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Mack was not in sight when Flora got to the shop the next day, although the smell of freshly made coffee gave away his presence.
‘Good morning, Mack,’ Flora called out.
‘Hello, Flora. With you in a minute.’ He was in the stockroom; at least, that’s what they called it. Basically, it was a room at the back, stuffed from floor to ceiling with boxes and wooden crates. Flora had tried to install some sort of stock-rotation system, but with so little room, Mack hadn’t seemed to notice.
The shop sat on the high street in a small market town. It occupied a two-storey whitewashed brick building with a green awning hanging over two windows at the front, the name of the shop, Ten Green Bottles, in thick white lettering across it. Inside, the room was narrow but long, with exposed brick walls and old wooden floorboards giving the space a wonderful cellar-type feel. Thick dark wood shelves, built by Mack himself back when he first opened the shop in the early 1980s, were loaded with wines. It looked like a mad sweet shop for grown-ups. In the early days he’d enjoyed roaring trade with a long list of loyal customers, both private and in the restaurant trade, keeping the business hearty and healthy. Mack had even opened a bar at the back of the shop in the tiny courtyard garden for a while. But then the recession hit and, to make matters worse, a supermarket opened up smack bang opposite the shop, on the sunnier side of the street. It wasn’t a huge supermarket, more ‘express’ size, but Mack struggled to compete with their prices.
For years now the shop had limped on, barely covering its costs, but Mack loved his customers and did everything he could to keep them happy. He held monthly wine tastings in the shop, his clients perched on wooden boxes, trying his latest finds from tiny producers in France, Italy, Spain or some remote region further afield that it was unlikely anyone had heard of. He’d always had help in the shop, not least because he needed someone to run the place when he was out making deliveries. But more than that, it was for the company. He’d lived on his own since his wife, Elizabeth, had died, almost ten years ago. They’d been together for over forty years and he’d adored her. The irony was she hadn’t even liked wine that much.
Flora remembered Mack mentioning his son, just the once, when she’d asked him one day if he had any children.
‘We did. But he died too, sadly.’ He’d not offered any more than that, not even a name. Flora sensed from this response that it wasn’t something Mack wished to talk about and she’d quickly changed the subject.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Mack emerged from the back, glasses askew. ‘I know I’ve got some Château Palmer ’85 back there somewhere, I just can’t for the life of me remember where I put it. Old Mr Peters called yesterday asking if we had any; wants it for a birthday present.’
‘Yes, you have, and I think I know exactly where it is. Let me go… I’ll just put this stuff down.’ Flora shrugged off her coat and went to put her bag on the shelf below the counter.
‘No books today?’ Mack had got used to Flora carting the heavy tote bag with her everywhere she went.
‘Not today, Mack. I’ve got to the point where I feel like every time I learn one thing, I forget another. So, I’m giving it a break for a bit.’ The truth was she knew that she and Mack would need to have a proper talk about the future of the shop, and she was fully expecting to be sent home today with an apology that her job was no longer viable. And as much as that saddened her, the thought of Mack losing his shop broke her heart even more. She’d wanted to talk to Johnny about it before he left for work but he was up and gone by the time she’d woken up that morning.
‘Coffee? I’ve just made it.’ Mack poured out two cups and handed one to her.
‘Thank you. So, how did yesterday go?’
‘At the bank?’ Mack took a long sip of his coffee. ‘Not great.’
‘Oh, Mack, I’m so sorry. What did they say?’
‘I can’t get another loan, I’m afraid. They said they’ve done all they can. I’m going to have to sell the lease, possibly the building.’
‘But where will you live?’ Flora immediately thought of Mack’s flat upstairs. It was remarkably similar to the shop, just with books rather than wine lining the walls and piled up in every corner. She couldn’t bear the thought of Mack losing his home.
‘I’m not sure yet. I hadn’t really thought about it. But the shop’s going to have to go. I’ve tried, but it’s just not making enough to keep trading. Not by a long way, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m so sorry. That’s awful. I don’t know what to say.’ Flora reached across and put her hand gently on his arm. Mack looked at her, his face softening with a smile.
‘Honestly, I knew it was coming. Has been for a while, but I had just hoped that we’d have enough business to keep us ticking over. Technically, I should have retired long ago but, to be honest, I wouldn’t know what else to do.’ He looked around the shop. ‘I built this place, but you know what? It’s only bricks. And bottles. All good things, as they say.’
‘There must be something we can do, Mack. How about a proper marketing campaign? We could start online wine courses or pop-up tastings? Or, I don’t know… how about running a mini wine festival?’ Flora was speaking quickly, wishing she’d pushed him harder to consider these ideas long before now. She had tried in the past, but he’d always insisted they were fine as they were.
‘You’re kind, Flora, but really, it’s too late. I’ve already been to the estate agent’s at the bottom of the high street. They’re coming to have a look at the place later. I really am so sorry, but let me know if there is anything I can do in terms of a reference for another job. And I’ll pay you for another month’s work.’
‘You don’t have to do that, Mack. I know you’ve done what you can. This must be so very hard for you.’ Flora felt desperately sad.
‘Thank you. I just wish it didn’t have to be this way.’ Mack looked at her, his eyes glinting with tears. ‘Now, did you say you knew where that bottle of Palmer was? Mr Peters will be here to pick it up soon.’
* * *
‘Glass of wine?’ Flora grabbed two glasses from the dresser and put them on the table. ‘Sorry about the mess.’
‘I can’t believe you’re apologising for the mess. Have you seen my house?’ Tilda laughed as she picked up the empty beakers from the table. ‘Yes, please… Thanks for feeding them today; you didn’t have to do that.’
‘Pleasure. I owe you anyway.’ Flora put the glasses on the table, unscrewed the wine and poured a generous measure into each. From the garden, the squeals of the children reached them as they flipped and flung themselves at each other on the trampoline. ‘Please be careful! You’ve only just finished eating!’ Flora called across to them, only to be completely ignored. ‘Cheers!’ She raised her glass to her friend’s.
‘Cheers, happy Friday.’ Tilda took a long sip. ‘God, that’s good. What is it?’
