash so they’re ready to use,’ Helen said, that delightful, caring smile in play again.
Maybe the smile was part and parcel of being Helen, and she was an entirely different type of person to Matron. It was possible the circumstances had made her the harsh person she’d been, and now those problems no longer existed, she was an altogether nicer human being.
‘Great,’ Olive said, again the tone of her voice not quite capturing the essence of the word.
Olive washed her hands and donned an apron with Helen copying her as she went.
‘What made you come up with this idea then?’ Helen asked.
Olive double-checked her book of notes as to the right quantities needed. It was two heaped spoonfuls of mincemeat they needed to add to every kilner jar. Fortunately they were the same size as the ones Olive had so she didn’t need to work out any adjustments in volume.
‘They wanted the taste of Christmas for the competition so I just thought about my favourite Christmassy foods, and mince pies is well up there. The first bite of a mince pie represents the opening of the Christmas season in my eyes.’
Olive scooped dollops of mincemeat (they’d got the vegan-friendly version just in case) into the containers and instructed Helen to follow, topping each of the kilners up with gin. Then they all needed to be sealed for between twenty-four and fourty-eight hours before being sieved, after which the gin would be adequately flavoured ready for the cocktails.
‘What made you realise you could infuse the gin?’ Helen asked, as they continued the process one jar at a time.
‘I’ve always been interested in gin. I know far more than the average person about it, I guess.’ It was what qualified her to take the classes even though she’d never had any formal training. She’d just read a steady stream of information over the years and had learned that way. She also liked to think she had an excellent palate, which helped with knowing what flavours would combine well. Taste was a sense that everyone possessed, but not many trained it enough for it to become a skill.
‘I hope you do start doing some gin connoisseur classes on a regular basis. I’d love to come to one.’
Olive wasn’t sure how to take the compliment. It was like Helen had amnesia and couldn’t remember the period of time she’d been Matron. She knew from then that Olive was a huge gin enthusiast. Maybe it was just Helen being friendly. ‘I just plan on getting this Gingle Bell retreat weekend done first. We’ll see how that goes before deciding anything about the future.’ She was still hoping Richard’s talk about opening up a distillery was something that might come to fruition. Visiting there and then going to the Gin Shack would be the perfect day trip, but that was a way off.
‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help with the weekend,’ Helen said, as she glugged the clear liquid into another container.
Olive returned the smile this time. ‘Great. That would be great.’ This time she managed to get the word to sound like it should. Because with everything going on with the gin grottos, plus the retreat weekend, Olive was beginning to think they’d all gone a bit mad and were definitely biting off more than they could chew. Having Helen help today had halved the time it would have taken otherwise. If they could save time at any point along the way, it would help. She just had to shake off the feeling that, however much Helen was smiling, most of the time that smile wasn’t reaching her eyes. And there was always something disconcerting about things that didn’t match up in quite the way they should. It was like a bad cocktail leaving a nasty aftertaste, and sometimes it took effort to work out why the ingredients weren’t working.