Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  He grins. ‘Well, that’s the idea.’

  ‘Gosh! You might be famous one day. Can I have your autograph just in case?’

  I check her expression for any trace of sarcasm.

  Nope. She’s beaming like a loony.

  I have to get her away before she decides she’s not marrying Wesley after all.

  ‘Well, thanks.’ I hand back the cup. ‘It’s been …’ I tail off and go pink.

  ‘It was a pleasure,’ he says seriously. ‘And if you need any more help just let Gran know and she’ll pass on your message.’

  ‘Er, right. Excellent.’

  He gives me another knee-trembler smile.

  ‘Well, someone has an admirer,’ Jess remarks on our way back to the car.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He was only being friendly.’

  ‘Well, there’s friendly. And then there’s friendly. If you know what I mean.’

  Driving home after dropping Jess off, I find myself thinking about Erik, and about Jess saying he fancies me. It’s rubbish, of course. He was being nice because I’m Mrs P’s friend, that’s all.

  I’m not even thinking about the business as I go upstairs to the office.

  So when I see the answer machine is flashing with three messages, I nearly faint with shock.

  First is my mother with a long-winded tale about some boxes that need to go in the loft. ‘I cleared out your bedroom, Isobel, because let’s face it you’re so rarely here and I need a dining room. But now I’ve got these boxes of books in the hallway that I keep tripping over. And I can’t possibly ask Bill Next Door to help because he already puts my bins out every second Tuesday, bless him. You know the silly man has a crush on me and I really can’t afford to rub Vanessa up the wrong way. That’s his wife. She used to be a weightlifter, apparently. Or a wrestler, I can’t remember which. But she’s quite gone to seed and you know my opinions on fat people.’ She pauses for a fraction of a second. ‘But anyway, I expect you’re busy so I won’t keep you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll sort it out somehow.’

  The second message is from a woman wanting a taxi.

  And the third is Jess. ‘Just called to wish you luck. Bet you’ve had dozens of orders already!’

  End of messages.

  Sighing I pull my diary over and resign myself to a weekend at my mother’s.

  Then I go down to the kitchen and make cheese on toast, trying to ignore the spiteful voice in my head that’s hissing, See! You were a fool to think you could make it work!

  Sinking down in Midge’s chair, I stare out at the flat, grey November sky. Life is hard and exhausting and I have no answers. I close my eyes and start to drift off to the steady ticking of the kitchen clock. And in that space between wakefulness and sleep, I hear Midge’s voice, as clear as if she’s sitting on the arm of my chair. ‘Get out for a run, my love. It’ll mend your spirits.’

  Long-distance running is something I’ve done on and off since schooldays. Getting back to it feels like coming home. I’d forgotten how good it makes me feel.

  At school I was an awkward, skinny kid; painfully shy, with masses of red-brown hair that made me the butt of many a joke. My hair was healthy and shiny, but it stuck out wildly no matter how I tried to manhandle it with hair grips. I wanted to cut it all off but my mother wouldn’t let me. She used to say my hair was my crowning glory and one day I’d be glad it was glossy and I had so much of it.

  I’m convinced my hair would have made me a target for bullies – but for one thing.

  I could run.

  I didn’t even know I was good at running until Year Six. I wasn’t particularly fast but when it came to long-distance, I had the stamina to run for miles. Some of the kids tried to get out of PE when long-distance running was on the agenda, but for me it felt as natural as walking – and it granted me a sort of kudos with my peers.

  After Dad left, when I was twelve, I started running after school every night, pounding the pavements round our house, dodging shoppers on the high street and circling the grassy perimeter of the local park. I used to lose myself in the hypnotic rhythm of my shoes hitting the ground. People used to ask me why I did it. Turning out on cold, rainy nights. Putting my body through all that.

  I think the most tangible reward was that it provided a structure for my evenings and gave me a sense of control over my life. (Watching TV at home with my mother, who would be up one minute and down on the floor with self-pity the next, didn’t make for a particularly fun home life.)

  Dad lives in Scotland now with his second wife and I go up to Glasgow to visit them as often as I can. Gloria fusses around me as if I’m her real daughter and Dad loves that we get on so well together. He seems far more content now and I’m glad. After the constant hen-pecking he got from the first Mrs Fraser, my dad definitely deserves some happiness at last.

  It’s just a shame my mother can’t see it like that. Despite all the years that have gone by, she’s just as bitter about his departure as she ever was.

  Gloria, Dad’s new wife, is quite Bohemian. She paints dramatic landscapes, lives very much in the moment, and wears fabulously flowing clothes in all the colours of the rainbow. She has a great sense of adventure which Dad seems to be embracing wholeheartedly. In July they rented out their house and set off on a round-the-world backpacking trip. I’ve had postcards from lots of exotic places. They seem to be having such a good time, I’m starting to wonder if they’ll ever come back.

  Thinking of Dad brings a lump to my throat. I miss him. And Gloria, too. If they were here, we’d go to the pub and have long discussions about life and what I should do next. As it is, I’m on my own. Trying to start a business and not having a clue if it’s the right thing to do.

  I jog a two-mile circuit round Farthing Cottage, along the narrow, potholed lanes smelling of damp hedgerow.

  The steady rhythm of my feet hitting the tarmac is soothing and the tight knot of anxiety inside me begins to loosen.

  When I arrive back an hour later, red-faced and sweaty, the phone is ringing.

  ‘Hello, Isobel Fraser?’ I pant, and a man barks, ‘Are you the fruit and veg people?’

  ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m a pensioner and I’ve got lumbago. Can you deliver?’

  ‘Er, yes we can.’

  ‘How much do you charge?’

  When I tell him the price of a small box, he shouts, ‘For a few potatoes and carrots? Bloody disgrace. You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

  ‘Organic does tend to be more expensive,’ I say apologetically.

  ‘Orgasmic or not, it’s a bloody rip-off,’ he roars and crashes the phone down.

  Stunned, I sit there listening to the dial tone.

  Then I realise I have a message.

  It’s probably my mother, annoyed I’m not leaping on the next train to remove the hazardous book mountain from her hallway.

  Seconds later, I grab a pen and paper and begin scribbling furiously.

  Mrs Jessop lives in one of the new houses on the outskirts of Fieldstone. She would like a small box of fruit and vegetables but no onions. If she’s out, I can put it in the shed and she will leave the money under a plant pot. She’ll probably want a large box next week as she has her grandchildren coming to stay.

  I leap up and dance around the room, knocking a pile of carefully organised paperwork off the desk but not even caring.

  Mrs Jessop wants a box and will leave the money under a plant pot!

  They are the most exciting words I’ve ever heard.

  Later I run into Mrs P at the post office and she’s over the moon to hear that I have my first bona fide customer. (Technically, Mrs P is my first customer. She’s ordered a small box every week. But we both know this doesn’t really count.)

  She’s muffled up against the cold in beige quilted boots and a poncho in greens and browns that gives off a delicious caramel scent. Putting her purse back in her bag, she says, ‘I remember the morning we went to the Deli and sold our
first batch of flapjack and iced gingerbread. To celebrate, we popped into Ruby’s little teashop on Sycamore Street.’

  Smiling, I say, ‘For chocolate fudge brownies?’ Ruby, a leading light in Mrs P’s WI, is renowned for her tray bakes.

  ‘Oh no, dear.’ Mrs P smiles fondly, remembering. ‘Tequila slammers. Excellent invention. Florrie had a bit of a block about licking salt off her hand but once she got the hang of it there was no stopping her.’ She tucks a wisp of hair under her bottle green wool beret. ‘My, the ideas did flow that afternoon!’

  ‘I bet they did,’ I say with feeling, remembering the outpouring of creativity I myself experienced when Jamie left and I decided to drink my way through his premier wine collection. (The idea of sneaking into Emma’s flat and sewing kippers into her curtain linings sadly never came to fruition.)

  Mrs P gives me a sharp look. ‘Has that grandson of mine been in touch?’

  ‘Er, no.’ My heart skips a beat as a vision of green eyes and tanned forearms pops into my head.

  Mrs P smiles serenely and taps the side of her nose.

  Oh God, what if she’s putting pressure on Erik? Along the lines of She was dumped horribly for a much younger model, you know, but she’s ever such a nice girl. A mercy date would be beyond humiliating.

  ‘Keep me posted about the business, dear,’ she says, as we go our separate ways. ‘I’m willing to bet you’ll have half a dozen customers by Monday.’

  As it turns out, she isn’t far off.

  During the rest of the week, I take calls from seven potential customers and five of them order boxes. Every time I put the phone down, I whoop with excitement.

  On Saturday I call the supply company in London. They’re called Parsons, and I speak to Mike, who runs the warehouse there. He senses I’m nervous and spends time advising me on the best fruit and vegetables to order that week. And instead of laughing when I place my pathetically small order, he says kindly, ‘Five customers already, eh? Not bad at all.’

  Later, it occurs to me I’ve been so engrossed in the business, I haven’t thought about Jamie at all.

  When I embarked on this, a big part of me wanted to succeed so I could prove to Jamie I wasn’t completely useless.

  But now I want to succeed for me.

  Chapter Six

  On Monday morning I wake at 5.30 a.m., before the alarm.

  The Big Day has arrived!

  It’s less than a week since we did the leaflet drop. And I’ll be delivering boxes of produce to customers this morning for the very first time.

  A shot of adrenalin surges through me.

  I peer through the curtains but it’s still pitch black outside and there’s no sign yet of my delivery. I shower quickly then go down to the kitchen and make some tea.

  But by 7.15 a.m., the lorry from Parsons still hasn’t appeared.

  I’ve been out looking in all the places a delivery driver might have left my order – in the garden shed, on the terrace at the back of the house, by the gate (I’ve checked both entrances). But there’s nothing there. I run upstairs to look at the email Mike sent me confirming the order. It’s definitely today.

  Then I hear a noise outside and I rush out just in time to see a big truck manoeuvring slowly out of my side gate, its reversal warning noise slicing through the silence and probably waking everyone up for miles around. There’s a wooden pallet by the front door containing a stack of trays and boxes, all held together with clear plastic wrapping.

  But something’s wrong.

  I know I didn’t order all that.

  I rush into the house for scissors and start cutting away the wrapping.

  One look in the boxes and my heart starts to beat very fast.

  This is not my order.

  I pull trays off the pallet to look inside and the scent of citrus fruit fills my nose. There are enough apples, grapefruit, melons and oranges to make fruit salad for an army – but apart from three trays of carrots, there are no other vegetables at all.

  Where’s my lovely broccoli? My leeks and my celeriac? My red peppers and my field mushrooms? I run out to stop the driver but he’s already accelerating slowly up the lane. I hare after the lorry, waving the invoice and shouting, ‘Stop!’ For a second the brake lights appear and I’m hopeful of a miracle. But he’s only slowing for the bend in the lane.

  A second later, the engine revs and the vehicle lumbers off into the gloom, swaying and juddering over the potholes in the lane.

  I feel like howling with frustration but instead I take a deep breath and go inside to phone Mike.

  A sing-song voice says, ‘Hello, Parsons. Gemma speaking. How can I help?’

  I tell her about the mix-up and she says, ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. Mike’s at a funeral today and I only started last week. Can I get someone to phone you?’

  I wait all morning for a call. Gemma contacts me regularly with an update but it’s always the same. She can’t get hold of anyone. Even the boss has gone AWOL for some reason.

  Tension bubbles under the surface of her pleasant manner. I suspect it’s only the desire to live up to her new employer’s faith in her that’s stopping her from shrieking, ‘They’ve all just fucked off and left me!’ before snatching up her bag and running for the hills.

  My panic is rising at roughly the same rate.

  Then just before one, Gemma phones with some news. A lorry will be with me soon after three. My order has apparently got mixed up with a delivery to the juice bar in Fieldstone.

  I feel a brief pang of sympathy for the owner of the juice bar. I’ve never tried juicing leeks but I can’t imagine it would have customers clamouring for more.

  I thank Gemma and hang up, mightily relieved.

  A little later, I’m at Mrs P’s having a soothing cup of chamomile tea when my mobile rings.

  ‘Isobel Fraser?’ a man’s voice barks.

  ‘Yes. Who’s speaking please?’

  ‘Parsons. I’ve got your delivery.’

  ‘Oh, great.’ I glance at my watch. Two twenty. He’s early. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Ah, now, let me see.’ There’s a rustling of paper. ‘Farthing Cottage, Fieldstone. Ring a bell?’

  ‘Right, well—’

  ‘Nightmare to find.’

  ‘Yes, it can be—’

  ‘Then I get here and you’re not even in.’

  ‘But I’m just minutes away.’ I scrape back my chair. ‘I’m so sorry – but you did say after three and it’s only—’

  ‘Look, I haven’t got time to chat. Either you’re here in three minutes or I’m afraid I’ll have to leave.’ There’s a loud crackle in my ear. Grovelling or protesting is not an option. He’s cut me off.

  ‘Problems?’ asks Mrs P.

  ‘Oh, not really. They’ve sent the grumpiest delivery driver on the planet, that’s all.’

  I make for the door and as I jog back up the lane, I hear Mrs P shouting, ‘Go girl! You’ve got buckets of your aunt’s spirit! You can do it!’

  I stop smiling when I spot the lorry from Parsons attempting to turn round in the lane outside my house. The driver is backing perilously close to Midge’s precious gates. Horrified, I break into a run, picturing wrought iron mangled beneath the lorry’s monster wheels. He hits the brakes with inches to spare and starts moving forward again. And that’s when I realise he’s about to thunder off with my fruit and vegetables still on board.

  I run into the middle of the road in front of the lorry as it gathers speed, waving frantically, and for a few horrible seconds I squeeze my eyes shut, not sure if he’s going to stop in time.

  Or stop at all.

  There’s a squeal of brakes and when I open my eyes, my nose is inches away from solid green metal.

  I walk round to the driver’s side, my legs as shaky as if I just stepped off a rollercoaster. The window rolls down and I’m staring up at a scruffy baseball cap and a pair of silver reflective shades that seem vaguely familiar.

  Oh my God. It’s that horrible
man I collided with on Fieldstone High Street – the time I lost Jamie’s tablet. He must have been the driver of that mud-spattered lorry that zoomed off with my tablet on board … something clicks in my brain.

  Ha! It’s Mr Arso!

  Only the middle letters were visible on the side of that filthy lorry – and the name, now I think about it, must have been Parsons.

  I’m about to demand he hands back my tablet. Then I take in the grim set of his mouth and change my mind. There’ll be time later to make enquiries.

  I fix on a smile. ‘Hi. I’m Isobel Fraser.’

  Be nice or he might leave!

  I make to shake hands, before realising I would actually need a small set of step-ladders to reach the cab. I shove my hand behind my back.

  ‘If you’re expecting me to reverse back up this lane to your gate, you’ve got another thing coming,’ he says bluntly. I can’t see his eyes but I know they’re glaring at me.

  ‘OK, well, why not just unload it by the side of the road here and I’ll move it myself.’ I smile up at him, pleased at how decisive I sound.

  But either his brain or his hearing are sub-standard – or he’s even ruder than I thought – because he completely ignores me, jumps down from the cab and disappears round the back of the lorry. The door swings up and I feel the vibration as he leaps inside and starts thumping trays around.

  I hold out my hands to take a tray of broccoli but he pretends he hasn’t seen me, jumps down and lifts five trays off the lorry at once. Then he hefts it up the lane to the house. I grab a box of mushrooms and – balancing it on a tray of red peppers – follow mutinously behind, eyes fixed grimly on the small tear in his washed-out jeans, just below his left buttock.

  Suddenly I realise he’s heading for the main gates. ‘Can you use the side entrance, please?’ I call out in a panic.

  He nods abruptly but doesn’t turn around.

  He’s very tall with huge strides and I have to keep breaking into a girly run just to keep up with him. We march through the side gate and crunch across the gravel driveway. Then he barges round the house into the back garden, straight into the shed.