Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  I planted it right in the middle of the front lawn the year I bought Farthing Cottage. Back then, I knew nothing about fruit trees (I still don’t know much). I think I harboured fond notions of enjoying the blossom in early summer from my bedroom window.

  Sighing at its sluggishness, I give it The Look – a steely, pursed-lipped stare, perfected over the years to silence unruly pupils.

  Perhaps it would have done better had I been here to nurture it. But a week after planting the stubborn old bugger, I’d decided I wasn’t actually ready to up sticks and leave London after all. So then I rented it out for seven years before finally making the leap and settling here a couple of years ago.

  The apple tree has remained stubbornly unproductive all that time.

  This afternoon, I got quite excited planting asparagus. It’s Izzy’s absolute favourite, and – touch wood – it will be at its glorious peak in time for her visit over the May bank holiday.

  I had to question my sanity, though. I mean, if sowing a crop that gives you suspiciously smelling wee gives me as much of a kick as I used to get seeing my favourite band perform live, what the hell hope is there for me …?

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘You’re going where?’ Anna demands, selecting a bottle of mineral water. She adds it to a tray that already contains a full English breakfast, two hunks of bread and a pot of coffee.

  I pick up the tongs and choose a fruit scone. ‘Geneva. I’m stony broke, of course, but Erik insists it’s his treat.’

  The local garden centre café is housed in a huge conservatory so all the plants and summerhouses and water features are cleverly on display to customers. Sunday mornings are always heaving.

  We find a table by the window.

  ‘God, you lucky thing!’ Anna stares mournfully at her sausage-and-bacon hangover cure and makes a gagging sound. ‘Pass the tomato sauce, please.’

  I try not to look smug. ‘I know. A weekend break with a gorgeous man who has the good taste to take me somewhere a little bit different.’

  Anna squirts sauce over her fry-up. ‘Yeah, because romantic trips to Paris are just so last century.’

  ‘Ha-ha. Are you really going to eat all that?’

  ‘It’s purely medicinal. I’ve got a hangover the size of China. Thanks to Peter.’

  ‘I thought you were out with a client last night.’

  Anna chews rapidly for several seconds, nodding. ‘I was. And normally I’d be a good girl and not mix work with pleasure. But Peter’s really pissing me off, and drinking a bucket of vodka seemed like a good idea.’ She groans. ‘Never again. And I really mean it this time.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  She clutches her head. ‘Aargh, don’t argue with me. It hurts.’

  I grin at her and pull the top off my little jam container, wondering why the portion size is always so stingy. Perhaps it’s a secret government initiative to reduce obesity.

  ‘By the way, you’re invited to a ball in May,’ Anna says.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been asked to organise this black-tie do for the local enterprise company. It’s an awards ceremony, so there’ll be some boring speeches, but apparently they always have a great knees-up afterwards. I’ve wangled you and Jess an invite.’

  ‘Can Erik come?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  It occurs to me that Erik and I have never danced together. No doubt he’s got some moves. An image of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever flits through my head.

  Anna chews some sausage determinedly and swallows. ‘I told Peter I’d go to his sister’s sodding nuptials.’

  My eyebrows shoot up.

  ‘I wouldn’t get too excited. D’you know what he said?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said, “Don’t bother. I’ve already asked somebody else.”’ She stabs at a mushroom.

  I stare at her. ‘Really?’

  Anna shrugs. ‘He can do what he likes. I don’t care.’

  ‘But who is she?’

  ‘Couldn’t give a stuff.’

  ‘Yes, you could.’

  ‘No. I couldn’t actually,’ she says coldly. ‘And anyway’ – she waves her hand dismissively and starts assembling a fried egg sandwich – ‘it really doesn’t matter. So when are you off to Geneva?’

  ‘Next month.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Which is partly why I wanted to talk to you …’

  ‘You want me and Jess to do the deliveries?’ she guesses instantly. ‘Yeah, no problem. You deserve a break.’

  I look at her in delight and she shrugs and says, ‘Talk to Jess and you can start packing your best underwear.’

  ‘That’s fantastic.’ I watch as she takes a big bite of her sandwich, egg yolk threatening to drip down her sleeve. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘No worries. You can help me plan the summer fayre. I’m compiling a “to do” list so we can all get stuck in and make it happen in June.’

  I laugh. ‘Jess will be manic by then, with the wedding in July.’

  Anna frowns. ‘If there is a wedding.’

  I stare at her. ‘Of course there’ll be a wedding. Why wouldn’t there be?’

  She shrugs. ‘Wesley and Eloise?’

  ‘Oh, rubbish,’ I scoff. ‘I’m sure that was nothing.’

  But I cross my fingers.

  Because actually, I’m not sure at all.

  When we walk back out to the car park, I automatically search for Hormonal Harriet. Then I remember I’ve brought the van instead. We get in and I brace myself for questions about the owner of the vehicle.

  ‘He must fancy you, you know,’ Anna says with a sly grin. ‘Why else would he let you borrow a perfectly roadworthy vehicle without wanting something in return?’

  ‘Because he feels guilty?’

  ‘But why?’

  I feel the familiar twist of anxiety that happens every time I remember Dan Parsons’ plans to branch out into home deliveries.

  ‘He feels sorry for me because his business could easily wipe me out.’

  Anna rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, pull the other one. He fancies you. It’s obvious.’

  ‘Believe me, he doesn’t. He thinks I’m ridiculous.’

  ‘Well, it’s just I’m really confused,’ she persists. ‘First you tell us that Dan Parsons, he of the sexy-sexy voice, is the villain of the piece. A “humourless thug” was how you described him, if I remember rightly. And then he goes and does this really decent thing.’

  I shrug impatiently. ‘Perhaps I was wrong.’

  ‘That he’s a humourless thug?’ She peers at me intently.

  ‘Yes. Now can we drop it, please?’

  Anna rubs her head with the heel of her hand. ‘Yes, OK. Ouch, my head’s splitting. Can we call at a chemist for painkillers? So do you like Dan now, then?’

  Sighing, I speed up, then stamp on the brake when I spot a parking space.

  ‘Ow!’ yells Anna, lurching forward. She holds her head and shoots me a puzzled look.

  ‘You stay here,’ I order her. ‘I’ll get your hangover cure.’ She’s so infuriating when she gets a bee in her bonnet about something.

  When I return, she falls on the tablets, gulps some down with water then slumps back in her seat.

  I peer at her pasty complexion. ‘Oh God, you’re really suffering.’

  ‘Yes and it’s all Peter’s fault,’ she says huffily. ‘Is she still there?’

  I frown and look out. ‘Is who still there?’

  She groans. ‘Sorry, if I move my head to the side I think it might explode. Girl like a pixie, long brown hair. She followed you to the chemist then waited outside. I thought she must know you but when you came out she just trailed you back.’

  She reaches for her water bottle, takes a huge slurp and grimaces. ‘She was pretending to window shop.’

  I look across.

  A dark-haired girl dressed in a short brown skirt and green ballet pumps is standing in a shoe
shop doorway, staring at the van. She’s clutching a shoulder bag to her side and it’s the bag I recognise first. Canvas, patterned with green and orange swirls.

  I lean across Anna and hold up my hand. The girl’s eyes widen and she takes a step forward. Then she freezes.

  I smile and start to open my door to get out.

  But as I do, she turns and walks quickly away along the High Street, the belt of her loose green mac swinging from side to side in her hurry.

  Lottie.

  MARCH

  My old friend, Fiona, has lured me back to London!

  Not permanently, of course. Just for a week.

  She came to visit for the weekend and would you know it, the rain never stopped, so she didn’t exactly see the place in all its glory. (Not that there’s a great deal of ‘glory’ to be had in March – except, of course, the swathes of golden daffodils which cheer the place up enormously.)

  I could tell Fiona wasn’t exactly bowled over by my brave new world.

  ‘You’re a townie through and through, Midge,’ she said with an involuntary shiver (of revulsion?), staring out at my bleak, mud-logged back garden. ‘We all miss you. Why don’t you sell up and come back?’

  I waved her off on the train this morning, back to her life of theatre trips, aerobics classes and jolly meals out with ‘the gang’ (mostly old friends from the teaching world).

  And now I’m sitting in the kitchen and the rain is still lashing down, and I’m thinking about all the things Fiona is planning for my visit next month. A big reunion at my favourite Italian restaurant. Museums and art galleries. And a trip to the theatre, of course. All the things I once took completely for granted.

  And I feel lonely.

  There, I’ve said it.

  It’s not even eight o’clock but I’m off to bed with a gardening book … woop-de-doo.

  Next morning

  Oh, joy of joys! It’s a blustery day but the sun is shining in a clear blue sky. And it’s stopped raining!

  I took a brisk walk along the lane, breathing in the glorious smell of wet hedgerow and admiring the spring buds breaking through on the trees.

  A woman approached from the opposite direction. She was stepping over the water-logged potholes in the lane with the same smiling eagerness as me. I got the impression she’d also been cooped up inside for days, fearing she’d never see the sun again.

  The weather is always great for breaking the ice.

  She introduced herself as Posy (her surname I forget but it’s something unusual) and she told me she’d recently moved from a larger house nearby into Millstone Cottage just along the lane from me. Her husband, Alf, had died some years earlier.

  We chatted about the area and she was keen to learn if there were any educational establishments nearby offering modules or night classes. I asked what in, and she said it didn’t matter, she just liked learning new things. She’d already begun quilt-making at the village hall, was perfecting the Awkward Chair Pose at her yoga class and wanted to train as a car mechanic. (I don’t even think she was joking.)

  I offered her apples from my store and she walked along with me to collect them.

  ‘Don’t they say God made rainy days so gardeners can get the housework done?’ she remarked, intelligent eyes twinkling at me from behind rather trendy purple-rimmed glasses.

  I grinned. ‘I wish I’d known. Then I’d have spent the last three days cleaning.’

  She looked at me sharply. ‘No, you wouldn’t. You’re not that boring.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said, laughing. ‘I’d actually rather poke my eye out with a pea stick.’

  It will be nice having an interesting neighbour.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It’s the morning before we leave for Geneva and we’re in the shed packing boxes.

  Well, the truth is, I’m packing boxes. Erik has decided this is a good time to start practising his juggling.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he shouts. ‘Oh, fuck!’ There’s a series of thuds. The melons are not co-operating.

  We can’t afford to bruise the fruit but I don’t want to put a damper on his fun. I could do with some help, though. I’m meeting Anna and Jess later to run through the delivery schedule. In the meantime, we have more than forty boxes to pack and twenty of those must be delivered this afternoon.

  I’m feeling quietly pleased with the way things are going.

  Since the Christmas orders started piling in, I’ve been gaining customers fairly steadily over the past few months, a few at a time, mostly by word of mouth.

  And then there’s Anna’s summer fayre in June which I’m hoping will bring in lots of much-needed income.

  Erik has moved on from melons and is now attempting to juggle salad items – currently a tomato, a pack of spring onions and a yellow pepper.

  ‘Hey, I thought you were meant to be helping me.’ I lob a banana at him.

  ‘I’m in the flow. Can’t stop now.’ He misjudges a tomato and dives to catch it. ‘Gotcha!’

  ‘You give tossing salad a whole new meaning,’ I say wryly.

  ‘It’s research for my new weight-loss book,’ he says, bobbing sideways to keep the salad airborne.

  ‘What book’s that, then?’ I’m used to playing the straight man.

  ‘You juggle the salad to burn calories. Then – and this is the cunning twist – you eat it.’ He catches all three items and bows with a flourish. ‘Simple but effective.’

  ‘You’re simple.’ I pass him a list of orders. ‘Try being effective.’

  Erik is demob happy.

  And I suppose I can’t blame him. Because despite feeling irritated by his irresponsible attitude to the day’s work, I confess I’m excited too.

  I can’t wait to get on that plane. I keep picturing us strolling round the city hand in hand, popping into an art gallery, drinking coffee in a pavement café, walking by the lake and eating Swiss chocolate. My case has been packed for a week. I’m as excited as an eight-year-old counting off the days until Christmas.

  We pack boxes in silence for a while then I say carefully, ‘By the way, I was in Fieldstone the other day. And I saw her.’

  Erik turns. ‘Who?’

  ‘Lottie.’

  ‘Oh.’ He hefts a sack of potatoes onto the bench and searches about for the scissors. ‘Did you talk to her?’

  I shake my head. ‘She ran off before I had a chance to get out of the van.’

  ‘Ran off?’ He turns and looks at me curiously. ‘Why would she do that?’

  I shrug, not wanting to let him think I’m concerned. ‘It was like she wanted to speak to me but she changed her mind.’

  Erik is silent for a while. I watch him slit open the sack then start weighing out potatoes and tossing them into brown bags. ‘Fuck,’ he mutters at last.

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you still worried about her?’

  He fetches an empty box and starts filling it with the bags of potatoes. ‘I had a feeling she might start obsessing about you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘No, tell me.’ I’m starting to feel slightly alarmed. ‘Is she jealous of me because I’m your girlfriend?’

  ‘No, it’s just she can be – odd sometimes.’

  He’s turned away from me, for once concentrating totally on the task in hand.

  ‘What do you mean, odd?’

  He looks at me and sighs. ‘You saw what she was like when she came to see me in her car. That’s not normal behaviour, is it?’ He runs his hands agitatedly through his hair. ‘For some reason she’s latched on to me. It’s got worse since her fiancé chucked her. I think she’s unstable.’

  I think of Lottie staring at me with those big frightened eyes. ‘Do you think she needs help?’

  He leans his elbows on the bench and drops his head into his hands. ‘I don’t know,’ he confesses, his voice muffled.

  ‘Send her to me. I’m an expert at getting over heartache.’ I say it lightly, hoping
to make him smile. But he doesn’t. ‘Perhaps she just needs time to heal?’

  He leans back against the bench. ‘Yeah. You’re probably right. She doesn’t have much confidence at the best of times and now that her fiancé’s fucked off – well, she’s at rock bottom. But I guess she’ll get over it.’

  He looks really down so I go over and put my arms around his neck then snuggle my face into his jumper. ‘By the way, how did she know you were at my house that time?’

  ‘She phoned my gran. She told her I was here.’

  ‘She’s got your gran’s number?’ I pull away to look at him. ‘Why on earth would she have that? Do they know each other?’

  He frowns. ‘Not exactly. At least, they’ve met once. Briefly. Lottie and I arranged to see a film – years ago now, can’t even remember what it was – and I was doing some DIY at Gran’s house in the afternoon. I gave her Gran’s number so she could call and tell me what time she was collecting me.’

  ‘Oh.’ I turn my face into his jumper again to hide my surprise. I’d got the impression they’d become friends recently, but it would seem they’ve known each other quite a while.

  He rubs my back. ‘Anyway, I don’t want you dragged into this. Lottie will be fine. So let’s stop worrying and get that champagne poured.’

  ‘Champagne?’ I glance at my watch in alarm.

  Erik grins. ‘Yes. It should be nicely chilled by now.’

  ‘But Erik, we can’t. We’ve got the boxes to pack and deliver.’

  He ignores me and heads for the door, whistling cheerfully. ‘One glass won’t hurt,’ he calls back. ‘And if we’re lucky it might even take the sheer tedium out of putting vegetables into boxes for a living.’

  He says this with a grin but I can’t help feeling hurt.

  I quickly tell myself not to be so sensitive. He’s absolutely right, anyway; it can be very boring.

  While he’s away I start on the next order. But this customer wants mushrooms and we don’t have any bagged.

  That was Erik’s job.

  I thump two boxes of mushrooms and a pile of brown paper bags onto the bench and start bagging them up.

  I feel suddenly downcast, as if the sun has gone in. Something tells me Erik has not been completely open with me about his friendship with Lottie. The idea he might have lied sends a little twinge of panic through me.