Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  She sees my confusion.

  ‘He loves me, Izzy. He wants to look after me. And nice men are hard to find.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ I murmur with feeling.

  ‘I thought it all through when I went down to Cornwall, and I realised I’d never find anyone better than Wesley. The wedding’s all planned and I’d be an idiot to back out now, wouldn’t I?’

  I gaze at her helplessly. Because the truth is, I really don’t know.

  Tentatively, I say, ‘Maybe – maybe Luke showing up again is a sign that you were never meant to marry Wesley.’

  She frowns at me. ‘But it’s all arranged.’

  ‘Yes, but it can be unarranged.’ I take her hand in both of mine. ‘Jess, if you still have feelings for Luke, it would be disastrous to go through with the wedding.’

  ‘Who says I still have feelings for him?’ She removes her hand. ‘I was shocked to see him again, that’s all. But it’s Wesley I love.’

  I stare at her sadly.

  ‘Stop it, Izzy,’ she orders. ‘Luke is history. I’m going to marry Wesley.’

  ‘Jess, if it’s true that you no longer love Luke, then of course you should go ahead with the wedding. But if you have any doubts at all … perhaps you should postpone it? Just until you’re sure?’

  Her eyes are full of despair. ‘But if I say I want to postpone the wedding, Wesley will want to know why. And I can’t tell him about Luke!’

  ‘Perhaps he needs to know?’ I say gently. ‘You can’t build a relationship on lies. Look at me and Erik.’

  She stares at me for a moment then rises to her feet. ‘I can’t believe you’re comparing me to that waste of space!’

  ‘I’m not! Honestly, Jess, I’m really not—’

  ‘He was a deceitful, lying pig and I can’t believe it took you so long to realise it!’ Her eyes are flashing with sudden fury. ‘You must have suspected he was playing away. Because it was kind of obvious to the rest of us. But did you tackle him about it? No, of course you didn’t. You were quite happy to bury your head in the sand and let him carry on making a total fool of you.’

  I stare at her, shocked. Is this what people were thinking of me?

  Her eyes tear up with misery. ‘So I really don’t think you’re the right person to talk to me about honesty, do you?’

  She snatches up her bag and before I can stop her, she runs out of the room.

  A second later, the front door slams.

  I wake next morning feeling like I have a really nasty hangover – but without the jolly flashbacks of a good night out.

  My memories of yesterday are mixed, to say the least.

  The fayre may have been a success, but I appear to have thoroughly alienated my two best friends. When I tried to phone them last night, both calls went straight to voicemail.

  Wincing at my lateness, I haul myself out of bed.

  There’s tons of clearing up to do and my volunteer helpers will be here in less than twenty minutes.

  I stagger downstairs to the kettle, my head still full of the people and images that made sleep so elusive. Jess. Anna. Erik. Dan. The auction. The success of the day. The huge relief when it was over. Jumping on the bouncy castle. The mess still to clear up. The pile of cash in my study still to be counted. And the notebook full of brand new orders that’s amazing but more than a little scary now I’m in desperate need of a chill room.

  Fear grips my insides.

  Chill rooms cost thousands of pounds.

  But I haven’t got time to worry about that now. There’s clearing up to do.

  Four hours later, the only signs that a surprisingly successful event took place here yesterday are a long row of neatly tied bin bags at the side gate, filled with cans, wrappers and hundreds of discarded raffle tickets.

  Anna phoned as I was busy and asked if I needed help clearing up but I told her I had plenty of people there, which I did, and I started thanking her all over again for her hard work organising the fayre. But she muttered that she had a bad headache. She was sorry for storming off yesterday and could we talk later.

  I’ve left more messages for Jess but I haven’t heard from her. She’s probably still reeling from the shock of having Luke back in her life. I’m really regretting voicing my opinion on her wedding plans. I should have kept quiet and let her talk. Then we wouldn’t have parted so awkwardly.

  I drink my way through a pot of tea as I anxiously calculate the proceeds from the fayre, praying there will be enough after my charity donation to pay for a chill room.

  There’s good news and bad.

  The good news: I can afford to have a small chill room installed in my garage.

  The bad news: there will be very little cash left over. Nothing to tide me over for a rainy day.

  Never mind tea, I think I’m in need of something stronger …

  When I arrive with Mrs P’s box on the Monday following the fayre, her face falls.

  ‘Izzy, dear, you poor thing, are you bearing up?’

  I look at her a little nonplussed.

  She shakes her head. ‘I should never have taken it upon myself to match-make the way I did.’

  Ah, she’s talking about Erik.

  I touch her arm. ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  It’s true. I’ve been so preoccupied, I’ve barely had a single minute to mope.

  ‘Well, I feel terrible. Knowing I was the one who got you together in the first place.’ She takes the box from me. ‘He said it was a mutual decision?’

  ‘Did he?’ I don’t know why I’m so shocked at his gall.

  She gives me a sharp look. ‘Has he been up to his old tricks again?’

  ‘Er – no, everything’s fine.’

  She sighs. ‘I appreciate your diplomacy, my dear. But I know full well what an arse my darling grandson can be.’

  By some miracle I manage to remain silent.

  ‘But the important thing is – are you OK?’

  I nod. ‘I was kidding myself, really. Thinking it would work out.’

  ‘Well, just remember it’s his loss. Not yours. Although I really thought you might be the one to make him change his ways.’

  ‘Do you think he ever will? Change his ways?’ I ask doubtfully.

  She sets the box on the hall table. ‘Well, that’s a question and a half. Women will always fall for Erik’s charms, and I’m just as guilty as anyone. When he was naughty as a child, I used to find it so hard to stay cross. One cheeky smile and I’d cave in instantly.’

  She grabs her coat from the stand. ‘Anyway, dear, I’d love to chat, but I have to dash.’

  ‘You’re always dashing. What is it this time?’

  ‘Wine-tasting. With the girls.’ She laughs. ‘The girls. Listen to me. Our average age must be a hundred and two.’

  I grin. ‘Well, enjoy.’

  I step outside and she locks up then bustles round the side of the house to her car.

  She winds down her window as she passes me. ‘The teacher’s a real Errol Flynn look-alike. Even has that wonderfully rakish moustache.’

  ‘Errol Flynn, eh?’ `I smile down at her. ‘Wasn’t he a huge movie star about a century and a half ago?’

  ‘Oh yes, he was huge all right.’ She sighs fondly in reminiscence. ‘They say he had the biggest cock in Hollywood. Cheerio, dear.’

  Chapter Thirty

  It’s two weeks since the summer fayre and I still haven’t spoken to Jess.

  Whenever I call, her phone is switched off.

  Anna and I grabbed a coffee last week and she can’t get hold of Jess either, so at least I know it’s not just me she’s avoiding.

  The wedding is less than a month away. I wish she’d talk to us.

  Mind you, I have zero time now for meeting up with friends.

  On the day of the fayre, I took orders from nearly thirty new customers. Then a few days later, the local weekly paper carried a half-page feature on Izzy’s Organics and this led to another flurry of new orders. All in all,
my customer base has doubled, which is really exciting but at the same time, gut-clenchingly scary.

  The newspaper piece included a photo of the charity cheque presentation and an awful, cheesy picture of me in a low-cut top and skinny jeans, pulling a box of bananas from the back of the van. I’m wearing a fixed smile that looks more like a grimace due to the fact that Rod, the leery photographer, kept shouting, ‘If you could just lean forward a touch more, Lizzy. That’s it. A little bit further?’ Clearly a believer in the adage, sex sells, he was determined to have bananas in every shot.

  The appearance of the piece led to a few amused calls from people I hadn’t seen in a while. (‘Nice tits’ seemed to be the common thread in these exchanges.)

  The big benefit of being scarily busy, of course, is the increase in income. And I am now the proud owner of a small chill room.

  After much trawling of the internet, I managed to find one that was within my budget. It’s too small, really, and squeezing the produce in there on a Monday, after Banksy delivers it from Parsons’ London depot, will certainly be a challenge. But at least I won’t have to worry any longer about dried-out broccoli and floppy courgettes.

  I’m getting up at six every day now, even on Sundays, and working till nine or ten at night, before grabbing something to eat and crashing out, exhausted. After a lifetime of scrupulous cleansing and moisturising before bed, it’s touch and go these days if I even have the energy to brush my teeth.

  But I’m not complaining.

  If I can keep on growing the business, eventually I’ll be able to afford to take on staff, which will relieve the pressure enormously. But obviously, that won’t happen overnight. So in the meantime, I’ll forget about having a social life. I’ll give up my Sundays in the garden. And I’ll work all the hours – and more, if I can – to make sure I can continue paying the mortgage and Farthing Cottage is safe.

  The problem is, as the week goes on, I’m finding it really hard to keep the panic at bay. The pressure to get everything right with such a tight schedule is so overwhelming at times that, inevitably, I start to make mistakes.

  One day, I manage to get the contents of the boxes all mixed up in my rush to get them done. By the time I’ve sorted out the mess, it’s dark and too late to start delivering. Which means I have double the deliveries the following day.

  Then I find I’ve run out of tape to put the flat-packed boxes together. I have to break off the packing and go on an emergency shopping trip for more supplies which slows me up terribly.

  They say problems tend to arrive in threes.

  I can so vouch for that.

  This morning, I realise to my horror that I’ve been so stressed trying to get the boxes to people on time, I’ve been forgetting to pay for the deliveries from Parsons.

  Normally I make a cash transfer on Monday nights, following Banksy’s delivery earlier in the day. But when I frantically check my records, I find I’ve missed not one but three payments.

  Feeling an utter fool, I get straight on the phone to apologise to Dan.

  He listens to my garbled, slightly hysterical speech.

  Then he tells me gently that he didn’t even notice my lack of payments and that I should go and have a strong drink or get out and dig the garden. Immediately. Because I sound like I need to chill out a bit.

  And to my horror, his lovely, kind words have the very opposite of a rallying effect – and I dissolve into gulps of despair, tears rolling down my face, making weird involuntary grunting noises like a trapped moose or something. I’m totally unable to speak.

  Honestly, the poor man probably thinks I’m having a seizure.

  But he keeps talking to me in his soothingly deep voice, giving me time to calm down and telling me a story about a disaster during his very first week in the fruit and veg business.

  ‘A Greek restaurant called wanting fifty kilos of aubergines and I thought they said green beans. So that’s what they got. Fifty kilos of the damn things. No-one had moussaka that night. I can’t stand green beans now.’

  When I come off the phone, I’m feeling calmer and more positive.

  Yes, it’s going to be tough.

  But I can do this. I can…

  I sit in Midge’s chair for a while, staring out of the window, thinking about Dan and how much I misjudged him when we first met.

  He’s actually really kind and thoughtful. Plus he’s a great dad. And he’s funny. My regulars haven’t stopped going on about how entertaining he was at the auction.

  ‘Where did you find him?’ demanded Mrs Beavers, a married-five-times divorcee with a well-mascaraed eye on number six. ‘He can bring his gavel down on me any time.’ (This, it has to be said, is no great indication of Dan’s attractiveness. Mrs Beavers would flirt with an ironing board if its parts were in working order and it had a few quid in the bank.)

  A vehicle draws up on the gravel outside. The postman. I approach the doormat with my usual wariness, not wanting to see a bill lying there.

  But it’s a postcard from Dad and Gloria.

  Smiling, I look at the photo on the front. Sydney Opera House. They’ve moved on to Australia, then. Often Gloria writes the cards but this one is in Dad’s handwriting.

  Hello Izzy, love. Having a smashing time exploring Sydney. We’re travelling north in July to the Great Barrier Reef. Had a brainwave today. Why don’t you fly out and join us there? I’ll pay for flights. Please come. I miss my darling daughter very much. (Will phone as this card might take weeks to get to you.) Lots of love, Dad and Gloria xx

  Laughing with delight, I press the card to my chest.

  How wonderful if I could go out there and see some of the sights with them. I picture them in a café, talking about me, Dad suddenly having the idea that I could fly out there and excitedly writing the postcard …

  Then I realise I’m kidding myself.

  Of course I can’t fly off to Australia!

  I’ve got a business to run. A mortgage to pay.

  I go back to the kitchen and sit down at the table, staring at the image of Sydney Opera House until it turns all blurry.

  I miss my Dad so much. I haven’t seen him since he and Gloria embarked on their trip last July. What I’d give for one of his big bear hugs right now.

  I miss Dad.

  I miss Jess and I haven’t seen much of Anna lately, either.

  I miss the garden, too. I don’t have time any more. Soon, my crops will start wilting and going to seed.

  And I have a horrible feeling I’ve been fooling myself all along, thinking Izzy’s Organics can be a proper career for me. I’ve made some really stupid mistakes this week. I’ve been completely unprofessional in allowing the stress to get to me. Perhaps I’m not clever enough or resilient enough to make it work.

  But if the business fails, I’ll have to sell Farthing Cottage. And that would be more than I could bear.

  There’s a knock at the door. I’m so lost in my misery, I didn’t even hear a car.

  It’s Dan.

  I stare at him, aware how awful I must look with puffy eyes and mascara running down my face.

  ‘You didn’t take my advice,’ he says solemnly.

  I move back to let him in. Compared to the bright sunshine outside, the light in the hall seems very dim. ‘What do you mean?’

  He’s wearing well-fitting black jeans and a rust-coloured polo shirt. ‘You’re not digging in the garden.’ His mouth twists into a smile. ‘And there’s no sign of strong drink.’

  I try to smile back but my lips are trembling too much.

  ‘You need fresh air and a pep talk,’ he decides. ‘And a nice tree to sit under.’

  He holds out his hand and after a second’s hesitation, I take it.

  ‘I assume from the blossom that’s an apple tree out there,’ he says, leading me over the threshold.

  His fingers are warm and strong and my hand feels very small in his. For a second, I feel safe and secure.

  Then he smiles down at me, his de
ep blue eyes crinkling with warmth. And suddenly, I’m feeling something else altogether. Something far less comforting. Something rather worrying, in fact.

  My hand is actually tingling where he’s touching me.

  I swallow hard.

  He was saying something about the apple tree, but he can’t have been right …

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ I stare at him. ‘Is that a joke?’

  He stops. ‘A joke?’

  ‘The apple blossom?’

  He grins. ‘No. My jokes are generally better than that. Why?’

  ‘Because,’ I say slowly, not really believing him, ‘that apple tree hasn’t flowered since my aunt planted it over thirty years ago.’

  ‘Well, take a look for yourself if you don’t believe me.’ He drops my hand and I feel his touch at my waist, as he propels me gently forwards.

  I walk over to the tree in a trance.

  It has flowers. It truly does. I was so stressed out, I didn’t even see them.

  ‘Wow.’ I stand next to it, staring upwards. Clusters of tiny pinky-white flowers festoon every leafy branch. It’s a miracle.

  After all these years, Midge’s tree has come to life.

  I walk around it, fascinated, looking at the blossom from all angles.

  Then I realise Dan is standing with his arms folded, watching me intently.

  I smile at him. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  He pats the trunk then he hunkers down under the tree and sits with his back against the trunk, forearms resting loosely on his raised knees.

  He looks up at me, squinting into the sun.

  ‘Come on.’ He pats the grass next to him, and I drop down and lean against the trunk, sitting at right angles to Dan so that my right shoulder is touching his arm.

  The warm air is full of the scent of blossom.

  ‘Talk,’ Dan murmurs, and I’m aware of his head turned slightly towards me. ‘Tell me why you’re so stressed you never noticed the blossom.’

  I take in a breath that seems to travel all the way up from my toes.

  Then it all pours out.

  How I’m glad the summer fayre was a success but I’m not sure I’m equal to the challenge of more customers; how my best friends are both hurting and I don’t know how to help them; and how I’m absolutely terrified of the business failing because that means I’ll lose Midge’s house.