Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

Talking in sentences would take up far too much air.

  We run a few hundred yards along the road then Dan leaps over a stile and disappears into a wooded area. I clamber over, cursing as the black Lycra of my pants catches on a nail. Then I follow him through an expanse of waist-high bracken that slopes down towards the river. Not being able to see my feet slows me up but he waits for me at the bottom.

  ‘OK?’ He barely waits for a reply before he’s off again.

  The way is narrow and overgrown. We run in single file, Dan ahead, and I keep my eyes riveted to the path to avoid the tree roots that are lying in wait to trip me up. One false move could send me tumbling right into the river.

  After a while, the path broadens out and Dan slows to let me catch up.

  ‘Sorry, I’m used to running on my own,’ he says, by way of apology for half-killing me.

  ‘Me too,’ I say, panting openly now. ‘Although sometimes I think I’d like to train for a marathon. Not sure I’d be disciplined enough, though.’

  ‘I hate organised runs.’

  ‘Oh. Why?’

  He frowns. ‘Probably because this’ – he gestures at the trees – ‘is what it’s all about for me. Being free to run wherever I want. I hate the idea of being hemmed in by hundreds of people and having to stick to a designated route.’

  We come to a fallen tree and he hangs back to let me step over it first.

  I want to say that I didn’t have him down as the free spirit type. But this is far too many words to gasp out.

  So instead, I nod.

  ‘I’m happiest in the country,’ he says. ‘Can’t stand London.’

  ‘But that’s where your business HQ is.’

  ‘Yes. And I’d give it up tomorrow if I could.’

  I glance at him, taken aback. ‘But it’s a really successful business. Your business.’

  ‘Yes, but my heart isn’t really in it.’

  We jog along for a while in silence as I absorb this surprising insight.

  ‘So why did you go into the business in the first place?’ I ask. ‘If it doesn’t really inspire you?’

  ‘It’s the family farm.’ He shrugs as if that says it all. ‘I grew up there and I want Zak to have the same fantastic childhood I did. But taking over the farm when Dad retired wasn’t something I ever wanted to do.’

  ‘So why did you?’

  I’m genuinely intrigued but there’s another reason I’m keen to keep him chatting. Conversation has slowed the pace. I’m finally able to talk and breathe at the same time.

  He smiles grimly. ‘I didn’t want to let Dad down. And Monique was all for it. Ten years ago we were at the height of the organics boom. She spotted the potential of turning the farm into an organic business. And to be fair, she was right. The company’s doing incredibly well. But now that Dad’s no longer with us, I’m thinking it might be time for a change of direction.’

  ‘Do you and Monique own the business between you?’

  He nods. ‘I offered to buy her out when we split two years ago, but she’s determined to remain a sleeping partner. God knows why. She makes a great living as a make-up artist.’

  I recall the way Monique behaved at the black-tie balls-up. When she saw Dan talking to me, she shimmied straight over to claim her man.

  I’ve a feeling I know exactly why Monique is keen to remain Dan’s ‘sleeping partner’.

  I recall his confession to me as we sat under the apple tree.

  ‘So if you weren’t running Parsons, would you really be writing?’

  He grins. ‘You don’t see me as the creative type, then?’

  ‘I suppose I’ve only ever seen you in serious business mode. Except at the auction.’

  ‘Made a prize tit of myself that day.’

  ‘Yes, but it worked.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, Izzy. You were supposed to say of course you didn’t make a tit of yourself, Dan … you were brilliant.’

  I laugh. ‘Sorry.’

  The path narrows at this point which means we have to run in single file again. I follow behind, deep in thought, trying to keep my eyes on the scenery and off Dan’s thigh muscles, which are flexing impressively as he sprints.

  Later, back at the farm, we stand at the kitchen sink drinking the tap dry.

  I hold the cold glass to my cheek. ‘So have you actually written anything?’

  ‘It’s all up here at the moment.’ He taps his head and smiles. ‘My main character is an alien called Eugene. He’s been sent from a distant planet to investigate something called love.’

  ‘They don’t have love on this distant planet, then?’

  He shakes his head. ‘They’re ultra-practical. Light years ahead of us. They dispensed with emotion a long time ago because it causes far too much trouble.’

  ‘Very sensible these aliens.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’ve been out with a few in the past,’ I admit. ‘Though none called Eugene.’

  He laughs. ‘Me too.’

  ‘One boyfriend gave me a toaster for my birthday.’

  ‘Don’t you like toast, then?’

  ‘I love toast. But it was my twenty-first. I was hoping for – you know – jewellery or something romantic.’

  He takes a long slug of water and I notice the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple and the sheen of sweat on his tanned skin. Putting the glass down, he grins at me. ‘I once went out with a girl who wore a balaclava every time it was windy.’

  ‘Stylish.’

  ‘Yeah, well. She had them in different colours, though. To match her outfits.’

  I smile a little shyly. ‘No she didn’t.’

  He shrugs. ‘You’re right. She didn’t. She had just the one and it was black.’

  ‘Wind can play havoc with your hair.’

  ‘Balaclavas don’t do much for it either.’

  ‘I had a boyfriend who ate tripe and onions for breakfast every morning, wearing nothing but his socks and a smile.’

  Dan eyes me sceptically.

  I shrug. ‘Actually that’s not strictly true.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘On Thursdays he had haggis.’

  It’s nearly midnight and I’m sitting at the kitchen table doing the accounts when my mobile rings.

  It’s a number I don’t recognise.

  At first I can’t hear anything except background chatter.

  Then a familiar voice says, ‘Izzy? Is that you?’

  Jamie?

  What on earth does he want?

  ‘Yes. It’s me.’

  ‘Izzy. Oh, Izzy.’ There’s a sound like a gale-force wind in my ear and I wince.

  ‘Jamie?’

  The wind rushes into my ear again.

  I suddenly realise it’s Jamie’s long, drawn-out sigh.

  ‘Jamie, what do you want?’

  ‘Can I see you?’

  ‘What? No! Why?’

  ‘You’re lovely. I wanna see you.’

  Oh God, he’s drunk.

  ‘Well, I have no desire to see you, Jamie.’

  Another long sigh blasts into my ear. ‘But we’ve got things to talk about.’

  ‘Er, no, we don’t. Goodnight.’

  I end the call, my heart hammering uncomfortably. He’s probably had a row with Emma. Why else would he think of phoning me?

  I’ve lost my concentration now and the spreadsheets are starting to blur into each other, so I decide to make some tea and take it up to bed.

  After locking up and turning off all the downstairs lights, I’m about to climb the stairs when the doorbell rings.

  Once.

  Then three times more in quick succession.

  I freeze, my foot on the bottom step.

  No-one I know would arrive at this hour without phoning first.

  Oh God, Jamie? He couldn’t have got here from the pub that quickly, could he?

  And if it isn’t Jamie, who the hell is it?

  Perhaps I should just ignore it.

  In a situation lik
e this, people often joke, ‘Oh, that’ll be the axe murderer at the door.’

  But how horribly ironic it would be if I, Isobel Fraser, went down in history as the only person in Fieldstone to actually be murdered by someone with an axe.

  I’m not sure I could bear the cliché.

  Although I suppose if I were dead, I’d be past caring anyway.

  In the few seconds I stand frozen with indecision in the hallway, I even imagine the talk at my funeral. ‘An axe murderer, you say? Well, isn’t that typical. She always had to be different.’

  The potential axe murderer is banging on the door now and shouting through the letterbox. ‘Please, Izzy. It’s me. Open up.’

  I fling open the door with relief. And there stands Jess in her pink-spotted summer mac.

  Then I spot the pyjamas underneath.

  ‘Jess, what’s wrong? Come in.’

  ‘No! We haven’t time!’ She clutches my arm. ‘Wesley’s threatening to punch Luke!’

  ‘He’s what? Are you sure? He doesn’t seem like the violent type to me.’

  She covers her face with her hands. ‘Oh, it was awful, Izzy.’

  I pull her in and shut the door. I can feel her trembling and it suddenly hits me. ‘Oh God, you’ve told him, haven’t you? About you and Luke?’

  She nods. ‘I knew you were right. Deep down, I knew. I just couldn’t see it at the time. But oh, Izzy, Wesley’s been drinking and he says he’s going round to Luke’s to tell him what he thinks. He went to the bathroom and I got in the car and drove here because I didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you did.’ I pull her into a tight hug, while the cogs in my brain start whirring madly in search of a solution.

  If Wesley’s been drinking, there’s a danger he might do himself a mischief. Especially if he gets behind the wheel. It sounds like he needs calming down. We need someone objective who can talk some sense into him. Preferably someone with a bit of muscle. But who?

  Then I remember Dan saying if I ever needed help …

  ‘What shall we do?’ wails Jess.

  I grab my phone and search out Dan’s number.

  It rings but no-one answers. Oh God, don’t say he’s out! Now what…?

  Then his deep voice is in my ear. ‘Izzy? Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ I burst out. ‘Dan, I’m sorry to phone so late, but we need your help.’

  There is a tiny pause. ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Me and Jess. Her fiancé, Wesley, is threatening to punch Luke and we don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Who’s Luke?’

  ‘Their wedding photographer.’

  ‘The pictures weren’t great, then?’

  ‘No!’ I shout in exasperation. ‘It’s nothing like that. Luke is an old boyfriend and Wesley’s just found out about him. He’s been drinking and Jess is scared he’ll do something silly.’

  ‘Do you think the guy’s a real danger?’

  ‘Wesley? No, I don’t. And anyway, he doesn’t know where Luke lives so he won’t be able to find him. But he says he’s going to the studio anyway.’

  ‘Where’s the studio?’

  ‘In Marbury, next to the village green?’ I raise my eyebrows at Jess for confirmation and she nods.

  ‘Right. I’ll meet you there.’ His tone is firm and reassuring. ‘And don’t do anything until I get there.’

  We drive to Marbury in the van with Jess sitting bolt upright all the way.

  She points out the studio on the edge of the village green and I park the car a little way off to wait for Dan.

  ‘Wesley’s there already. I’ll go and talk to him,’ Jess says and scrambles out of the car before I can stop her.

  I get out and follow her over to Wesley’s blue Ford Fiesta, parked outside Luke’s premises. Wesley has spotted Jess and is getting out of his car.

  Just then, headlights appear around the corner. A familiar four-by-four races along the street towards us and draws in behind Wesley’s car. Dan gets out and as I run over to join him, Wesley starts walking away along the street, turning back to yell at Jess in short, angry bursts that I can’t make out. She’s trying to calm him down but every time she reaches out, he pulls his arm away. She grabs him again but he breaks away and runs up a path between two houses then returns with something in his hand and paces back, unsteadily, towards the studio.

  Pulling his arm over his head, he aims whatever he’s holding at the studio window.

  Sprinting over, Dan manages to reach him just in time, grabbing what looks like a stone or a brick from his hand and throwing it along the pavement.

  ‘Get Jess back to the van!’ he orders, and I pull her by the hand and hustle her into the passenger seat. Then I get back in and we stare out, gripping each other’s hands.

  Wesley is trying to resist and at one point, he aims a punch, but Dan easily overpowers him and holds his arm off. It looks as if he’s trying to reason with him. Wesley shakes him off and stumbles away, but Dan shouts something that makes him turn back. After a moment, the two of them walk over to the four-by-four, and Dan holds the passenger door open to let Wesley in.

  I start the van and drive over.

  Dan ducks down to the window. ‘I’m taking him home. He’s agreed not to cause any trouble as long as I don’t phone the police.’

  He looks at Jess. ‘He’ll be fine. Just needs to sleep it off.’ He grins at me. ‘Nearly had a brick through that window, though.’

  Jess seems to be struck dumb with shock. She’s staring at Dan’s car as if it might explode at any moment.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I begin on her behalf, but Dan just shrugs it off.

  ‘No problem.’ He presses my arm. ‘Take Jess back to yours tonight. Make sure she’s all right. I’ll see to Wesley. We chatted briefly at the fayre, so he knows who I am.’

  I look up at him. The full moon sails out from behind a cloud and in the milky half-light, Dan’s eyes, dark and glittery, lock onto mine. His hand is firm on my arm and for some reason, the breath gets caught in my chest.

  ‘Thank you.’ It comes out as a croak.

  He holds my gaze for a few seconds longer and for some reason, my insides start fluttering madly like bunting in the breeze.

  Then he breathes in sharply and straightens up. ‘Drive safely.’ He raps the side of the van and walks away.

  I have to take a few deep breaths myself before I can summon up the strength to start the engine.

  Back at home, I walk Jess into the kitchen and pull out a chair for her.

  She says nothing when I suggest making some tea; just sits staring at the table top, screwing a paper hanky round and round in her fingers.

  ‘Come on, love.’ I put a mug of tea in front of her and stir in some sugar. ‘Drink that. You’ll feel better.’

  I sit down beside her and she takes a sip. Then she puts the mug down and turns to me with wild eyes.

  ‘Oh God, Izzy, what have I done?’

  ‘It’s all right.’ I reach for her hand. ‘It’ll be fine. You’ll see.’

  ‘But it won’t. How can it be?” She grasps my hand in both of hers. ‘I love him so much.’

  ‘Well, then, you’ve done the right thing.’ I stroke a lock of hair behind her ear, about to say that in a while, when everything has calmed down, she can go and see Luke, tell him how she feels.

  But her expression changes to bewilderment. ‘You don’t understand, Izz. I love Wesley.’

  She gives a little shriek of agony and breaks down on my shoulder, sobbing until I can feel her tears soaking through my thin shirt. I hold her tightly, rubbing her back until she calms down.

  ‘I know he’s a workaholic and he’s a bit awkward in company. And my heart doesn’t race when I see him. But Wesley loves me. We love each other. He’d do anything for me.’

  I stare at her helplessly.

  ‘He was my best friend, Izzy. What am I going to do without him?’

  She gives her nose a vigorous blow.r />
  ‘I do love Wesley,’ she whispers. ‘Just not enough to marry him.’

  AUGUST

  What a wonderful month!

  The weather has been perfect. Hot days but with a breeze from the north keeping it bearable. And long, warm evenings.

  The first two weeks passed in a whirl of daily harvesting, particularly tomatoes and green beans. I’ve never experienced a glut like it. I was also panicking about the volume of salad vegetables the garden was producing. There’s only so much I can eat (and foist onto Posy), and I couldn’t bear the thought of it all going to waste. Posy said the obvious solution was to set up a little stall at the end of the lane, alongside the road into the village. She said an honesty box would be fine if I didn’t want to stand there like a prune all day. But I wasn’t sure.

  I spent balmy evenings on the terrace, reading or simply watching the sun go down; dining on freshly picked salad (of course) and my own raspberries, with the occasional tankard of ice-cold lager and lime to quench my thirst.

  Then Izzy arrived for her summer hols and everything moved up a gear.

  When she heard about Posy’s idea of selling my glut of vegetables, she got really excited and I think it’s fair to say the two of them pretty much ganged up on me! They stood with their hands on their hips and said if I wanted to sit in a deckchair and watch, that was fine, but they were going to set up shop! I laughed and gave in, and we spent an afternoon writing ‘price tags’ and erecting a makeshift bench with some wood and nails we found in the old shed. (My close encounter with a hammer ended in a bruised thumb and several swear words, much to Izzy’s amusement.)

  Next morning we carried the bench and the boxes of produce along the lane and set up our stall. We’d felt-tipped a sign that said, ‘Fresh Veg For Sale’, on a length of cream wallpaper, and Izzy had covered the boxes with a pretty floral wrapping paper she’d found, so it all looked very jolly.

  Then we sat on the grass and waited for a flood of customers.

  The first person who stopped wanted directions – but he ended up buying tomatoes, saying the scent reminded him of his childhood in his grandfather’s garden. After that, we had a stream of interested shoppers, probably due to the fact that Izzy waved charmingly at each approaching car and pointed at the sign! Posy told her that some day, she’d make a first class business woman …