Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  I say ‘normal’, but Fairbanks (‘Banksy to my friends’) could never be described as ordinary. He has a cheeky smile and a great line in Cockney banter, and even though he must be in his late sixties, his thick white hair is barely receding. He wears jeans and battered cowboy boots and I have a feeling he was probably a hippy in the 1960s.

  When he jumped down from the cab that first time, I was so relieved he wasn’t Dan Parsons, I chattered away non-stop and found out loads about him. He’s a confirmed bachelor whose parents loved swashbuckling movies and named him after Douglas Fairbanks Jnr. I asked him if he liked a good swashbuckler himself but he laughed and said he’d much rather settle down with a bottle of scrumpy in front of a John Wayne Western.

  I am hopeful of never having to see Dan Parsons ever again.

  I still find it a stretch to match the smooth, cultured phone voice with the grunting caveman who crashed through my antique gates without a word of apology.

  ‘So where’s Wes, Jess?’ Anna grins, as we’re led to our table.

  Jess narrows her eyes at Anna. ‘Wesley is at the photography club.’

  ‘Don’t you usually go with him?’ I ask as we sit down.

  ‘I do.’ She gets out her glasses and puts them on to scan the menu. ‘But he’s taking Eloise instead.’

  Anna and I glance at each other.

  ‘Who’s Eloise?’ we chant in unison.

  Jess clips her glasses case shut and drops it into her bag. ‘Oh, haven’t I mentioned her? She’s doing the photography at our wedding.’

  ‘Is she the person Wesley had in mind to do the photos?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. Well, no, not her exactly. Wesley knows a guy through the club who owns a photographic business. But he was in London the day Wesley went for the first meeting. So Eloise showed him round and when he saw her wedding portfolio, he was so impressed he asked her to do the job.’

  ‘Oh great,’ I say. ‘I thought I might get some photos taken to promote the business. Perhaps Eloise could do them. What’s she like?’

  ‘I haven’t met her but we’ve spoken on the phone. She seems fun and really friendly. Apparently she has this incredibly long blonde hair. Wesley says that when it’s loose she can actually sit on it.’

  We marvel at this, then Anna says, ‘And you don’t mind?’

  Jess looks puzzled. ‘No, of course not. I think she ties it back when she’s taking the photos.’

  ‘Not her hair,’ she scoffs. ‘I mean don’t you mind Wesley taking a fun, friendly blonde to the photography club instead of you?’

  This is exactly what I was thinking but I frown at Anna and say, ‘Of course she doesn’t mind. Why would she?’

  ‘Yes, why would I?’ Jess says coolly. ‘Eloise is as passionate about photography as Wesley. It makes sense for them to go together.’ She smiles. ‘And it means I have an evening free to do my own thing.’

  After we’ve ordered our wine and pasta, Anna settles herself more comfortably in her chair and says with relish, ‘So. Erik.’

  ‘Nothing to tell.’ I pick up the wine list and study it intently. ‘And anyway, I’ve got no time to socialise these days. I’m far too busy being a very important business person.’

  ‘I know. It’s so exciting,’ beams Jess.

  I look at her gloomily. ‘Maybe, but I’m not exactly going to get rich quick, am I? Actually, I don’t even want to be wealthy. I just want to be able to pay the bills.’

  Jess smiles encouragingly. ‘But you keep getting new customers, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I started off with five deliveries and this week, I’ve got over twenty. But Hormonal Harriet isn’t keen on hard work. I need a van.’

  The waiter arrives with our wine.

  Anna lifts her glass to me. ‘You know what you really need?’

  ‘My head testing?’

  ‘You should hold a summer fayre. An Izzy’s Organics Summer Fayre.’ She says it slowly, punctuating each word in the air with her glass. ‘It would be a fantastic way to publicise the business. And boost your income as well, of course.’

  I stare at her. ‘And you are from which planet?’

  She looks perplexed. ‘But it’s a fab idea. What’s the point of owning a field if you don’t put it to good use?’

  ‘Yes, but a summer fayre?’ says Jess, wide-eyed. ‘That takes a massive amount of organisation. However would Izzy manage it?’

  Anna shrugs. ‘It doesn’t have to be a huge event. Just some stalls, a raffle and maybe a roundabout or two and a bouncy castle for the kids.’

  I laugh. ‘Yes, but Anna, I wouldn’t know where to start planning something like that.’

  She looks at me oddly.

  I frown. ‘What?’

  ‘Izzy. Remind me what do I do for living?’

  The penny drops. ‘An events organiser,’ I chant, feeling stupid.

  ‘And what’s my biggest ambition in life?’

  ‘Snogging Simon le Bon?’

  ‘That was when I was twelve. Now I want to have the most successful events management business in the south of England. And organising your summer fayre would be fantastic experience.’ She rubs her hands together gleefully. ‘Please let me do it!’

  I laugh. ‘It’s insane. You’re insane.’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ butts in Jess. ‘It could work, Izzy.’

  I look from one to the other doubtfully.

  ‘If anyone can make a success of it, Anna can,’ Jess adds. ‘You’d be insane yourself to turn down her offer.’

  ‘We could hold it in June, which would give us plenty of time to get organised,’ Anna says.

  ‘OK. Great,’ I say with a shrug. I’ve got nothing to lose, after all.

  Jess claps her hands together. ‘You could give a percentage of your proceeds to charity.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Anna looks impressed. ‘The Gazette will probably run a story about you if you present a big fat cheque to charity. Which means more free publicity.’

  ‘You can have a coconut shy. I love coconut shies,’ says Jess, dreamily.

  ‘And candy floss and toffee apples,’ I add. ‘Organic, of course.’

  Anna laughs. ‘Steady on. We need to work out whether it’s viable first. But I don’t see why it wouldn’t be.’

  I beam at them, feeling more hopeful than I have in a while.

  Later, we’ve just finished dessert when Wesley arrives to collect Jess.

  ‘Hi, love,’ says Jess, pulling over a chair for him from an empty table. ‘How was the photography club?’

  ‘Good. Good.’ He glances at the chair but remains on his feet.

  We all smile up at him encouragingly and Jess says, ‘Why not sit down for a minute? We were just talking about Izzy’s Organics. Anna’s going to organise a summer fayre fund-raiser. Won’t that be great?’

  Wesley gives Anna a curt nod. ‘Good idea. But watch out for Health and Safety. They’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks if you put a foot out of line.’

  Anna laughs. ‘Yeah, you can’t be too careful. I once organised a charity custard pie fight that had to be cancelled because it was “dangerous”. Even though the custard pies were just paper plates with foam on them.’

  Jess wiggles the empty chair and smiles up at Wesley.

  ‘I need to get back, love. I’ve got a presentation tomorrow to prepare for.’ He gives us an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say, rather too quickly. Wesley is always so ill at ease. It makes conversation quite hard going.

  Jess gives her share of the bill to me and gathers her coat and bag. Then she links her arm through Wesley’s and jokes, ‘Work, work, work. That’s all he does, my clever fiancé!’

  Wesley smiles at her and tenderly smoothes back a tendril of hair that has escaped from her ponytail. ‘You’re not exactly idle yourself, my love, what with the ridiculously long shifts you put in at that newspaper.’

  Jess laughs. ‘And do they appreciate it? Of course not.’

  ‘Never
mind,’ Wesley remarks, after we’ve said our goodbyes and he and Jess are making for the door. ‘It’ll be better once we’re married and you’ve given up your job.’

  Jess glances quickly back at us.

  Then they’re gone.

  Anna and I stare at each other.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ I demand.

  ‘No.’ Anna looks as incredulous as I feel.

  ‘Do you think she really is giving up her job when she gets married?’

  Anna shrugs. ‘Search me. But if she is, why the hell didn’t she think to mention it?’

  Next afternoon, I’m in the kitchen ladling homemade soup into cartons for the freezer and chopping parsnips to make more, when I hear a car pull up outside. When I go to the door, a tall man with very short dark hair is striding across the gravel. He’s wearing jeans and a black puffa jacket.

  ‘Hello, Isobel. Good to see you.’ He gives me a lopsided smile as if he definitely knows me. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine thanks.’ I stare up at him. The deep voice reminds me of someone but I can’t think who. It’s probably some movie actor or other.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me turning up unannounced,’ he says, running long fingers over his stubbly jaw. ‘But I was on my way home. My farm’s just a few miles up the road.’ He nods in the direction of the lane. ‘I brought your package.’

  I look at the familiar red and white wrapping paper and suddenly it clicks. ‘You’re Dan Parsons,’ I say, pointing.

  He steps back and holds up his hands with a chuckle. ‘Hey, easy there. Promise I’ll go quietly.’

  Looking down, I realise I’m brandishing my parsnip-chopping knife.

  He grins. ‘Just as well you didn’t have that to hand at our first meeting in Fieldstone High Street. Otherwise I might have met with a sticky end.’

  I purse my lips, not quite ready to see the funny side. ‘Or the second time when you knocked my gate over.’

  He looks suddenly serious. ‘I must apologise for my behaviour on both those occasions. I promise you I’m not usually that surly. But it was a bad few weeks.’

  Just for a second, his face darkens and I can see, in his deep brown eyes, a hint of some inner turmoil.

  I give a little shrug. ‘No harm done.’

  As I follow him through to the kitchen, I notice his jeans are slightly baggy. I can see the Calvin Klein label on his boxers.

  ‘Nice house,’ he says, turning round and catching me looking at his bum.

  As I assemble the crockery and put the coffee on, he wanders over to study a landscape watercolour on the wall and I keep taking little surreptitious peeks at him. Is this really the obnoxious bruiser who kicked my gate down that day?

  ‘Making soup?’ he asks, and I’m so deep in thought, I jump.

  ‘Yes. That’s parsnip. And I’m about to make cream of cauliflower. I always have loads of left-over veg and I hate to waste it.’

  He peers into the pot. ‘That’s one helluva lot of soup.’

  ‘I know. I’ll still be eating it next Christmas.’

  ‘I’ll take some off your hands if you like.’

  I stare at him. Is he for real?

  His haircut does him no favours at all. It exposes his dark beetle brows and emphasises the creases of exhaustion around his eyes. But it certainly explains why I hardly recognise him as the scruffy, long-haired bruiser who delivered my veg that day. That and the fact he isn’t wearing a cap or those creepy shades.

  In a disbelieving monotone, I say, ‘You want some soup.’

  ‘Yeah, great.’ He seems completely oblivious to my sarcasm. ‘You can put it in one of those carton things.’ He grins. ‘Real food. My son will be impressed.’

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘Zak.’ He grins. ‘Ten years old. Going on thirty-six.’

  He shrugs off his jacket, throws it over a chair and perches on the corner of the kitchen table, arms folded.

  I fetch another carton from the cupboard and ladle some of the cooling soup into it. Then I snap on a lid and hand it to him.

  ‘Cheers!’

  I have to admit, Dan Parsons looks much better without the scruffy sweats and major attitude. His jeans are faded but very clean and the white T-shirt peeking out from under his navy sweater looks as if it was plucked from the packet that very morning.

  ‘Live here alone?’ He glances around as if he expects a husband and two kids to suddenly emerge from a cupboard.

  ‘Quite alone. You?’ I bring the coffee to the table. ‘I mean, obviously apart from Zak,’ I add, a little awkwardly. Oh God, it sounds like I’m asking if he’s got a wife. Which I am, of course.

  ‘Same,’ he says, pulling out a chair and sitting at an angle to the table, stretching out extremely long legs. I watch as he spoons sugar into his coffee, gulps some down then glances around the kitchen, drumming his fingers on the table.

  ‘So what did you do before?’ he asks suddenly.

  ‘Before what? Oh, before the box scheme?’

  He nods.

  ‘I worked in public relations. In Edinburgh.’

  ‘Enjoy it?’

  ‘I did at the time. I was about to be promoted before I left to come down here.’

  He appraises me thoughtfully. ‘Some good PR companies in Guildford.’

  ‘Yes. But I’m happy with the business at the moment.’

  He absorbs this, taking a custard cream and munching it. Then he eats two more in quick succession. ‘Whatever happened to Garibaldi?’ he murmurs.

  I’m confused for a second, thinking he’s talking about some deposed foreign leader.

  ‘Oh, you mean the biscuits. With currants.’

  He lifts his eyes to my face. But I have the oddest feeling he’s looking right through me.

  ‘Yes, they’re nice. My dad loves those.’ I start babbling nonsense just to fill the gap. ‘He used to hide the packet so we had to search the house if we wanted one. It used to drive my mother mad.’

  He nods but his eyes still have that glazed look as if he’s thinking about something else entirely.

  He refocuses. ‘So, how many boxes are you delivering in an average week?’ He drains his cup and gets to his feet. ‘Forty? Fifty?’

  ‘Between twenty and thirty.’ I stand up, too, ready to see him out. ‘But customer numbers are inching up every week.’

  He nods. ‘Shall we…?’ He points to the back garden.

  ‘Oh.’ So he isn’t leaving, after all. ‘Er, by all means.’ I grab the back door key and lead him onto the terrace. We walk by my vegetable plot before ducking into the shed out of the biting November wind.

  ‘No refrigeration,’ he says, glancing round at the workbench, the weighing scales and the trays of left-over produce stacked in one corner.

  I shake my head. ‘It’s cold enough just now. The produce stays fresh. But in summer, I’ll have to invest in a cooling system.’

  ‘Expensive.’ He loads the word with warning. ‘And what about a van?’

  ‘I’ll rent one as soon as I can afford it.’

  He frowns. ‘But you need a van now. Not in a year’s time. Is that what you’re using for deliveries?’

  He points dismissively in the vague direction of my car.

  ‘Actually, she does the job perfectly well,’ I lie, immediately rushing to Hormonal Harriet’s defence.

  ‘She?’ He grins and heat floods my face.

  He goes over to a sack, picks out a potato and rubs the soil off with his thumb before tossing it back. Then he turns and pierces me with a look. ‘What about staff?’

  ‘Staff?’

  ‘Yes. Staff. You can’t expect to expand the business alone.’

  He looks so stern, I feel like I’m getting a dressing down for not doing my homework.

  ‘Ah, well, there’s just one small problem with employing people,’ I say jokily. ‘You have to pay them. A strange custom, very out-dated if you ask me. But apparently it’s the law.’

  Is he amused? Not a flicker.


  Dan Parsons leans back against the wall, his arms folded. He’s too big for the shed and has to bend his head slightly to one side.

  ‘In order to survive, your business needs to grow.’ His eyes are boring right into me. ‘I assume this isn’t just a hobby?’

  I give a mirthless laugh. ‘If I needed a hobby, Morris dancing would be miles cheaper and far less stressful.’

  ‘So your livelihood depends on the business,’ he says, ignoring my sarcasm.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  What is his problem? I feel like I’m on trial. Any second now the judge will accuse me of something heinous, put a hanky on his head and order me from the courtroom to my new accommodation on death row.

  ‘You’re going to need people to pack boxes and make deliveries,’ he says shortly, shifting his weight onto his other foot. ‘You can’t hope to do it all yourself.’

  My hackles rise. ‘I know all of that. But I’ll be fine.’ I snatch a long-handled brush and start sweeping up soil. The broom head makes a satisfying slamming noise against the legs of the workbench.

  It’s true I’ve been burying my head in the sand over the future of the business. But what I don’t need is a know-it-all like Dan Parsons showing me the error of my ways. This is my box scheme. I will operate it however I wish.

  ‘Can you take electronic payments yet?’ he demands.

  I grit my teeth and concentrate on sweeping the soil out of the shed door, aware he’s watching my every move. Electronic payments? He must be talking about debit and credit cards.

  Finally, when every last scrap of soil is banished, I lean on the broom and glare at him. ‘Actually, my customers are more than happy to pay me in cash and cheques.’

  His forehead pleats in sarcastic wonder. ‘But cheques are already as pre-historic as the dinosaurs. You can’t hope to compete if you’re not equipped to handle cards.’

  He drones on in the same vein and I think about sticking my fingers in my ears and going ‘la-la-la’ because he is quite clearly completely ‘la-la’ himself, lecturing away about banks and card machines and paying a hefty price for the privilege. Whatever that means.