In Just One Day

by Helen Mcginn

  Jenny had tried to talk her out of it, but Denise was adamant. ‘I just want to go there, to say I’m sorry.’ And so Jenny had agreed to drive her friend to the churchyard in the village where the family was from. Denise had seen the name in the paper and she guessed the grave would be there. No one else had to know; no one had to see her. That had been the plan, anyway.

  Denise had felt quite calm on the journey there, watching the view through the car window change from the suburbs where they lived to open countryside. But then the rain started falling and by the time they got there it was pouring. She made her way alone to the churchyard, leaving Jenny in the car, in the car park. There wasn’t another soul to be seen.

  The fresh flowers on the ground gave away the location of those whose ashes were most recently interred and soon Denise found herself standing near the stone bearing the name of the man killed by her son. She looked at it for a while, from a slight distance, her feet rooted to the spot. She felt absolutely wretched for this man and furious with her son all at the same time.

  Rain dripped from Denise’s face, her hair sticking to her forehead. She moved to sit on a bench under a tree to collect her thoughts. She looked up, spotting a figure walking towards the churchyard. The woman had her head down, eyes averted. Whether she was avoiding Denise or simply hadn’t seen her, Denise couldn’t tell, but she watched with horror as the woman walked across the grass, straight towards the headstone near where she’d been standing moments before. Denise looked at her, wrapped in a long dark padded coat, a pink woollen scarf around her neck. The woman turned and smiled. Denise waited until her back was again turned, then stood and walked as fast as she could back towards the car.

  ‘Can we go?’

  ‘Are you OK, Den?’

  ‘Please, can we go?’ Denise did up her seat belt.

  Jenny looked at her friend. She was clearly terrified. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Jenny tried to get her to talk. After a while, Denise spoke, her voice strained.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jenny.’

  ‘Please don’t apologise. I’m just worried this wasn’t a good idea.’

  ‘I had to come. I had to. I just… didn’t think I’d see anyone.’

  ‘Who was that woman?’

  Denise looked ahead. ‘I’ve no idea.’ But the sadness on the stranger’s face had given her away immediately. Denise knew exactly who she was.

  28

  The sound of the bell brought Mack out from the back of the shop. Colin, resplendent in top-to-toe rust red stood before him, a book in his hand and a big grin on his face.

  ‘Colin, how are you today?’

  ‘Excellent, thank you. And thrilled to say I’ve taken delivery of a book that I’ve been longing to share with you. I have my own copy, of course, but I’ve been trying to track one down for you for some time.’ Colin handed the book to Mack with great care. ‘It’s quite old, as you can see.’

  Mack held the book away and adjusted his glasses. ‘Chats About Wine.’ He opened the front cover.

  ‘Written by a chap called Hawker back in 1907. I came across it a while ago and have been meaning to recommend it to you for ages. He – Hawker, that is – refers to wine as “the elixir of life”. Here, let me find his description for you. It’s quite wonderful.’ Colin turned a few pages over and pointed to the text. ‘There, read that.’

  Mack cleared his throat.

  What then, it may be asked, is this wonderful elixir of life, which is almost as old as the world itself and yet is overflowing with the exuberance of youth; which restores and invigorates us when the powers of life are low; uplifts and cheers us in days of sorrow and gloom; evokes and enhances our joys and pleasures; and which, by the inherent force it is endowed with, gives animation, energy and inspiration to every sense and faculty we possess?

  ‘Wine, that’s what!’ Colin laughed. ‘I think you’ll enjoy reading that, Mack. There’s a whole chapter about the importance of having a good wine merchant in your town. It could have been written for you.’ Colin looked very pleased with himself.

  ‘Well, what can I say? That’s very kind of you, thank you.’ Mack was genuinely touched by the man’s kindness. ‘Can I repay you with a bottle of something?’

  ‘Absolutely not, but you can point me in the direction of a bottle to have tonight. I’m making something special for dinner, a classic French daube. I’m just picking up the last few ingredients and need a bottle of wine to use in the stew and one to drink with it later.’

  Mack went towards the French wine section, reaching down for a bottle of Côtes du Rhône. ‘Use this one for cooking,’ he handed the bottle to Colin, ‘and this one to drink with it.’

  Colin took the second bottle. ‘Vinsobres…’ He sounded unsure.

  ‘It’s the most northerly of the Southern Rhône top spots and this particular producer has vineyards only a stone’s throw from the Alps so the altitude gives the wines incredible flavour. And because it doesn’t have one of the big appellation names on the front like Châteauneuf or even Gigondas, it’s better value. In my opinion, that is.’

  Colin held the bottle away from him, squinting at the label, turning it around. ‘Well, with that recommendation it sounds like just the thing. I’ll take both.’

  Mack wrapped them in paper and put them in a box for Colin. ‘Here you go. I haven’t charged you for the cheaper one – and don’t argue about it.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind, thank you.’ Colin tapped his card on the machine. ‘How’s Flora doing? I haven’t seen her for a while.’

  ‘Ah, she’s hanging in there. It’s not been the easiest time for her, obviously, but she seems to be getting back to normal life a little bit more now. She’s in here a few times a week now but still working from home, too.’

  ‘Poor thing, I do feel for her. Must be hard, losing someone like that, so suddenly. You know, here one minute, gone the next.’

  Mack tried to change the subject. ‘So, how long are you cooking the beef for?’

  ‘About three hours all in. It’s all in the quality of the meat. And the wine, of course.’ He nodded knowingly at Mack. ‘When is the court case? For the boy, the one who killed Flora’s brother? I saw it reported in the paper a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Soon, I think. Apparently, the police were hoping it would have happened by now, according to Johnny, but things are a bit slow at this time of year. Still, hopefully it can all be over before Christmas and they can at least put that bit of it behind them.’ Mack handed Colin a receipt. ‘There you go, let me know what you think.’

  ‘Oh, I will, thank you, Mack.’ Colin picked up the box. ‘And say hello to Flora for me when she comes in, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course, thank you.’ Mack waved as he left the shop.

  A few moments later the bell rang again. Mack looked up to see Flora.

  ‘You’ve just missed…’

  ‘Colin. I know. I saw him come in. I’m sorry, Mack, I know he’s a lovely man, but I just don’t want to… well, I’d rather not bump into anyone too chatty at the moment.’ She looked at Mack and pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry, that’s probably a dreadful thing to say.’

  ‘Not at all, I know exactly what you mean. He means well, though.’

  ‘I know. Ooh, is that fresh coffee I smell?’

  ‘It certainly is. I’ll pour you one.’

  ‘Lovely, thank you. So, Mack, don’t faint but I think I’ve finally finished the online wine-course material. Just to warn you, Johnny’s insisting that you and I do some short videos for the website, like an introduction, for example.’

  Mack looked horrified.

  Flora laughed, ‘I know, I know. I had the same reaction. But he promises they’ll be really short, he’ll film them and do all the editing and we just have to talk wine for a bit. Honestly, if I’m being made to do it you have to do it, too.’

  Mack raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, if you think we should…’

  ‘If we don’t, we’ll never hear the end of
it, Mack. Let’s just do it and then he’ll leave us alone.’ Flora took the coffee from him. ‘Lovely, thank you. Right, I’ll get on with those new tasting cards for those wines that came in last week.’

  ‘It’s lovely to have you in the shop, Flora.’

  ‘I want to keep busy.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘I know you do. You get sorted. I’ll fetch you some blank cards; they’re in the back somewhere. No doubt Johnny’s put them somewhere sensible and I won’t be able to find them now.’

  Flora spent the next hour writing short tasting notes for the new wines to go on the shelf. It had always been one of her favourite jobs, finding the words to describe the aromas, flavours and textures of wines, and thinking about the best type of food they’d go with. But this time she struggled to find the words, no matter how hard she tried. Instead, her thoughts kept returning to the woman on the bench. And the more Flora thought about her, the more she realised she wanted to talk to her. Why, she wasn’t quite sure. She just knew that the need to meet her wasn’t going away and sooner or later she’d have to do something about it.

  Kate sat opposite Robin at the table, the house quiet except for the sound of the grandfather clock in the hall. The midday chime rang out. Robin looked up from his paperwork, not that he could concentrate. Kate was seemingly lost in her book, a weighty tome on Shakespeare’s wife, Monty curled up on her lap.

  Ever since delivering her news to Robin, life had gone on in a strangely normal way, their daily routine not that different from before. But the subject of his affair was a closed one, as far as Kate was concerned. Whenever he tried to broach the subject, Kate shut the conversation down. It just hung in the air, around but ignored, like an unwanted guest at a particularly hideous drinks party.

  ‘Can I make you something for lunch?’ Robin ventured.

  Kate didn’t look up. ‘No, thank you. I’m going to pop out in a bit to pick up some shopping. I’ll get myself something then.’

  ‘Kate…’

  ‘Robin, if this is about her, I don’t want to hear it.’

  ‘It’s not. I mean, of course I want to talk to you about it, tell you it’s over and how sorry I am…’

  ‘Robin, I’ve said I don’t want to talk about it and I haven’t changed my mind.’ She looked up at him, her eyes impassive.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s not that. I wanted to talk to you about next week.’

  ‘You mean going to court?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, obviously we’ve got to go to the wretched thing, but it doesn’t really make any difference to Billy, does it? It’s too late now.’

  The words thumped onto the table.

  Robin took a deep breath. He wanted to say so many things but was unable to find a way to bring the words out. ‘If I could change what’s happened I would.’ ‘I feel wretched.’ ‘I miss Billy.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘I love you.’ But the words stayed buried.

  Kate closed her book, putting it on the table. She lifted Monty onto the floor and stood, brushing off her long navy needlecord skirt as she did. ‘I’ll see you in a bit.’ She picked up the car keys from the dresser and left the room.

  Robin couldn’t tell if she’d been talking to him or the dog.

  29

  Tilda sat in Flora’s kitchen, an empty pot of tea between them. Having taken the children to the beach for a runabout after school, they’d returned to Flora’s house and the children had plonked themselves in front of the television in the sitting room next door.

  ‘It’s almost six – can we have a glass of wine now?’ Tilda looked at Flora, hands pressed together.

  ‘I’ll see what’s in the fridge.’

  ‘Flo, I hope you don’t mind me asking – please say if you’d rather not talk about it – but is there any news on your parents?’

  ‘Not really. Mum hasn’t changed her mind. I haven’t spoken to Dad for a bit; I honestly don’t know what to say. I feel if there’s anyone who should have my support first it’s her, really. After all, she didn’t do anything wrong. But I don’t want it to be about taking sides. And with everything we’ve gone through recently…’ Flora poured out two glasses.

  ‘Ooh, fizz! Really?’ Tilda tried not to sound too excited.

  ‘Napoleon said in victory you deserve champagne. In defeat you need it. Something like that, anyway.’ She passed Tilda a glass. ‘Well, this is actually an English sparkling wine but whatever, cheers.’ They clinked their glasses. The toasty bubbles washed across Flora’s mouth, leaving a streak of orchard-fruit flavours in its wake.

  ‘Can I ask you a technical question?’ Tilda took a sniff of her glass.

  ‘Go ahead, caller.’

  ‘Why don’t you use flutes? I noticed you always use a normal wine glass even for fizz.’

  ‘Because you can’t stick your nose into a flute like you can a wine glass. And smelling it is one of my favourite bits, so I don’t want to miss out.’ As if to demonstrate, Flora swilled her glass, and stuck her nose in, taking a big sniff. ‘See? Gorgeous.’

  Tilda did the same. ‘I suppose. But I usually forget to smell it anyway.’ She grinned at her friend.

  ‘I know, Tilda, you’re a lost cause.’ Flora laughed. ‘So, to answer your question, no news on my parents. But it’s the trial next week so maybe after that I’ll talk to them about it again. As Johnny’s told me a million times, it’s not my problem to fix. They’re grown-ups, too, apparently.’ Flora couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

  ‘You know, if you do decide to go – to court, I mean – Susie and I can help out with the kids if you need us to, or one of us could come with you, if that would help?’

  ‘You’re very kind. Thank you.’ Flora took another sip of her wine. ‘But I’m not going.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Tilda sipped her wine.

  ‘I want to save as much space in my head as I can for Billy, not fill it with things I don’t want to know.’

  Tilda nodded sympathetically. She couldn’t help but feel that ignoring it wouldn’t make it any easier, but Flora seemed adamant. ‘Whatever you think is right for you, Flo. But just to say, we’re here for you.’

  ‘Thank you, lovely friend.’ Flora raised her glass to Tilda once more. ‘Now, I need to ask your opinion on something. And be honest because I think maybe I’m going a bit mad.’

  Tilda shifted in her seat. ‘I’m all ears.’

  Flora sat back down, placing a bowl of crinkle-cut crisps between them. ‘No judgement, OK?’

  ‘No judgement.’ Tilda tried to look serious, then reached for a crisp.

  ‘So, I drove down to the churchyard near home earlier this week. To visit Billy’s headstone.’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘I know, I didn’t think I’d grow to like going there either but it turns out it gives me a chance to think. Anyway, I was standing there, you know, just kind of… taking in the view and I turned and saw a woman sitting on the bench under the tree. The one where I sometimes like to sit. I know it’s not my bench but I realised I’m not used to sharing it. Whatever,’ Flora waved her hand, ‘she was sitting there, the woman. I’ve never seen her before but there’s something about her that seems instantly familiar. And I can’t put my finger on it. I’m thinking, have I met you before? But then I think, she’s just here to visit someone, too. But when I turn again, she’s gone. Like, literally vanished. And when I get home, it hits me. It’s the mother of the boy who hit Billy’s car.’

  Tilda practically spat her wine out. ‘How on earth do you know? Have you seen her before?’ She wiped at her mouth.

  ‘No, but it’s her. I know it. And I think she’d come to see Billy’s grave, too.’

  ‘So did you say anything to her?’ Tilda took a slow sip from her glass.

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to, and I didn’t really put two and two together until later that day. But now I’m thinking that I want to talk to her. Tilda, it’s all I can think about.’

  Tilda’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘But I th
ought you said you didn’t want the details.’

  ‘I don’t, not of what happened. I can find those out after the court case if I want to. No, this is more about me wanting to understand why, not what. Do you see?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Tilda tried her best to look as if she did. ‘But if that’s the case, why not ask him, not his mother?’

  ‘You mean the boy who did it?’

  ‘Yes, surely he’s in the best position to tell you.’

  ‘Maybe he is. But there was just something about seeing her that made me think that I could speak to her, one mother to another, you know? Perhaps one day I could speak to him, too, but at the moment, that feels too brutal. I’m not sure I could face him. No, it’s her I want to talk to.’

  Tilda wasn’t sure if she really understood, but nodded even so. ‘I see what you mean.’

  Flora smiled at her friend. ‘I realise this might not make sense.’

  ‘Oh, Flora, can you tell I’m struggling?’ Tilda laughed apologetically.

  ‘You’re an open book, Tilda. Look, I feel like I’ve been shattered into a million tiny fragments over the last few months but if I’m to try and keep going, I’ve got to learn to live with what’s happened. With Billy, I mean. I’m not sure I have the energy to care what happens to my parents’ marriage at this point, to be honest.’

  ‘Oh, Flora, you don’t mean that.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you’re right, but this is about making sense of what happened to Billy. Or at least trying to.’

  ‘That makes a bit more sense. Sorry, Flora, I’m probably not saying the right things at all.’

  ‘No, you’re saying exactly the right things. Everyone’s so worried about saying the wrong thing, they end up not saying anything at all.’ Flora topped up their glasses. ‘I guess what I’m saying is that I know it’s not going to be easy, but I want to try to move on. No, not move on. That’s the wrong phrase. I think I just mean… I want to go on. Yes, that’s it. I want to find a way to go on, and not feel sad all the time. But to do that I need to have some sort of understanding from somewhere.’ Flora popped a crisp in her mouth, the loud crunch breaking the small silence that had fallen between them.