Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

In the end, I came back early.

  It was a day of blue skies and gentle spring warmth. The grass had grown while I was away and, without even bothering to unpack, I changed into my old work clothes and got out the mower. The scent of that first grass cutting of spring is so heavenly. Afterwards, I brought out some pears and a hunk of cheese and sat on a rug under my obstinate apple tree, leaning back against the trunk, enjoying the sun dappling my face and bare arms through the leafy branches.

  Then I fetched a large gin and tonic from the kitchen and my happiness was complete.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jess and I are sitting on the fence watching Anna pace around the perimeter of my field.

  It’s a breezy morning in April and the countdown to Izzy’s Organics Summer Fayre – scheduled for the first Saturday in June – has begun in earnest.

  Midge’s field is the perfect venue.

  There used to be a little wooden shack at one end, set up to shelter the neglected donkeys Midge cared for in her later life. I feel a pang of sadness remembering Midge’s warm heart and her capacity for caring. Jamie dismantled the shed when we were doing up the house.

  Anna consults her clipboard from time to time, taking long, stiff strides as if she’s in training for the Ministry of Silly Walks.

  ‘She’s a workaholic,’ murmurs Jess.

  I nod.

  Selfishly, though, I don’t really want her to slow down. My overdraft has slipped into four figures and I’m relying on the summer fayre to haul me into the black. Or at least make trips to the cash point slightly less painful.

  My mother keeps asking why I haven’t put the house on the market yet. She says it’s the only way I’m going to get back on my feet.

  I hate that she’s probably right.

  ‘Has Anna given you a list of things to do?’ Jess asks, brandishing hers. ‘I’m happy to help, you know I am, but she wants everything done yesterday.’

  I groan. ‘I know. And we’ve got another two months of this. Has she seen Peter lately?’

  ‘No, but she claims she’s not bothered.’

  We watch her in silence for a moment. Then Jess says wonderingly, ‘She phoned me at half-past eleven last night to ask me whether I thought three Portaloos were enough.’

  ‘Hope you told her to piss off.’

  ‘No.’ She grins. ‘I said it was a shit time to phone.’

  ‘Hey, that’s a good one. For you.’

  Jess leans over to dig me in the ribs and the fence creaks alarmingly.

  Anna hurries over, scribbling in her notebook.

  She has some fantastic ideas – from reviving old favourites like a candy-floss stall and a coconut shy, to getting the local fire brigade along, and organising an auction with some of the proceeds going to a local charity. To keep costs to a minimum, she’s called in favours from many of her business contacts.

  It could be amazing.

  Or … we could fall flat on our faces.

  I swing from dread to excitement and back again on a daily basis.

  Jess and I have been drafted in to do chase-up phone calls and general skivvying – and for me, at least, it’s a bit of a godsend. Because in between running Izzy’s Organics and fitting in calls to suppliers on Anna’s checklist, I’ve hardly had any free time to mope about Erik.

  It’s been a bit of a rollercoaster, to say the least, since I met Erik in November. At first I loved the fact that life with him was never boring. But I’m beginning to realise there’s a flip side to the fun. He can be extremely selfish at times and rather childish if he doesn’t get his own way. And I never know where I am with him.

  It’s mid-April and I haven’t seen him for over a month – not since he dropped me home after we got back from Geneva.

  He called me the following day to tell me he’d been invited to spend Easter with his sister in Devon.

  But to be honest, I’m quite relieved to have this time apart. Especially after the flop that was Geneva.

  Erik texts and phones most days to chat, if only for a few minutes, and he almost always says, ‘Love you,’ before he rings off.

  I can’t contact him because his sister lives in the back of beyond and the phone signal is hopeless. So he’s promised to phone me whenever he’s in town.

  I pull out my mobile but there’s no exciting message to raise my spirits.

  ‘Have you heard from him?’ Jess asks as I shove the phone back in my pocket. ‘Is he coming back?’

  ‘Not yet. But he’s busy. Easter and everything.’

  It’s such a feeble explanation. I mean, even if you count Easter as being the entire school holidays, that’s still only two weeks. And Erik has been away a month.

  I feel as if I’m forever making excuses for him these days. I’m like his PR agent, feeding the public all the shiny good stuff and kicking anything less than wholesome under the couch.

  I remind myself that spending Easter with the family is a perfectly sane and normal thing to do. Erik can’t help it if his sister and her kids are keen for him to stay a little longer. Apparently Ryan and Tom think he’s a really cool uncle. He plays football, reads them stories in funny voices and tells them the sort of yucky toilet jokes that are guaranteed to make small boys crease up. Four weeks in the bosom of one’s family does seem a little on the lengthy side. But then, he hasn’t got my mother to contend with.

  ‘Right.’ Anna strides over, and gives the fence a firm shake. ‘Need to get that fixed.’

  She mutters something about health and safety and runs her pen down a list.

  ‘OK. Jess. Talk to me about the firemen’s hoses.’

  Jess and I nearly fall off the fence laughing.

  I usually enjoy my early morning run, but today I’m finding it hard going.

  Drawing level with the row of cottages, I slow to a halt and slump against a red brick garden wall, hands on my thighs, gulping air and trying to remember if there’s a bus due.

  I’m flapping my elbows to get some air to my armpits when a car draws up and a familiar voice calls, ‘Need a lift?’

  I bend down and peer inside the car, which I vaguely recognise.

  It’s the Ice Man himself.

  I clamp my arms to my sides to hide the wet patches and try to look as if collapsing against a garden wall is all part of my running routine.

  Last time he saw me I was drunk in charge of a shed-load of vegetables.

  Why does Dan Parsons always manage to turn up at precisely the wrong moment?

  Do I want a lift, indeed!

  ‘No thanks. I’m fine.’ I do a bit of running on the spot, hoping he’ll take the hint and drive off. ‘I run this route every day.’

  ‘And some days are easier than others.’ He nods. ‘I know the feeling. When it’s raining, I have to make deals with myself to get up and put the gear on.’

  ‘You run?’ I say, stopping dead.

  ‘Certainly do. Every morning.’ He gives a wry smile. ‘Keeps me sane.’

  I stare at him, conscious of two burning questions I can’t possibly ask.

  First: Why does he need something to keep him sane?

  And second: Does he wear Lycra?

  ‘Have you been out today?’ I ask, curious in spite of myself.

  ‘Yup, I did ten miles first thing.’

  I shrug and nod as if to imply that’s pretty easy.

  He adjusts his rear view mirror and says something I don’t quite catch.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, how’s Erik?’ He flicks impatiently at the mirror to get the angle just right.

  I glare at him, my hackles stirring.

  Does he have to say ‘Erik’ as if he has a nasty taste in his mouth?

  What he’s really asking is: How’s the idiot who plied you with alcohol when you should have been doing something much more grown-up like bagging potatoes or filling in your tax return? Honestly, that man could seriously bore for Britain.

  ‘Erik’s fine,’ I say stiffly. ‘Actually, he’s great
.’

  ‘Good.’ He shoves the gear stick into first. ‘Well, if you’re sure you don’t want a lift.’ The window purrs shut.

  I glare at the departing car, gritting my teeth and fighting the urge to do something very uncharacteristic with my middle fingers.

  Talk about mood swings! First he’s Mr Nicey-nice, offering me a lift. Then five seconds later he’s as gruff as the Grinch on a visit to Santa’s grotto. Thank God he’s gone.

  But as I watch, the indicator starts winking and the car slows, drawing into the kerb.

  What’s he doing now, for pity’s sake?

  I stare, waiting for him to get out but he doesn’t. Oh God, is he waiting for me to catch him up?

  With a groan, I heave myself off the starting blocks and lumber along the pavement. My legs feel ungainly, as if I’ve borrowed them from someone else for the day.

  He reverses to meet me and I brace myself for a belated lecture on the ill-effects of drinking on the job.

  ‘Just a thought.’ He leans across. ‘If you need a top-up between deliveries, you could always collect produce direct from the farm. We’re just a few miles back that way.’ He gestures with his head.

  Unsettled, I stare at him and my suspicions must show on my face because he says, ‘No ulterior motives, I promise. It’s just the weather will be getting warmer and you don’t have a chill room to store a large delivery from the London depot and keep it fresh all week.’

  He puts the car in gear, a trace of a smile on his lips. ‘Enjoy the rest of your run.’

  Thankfully, this time the car disappears off round the bend.

  Suddenly I’m curious to observe the Ice Man in his own habitat. You can discover so much about a person by seeing where and how they choose to live. And now that he’s issued me with an invitation to visit him down on the farm, it would almost be rude not to take him up on it.

  I press on beside the row of cottages with their narrow but well-tended gardens. There’s a toddler’s swing in one garden, a blue slide in another and a Wendy house in ice-cream colours under a tree in the corner of a third.

  Whenever I run by, I find myself picturing the women who live in them, chatting in each other’s kitchens over coffee and peppermint tea while their children play; abandoning their diets for a homemade muffin, laughing about how to pep up their sex lives; and nailing their colours to the mast on the issue of plastic surgery versus growing old gracefully.

  I’m not sure why, but imagining what goes on behind those white doors, with their sweet little tiled porticos, fills me with hope and a sort of wistful longing at the same time.

  My own future is a big fat question mark.

  Are Erik and I still a couple? I’m getting the horrible feeling he’s gone off me and is now trying to wriggle out of the relationship. Or is it simply that Geneva took the shine off our romance for both of us?

  Whatever’s going on with Erik, the honeymoon period definitely appears to be over.

  A wave of sadness washes through me. It’s mixed with anger. Mostly at myself. I should never have dived head first into another relationship so soon after Jamie. Everyone says that rebound love never works out.

  ‘I’ll drive, shall I?’ offers Jess, as I close the van doors on twenty boxes bulging with veggie goodies.

  In Erik’s absence, she’s helping with the deliveries.

  What she fails to realise is that, with Erik on his protracted holiday in Devon, I am actually more productive these days, not less.

  ‘I’ll do what he normally does, shall I?’ she offers helpfully, once we’re on the road.

  ‘Great,’ I say, drily. ‘So that means you’ll get bored half way round and insist on an unscheduled pub stop which of course means we end up doing the last few deliveries after midnight?’

  She flashes me a look.

  ‘Only joking. He’s great really,’ I say automatically.

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘In Devon.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. But when’s he coming back?’

  I wish people would stop asking me this. It makes me feel like a fool when I don’t have a proper answer.

  His latest reason for remaining there is that his sister, Sharon, has begged him to stay on for her thirtieth birthday party. When I tell Jess this, she looks at me but says nothing.

  I can’t blame her for thinking it odd. There always seems to be something to prevent Erik’s return. But then again, that’s life, isn’t it? Things rarely go completely according to plan. First the family’s poodle was off its food and there were lots of trips to the vet. Then the poor dog died and Sharon insisted on a proper funeral in an animal cemetery. And then, just when Erik was on the point of leaving, his six-year-old nephew, Ryan, went down with chicken pox, so he felt he had to stay on and be nurse while Sharon went to work.

  We drive along in silence for a while then Jess says, ‘You are going to the black-tie ball, aren’t you?’

  My heart sinks. ‘When is it?’

  ‘A week on Saturday.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m much too busy to socialise.’

  ‘Oh, but it’ll be fun. Please come,’ Jess pleads. ‘You’ll meet Eloise. She’ll be there.’

  ‘Will she? Oh.’ Instantly, I’m feeling awkward. I’m still not sure that kiss I saw – between Wesley and Eloise – was entirely innocent. But I’ve agreed with Anna that we’ll say nothing to Jess for now.

  ‘Go on, we’ll have a laugh,’ she says.

  I hesitate. We haven’t been out together in ages.

  ‘Anna went to a lot of trouble to get us invited,’ reminds Jess.

  I sigh. ‘Well, maybe. I’ll see.’

  With the mood I’m in at the moment over Erik’s disappearing act, I actually can’t imagine anything worse than watching loved-up couples jigging about in sparkly evening dress.

  Anna will invite Peter. And Jess will have Wesley to dance with. So I’ll be the sad old gooseberry.

  Sounds like a dream evening.

  Not.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘It’s in here somewhere,’ murmurs Mrs P, rooting around in her hall cupboard. ‘Hold those, would you?’

  She hands me an orange plastic pumpkin and a large floral lampshade with fringing.

  The summer fayre is just over a month away and she’s trying to locate a brand new coffee maker she wants to donate for the auction.

  ‘Has Erik said when he’ll be back?’ Her sharp, nut brown eyes pierce mine.

  ‘Er … he’s not sure,’ I say airily, as if I’m really not that bothered.

  I’ve been deliberately avoiding the subject of her grandson, acting as if everything is fine. I know Erik can do no wrong in her eyes and I don’t want to disillusion her.

  She sighs and goes back to her rummaging. ‘Well, the drama workshop sounds a lot of fun. But it’s high time he came home and went to some lectures. He’ll fail the course if he’s not careful.’

  My heartbeat falters. ‘Drama workshop?’

  She turns in surprise. ‘Yes. Didn’t he tell you?’

  Why would he tell me he’s in Devon with his family if he’s really at a drama workshop? Perhaps he did tell me and I forgot.

  Casually, I say, ‘So where is this workshop?’

  ‘In Somerset, I think.’

  My mind races. Geography was never my best subject at school. But I’m fairly certain Somerset is next door to Devon.

  ‘He’s down there for a family visit more than anything else. And of course it’s his sister’s birthday this week.’

  Relief floods through me. ‘Oh yes. Sharon.’

  He must have forgotten to mention the workshop.

  Either that or I’ve been guilty of ‘tuning out’ as I sometimes find myself doing when Erik is roaming round the kitchen, glass of wine in hand, talking about acting and doing impersonations of the people on his course.

  He can be highly entertaining, of course.

  But I admit there are times when I wish he’d just stop the p
erforming and do the dishes instead.

  I’ve grown quite confident in my new role of delivery driver, zipping around the countryside and chatting brightly on doorsteps.

  But this afternoon, I’m aware of my stomach churning. I feel like I’m about to sit an exam, which is odd because Parsons Farm shouldn’t be that difficult to find.

  According to my ancient road map – which doesn’t feature any major roads built after about the mid-seventies – Dan’s house is only a mile or so away on a more or less straight road.

  I phoned him first thing to ask if I could drop by and pick up some fresh salad for tomorrow’s boxes. I had to lie and say I’d had a sudden flurry of extra orders.

  It would be awful if he thought I was just coming round for a nosey.

  I find the farm easily and I’m signalling to turn in at the gate when a small red sports car comes hurtling along the track from the farm, heading at breakneck speed for the entrance.

  I wait, wondering if it’s actually going to stop.

  The driver slams on the brakes and a cloud of dust rises up. Barely a second later, the car turns out onto the road and, with several angry-sounding gear changes, roars off in the direction of Fieldstone.

  I watch it vanish round the bend in my rear view mirror, then I turn in and start bumping along the track to the house. It winds round to the right, past an ancient horse chestnut tree with a rope swing dangling from one of its branches, and then the main building comes into view – a solid, traditional farmhouse built of mellow red brick. It looks welcoming, if a touch worn round the edges like my map.

  I park up to a fence at the side of the house, alongside three other cars that I assume belong to employees. Some farm buildings off to the right have been modernised and on a sign above the main door I recognise the official Parsons logo.

  I pop my head round the door to the office building but there’s no-one there, so I walk round to the front of the house, breathing in the scent of lilacs from the small but well-tended patch of garden. Lifting the latch on the gate, I walk through, scanning the windows of the house a little apprehensively.

  I’m so deep in thought that, in trying to close the gate behind me, I manage to get my thumb caught in the latch.