Probably the Best Kiss in the World. Pernille Hughes

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СКАЧАТЬ alleyways and over the garden walls of the houses in the old town. Jen could clearly hear it from the comfortable seclusion of her small stone outbuilding; the singing, the Oi, Oi’s and the banter.

      Jen looked at her phone. Eleven. She’d been expecting to pick Lydia up at midnight from the station. She had an alarm set. Yet here she was, spouting loud angry vocabulary that would make a fishwife blush and no doubt there would be more, so Jen braced herself.

      “For fuck sake. Come out, you shitpin!” There was a silence from outside, as Jen waited, calmly finishing tapping the beer from the conditioning tank into the brown bottle she was holding. “Jen? Can you help me? Please?”

      Jen sighed as she capped the bottle and placed it in line with the others she’d already filled since getting home. Slipping down from her stool, she looked out into the courtyard to see her sister, still swearing while crossly attempting to extract her ankle-strapped high heel from between two cobbles.

      “Easy, tiger. The kids next door don’t need to know those words,” Jen said, crossing the distance.

      “Where do you think I learnt them?” They both knew this wasn’t true. Lydia had merrily collected a ripe vocabulary as a child when visiting Jen at uni, sponging up the vernacular of the rugby team who Jen had bizarrely acquired as a fan club. A secret home-brew kit in your fresher dorm room and indiscreet dorm mates will do that for a girl. Proud of the words they were teaching Lydia, the rugby lads had virtually made the thirteen-year-old their mascot. Nine years on, her word choices reminded Jen daily of that lost circle of friends.

      A firm yank released the heel, allowing Lydia to teeter the rest of the way to the outbuilding where the comforting scent of malt, hops, yeast and beer enveloped them. The outbuilding wasn’t tiny, spanning the breadth of the rear-yard wall, but given all of Jen’s paraphernalia, it felt cosy and snug nonetheless. With the help of an old kitchen she’d salvaged off Freegle, and the addition of a small mash tun and two fermentation tanks which she’d bought from eBay and struggled to fetch home because large metal vats did not fit in a vintage Ford Capri, Jen had transformed the space into her own mini-micro-brewery.

      “Why are you back so early? You said the midnight train. And why didn’t you call me to collect you?” As usual, Lydia’s refusal to stick to agreements irked her. But that was little sisters for you, a law unto themselves. Sometimes – most times – Jen suspected Lydia did it just to wind her up. Leaving the door open for some fresh air and pulling the hair-elastic off her wrist, Jen dragged her unruly hair up in a ponytail. Given the warmth out, the outbuilding could get pretty toasty and her hair was due a cut – as her BookIT app would remind her any day now; Jen always made her next appointment as she finished the last. Same with the dentist, waxer, window cleaner, optician, chimney sweep, boiler servicer and financial adviser. She was organised like that.

      “I’m twenty-two Jen, I can get home by myself. You don’t need to collect me.” Lydia perched herself up on the worktop opposite Jen’s bottling. The two of them were clearly sisters; same heart-shaped face, brown eyes and chestnut hair, though Lydia wore hers shorter and had far fewer frown lines, while Jen was hoping their freckles disguised hers.

      A battalion of capped bottles sat neatly on the counter top, products of a one-woman production line of Jen tapping the new IPA from the conditioner into the brown glass bottles and sealing the caps on with the new capper Lydia had bought her for Christmas. She’d worn out the one her dad had first taught her to use, in the days when she had to stand on a kitchen chair to help him with his home-brew. It now sat on her shelf next to his photo. She owed all of this to him. Her fine sense of smell had come from him, along with her taste for beer – she’d been sneaking sips since primary school. His hobby had grown to become hers, even after she’d left home for uni. By then the hobby had become a passion, as she experimented with recipes and flavours. Gradually, it had formed her career plan. The brewing industry was a siren’s call to her.

      “We agreed I’d collect you,” Jen said, sitting down to start her labels. This batch was destined for the County Show. She generally sold her beers at a few farmers’ markets, the money coming in handy for restocking supplies and raw ingredients for the next brew, but the County Show was a bigger deal. She’d reserved a stall and was hoping to shift the mass of boxes currently stockpiled in their lounge, but more importantly there was the brewing competition to be won. The last two years’ first prize rosettes hung above her head on the shelf. Jen wasn’t a particularly competitive person, but admittedly she loved the validation the rosette gave her. She could brew, and brew well. She had an excellent understanding of flavours – this wasn’t vainglory, the judges had said so – and in lieu of not having the career she’d dreamed of, it was wildly pleasing to have her skills recognised.

      Jen pulled out several sheets of adhesive labels. Her friend Alice had designed them, simply stating Attison’s in beautiful cursive. The remaining space allowed Jen to neatly handwrite in the beer’s name and tapping date. Handwriting them rather than printing them added to the beer’s handmade touch, extending Jen’s notion of artistic creativity. Neat handwriting when annoyed however, was a bitch.

      “No, we didn’t,” sighed Lydia, hoiking her skirt up her left thigh, undoing the Velcro above her knee before grabbing both sides and pushing her lower leg off. Placing the prosthetic beside her, damaged shoe still in situ, she began to massage the stump through its polyurethane sock. “You agreed with yourself. I didn’t get a say. As always. Can I have a beer?”

      “On the shelf behind you,” Jen said, not looking up from her labels. This was a regular argument. Jen liked to collect Lydia when she got home from London, whether it was from work or from a date. She liked knowing she was safe. She didn’t want Lydia being jostled on the street or her leg getting avoidably chaffed. She didn’t see why Lydia couldn’t have trained at a local firm, but instead she’d insisted on applying to the graduate schemes at the accountancy globals in London. She’d stormed the interview process, which hadn’t surprised Jen one bit, because Lydia, swearing aside, was both quick and engaging. So while the location wasn’t Jen’s preference, it made her ridiculously proud of what her sister had achieved, when at one point it had looked as if there would be no future at all, and Jen allowed herself the commendation of not having made a total hash of bringing teen-Lydia up by herself.

      “Need a hand?” Lydia asked, selecting a Golden Ale from the odds and ends shelf by her shoulder and uncapping it on the wall-mounted opener. “I’ve got two of those.”

      Jen hated it when Lydia made those jokes, but didn’t say. Lydia got to deal with it however she wanted.

      “It’s fine. But thanks.” The many rows of bottles in front of her said she had a couple of hours’ writing and sticking. Still, she’d been spared the trip to the station. She took a second to strike it off ListIT and cancel the alarm.

      “Come on, Jen. I can write the labels.”

      “Really, it’s all good,” Jen said, keeping a firm grip on the pen and sheets. “I’ve got everything under control.”

      Having been through this before too, Lydia gave up, mouthed “Control Freak” at Jen’s back then leaned back to take a slug of the beer while her sister worked on.

      “Got anything planned for the weekend?” Jen asked, finishing another sticker, peeling it off and sticking it neatly on the bottle. Each label would be perfectly aligned. Meticulous was technically correct, anal would have been Lydia’s word of choice.

      “Hmm,” Lydia murmured, as she swallowed her mouthful. “Just popping out somewhere.” Jen bit her tongue to stop herself from pursuing it. She knew when Lydia was being deliberately vague.

      “How СКАЧАТЬ