Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

  If I’m being honest with myself, selling Farthing Cottage has been the obvious answer all along. I just couldn’t bear to let Midge down by losing the place she – and I – loved so much, so I was refusing to see it.

  It may be that I’m panicking unnecessarily over that solicitor’s letter. Jamie might just be trying to scare me into action. But that’s not the point.

  I’m tired.

  Tired of the endless battle to make ends meet.

  Tired of putting on a brave face and scaling yet more obstacles in the hope things will eventually get easier.

  And tired of telling myself I’m so pleased for Zak that his mum and dad are back together again.

  Tears are massing in my throat but I swallow them down.

  A fresh start. That’s what I need. Well away from Fieldstone, where there are so many bitter-sweet memories.

  I go into the kitchen and start clearing away the coffee cups, trying to focus on that fresh start and how great it will be. They say you have to reach rock bottom before you can start climbing up again.

  Suddenly, the room darkens and raindrops start tapping against the window. I freeze, half way to the sink, staring out at the garden.

  And it sinks in properly that soon, this lovely view will no longer be mine.

  How long do I have left here?

  A month?

  Two months?

  It will be my last Christmas in this house.

  Midge loved Christmas. It was her favourite time of year. She would bring holly and ivy and fir cones in from the garden and string lights all over the house.

  I always tried to do the same, but this year there will be no point.

  Tears blinding my eyes, I dump the cups by the sink and throw myself into Midge’s old leather chair, hugging a cushion and giving in to my heartache.

  Leaving this house will be like parting with Midge all over again. She’s here, in every room. Whether it’s a view she loved, a framed tapestry she made, or a memory of something we did together when I was little. Finding out about the lost love of her life, Michael, makes it even sadder somehow. Farthing Cottage was to be their home, together. And now, thanks to me, it will soon belong to a stranger …

  I’m in no state to answer the phone when it rings so I ignore it, scrabbling fruitlessly in my pockets for a hanky.

  But a few minutes later, it starts again and I sit up, clumsily wiping my wet face with my hands.

  My mother’s voice rings cheerfully down the line. ‘Hello, dear, I’m looking in my diary and I was wondering when you’re coming home for Christmas.’

  I sink back down in the chair. ‘Mum, it’s still November.’

  My voice is thick with tears and of course, she pounces on this instantly. ‘Izzy? Have you been crying?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘You have. I can tell. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Really.’

  There’s a brief pause then she murmurs, ‘I’m your mother, darling. Tell me what’s happened.’

  I want to laugh it off but the unexpected ‘darling’ weakens my defences.

  I sigh shakily and it all comes tumbling out.

  About Jamie cheating on me with Emma and how because I snubbed him, he’s now demanding money and threatening me with frightening solicitors’ letters.

  ‘He had an affair?’ She sounds shocked. ‘But I thought he was a decent bloke.’

  ‘Well, it turns out he wasn’t.’

  ‘I suppose I should have guessed,’ she murmurs wearily. ‘He’s a man, after all.’

  ‘You can’t tar all men with the same brush.’

  She sighs. ‘Izzy, you’re too trusting for your own good. The fact is you need to be on your guard where men are concerned. You’ve got to be alert to the signs.’

  ‘The signs?’

  ‘Yes. Buying you flowers for no reason. That usually means they feel guilty. Odd transactions on their credit card bill. Always a giveaway. Coming home smelling of perfume. And of course the classic. Attending a conference and having to stay away overnight.’

  My befuddled brain is fighting to keep up.

  What is she talking about? Did she get this useful information from daytime TV?

  ‘Oh yes, and bringing their daughter a fancy birthday cake right out of the blue,’ she adds with an odd edge to her voice.

  ‘Birthday cake?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What was that about a birthday cake?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Now listen, that Jamie creature? Surely he’s got plenty of money of his own without having to go after yours as well? I thought he was a respectable City trader?’

  I give a bitter laugh. ‘He’s a trader, yes, but not necessarily respectable.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she demands. ‘Are you saying he involves himself in dodgy dealings? Insider trading, that sort of thing?’

  ‘No, of course not! I mean, I always suspected he sailed close to the wind sometimes but he’s no Nick Leeson, rogue trader!’

  ‘Well, he sounds appalling. So what are you going to do about these threats?’

  I heave a sigh. ‘Mum, I really don’t know.’

  I’m not going to admit I’ve finally been forced to put the house up for sale.

  She’d be unbearable.

  As in: Well, far be it from me to say I told you so, but …

  After the call, I decide to walk along the lane to see Mrs P. It’s stopped raining and a feeble sun is breaking through the clouds.

  I leave by the front door and stand for a moment on the gravel driveway, staring out over the sweep of lawn and thinking about how I’ll have to break the news to Mrs P that I’m leaving this place.

  She’s recovering well and endeavouring – with varying degrees of success – to obey doctor’s orders and take it easy. Restored to her normal cheery self, she’s insistent that meeting up with friends and plotting world domination in the baking arena is the best way to speed her recovery.

  I will miss her when I leave.

  With a heavy heart, I start crossing the gravel to the side gate.

  Then my eye catches the apple tree in the centre of the lawn and I stop dead in my tracks.

  Am I seeing things?

  Slowly, I start walking across the lawn to get a closer look and my heart gives a little ping of joy.

  I have apples!

  They’re very small – not much bigger than a plum – with a faint apricot tinge to their pale green skin. But they’re apples nonetheless.

  Then it hits me afresh.

  I stare at the tree as a wave of despair sweeps over me.

  When it blossoms and fruits in years to come, it will be strangers who stand here, gazing at it with delight.

  Not me …

  DECEMBER

  What a difference a year makes!

  Last December, the snow made me a prisoner in my own home and my spirits sank to the depths of a deep sea diver.

  But this festive season, the only spirit concerning me was the crocheted bag clinking with experimental home-brewed vodka Posy brought along to my Christmas Eve bash. She’d been distilling it from a load of my excess King Edwards potatoes and actually, it went down a storm with a hint of cranberry juice. (Apparently, it only exploded once, while she was out at her pigeon fanciers club. Too much yeast.)

  Anyway, ‘the girls’ and I had a grand old knees-up which ended in us pouring out onto the frosty front lawn for an impromptu carol singing session at midnight, gathered round the apple tree.

  Then Izzy arrived for a few days, which was the icing on my Christmas cake!

  I took her to the local amateur dramatics showing of A Christmas Carol, which she’d been reading at school. She’s learning to play the recorder so I fished my old instrument out and we did some jolly practice (until I got a bit of a headache). Then I showed her how to prune the roses and she planted some tulip bulbs in her own little plot, which hopefully will bloom in time for her next visit, at Easter.

  A
fter she’d gone, I did what I’ve been promising myself for a long time – I booked a trip to Venice! I’m going in November when the garden can be more or less trusted to look after itself.

  I can’t wait.

  Ciao bella!

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  It’s nearly two months since I last saw Dan, on the night of my party.

  And I can confirm that the old adage, out of sight, out of mind, is definitely not true. Not for me, anyway. Trying not to think about Dan is like attempting to hold back the tide. Like we did at the beach when we were kids, building dams to stop the sea. It works for a while but eventually a giant wave comes crashing in and makes a nonsense of all your frantic efforts.

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder has far more truth in it.

  Since the party, I’ve been going about my normal routine, making deliveries and driving to the farm only when it’s absolutely necessary. Alison seems to understand my desire to be in and out as swiftly as possible because she always makes sure the produce is there waiting for me when I arrive.

  The thought of running into Monique scares me to death.

  But worse even than that is the idea I might see Dan because that really would tear me in two.

  I walk on eggshells at home, too, expecting – but at the same time dreading – a call from the estate agent to say they’ve lined up a prospective buyer. This is clearly the wrong time of year to sell a house because in the month since it went on the market, I’ve not had a single bite. I don’t know whether to be depressed or delighted. It’s all so unsettling.

  I’m still dreading Jamie’s deadline of 15th December – now only a few days away – but at least if another legal letter arrives, I’ll be able to inform his solicitor that the house is on the market and the funds will soon be available.

  My mother is obviously worried about my sanity because she’s insisting that I take a full fortnight off over the festive period and go ‘home’ to relax.

  To be honest, the idea of ‘relaxing’ at my mother’s at Christmas is a bit of a contradiction in terms, but she seems determined to look after me and I haven’t the strength or the heart to refuse.

  And actually, by the time the final week of deliveries arrives, I find I’m counting the days, looking forward to handing over the very last pre-Christmas box before savouring a whole two weeks of freedom.

  Having Alison to help with the Christmas rush makes a huge difference. There’s no way I could have packed and delivered nearly a hundred and fifty boxes myself. She even helps with the last of the deliveries but it’s still a frantic dash to get finished in time. I’ll have to break the news to her in the New Year that after the house is sold, I’ll be winding up the business.

  Every time I think about next year, I feel sick with apprehension.

  The final box delivery turns out to be Mrs P’s.

  It’s nearly 6 p.m. when I finally arrive, exhausted but grateful that after today, I won’t have to look at another cabbage for at least a fortnight.

  Mrs P ushers me through to the kitchen.

  ‘Ooh, you’ve had your hair done,’ I say admiringly, setting her box down.

  She turns her head this way and that. ‘What do you think?’

  Her short, salt and pepper hair is now full of subtle honey blonde highlights and flicks up youthfully at the sides.

  ‘It really suits you.’

  She looks pleased.

  ‘What’s that racket? You hate country music.’

  She laughs. ‘Don’t knock anything until you’ve tried it. And that includes Dolly Parton.’ She brings a casserole out of the oven and takes off the lid.

  A delicious herby smell rises up and tickles my nostrils.

  She takes off her naked-man apron and hangs it on the back of the door.

  ‘You’ll catch a fly if you’re not careful,’ she points out.

  I realise I’m gawping.

  With the apron gone, her outfit is revealed in all its glory. A raspberry pink shift dress, belted at the waist, with a little black cardigan. The dress skims her knees and I notice with surprise that she has great legs. They’re shapely for a woman of any age, never mind one who’s been travelling free on buses for at least a decade.

  ‘You’ve never seen me out of slacks, have you?’ She slips her feet into a pair of black court shoes.

  I shake my head. ‘You look … great. What’s the occasion?’

  ‘Oh, I just fancied a change.’ She takes a bottle of wine from the fridge and pours me a glass.

  ‘What, for a night in watching TV? It’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’

  She gives an enigmatic smile.

  ‘So are you going out?’

  Right on cue the doorbell rings.

  She pats her hair and glances in the mirror by the door as she walks out, heels clicking on the parquet flooring.

  When Banksy appears – groomed in a pristine white shirt and really rather handsome in a craggy sort of way – I am utterly speechless.

  I drive to Mum’s on Christmas Eve.

  It’s very cold with squally showers that forecasters are saying will turn to snow on the higher ground. Usually, the thought of snow falling at Christmas would make me feel happy. But not this year.

  All I have to look forward to this festive season is cooking goose with my mother. This strikes me as hugely appropriate. After falling for a man who is now happily shacked up with his ex, my goose is so cooked it’s practically cremated.

  When I arrive, my mother welcomes me with a showy air kiss to each cheek, a clear sign she has the neighbours in for early evening drinks.

  ‘Happy Christmas, darling!’ she trills for their benefit. ‘Come on in. We’re all here.’

  I follow her through, past the perfectly baubled turquoise and silver Christmas tree in the hall. Above every mirror and picture sits a sprig of holly with three red berries.

  Marge and Phil, from next-door, are sitting on the Chesterfield sofa, and my mother’s other neighbours, who I’ve never met, are perched on the Queen Anne style chairs either side of the fireplace. They’re all holding tall-stemmed glasses of something pink. My mother does the introductions as if she’s the gracious lady of the manor then asks me if I’d like a Kir Royale.

  ‘Actually, I’m quite tired and alcohol will finish me off,’ I say truthfully. I look around apologetically. ‘A shower will wake me up. Do you mind?’

  There’s a chorus of ‘No, no, you go right ahead; you must be exhausted after your journey.’

  I retreat gratefully to the spare room and instantly flake out fully clothed on the bed.

  When I wake up it’s dark outside and I can hear the clink of plates being stacked in the dishwasher. Guiltily wiping mascara from under my eyes, I go through and find my mother clearing up in the living room.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Can I help?’

  She carries a tray of glasses into the kitchen, Russell & Bromley jewelled sling-backs clipping on the floor tiles. ‘Don’t worry. You obviously needed it. I don’t suppose you’re up for midnight mass?’

  ‘I’d probably fall asleep again,’ I admit, watching her fill the sink with soapy water. She’s wearing the slim-fitting skirt from her cream Chanel suit, with a silk blouse in oyster pink. Her hair is a mass of soft blonde waves in a short, chic style that suits her. She’s always looked a decade younger than her actual age.

  She’s washing glasses at a furious speed, pumping them up and down in the suds then rinsing them under a running tap.

  What a pity, I think suddenly, that she never found anyone to be happy with after Dad. What must that be like? Reaching the age of fifty-nine, still youthful, but with no-one to take holidays with and share the stuff of everyday life? Having to change plugs, take out the rubbish and manage everything all on your own.

  We have far more in common than I’d like to think.

  ‘Look, give me ten minutes and I’ll come with you,’ I say.

  ‘No need.’ She places the la
st glass on the drainer. ‘Sylvia’s going. Mind you, I think she’s more interested in checking out the eye candy than the carols.’

  Sylvia, newly divorced, is my mother’s friend from the Rotary Club.

  ‘So Sylvia’s on the pull? God help ye merry gentlemen.’

  My mother laughs and pats my cheek. ‘Get up to bed and get a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure …’

  ‘Yes, I am. Now, shoo!’

  I get into bed but sleep evades me.

  I lie there, a jumble of thoughts going round and round in my head.

  Dan, Monique and Zak will be having a proper family Christmas this year. I picture them unwrapping presents round the tree; the proud parents watching Zak performing tricks on his brand new scooter; Monique preparing Christmas lunch in the farmhouse kitchen.

  These images fill me with deep gloom until I remember Dan mentioning that Monique’s cooking skills left a bit to be desired. So maybe everything at Parsons Farm will not be rosy this Christmas.

  Then I realise how pathetic I am, desperately seeking comfort from a potential turkey disaster.

  The only dried-out bird this Christmas is me.

  Then I start worrying about Jamie.

  I’ve been watching out for a letter since the 15th but so far, I’ve had nothing. It must have been held up in the Christmas post, which is a relief because at least it’s given me a bit of breathing space. But no doubt it will be waiting on the mat to welcome me when I get back. And of course, once the festive season is over, people will start house-hunting again …

  I eventually fall into a fitful sleep and have a nightmare about Monique and a giant turkey wrestling me to the floor then trying to force me into the oven. I wake up in a sweaty panic just as they’re discussing where to put the sage and onion stuffing.

  I glance at the clock. Just after one. I can hear my mother in the kitchen, back from midnight mass.

  Slipping on my dressing gown I go down.

  She’s making tea so I join her. We sit at the table in the kitchen and she chats about Sylvia and how her friend is thinking of joining a dating agency.

  ‘Good for her,’ I say, reaching for a biscuit. ‘Perhaps you should do the same?’