Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  But actually, once I’ve got the hang of the clutch, there’s nothing to it and I find myself relaxing. I might be a novice at business but at least I can show him I’m an excellent driver.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s getting dark already,’ I say conversationally, swinging the vehicle onto the main road with, I feel, more than a little panache.

  ‘It’s not,’ Dan says. ‘You just forgot to take off your sunglasses.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Erik phones the next morning.

  The line is crackly but I hear him say, ‘Lottie’s in a really bad way.’

  I ask if Lottie is the girl who came to the house and he says yes. They met last September when they both started drama college.

  ‘So what’s wrong?’ I shout.

  I recall Lottie’s scared eyes and the way her small, pale hands would not let go of the steering wheel.

  ‘Her fiancé jilted her two weeks before their wedding. She’s totally devastated.’

  I miss what he says next. The background noise suggests he’s in a shopping mall. Then I catch the words ‘frightened she’ll do something silly’.

  ‘Oh, no, is she likely to?’

  I ram the phone close to my ear.

  ‘Not sure. She’s staying at mine so I can keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Oh. Right,’ I say, surprised.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ He sounds exhausted and my heart goes out to him. I can’t imagine what I would do if a friend of mine were suicidal. This is not the time to be selfishly concerned about my own wishes.

  ‘She’s fallen out with her family so I’m kind of all she’s got,’ Erik is saying. ‘I want to make sure she’s OK.’

  ‘Yes, of course you do.’ I can hear him clearly now. ‘The poor girl. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.’

  ‘I know. I’ll phone when I can, babe. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too. Erik?’

  ‘Yes, babe?’

  ‘I could come round if it would help.’

  When he hesitates, I say, ‘Or is it best to leave you to it?’

  He gives a deep sigh. ‘Jesus, I’d love to see you. But the last thing Lottie needs right now is to have our happiness shoved in her face.’

  I hadn’t thought of that. But he’s right. Poor Lottie.

  The following week, I pull back the curtains one morning to find that snow has fallen during the night, transforming the front lawn with its single apple tree into a scene from Frozen.

  It’s a reminder that Christmas Day is just a fortnight away.

  I stand and marvel at the scene for about three seconds, wishing Erik was here to share it with me.

  Then I remember the deliveries I’ll be making later. The treacherous roads are sure to slow me up so I’d better get moving or it could be midnight before I finish.

  Plus, I need to make sure I’m keeping my customers happy as, with bills piling up, I really can’t afford to lose the income. The gas bill, particularly, is causing me sleepless nights and I worry all the time that I’ll return one day to find I have no heating or hot water.

  Businesses need time to grow. But I need money immediately and I haven’t time to wait …

  If things don’t improve, I know I’ll have no choice but to put the house on the market in the New Year. But the thought of calling the estate agent makes me feel sick.

  Then, later that week, something miraculous happens.

  My customers start planning their Christmas lunch.

  Over the course of a few days, a string of people phone to ask if they can increase their regular delivery to a family-sized box over the festive period. And I also have calls from people who’ve heard about me and want a one-off delivery of organic potatoes, sprouts and parsnips to make their Christmas lunch special.

  It’s like a weight has tumbled from my shoulders.

  I’ll be so busy, I’ll probably still be delivering boxes on Christmas Day itself. But my income over the festive season will be tripled.

  I’ll be able to pay all my bills!

  Relieved as I am, though, my joy is tempered somewhat by the stark realisation that whatever life and the business throws at me, I have only myself to rely on. (I’ve pinned the gas bill to the wall in the kitchen to remind myself of this.)

  I still haven’t seen Erik.

  All I’ve had is a few texts and a phone call telling me he’s decided not to go home to his parents for Christmas as he’d planned because he’s too worried about Lottie to leave her on her own.

  I’m trying to be understanding but it’s hard.

  It’s our first Christmas together and he’ll be spending it with Lottie, not me.

  JANUARY

  The snow is lingering into January and I’m feeling weighed down with dark thoughts. I’m really not myself at all. Cooped up here, unable to work in the garden or travel further than the supermarket, I’m spending far too much time locked in my own head – always dangerous!

  Last week, I was talking to my sister on the phone and she made a passing comment that she thought I was becoming too self-reliant. I needed to get out more. Usually I can laugh off Val’s criticisms, but for some reason, this one struck home. And it’s still niggling at me a week later.

  I’ve always prided myself on being independent – but I’m starting to wonder if my determination to do things on my own might be working against me. Perhaps it’s time to move back to London where all my friends are. Maybe I can’t hack it here, after all.

  In the meantime, the apple trees are bugging me.

  I know I should be pruning them but I haven’t the first bloody clue how to go about it. The books say you should take care not to prune too hard, so I’m terrified to even start in case I cock it up completely!

  A week later

  The woman who runs the village post office mentioned I was looking a bit peaky. Was I coming down with this horrible flu that was going around?

  I confided that actually, I was suffering from a bout of cabin fever.

  She laughed and we got talking. Her name is June and when I told her about the apple trees, she said her husband was good with things like that and maybe he could help.

  So the upshot was, they came over on Saturday afternoon and Ray, her husband, gave me a pruning lesson. Better still, it was actually far easier than I’d imagined!

  They stayed for supper, we had a great evening and I’m invited round to a Burns Supper at theirs next week.

  This morning I woke up feeling more like my old self again.

  The snow had finally gone but there’d been a hard frost overnight. I got wrapped up and took a walk round the garden.

  And at the foot of a damson tree, I laughed out loud in sheer delight. The first snowdrop was just poking through the soil …

  Chapter Sixteen

  I yawn silently under cover of darkness. This movie is so dire it should come with a health warning. Jess seems to be enjoying it, though. Her eyes are locked on the screen and a carton of popcorn sits virtually untouched on her lap.

  We’re two days into January and I still haven’t seen Erik.

  He sent me a text on Christmas Eve saying that Lottie had patched things up with her family and had decided to spend Christmas with them after all. He was mightily relieved, he said, because now he could head to Devon and keep his mum happy.

  On Christmas Day, he phoned and said how much he was missing me. And he called again at midnight on New Year’s Eve. To be honest, he didn’t make much sense (probably due to champagne overload) but he sounded happy.

  I’ve no idea when he’s coming back from Devon.

  Or even if I’ll see him when he does.

  I’m starting to realise Erik’s a bit of an all-or-nothing kind of guy. When he’s with me, I’m the centre of his world. But when we’re apart, I’m out of sight, out of mind. He doesn’t seem to feel the need for regular contact, which is a little unsettling.

  I’ve still got his gift – an eye-wateringly expensive Maserati key
ring – all wrapped up in a cupboard. Did he buy me anything? I’m certainly not holding my breath.

  My own Christmas break was surprisingly relaxing this year. Mainly because I kicked back completely, ate loads and slept even more. Mum thought Jamie was the reason I was a bit down in the dumps and I didn’t correct her.

  The only bit of tension occurred after lunch on Christmas Day as we sat in the living room, drinking liqueurs and waiting for the Queen’s Speech.

  We’d survived the day reasonably well so far, but the alcohol had obviously loosened my tongue because I stupidly mentioned the postcard I’d received from Dad and Gloria the week before.

  ‘They’re celebrating Christmas in Thailand. In a hut in Phuket. Right on the beach.’

  My mother sniffed but offered no comment.

  ‘Apparently the food is glorious and the sea is so warm it’s like swimming in a heated pool. It sounds amazing.’

  ‘They’re a bit ancient to be going backpacking,’ she remarked.

  ‘No, they’re not,’ I scoffed. ‘You’re the same age as Dad and I don’t think of you as decrepit.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Well, I’m really pleased for them. Dad worked hard all his life. He deserves some happiness.’

  ‘Ha! You think so?’

  I swung round, shocked at the unexpected vitriol in her tone. ‘Yes, I do think so.’

  She shook her head sadly.

  ‘What?’ I demanded.

  ‘Nothing. Refill?’ She got up, holding out her hand for my glass, and walked off to the kitchen.

  The subject was closed.

  Laughter ripples round the cinema, bringing me back to the present.

  Jess glances sideways to share the joke with me and hastily, I renew my effort to concentrate on the film. It won’t exactly be hard to catch up. The plot is so thin it would be a good candidate for boob and bum implants. Even the presence of a Hollywood superstar can’t compensate for the heavy reliance on clichés.

  If Anna were here, I’d have someone to roll my eyes at. But Jess is totally engrossed. Attempting to swallow her sobs has given her hiccups.

  ‘Great film,’ she sighs as we leave the auditorium. ‘Why can’t real life be as romantic as that?’

  ‘Er … because it’s real life?’

  As we tumble out into the cool early evening, her phone rings. A string of taxis rattle noisily along the road so she signals she’s going back in to take the call.

  As I wait for her, my eye lights on three teenage girls, strolling along the pavement, chatting. Two of the girls are long-limbed and tanned, totally confident in their skimpy outfits. My heart goes out to the third. With her solid thighs and thick ankles, she’s doing her best to brazen it out, but she looks awkward and self-conscious. A man with a briefcase is walking in the opposite direction and, in trying to dodge them, gets completely tangled up with them instead. He walks on, his pace quickening, while the girls look back and hoot with laughter. A man and a woman in a shop doorway opposite turn round to see what’s happening.

  Apparently you can see all of life outside the cinema on a Thursday evening.

  The teenagers amble off and the couple return to their cosy chat. The woman, who looks in her twenties, is laughing up at the man and as I watch them idly, I decide she would be a great advert for a hairdresser’s. She’s tiny and has the longest hair I’ve ever seen, except on a doll. It’s ash blonde and shiny, and it hangs straight down her back, past the hem of her red tartan mini skirt.

  Jess reappears. ‘Fancy a drink before we head home?’

  I’m trying to dredge up a memory and it takes a second for her words to sink in. As Jess fumbles in her bag for something, my eyes swivel back to the girl in the tartan mini and at that exact moment she reaches up on tiptoe and kisses the man full on the mouth.

  Long blonde hair she can actually sit on, Jess had said, describing Wesley’s photographer friend, Eloise.

  My attention leaps to the man. He’s dressed in a grey overcoat, his face partly obscured by the collar that’s turned up against the evening chill.

  But there’s no mistaking him.

  It’s Wesley.

  Next morning, sorting out the following week’s order at my desk, my mind keeps wandering off.

  What do you do when you suspect your friend’s fiancé might be playing away but you aren’t completely sure? Should I tell Jess I saw Wesley and Eloise together? Or do I keep my suspicions to myself in the hope that it was just a playful clinch I witnessed?

  Wesley is potty about Jess and I don’t actually believe he would have an affair. And with their wedding photographer, of all people. It just doesn’t make sense.

  But there was definitely a kiss.

  ‘Just tell her,’ Anna says grumpily when I phone her. ‘If a fiancé of mine was a CLB, I’d want to know immediately. If not sooner.’

  ‘I know. But what if I’m wrong?’

  ‘I thought you saw them kissing?’

  ‘I did. But they were on the other side of the street.’

  ‘So you tell Jess you might be mistaken but …’

  ‘But suppose it was a one-off? Something Wesley regrets? Is it not best for everyone if Jess doesn’t find out?’

  Anna groans. ‘Look, hon, it’s seven thirty a.m. I haven’t even had my coffee yet.’

  ‘OK. Bugger off, then,’ I say, only half-joking.

  ‘Don’t do a thing until I’ve had time to think, right?’

  Later, we snatch a quick ten minutes at the Fieldhorn Deli as Anna dashes between clients.

  ‘Was Peter with you when I phoned this morning?’ I ask as we sit down.

  She sighs. ‘No, I haven’t seen him for ages. He’s playing a new game of hard-to-get. I think it’s called Teaching Anna a Lesson.’

  I flick my eyes to the ceiling. ‘For goodness’ sake, Anna, just tell him you’ll go to the damned wedding. Then we can all get back to normal.’

  ‘But I don’t want to go to the bloody wedding!’

  ‘I know you don’t want to – oh, forget it!’

  Anna looks indignant. ‘Yes but it’s the principle of the thing.’

  ‘Yes, well, principles can’t cook you dinner and tell you you’re looking gorgeous, can they?’ I glance at my watch. ‘Anyway, what do we do about Jess?’

  Anna heaves a sigh. ‘I suppose we could hope you were mistaken.’

  ‘I might have been.’

  ‘So let’s sit on it for now and hope it was nothing. But keep an eye out just in case.’

  When I get back to Farthing Cottage, my heart leaps with surprise.

  Erik is sitting on the doorstep.

  I slide out of the van and he gets up and walks towards me with his arms open.

  ‘Is Lottie OK?’ I ask, determined not to be too pleased to see him.

  Erik pulls me into a hug. ‘I haven’t seen her. She’s not back from her parents’ yet. But she’s definitely on the mend.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ I say, weak with relief, in spite of myself, at being squashed against his chest once more. Breathing him in feels like coming home. ‘So you think she’ll be all right?’

  He nods and kisses the tip of my nose.

  ‘Why did her fiancé dump her? Do you know?’

  He shrugs. ‘No idea. Let’s not talk about it. Too depressing. How about I take the love of my life out for lunch?’

  ‘To a top restaurant, I hope,’ I tell him tartly. ‘You’ve got quite a lot of making up to do, mister. I can’t believe you didn’t make the effort to see me at least once over Christmas.’

  He has the grace to look sheepish.

  When we get into his car, he squeezes my thigh and says, ‘On the subject of making it up to you, I’m treating you to a dirty weekend away.’

  I shoot him a sideways look as he starts the engine and moves off. He’d better not think he’s getting off the hook that easily.

  ‘I’m not sure I have the time,’ I say coolly, turning aw
ay from him and staring out of the window.

  He stops at the gate and switches off the engine.

  ‘Look, Izzy, I’m sorry Lottie ruined our Christmas,’ he says softly, ‘but I couldn’t just abandon her, could I? What sort of a friend would do that?’

  He takes my hand and kisses it. ‘Forgive me? Please?’ He pushes up my sleeve and starts planting tender little kisses all the way along my arm.

  I turn and he looks at me, his green eyes serious for once. ‘I love you, Izzy.’

  ‘So where are you taking me?’ I feel myself weakening. ‘For our dirty weekend?’

  He smiles. ‘Geneva. We’ll go to Geneva.’

  ‘Which is in … Switzerland?’

  ‘Yes, my little geography expert. Geneva, Switzerland. Ever been?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Beautiful city. Very romantic,’ he says, letting go of my hand and starting the car. ‘You’ll love it. Trust me.’

  FEBRUARY

  Woke up this morning and looked out of my bedroom window and there, by the single apple tree in the middle of the frosty lawn, was a little carpet of snowdrops and yellow crocuses. My heart did a whoop of joy. It’s a sure sign spring is on its way!

  I went out later to have a closer look and I patted the trunk of the apple tree and murmured some encouraging words. Yes, I confess right here and now that I talk to my plants. I read an article once that said chatting to your sprouts encourages them to perform to their optimum level and I thought, well, anything’s worth a try.

  Izzy giggles to see me bending to a raspberry cane or a row of cabbages, coaxing them along with a few honeyed words. At ten years old, I think she likes the idea of having a batty old auntie. Not that I’m ancient, at fifty-three. (Although after yesterday’s session spent pruning the pear trees and grubbing out the shed and the greenhouse, I’m feeling more like a ninety-year-old today.)

  But sadly – with this rogue apple tree, at least – my tender murmurings are falling on deaf ears. It sprouts leaves like a normal tree but it has never blossomed or fruited. It probably never will now, although I live in hope.