Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  ‘Here?’ He honours me with a glance.

  I give a curt nod and he sets the trays on the workbench. Then he strides from the shed without another word.

  Stunned, I stare after him. He obviously doesn’t recognise me. Did he find my tablet on the back of his lorry that morning? I’ll ask him when he comes back.

  And why the hell hasn’t he apologised for this morning’s mix-up?

  I fume a bit more, kicking at some soil with my toe, and when I hear him returning, I snatch up the invoice and get busy checking off the trays of produce as if I haven’t a care in the world.

  ‘Right, that’s it.’ He thumps the remaining trays onto the bench then frowns at a box on the floor. ‘What are they?’

  I stare at his surly mouth. Is he having me on? ‘They’re potatoes?’

  Isn’t it obvious what they are?

  ‘Po-tat-oes,’ I add helpfully. ‘I grew them myself. Don’t they have root vegetables where you come from?’

  ‘You can’t sell them as organic if they’re not organic,’ he says flatly, ignoring my sarcasm. He checks the produce against the invoice, tears off the top copy and hands it over.

  ‘But they are organic,’ I tell him smugly.

  ‘Certified organic by the Soil Association?’

  I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about but I do know I have never ever used pesticides of any sort in my vegetable garden. And that qualifies as organic, doesn’t it?

  ‘I’ve never ever used pesticides—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ His deep voice is almost a growl. ‘In order to sell produce labelled organic, the land must be certified organic by the Soil Association.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll give them a call tomorrow,’ I say airily.

  I have no idea what this Soil thingy is, but I’m not about to let Mr Arso know this.

  ‘Good idea.’ He folds his part of the invoice and shoves it in his pocket. ‘Then in three years’ time you can actually start selling your organic po-tat-oes.’

  ‘Three years?’ What on earth’s he talking about? Is he trying to scare me?

  He shrugs. ‘The land has to be free of pesticides – after the Soil Association has examined it – for three years. Look it up on the internet if you don’t believe me.’

  Then he claps soil off his hands on the back of his jeans and walks out.

  I stare after him, stunned.

  And then I realise he’s heading off down the main driveway. My gates!

  I run after him but I can see I’m already too late. He’s wrenching them open, and as I watch, the gate that is attached by string comes loose and crashes to the ground.

  And does Delivery Man of the Year look back? Of course he bloody doesn’t.

  He balances the gate against the post, climbs in his cab, adjusts his shades and pulls down his cap.

  Then he roars off on his next mission, like Superman’s surly cousin.

  ‘I hate him. He’s spoiled everything.’

  Mrs P sets a plate of ginger cake on the table in front of me. ‘Well, I don’t know. I think he might have done you a favour, you know.’

  I stare blearily up at her and she offers me a hanky.

  ‘You know all about the Soil Association rules now.’ She lays her hand on my shoulder. ‘Mind you, if I see him, I’ll tell him exactly what he can do with his courgettes.’

  I start to laugh but then my face crumples and I start sobbing afresh. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so emotional these days.

  But perhaps it’s forgivable.

  After all, I’ve got five customers expecting deliveries and I can’t even put potatoes and onions in their boxes because I grew them and apparently they’re not officially organic. So my beautiful plan to grow my own and supplement it with produce from Parsons is dead in the water.

  The doorbell invades my misery; pressed five times in quick succession by some joker who’s clearly having a much better day than I am.

  I grit my teeth and prepare to leave. I’m here to soak up some of Mrs P’s wisdom. I do not feel like being nice to some unbearably cheerful stranger.

  When Erik walks in, I blanch.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  He looks at me in surprise, clearly thinking the same, and murmurs, ‘Hey you.’

  ‘Hi.’ Furtively I try to wipe under my eyes with my sleeve.

  This is a disaster.

  Quite apart from the tragi-comedy that has been my day so far, whenever I’ve imagined bumping into Erik again, I’m wearing my most flattering jeans, lip-gloss freshly slicked, hair newly washed and at its sleekly tamed best. My line in cool banter is nothing short of knock-out.

  I have never once featured in saggy-kneed sweat pants with dripping nose and a barnet that resembles a hedge.

  Erik kisses his grandmother and she holds his face for a moment in her hands and smiles. It’s a really sweet gesture and a lump rises in my throat.

  ‘What’s up?’ He pulls out a chair and sits beside me so our arms are touching.

  I tell him what happened. Then he says, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got an afternoon off college. I’ll help you sort it.’

  ‘Oh.’ I stare into his eyes and instantly forget everything else. Are they jade, I wonder, or more a grassy shade of green? And those smile lines. They are so sexy …

  I’m aware he’s speaking. But his words are swimming lazily around inside my head and in my dazed state, I’m finding it hard to link them up into a sentence.

  ‘Say something.’ He nudges me gently. ‘More carrots in place of potatoes? Good idea? Yeah or nay?’

  I force myself to concentrate. ‘But I promised them potatoes. They won’t like it if they don’t get any.’

  Although to be fair, basking in the glow of Erik’s full-on attention and with the warmth of his shoulder seeping through my sleeve, the welfare of my customers is just about the last thing on my mind.

  ‘As long as the produce is good, it doesn’t matter a jot to me.’ Mrs P’s brisk tone snaps me out of my trance. ‘Why don’t you just tell them you’re really sorry but there will definitely be potatoes and onions in next week’s boxes.’

  Erik grins. ‘Which is a great excuse for asking if they’d like another delivery next week.’

  I smile at Mrs P. ‘I wish I had your common sense. And your entrepreneurial flair.’

  ‘My what?’ She hoots with laughter. ‘Entrepreneurial flair, my arse! Don’t go thinking I fell into the cake-making business just like that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if you must know, it was sheer fluke.’

  I heave a sigh. ‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’

  Mrs P pours tea into a mug for Erik and sits down opposite. ‘Do you know what I’d really set my heart on? I wanted to be a car mechanic. Do the training and everything.’

  ‘Really?’ My eyes widen in astonishment. It makes sense, though. The woman is a marvel under the bonnet.

  ‘And you’d have been brilliant,’ Erik says.

  She shrugs. ‘You’re biased. And anyway, that’s not what the lady from the business support agency said.’ She plops three lumps of sugar into her tea. ‘I thought I might be eligible for a start-up grant so she came round and she listened and patronised me a bit. She said how great it was that someone at my stage of life was thinking outside the box and had the guts and energy to start up a new enterprise. She was very kind to me but for all her diplomatic waffle, I knew she had me down as a batty old dear with a head full of eccentric fantasies.’

  ‘But that’s ageist,’ I say indignantly. ‘You would have been fantastic!’

  ‘Well, maybe. Maybe not.’ She shrugs. ‘The point is, she made me see it wasn’t one of my better ideas. But then I made her some tea and just as she was leaving, she gave me the idea for my business.’

  Erik sits forward. ‘I didn’t know this. What did she say?’

  Mrs P smiles at the memory. ‘She nudged me and said, “Do you know, Mrs Puddep
hat, that Pecan Nut and Raisin Crunch is a real winner. I’d pay good money anywhere for that.”’

  Erik grins. ‘And the rest, as they say…’

  ‘…is history,’ I finish.

  Mrs P leans over and squeezes my hand. ‘You have to work with what you’ve got. And what you’ve got, Izzy, is a promising business. It may not be the business you first thought it would be. But it’s still a business.’

  Erik chews rapidly on a mouthful of ginger cake. ‘It’s my guess,’ he says, swallowing, ‘that you’ll still make a decent profit even if you have to buy in all your produce from Parsons.’

  Mrs P nods. ‘You can still grow your own vegetables but just keep it as a nice pastime. A way to relax in your spare time.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ says Erik, ‘it’s better to keep what you love as a hobby. Then none of the joy is taken out of it by having to meet deadlines.’

  I smile at Erik, in full agreement.

  Mind you, at that moment, staring into those gorgeous green eyes, he could have told me his uncle was a penguin and I’d have gone along with it.

  Their sensible words have a galvanising effect.

  ‘Right.’ I get to my feet. ‘I’d better get back. I’ve got boxes to pack.’

  By seven o’clock I’ve met all my customers and presented each one with a fragrant box of fresh fruit and vegetables.

  No-one seemed to mind about the lack of potatoes. They seemed far too intrigued by the box scheme itself. And having Erik as my driver made it huge fun. Even Hormonal Harriet behaved herself perfectly with him at the wheel.

  As he hurtled me along the narrow lanes, he told me all about his drama course. He’s passionate about becoming an actor and has even changed his name by deed poll because he says Eric with a ‘c’ won’t land him enough acting roles or exotic women. He said it with a rakish smile and for some reason I found it hysterically funny.

  As we’re tidying up later in the shed, he says solemnly, ‘You know, you’re the boss. So you should probably organise a work night out.’

  ‘But there’s only me.’ I pout, playing along. ‘Won’t I be lonely?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ He rests his chin on the brush handle to think. ‘You could buy yourself too much to drink … gossip with yourself about how useless the boss is … let your hair down on the dance floor.’ He frowns. ‘Snogging a colleague might be a bit of a challenge, though.’

  I giggle.

  It’s been a rollercoaster of a day and I’m shattered but I’m starting to think I really ought to ask Erik if he wants to stay for supper. It’s the least I can do, really.

  I do a swift mental inventory of the contents of my fridge.

  One of the nice things about my business is that I never run short of vegetables. So today, I could make a mustardy cheese sauce for the leeks, which would be delicious with gammon steaks. Or I could whip up a salmon pasta dish with fresh dill, red bell peppers, lemon and a drizzle of olive oil.

  I need a shower first, though, which is a bit awkward. If I tell him I’m going up for a shower – however casually – it might sound like I want him to join me, which of course I don’t. Oh God no, definitely not.

  But there’s a possibility he might get the wrong idea because we’ve had several flirty moments, squeezing behind each other in the shed. Once he put his hands on my waist and whispered suggestively, ‘I’ll swap you two courgettes for one of my cucumbers.’

  I look at him sideways. He’s definitely hunky; a bit of a Jon Bon Jovi type with surfboarder’s hair and a sexy bum. I do wonder, though, if he flirts like this with every single woman he meets. And the married ones as well.

  ‘Of course, you could always invite partners,’ he’s saying, tipping soil from the scales onto the bench. ‘In which case you could ask me along.’ He turns and winks.

  I steel myself and say in a voice that sounds strained and not like mine at all, ‘Are you hungry? I could make us something to eat.’

  His expression changes instantly. ‘Oh, that’s a really nice offer, Isobel, but I can’t tonight. I’m meeting a mate for a drink.’

  He looks genuinely regretful but I could kick myself for being so forward.

  I’m about to say casually, ‘Oh well, another time,’ when it occurs to me that maybe the drink with his mate is an excuse so that he doesn’t have to hurt my feelings.

  Suddenly, everything feels awkward and I can’t wait for him to leave.

  Neither can he, by the looks of things. He’s brushing soil from his jeans and leaning across the bench to fish his keys from behind the weighing scales.

  ‘Thanks so much for helping.’

  He smiles. Moving closer, he rubs something from my cheek and presses his lips to my temple. It’s cheesy, but I quiver nonetheless.

  ‘Can I take a rain check on that meal?’ He looks steadily into my eyes.

  Blushing, I laugh and look away. ‘Of course.’

  I spend the rest of the evening trying to put the quiver out of my mind and telling myself to wise up.

  Erik with a ‘k’ is a professional flirt and falling for him will only end in tears.

  Every one of them mine.

  Chapter Seven

  I’m proud of myself for not dwelling on the kiss.

  I don’t dwell on it when I wake far too early and can’t get back to sleep for wondering what Erik really thinks of me.

  I don’t dwell on it when Mrs P calls and I have to resist the urge to ask her all sorts of questions about him.

  And I most certainly do not dwell on it when I see a male model’s rear on a huge advertising poster in town and have to look twice because it reminds me of someone.

  I go to the bank to pay in my earnings from the deliveries and no kidding, I feel like a lottery winner. Not just because I’m depositing funds instead of withdrawing them, although that in itself is amazing. But because for the very first time the business seems ‘real’. I’ve decided I’m going to frame my next bank statement.

  Of course, next I have to pay for the produce. But even after transferring the money over to Parsons, I’ve still made a profit on the day. (A very tiny one, mind you, but a profit nonetheless.)

  I want to call Erik and tell him, but I stop myself in time. I don’t want him to think I’m chasing him. I’ll wait until he contacts me. And just in case he does, I buy lamb mince and aubergines to make moussaka for that ‘rain check’ meal.

  I spend the evening designing a small advert to put in next week’s local newspaper and phoning my customers to check they liked their boxes and to ask if they’d like a delivery next week. (Mrs P told me I won’t get anywhere in business if I’m not prepared to be a little pushy.) Four customers said yes, they would – and Mrs Lilley has ordered a delivery every fortnight.

  My first regular customer!

  Again, I squash down the urge to share this with Erik.

  Later, when the phone rings as I’m coming out of the shower, I practically break a land speed record diving onto the bed to pick it up.

  It’s another brand new customer phoning to place an order. But this time, instead of leaping up and down as I usually do, I take down the details feeling a little deflated.

  I get into my pyjamas and flump down in front of the TV. I do not want to be one of those women who wait by the phone for a call that never comes.

  A week later my advert appears in the paper.

  I return from a morning in Guildford to find I have eleven messages, nine from people calling in response to the advert. The upshot is I have fifteen boxes to deliver the following week.

  I’m thrilled and a little scared too. What if Izzy’s Organics becomes impossible to control, like Dr Frankenstein’s monster?

  On delivery day, squeezing all fifteen boxes into Hormonal Harriet is a challenge. I fill the boot and the back seat but there are still two large boxes left over so I stack them on the passenger seat and drive along at a snail’s pace, terrified I might have to brake suddenly. It’s a freezing cold November day bu
t I’m sweating with the effort of ensuring I don’t dislodge my cargo.

  What I really need is a van.

  But I have no money to buy one – or even rent one, come to that.

  I keep thinking of the fun I had doing the deliveries with Erik. He still hasn’t been in touch. I’d planned to enquire casually about him when I called at Mrs P’s earlier on my route, but she’d already left for her Tae Kwon Do class.

  Driving home, a heavy weight settles in my chest. I have a bag full of cash and cheques, which is fantastic. But returning to an empty house with no-one there to help me celebrate feels surprisingly sad. Even though it’s nearly four months since Jamie walked out, I still feel his absence from time to time, like a wound that won’t heal.

  I’m heating up the remains of a macaroni cheese in the microwave when the phone rings.

  ‘Good evening,’ says a nasally voice. ‘Who do I speak to if I want to make a complaint?’

  My heart sinks. ‘That would be me, Mrs Headley. How can I help?’

  I picture Olive Headley’s tight grey perm and general air of distrusting everyone – in particular the widow next door, Mrs Ellis, who entertains men friends after midnight and has the gall, when challenged, to think it’s amusing.

  ‘It’s about the carrots,’ she says, clearly not amused.

  ‘The carrots?’

  ‘I don’t like their shape.’

  ‘Their shape?’

  ‘Yes, their shape. Some of them are very – wiggly.’

  ‘Wiggly.’ Wiggly?

  ‘Why do you keep repeating everything I say? Yes, they are most certainly wiggly! In fact, some are such strange shapes, they are really quite rude.’

  I open my mouth then close it firmly. If I say anything, the giggle surging up in my throat might escape.

  ‘I’d like some nice normal carrots next time, please. Like the ones I buy in the supermarket. I have my sister coming to stay and she suffers from dizzy turns. Thank you very much. Goodbye.’ Mrs Headley hangs up as if she’s been talking to a machine.

  I stare at the phone. I can hardly phone Parsons and say, ‘No penis-shaped veg this week please, Mike!’

  But at least Mrs Headley’s call has snapped me out of my despondent mood.