Page 8 of In Just One Day

‘Just this, then I must go.’ Tilda turned to the open window. ‘Kids, five minutes, OK?’ They all stopped and turned for a split second before resuming their bouncing. ‘Well, whatever happens, here’s to Pinot Gris. I think it’s my new favourite.’

Flora clinked Tilda’s glass. ‘You always say that.’

4

Mack sat back in his chair, a well-thumbed copy of Great Expectations in his hand. He’d picked it up from a stack of books on the side in an attempt to take his mind off the situation, even for just a few moments. But it hadn’t worked. He sighed and reached for his glass, taking a long sniff. The smell of old leather and spice filled his nose.

The wine inside was brick red in colour, an Australian Shiraz at least twenty years old. Instantly, the aromas in the glass took him back to the time when he’d arrived in London from Australia looking for work. He’d walked into a pub to ask for a job. The pub was practically empty save for the landlord and a couple of regulars propping up the bar, but before long Mack was running it, turning the place from a beer-soaked boozer into a heaving wine bar serving wines from all over the world. His bestselling wine was an Australian Shiraz, which was something of a novelty back then. Soon one bar became three, then five across the city before he sold the business and ‘retired’ to the south coast with his wife, Elizabeth, and their young son, Jamie, who’d just turned twelve.

He hadn’t intended to open a wine shop but there wasn’t one nearby, so for mainly selfish reasons Ten Green Bottles was opened on the site of an old antiques shop in a listed building at the top of the town. Mack’s neighbours included a bakery on one side and a hardware shop on the other.

He had renovated the space, stripping the plaster from the walls, taking them back to the original brickwork and crafting shelves from locally sourced oak. He and Elizabeth had also set about turning the dingy flat upstairs into a home for the three of them. She’d made curtains, cleaned carpets, cleared cupboards and painted furniture, transforming it into something quite charming.

Soon the shelves in the shop were stacked with wines. Now all Mack needed were some customers. But London was very different from this small seaside town; barely a dozen people came through the door in the first few weeks.

‘How about we throw a free wine tasting so people can see what you’re all about?’ Elizabeth suggested. The next day Mack placed an advert in the local paper, Elizabeth ran up some bunting to decorate the courtyard garden and Jamie posted flyers through the door of every shop and house the length of the high street and beyond.

The day of the tasting arrived and Mack had opened fifty different bottles, wines from all over the world, lined up on tables for people to try for themselves. Plates of bruschetta and crudités sat on side tables dotted around the courtyard, assembled by them both early that morning.

The sun shone brightly in a cloudless blue sky above. But still no one came.

‘Where is everyone? What’s wrong with these people? I’m offering them free wine!’ Mack was exasperated.

Elizabeth sprang up from her chair. ‘If they won’t come to us, let’s take it to them. Instead of sitting out here at the back where no one can see us, why don’t we set up the tables at the front of the shop instead? Jamie, run and get some paper cups from next door. Then we can give them a taste. That’ll get them in.’

By the middle of the afternoon the courtyard was rammed. Mack was in his element, pouring wines for people, telling them stories about the winemakers and places the wines had come from. He asked what sort of style they liked and found them new things to try. Elizabeth scribbled orders and took down customers’ details in a big black book. Jamie had positioned the old stereo upstairs by the window at the back and as the afternoon went on, the sounds from Mack’s jazz record collection floated down across the courtyard.

By the time the last customer left, it was almost dark. ‘Thank you, my darling,’ Mack called across to Elizabeth as they both cleared plates from tables strewn with empty bottles and dirty glasses. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be waiting for people to walk through the door.’

‘They just needed a bit of persuading, that’s all.’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘I spoke to quite a few who said they didn’t really drink wine. But then they tried something they hadn’t tried before and loved it.’

‘Exactly! That’s the thing… People seem to think it’s all crusty clarets and expensive Burgundy. But wine should be for anyone who wants to try it, not just for those with money. I think we’re on to something, Elizabeth.’

‘Mack, if you can pass on just a drop of your enthusiasm for the stuff then, yes, I think you’re on to something.’

‘I said we, Elizabeth; you and Jamie, too. That was a team effort today. Thank you.’

‘Come on, let’s get this place tidied up. You need this place shipshape and ready for business on Monday morning. Where’s Jamie? Jamie!’ She called up to the window, music still playing softly through it.

Jamie stuck his head out. ‘I’m here!’

‘Right, you, time for bed. It’s getting late and you look exhausted.’ Elizabeth playfully shooed him away with her hand.

‘But, Mum…’

‘Go on, off you go. I’ll be up in a minute.’ She turned to go inside, balancing plates in both hands. ‘Mack, grab the empty boxes and we can make a start on the bottles.’

He watched her as she went inside, wondering what on earth he’d ever done to deserve her.

* * *

The sound of the book hitting the floor as it slipped out of his hand woke Mack with a start. He looked across at the clock on the wall, squinting to see it in the low light. It was almost two in the morning. Slowly, the events of the last couple of days came back to him: the meeting with his bank manager, where he’d broken the news to Mack that there was nothing more they could do to help.

The money side had never been his strong point – Elizabeth had done the books when the business had been running at full strength – but he’d always found a way to muddle through until now. This time, though, it really did look like it was time to concede defeat to the realities of running a small independent business on a once-busy, now often-deserted high street. Compounded in no small way by the seemingly endless string of cut-price deals on wine from the supermarket on the other side of the road.

He reached for the picture beside him, of Elizabeth and Jamie, taken years before on the beach not far from there. It had been their favourite spot, a small patch of sand on a pebble beach, tucked between two old wooden groynes. They’d often headed there after the shop had shut in the summer months, with a picnic for their supper. After the obligatory swim – Jamie would insist, no matter how cold the water was – they would wrap themselves in towels and sit on the sand, eating still-warm sausage sandwiches straight from their tightly wrapped tinfoil packet.

Mack looked at the picture, the sounds of the sea in his ears. He missed them both so much. It often physically hurt to think about them but, at the same time, it was the thought of them that had kept him going. Knowing they’d have wanted him to stay, to do what he loved, to try to be happy. Thinking about it, Mack realised the shop had been his crutch for all these years, his reason to get up and get on with the day. It had given him a purpose when, really, there were times when he’d rather have not woken up at all.

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