Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  ‘Um – good,’ I said, trying my best to look encouraged. All this messy human interaction was taking a bit of getting used to after two weeks in a vacuum. And I was aching all over. Even my skin felt sore. Every cell in my feeble body wanted to be in bed with the covers pulled over my head.

  Anna gave my fingers a tight squeeze and I tried not to wince. ‘Let’s have a night out! Just you, me and Jess. And we can rubbish men to our heart’s content.’

  She sighed happily at the prospect. This was Anna in her element, rubbishing men. Which was strange when she had lovely, funny, rugby-playing Peter tending to her every need and whim.

  ‘Or maybe a spa day would be better? Or’ – her eyes lit up – ‘how about a girls’ weekend? To Prague? Or Barcelona or something? Would that cheer you up?’

  I tried to look enthused. But to be honest I was desperate to get back to Deal or No Deal. The contestants were like one big happy family. Watching it made me feel safe. And I knew for a fact that Noel Edmonds would never do the cheating thing.

  But to make Anna feel better, I nodded and said, ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

  I had an odd feeling it wouldn’t happen, though, and I was right because the next day I came down with the worst cold I’d had in years. As I snuffled my way through the last of the tissues (eventually resorting to the posh lilac ones in the guest bedroom), I couldn’t help wondering if illness was my body’s way of getting me out of a tight spot.

  I hated to seem ungrateful, but I knew exactly what a ‘cheering up Izzy’ evening would be like. Jess and Anna would be feeling bad for me so I’d have to make a mammoth effort to smile and ‘act normal’ to reassure them I was fine, when all I really wanted to do was drive home, drag my duvet through to the living room and watch back to back reruns of Grey’s Anatomy in my pyjamas.

  My cold, while pretty revolting, was a great excuse for remaining immobile in the house for another week. No-one could come near me because, of course, colds are highly infectious and this one had me practically at death’s door (at least, that’s what I told everyone).

  And so it might have gone on, with me inventing new ways of remaining out of circulation in order to legitimately mope my days away.

  But then that horrible text arrived from the bank and the scariest word in the home-owner’s dictionary leaped immediately into my head. Repossession.

  After Jamie left, I’d buried my head in the sand over money. It was always there in the back of my mind – a vague threat cloaked in black, keeping its distance. But I somehow thought that while I was still in mourning for the end of my relationship, I couldn’t possibly be expected to start exercising the logical part of my brain and work out a plan. So the only action I’d taken to prevent my life going into complete financial meltdown was making gallons of vegetable soup and crossing my fingers. Admittedly, I was keeping them firmly crossed that Jamie would feel sufficiently guilty for doing the dirty on me to keep on paying the mortgage for a while.

  Apparently I had been deluding myself.

  OCTOBER

  Autumn has arrived. The leaves are changing colour daily. And I’ve run out of ways to cook apples!

  My four Bramley trees have been unusually heavy with fruit this season. I went out with the step-ladder last week and picked all I could reach. I’m not great with heights so I tried not to look down. But then a terrier ran into the garden and started yapping around the ladder, so I was forced to descend.

  But every cloud has a silver lining. The dog’s owner happened to be a very tall gentleman who, when he realised my difficulty reaching the top branches, climbed the ladder himself and had the rest of the apples down in minutes!

  I’ve now got enough Bramleys to feed the five thousand. I’ve stored dozens in the garage, each one wrapped in newspaper to hopefully keep them from rotting.

  And when Izzy arrived on Tuesday, we went out blackberrying in the lanes around the house then spent a lovely morning baking. The scent of blackberries, apples and buttery pastry filled the house and was so heavenly, we couldn’t resist eating pie for lunch and dinner as well!

  Yesterday, I staked out a small area in a sunny spot of the garden so Izzy could have her very own vegetable plot. We went to the garden centre and she chose what she’d like to plant – with a little guidance from yours truly, of course.

  When we got back with our spoils, Izzy remembered the pumpkins she’d planted during the summer holidays, in a spot just beyond the terrace. She rushed outside, eager to find out if they had sprouted but there was nothing to be seen.

  She was so disappointed, I hatched a plan.

  Magically, when I went out into the garden this morning – hey presto! There was a single, average-sized pumpkin, partially hidden by foliage, just where she’d planted the seeds!

  Izzy was amazed.

  Although later, she did comment that she was quite sure it hadn’t been there the day before and that it looked very like the pumpkins in my own vegetable plot. She’s too wise for her own good, that one!

  I told her one pumpkin was indeed very like another.

  We made soup with hers and it was absolutely delicious.

  Chapter Two

  ‘My treat.’ Jess reaches for her purse. ‘Call it a celebration.’

  ‘Of what?’ I ask, blanching at the vast sucking noise coming from the café’s industrial-sized coffee machine.

  Every sudden noise is freaking me out. I suppose it’s because, apart from quick food raids to the local supermarket, I haven’t been out in the real world for months.

  Jess beams in a proud, motherly way. ‘Moving on. Your brilliant new life.’

  I smile at her hopeful optimism.

  In recent weeks, I’ve got back to the job-hunting. But to be honest, my heart isn’t really in it. I need to feel positive about what I’m doing, otherwise I worry I might spiral down into the depths again – and sadly, I don’t think my old career in PR will give me that lift any more.

  I’m hankering after a new direction altogether.

  I glance around at the familiar low lighting, black leather sofas and chrome tables. The landscape of my life might look very different from two months ago, but the Fieldhorn Deli Café is exactly the same.

  Today it’s full of Saturday shoppers taking shelter from the autumn wind that’s blowing leaves along the High Street. The low hum of a dozen conversations is actually quite soothing. It feels good to be somewhere familiar that evokes only good memories.

  ‘Just a coffee, please,’ I tell Jess, fingering the loose waistband of my jeans. I haven’t eaten properly since Jamie moved out. Whenever I make a meal for one, the food looks so abandoned on its little plate it makes me want to cry. Many times I have ended up scraping it into the bin.

  At first when he left, my stomach churned constantly and I was plagued by Hollywood-style snapshots of the pair of them together.

  Jamie and Emma laughing in a pub by a roaring fire, chinking glasses of mulled wine as the snow piled up outside. Emma and Jamie, in cute matching puffa jackets, stealing a kiss over a supermarket trolley. Jamie and Emma enjoying marathon sessions of movie-quality sex in her chic London flat as snow drifted gently past the window. Odd there’s so much snow. George Michael’s ‘Last Christmas’ video clearly made a big impression.

  Jess frowns. ‘I wanted a Danish pastry. But I can’t eat it if you’re just going to sit there watching.’

  ‘I thought you were on a diet,’ I point out. ‘Which is nuts, by the way.’

  ‘I’m a bride-to-be.’ She sits bolt upright and pats her flat stomach. ‘It’s against the law not to lose weight for the Big Day.’

  ‘So what’s with the Danish?’

  ‘I’ve counted it into my eating plan.’

  Suddenly I feel hungry. Perhaps it’s all this talk of food or the aroma of fresh coffee or knowing the Deli Café sells my favourite cookie of all time.

  Or maybe it’s because after a month of half-hearted job-hunting, at last I have a plan I think might work.


  ‘Pecan Nut and Raisin Crunch, please,’ I tell Jess. ‘Actually, I’m starving. I’ve been awake since five.’

  Jess’s face falls. She knows all about my sleepless nights.

  ‘No, it’s good.’ I sit forward. ‘I’ve been thinking since five, and I’ve found a way to hold on to Farthing Cottage. I’ll tell you about it when Anna gets here.’

  She gives me that fond, goofy look that says, How do you manage to be so brave?

  Frankly, I wish she would stop wrapping my feelings in cotton wool. Jess is getting married to Wesley in July and should, in theory, be boring me to death with talk of bridesmaids’ dresses and table plans. Just because I won’t be walking down the aisle any time soon doesn’t mean I’m allergic to connubial happiness in general.

  But I know she’s only trying to protect me.

  I feel a surge of affection for my two best friends. A tear squeezes out but I dash it away in case Jess thinks I’m about to have a relapse.

  The truth is I still have an occasional ‘down day’ but on the whole, life is slowly getting back to normal.

  Jess goes off to order just as the door chimes and Anna arrives, out of breath. The damp day has frizzed her red hair, making it bunch out over her shoulders. She drops her keys on the table and hugs me. ‘Sorry I’m late. Peter wouldn’t let me out of bed.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘How’s Jess?’ She grins over at the counter. ‘Of Jess ‘n’ Wes?’

  ‘Stop it,’ I admonish her. ‘You know she hates that.’

  Anna shrugs. ‘It’s not my fault they’re a rhyming couplet. Back in a sec.’ She plonks her scarf on the table and rushes over to join Jess at the counter.

  I smile, watching as she loops her arm round Jess’s shoulders.

  Thank goodness for friends.

  When Jamie and I first moved down here, the only person I knew was Jess. We’d met at Edinburgh University and she’d lived in the same flat as me for a while after we graduated. But then she’d found a job as a sub-editor on a newspaper in Surrey, where her family lived, and moved back down there.

  We met Anna a year ago. She works as an events organiser, and Jess’s newspaper employed Anna’s company to set up a charity event for Comic Relief.

  I remember Jess phoning me in a panic. She’d agreed to have lunch with Anna, who she barely knew, after the event. ‘She’s a bit – erm – whacky. Sort of loud. And very opinionated.’

  Jess can be a bit shy with new people. She begged me to ‘drop by’ for support.

  I laughed and said I would. So the three of us had lunch and actually, it turned out to be a riot. Anna kept us in stitches the whole time, waving her arms about in illustration and nearly sending a waiter’s tray of glasses flying. She was in the process of doing up a flat and was intrigued to see what I’d done with Farthing Cottage. So I invited her and Jess round for supper and we’ve been good friends ever since.

  When we’re all settled and I have rediscovered the delights of Pecan Nut and Raisin Crunch, I turn to Anna. ‘So how’s Peter? Still whisking you off for a romantic weekend?’

  Anna shrugs. ‘I think so.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Next Friday.’ She picks up her spoon and toys pensively with the froth on her cappuccino.

  ‘You don’t look very excited,’ points out Jess.

  Anna’s mouth twists. ‘Well, he’s not “the one”, if that’s what you’re thinking. We’re not “in lurve” or anything.’

  I grin at her. ‘So what are you?’

  ‘We’re friends.’ She shrugs. ‘Friends who occasionally sleep together.’

  I give her a look that says, forgive me if I’m sceptical but seeing Peter twice during the week and most Saturday nights does not, in my book, fall into the ‘occasionally’ category.

  ‘Peter’s lovely,’ sighs Jess.

  It’s true. He’s a big, beefy guy with a soft centre. Funny and really laid-back. Plus it’s obvious he adores Anna.

  ‘He’s way too keen.’ Anna clatters the spoon back in the saucer. ‘I keep telling him I don’t want anything heavy but he’d still see me every night if he could.’

  ‘But why don’t you want a proper relationship?’ Jess asks anxiously.

  ‘Because I don’t, all right?’ snaps Anna. ‘And anyway, how’s Wes, Jess?’

  Jess purses her lips. ‘It’s Wesley. And he’s fine, thanks.’

  ‘You said sex with Peter was the best you’d ever had,’ I remind Anna.

  She rounds on me. ‘Well, you thought CLB was bloody perfect and look how that turned out.’

  I grit my teeth. I really don’t need reminding.

  ‘Sorry.’ Anna presses my hand. ‘It’s just I could murder him for shagging around like that.’

  Jess frowns at her. ‘He wasn’t “shagging around” as you so delicately put it.’ She turns to me. ‘He wasn’t, was he?’

  I shake my head. ‘He was just shagging Emma.’ And that, of course, is even worse.

  Anna places her palms on the table. ‘Well, it just confirms what I’ve always thought. Men look after themselves. Women look after each other.’

  ‘Speaking of which, I brought that job advert for you, Izzy,’ Jess announces as she delves into her bag.

  As she rummages, a glossy magazine falls out onto the floor. The bride on the cover is a vision in satin and tulle, her honey-coloured hair piled up into an elaborate work of art. She is smiling a secret smile. And why wouldn’t she? She’s found perfect bliss and will be a princess for a day.

  Jess shoots me a glance and shoves the magazine back in her bag as if it were red-hot porn.

  She hands me the newspaper clipping. ‘One of our receptionists is going on maternity leave. Why don’t you try for it? I know it’s not PR but it might tide you over until you land something else?’

  I pick it up and nod my head slowly as if I’m studying the advert. Then I look up at their watchful expressions.

  ‘The thing is… what I’ve decided to do…’ I place the clipping carefully on the table. ‘Well, I think it might be time for a change. I want to do something I really love. And I think gardening might be that something.’

  There, I’ve said it.

  ‘So I was thinking I might try to turn the garden into a business.’

  Two pairs of brows arch in bafflement. Either I have transmogrified into an alien or they fear they have greatly over-estimated the extent of my mental recovery.

  ‘You’re going to turn your garden,’ Anna repeats slowly, ‘into a business.’

  There’s a further wedge of silence as they continue to stare.

  Then a light goes on over Jess’s head. ‘Oh, you mean you’re going to open your garden up to the public? Like the National Trust?’ She frowns. ‘Is it big enough, though? I know you’ve got that field your Auntie Midge used to keep her rescue donkeys in, but even so—’

  Anna snorts. ‘No, dumbo. She means grow potatoes and sell them.’ She looks at me doubtfully. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes, I would be growing potatoes,’ I say, somewhat deflated. ‘But it would be much more than that.’

  The excitement I felt at five this morning, when I woke with a plan, is ebbing away with depressing speed. But they’re both nodding so I plough on. ‘Remember last year when I grew all different kinds of crops? Well, there’s room to nearly quadruple the size of the plot—’

  ‘And this will pay your bills?’ interrupts Anna. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of potatoes, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘But she’s not just growing potatoes,’ reminds Jess. ‘It’s carrots and leeks and—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know that.’ Anna frowns. ‘The potatoes were metaphoric.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Jess nods.

  I shake my head at them. ‘You don’t understand. I wouldn’t be growing it all myself.’

  Anna leans forward. ‘So who…?’

  ‘I’ve looked into it. There are companies based in London that sell a huge range
of organic fruit and vegetables. Anything you want, really. So I’d get a delivery of all the basics – like potatoes, carrots and broccoli – and also some of the exotic stuff like bananas and pineapples.’

  ‘But where would you sell it?’ Jess frowns. ‘At a farmers’ market?’

  ‘No. I’d run a box scheme.’

  Anna perks up. ‘Oh, I’ve heard of those.’

  I nod eagerly. ‘I’d pack a selection of fruit and vegetables – the best available that week – and deliver them to customers’ houses. Probably one day a week to start with. Until word gets round and orders increase – which they would because I’d advertise in your newspaper, Jess.’

  I sit back feeling pleased.

  It’s not surprising I’m word perfect. I’ve been turning it over in my mind ever since I woke up at 5 a.m. in a panic about money.

  Last month, the bank was lenient about the mortgage payment and I’ve since cashed in a few shares to boost my account. But once that money runs out, I’ll have no other choice but to put the house on the market.

  There’s a lot riding on this box scheme idea.

  It could be the answer to a prayer.

  If I can make it work.

  There’s a brief, digesting silence.

  Anna and Jess are nodding earnestly, but I can tell they think I’m a crate of rotten apples short of a compost heap.

  Then Jess leans forward. ‘So what is it about selling vegetables that appeals to you, Izzy?’

  Her perplexed expression makes me want to burst out laughing. Apart from the fact that the question is gently patronising, she sounds like she’s interviewing me for an issue of The Good Life magazine.

  ‘Is it because you want to get back to a simpler way of living?’

  ‘Hmm. Yes.’ I nod solemnly and stare at the horizon (or what I can see of it through the coffee shop’s slightly smeary window). ‘Girls, I feel something profound tickling the very edge of my consciousness. An awakening, if you like. A realisation that I need to get back to nature.’