Green Beans and Summer Dreams

by Catherine Ferguson

But finally, Fido gets his way.

  Dan’s a friend! I’m snogging a friend! I have to stop!

  At that very second, he breaks away, holding my arms and putting a small but deliberate distance between us.

  I stare at him, slack-jawed, heart pounding, not quite sure what just happened.

  Then he breaks the contact and turns away to the vending machine.

  And it hits me.

  He’s doing the gentlemanly thing and sparing my blushes. He must know how embarrassed I feel. I’ve never lunged at a man like that in my life. What the hell possessed me? I can’t even blame alcohol.

  I watch him punching buttons.

  He seems to be having difficulty. It takes him several attempts to get it right. But at last, there it is. Hot chocolate. With a lovely pale scum floating on top.

  Dan’s punching the machine some more. Quite viciously, actually. He’s doing a sterling job of pretending my assault on his lip area never happened.

  ‘Cheers.’ He bumps my cup with his and my nerves are stretched so tight, I actually jump. Some of the hot liquid splashes out. And in between mopping my hand and examining the lino for stains, I can legitimately avoid having to look him in the eye.

  As we walk along the corridor to Mrs P’s room, he chats about someone he knew who suffered a heart attack at fifty but now has the fitness levels of a much younger person – and I realise, with relief, that he understands I’m not quite myself today. And that the kiss was a result of my emotional distress.

  Which of course it was.

  Absolutely.

  SEPTEMBER

  It’s good to relax a little after the constant activity of high summer.

  Some of the green bean glut had to be chucked on the compost heap but most went to good homes, thanks to Posy’s roadside veg sale! Izzy was over the moon with her share of the profits.

  I’ve been for a few long walks in the lanes around the house, and I’m still eating most meals outside, enjoying the late summer warmth. But the swallows have gone and I’m finding I need a light jacket at night now, which surely heralds the approach of autumn.

  My face and arms are permanently nut brown and I feel more energetic and full of life than I have in years. Not bad for a fifty-three-year-old! I’m sure my diet of glorious vegetables and fresh fruit with every meal has something to do with it. But I can’t help thinking that my healthiness has rather more to do with my frame of mind than anything physical. I’m feeling – contented. Yes, that’s the word for it. Not all the time, of course (and especially not when the bloody rabbits breached my ‘unbreachable’ fence again, little buggers, and chomped away at my Savoy cabbages). But more often than not now, I’m aware of a rather nice calmness within.

  I suppose I’m lucky in that I’ve always enjoyed my own company. I realise that this style of living would make a lot of people stir crazy, trapped in the countryside, miles from a cinema, having to drive an age to get to the nearest Asda.

  But I rarely feel lonely. There’s always so much to do. And I love to watch the seasons unfurl, each with their own particular charm.

  It’s taken me a while, but I’ve finally realised something. Yes, we nurture the garden. But the reverse is equally true: the garden nurtures us.

  I have a growing sense that this is where I’m supposed to be.

  I’ve finally come home.

  Gee whiz, what a load of sentimental bollocks people write in their diary!

  I’ve always prided myself on my slightly cynical approach to life. What the hell is happening to me?

  But I suppose the beauty of keeping a journal is that no-one else is ever going to read the damn thing, so it’s the one place you can go overboard with the emoting and not feel in the least embarrassed about letting it all hang out …

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I wish I could forget about The Kiss.

  I realise Dan’s probably forgotten about it already.

  But every time the vision pops into my head, I have to close my eyes, clap my hands over my ears and do a silent scream.

  Because you know what was the worst part?

  When I lunged at him, the poor guy was stunned – for about thirty seconds – into responding.

  Until he realised what was happening.

  Then he couldn’t get away fast enough.

  I keep remembering how he kindly but firmly held my arms to establish a distance between us.

  The sheer humiliation.

  On Friday, I resorted to desperate measures to avoid driving over to the farm. I sent out some dodgy, week-old courgettes and raided my own salad drawer in the kitchen. I’m now hoping and praying the courgettes get eaten immediately, before they degenerate into a bendy, slimy mess in the bottom of the fridge.

  It was not my finest hour.

  This morning, when Banksy turns up with his big weekly delivery, I’m really glad to see him for two reasons: first, I won’t have to go to the farm for a few days and second, I want to thank him for rescuing Mrs P.

  Erik phoned earlier, as he promised he would. He said the by-pass operation had been a success although it would be a long road to recovery.

  I tell Banksy this and he nods slowly, taking off his baseball cap and wiping the sweat from his brow with a bronzed, weather-beaten arm. I notice he has L-O-V-E tattooed on his knuckles.

  ‘She’s a tough old bird, that Posy. Got some spirit. We had a good long chat at that summer fayre of yours.’ He smiles, his face crinkling into the deep grooves of a Rolling Stones band member. ‘Wonderful cakes.’

  I call in later to see the patient. She’s weak but fully conscious and the first thing she says is, ‘I hope Florrie’s not taking advantage of my absence to start messing with the chocolate brownie recipe.’

  I smile and sit down. ‘Well, that’s a good sign.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You being well enough to start obsessing about Oldies But Goodies.’

  ‘Yes, but all you really need for a luscious brownie is chocolate. Florrie puts walnuts in and cranberries. Cranberries!’

  I grin. ‘Well, your customers will be delighted when the real Brownie Queen returns.’

  She gives me a look. ‘Very funny. Your aunt had that same dry sense of humour.’

  I take her hand. ‘I’m so glad she had you as a friend.’

  We both smile, thinking of Midge.

  ‘She talked about you all the time,’ she says. ‘You were the light of her life.’

  A lump rises in my throat.

  ‘She deserved better. I let her down.’

  Mrs P frowns at me. ‘How do you make that out, then?’

  I shrug, not trusting myself to speak, feeling tears springing up.

  ‘Hey, she thought the world of you.’ She shakes my hand a little for emphasis.

  ‘Yes, but I should have done more,’ I whisper. ‘I was too wrapped up in my own stuff in Edinburgh. I kept planning to visit but I never set a date.’

  Mrs P makes a tutting sound, dismissing my worries. ‘Oh, Midge understood all of that. She was glad you were happy, getting on with your life.’

  ‘But I promised I’d help her get the gates restored. She was really anxious about them. And I never did.’

  I shrug helplessly.

  ‘The gates?’ says Mrs P. ‘Oh, the gates.’

  A tear trickles down my nose and plops onto the sheet.

  ‘Of course,’ she says softly, ‘you probably don’t know why the gates were so important to her.’

  Sniffing, I nod. ‘She found them on a trip to Venice and fell in love with them.’

  ‘Ah yes, but she fell in love with more than a pair of gates.’ She smiles, remembering. ‘There was a man. In Venice. They were in love and they planned to live together.’

  I stare at her. So it’s true. I’d always thought Venice had a special place in Midge’s heart.

  Then I remember something. ‘The brooch. He bought her a little brooch of dark blue glass with a daisy pattern on it.’

  M
rs P nodded. ‘Yes. She wore it often.’

  ‘She never mentioned him,’ I say wonderingly. ‘I never knew.’

  ‘No-one knew. She only told me the week before she died.’

  ‘So what happened? With this man?’

  ‘Well, they had a few precious months together, journeying around Europe. It was after she retired from teaching so she was an entirely free agent.’

  She smiles. ‘Except for the garden, of course. She hated spending so much time away from her precious vegetable plot. But I did what I could to keep the weeds at bay. You must have been about twelve at the time.

  ‘Anyway, they found the gates and bought them together. He was going to sell up and move into Farthing Cottage.’

  ‘How romantic. Was he Italian?’

  ‘Oh, no. He came from Wigan. Michael, he was called. He was on holiday in Venice, just like Midge.’

  ‘So why didn’t he ever…’

  Mrs P sighs. ‘He died. There was a house fire and he went in to try and rescue a neighbour and a burning beam fell on him.’

  ‘Oh, God. Poor Midge. She must have been devastated.’

  Mrs P nods and presses my hand. And we both stare into space, imagining the horror of losing the man you loved like that.

  It’s Thursday and time for my weekly salad top-up at the farm.

  When I get there, the office is deserted, so I’m forced to seek Dan out at the house.

  ‘I was hoping it would be you,’ he says, flashing me a broad smile at the door. His greeting has an interesting effect on my legs. ‘Come up. I’ve just got to finish something.’

  I follow him upstairs, glancing at the framed prints on the wall. They’re mostly of catwalk models dressed in jewel colours, pouting on the covers of glossy magazines. I pick out at least one famous actress.

  I guess they’re faces Monique has enhanced as a make-up artist.

  Dan’s study is messy and full of books. He motions to a chair by the window and sits down at his laptop, which is flanked by several discarded mugs and a plate of crumbs. His fingers move briefly over the keyboard then he sits back and gives a mighty growl and a stretch. ‘Sorry. Had to get it down or I’d forget it.’

  ‘What are you working on?’ The chair I’m in is low to the ground and when I cross my legs, I feel ungainly. So I uncross them and sit with my feet together, hands clasped primly in my lap as if I’m at a job interview.

  ‘The novel,’ he says. ‘I decided you were right. Under the apple tree that time. When you said I should go for it.’

  I smile shyly at him. ‘Wow, that’s great.’

  He shrugs. ‘How will I know if I’m any good unless I get serious and finish it?’

  I nod, suddenly unable to speak.

  Awkwardness has engulfed me.

  I gave myself a pep talk on the way over here. The Kiss happened in a moment of madness and does not have to affect my friendship with Dan in any way.

  But now that I’m here and he’s sauntering over to the printer, barefoot and really quite disturbingly attractive in a white T-shirt and well-washed, frayed jeans, things don’t seem quite so straightforward.

  ‘It’s good to see you.’ He gathers up the pages and gives me that stomach-flipping smile. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  I gulp. ‘You have?’

  ‘Yeah. I went out for a run yesterday but it wasn’t the same without you trundling behind me and giving me my daily update on the happenings in soap land.’

  He holds my gaze for a fraction longer than normal, which has a very strange effect on my insides. And my legs. And my ability to breathe.

  I’m suddenly aware I’m staring at him. Oh God, I should be saying something. Conversing like a normal person.

  I blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. ‘Pumpkins.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I wondered if you had any.’

  ‘Pumpkins?’ He looks surprised. ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘Great! But I don’t want them to dwarf everything else in the boxes, though. You know how big pumpkins can be,’ I say, glancing at the carpet, the walls and then at a point just by his right ear.

  He grins. ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘Maybe I should have butternut squash instead.’ I stare intently at the ceiling. ‘Because they’re a lot smaller.’

  I’m painfully aware I’m babbling nonsense but now that I’m actually talking, I can’t seem to stop.

  ‘We have pumpkins of all sizes, if that’s any help,’ says Dan, sounding bemused. ‘They say size doesn’t matter but I’m never totally convinced. Are you?’

  I stare at him in horror.

  I’m no prude. In fact, I’m generally up for a bit of smutty innuendo as much as the next girl. And it isn’t as if I haven’t bantered with Dan before.

  But on this occasion, I’m covered in confusion.

  ‘I’ll – er – go for small ones.’

  Dan nods, taking my prim response in his stride. ‘Small it is. Let’s get over there.’

  I follow him out, fanning my scarlet cheeks with a pamphlet on propagation I’ve snatched up.

  Oh God, this is all so bloody inconvenient.

  I can’t fancy Dan Parsons.

  I absolutely can’t.

  In the warehouse, I dodge eye contact and feign an interest in his pumpkins instead.

  I’ve fallen for Dan.

  Not in a heady, on-the-rebound way like it was with Erik. But in a solid, getting-to-really-like-him-first kind of way, which instinct tells me is so much more fraught with danger.

  I’ve been going along merrily, congratulating myself on having made a good friend from highly inauspicious beginnings. And all the time, the love thing was sneaking up on me, lurking round corners in dark glasses, just waiting to leap out and go ‘wha!’

  And now that it has, I can’t exactly return it within thirty days like an impulse-buy T-shirt.

  It’s all mighty inconvenient.

  Thoughts tumble round my brain on a loop. It’s like having a hamster gearing up for the London Marathon inside my head. The wheel never stops.

  It goes something like this:

  He did ask me if I wanted to go to the Thai restaurant; that’s a good sign; I mean, he didn’t have to ask me; but maybe he just likes Thai food and didn’t want to go himself; you can feel a bit of a plonker dining alone; perhaps I should just casually mention it; try not to sound too eager; as in ‘Thai food? I can take it or leave it, really’; because if it sounds like I’m asking him on a date, he might feel really awkward about turning me down; and then, horror of horrors, he might say yes because he feels sorry for me; and I couldn’t stand that; I really couldn’t; oh God, no!

  But then again, he did ask me if I wanted to go to the Thai restaurant; that’s a good sign; I mean, he didn’t have to …

  On and frigging on.

  I have to take action soon otherwise my head might explode.

  With my concentration at zero, packing boxes is taking forever, and three of my customers have already received the wrong order.

  Then this afternoon Mrs Lilley (no melons but plenty of bananas), actually asked me if I’d tried the new Thai restaurant in town because she’d heard it was rubbish.

  That took the wind right out of my sails.

  I must have been staring into the distance with my mouth open because she whipped round to check if I’d seen something scary behind her. Then she touched my arm and asked if I was feeling all right.

  Jess would say that mention of the restaurant was a sign.

  But a sign of what?

  A sign that Far Eastern dining with Dan is sure to have a happy ending? Or a sign that I’m a fool to even contemplate it?

  And then I remember the party, which we’ve planned for a week on Saturday.

  He said he’d be there. I’m going to have to get my outfit sorted out. I’ll get the ‘Erik dress’ out of mothballs. The one I never wore on our disastrous Geneva weekend.

  I even allow myself to think that maybe The
Kiss meant something to him, too…

  OCTOBER

  I’m looking forward to the slower pace of winter.

  I can’t believe I’m writing this but it’s true. Last winter was tough. A complete culture shock, really. I’d have moved back to London at the drop of a hand hoe.

  But after a busy spring and an even more hectic summer, it’s lovely to think of kicking back and spending more time just pottering about and enjoying my home; catching up on the jobs I never get round to doing when the heat is on; and planning the next twelve months, which includes (yay!) poring over my lovely seed catalogues again.

  I’m catching up on my reading, too. Over the summer, especially, I’ve been working in the garden sometimes until ten o’clock, grabbing a quick bite then crashing into bed exhausted. But now, I have the delicious luxury of reading before lights out. Last night, I found this lovely quote that I simply had to write down. ‘Essential advice for the gardener: grow peas of mind, lettuce be thankful, squash selfishness, turnip to help thy neighbour and always make thyme for loved ones.’ Corny but very apt, I thought.

  There’s a definite chill in the air now and far fewer daylight hours to spend in the garden. The trees are changing colour too, which is a joy to watch. I’ve always loved the flaming reds and golds of autumn and now I’m actually living amid this glorious riot of colour.

  I’m realising that every season has its highs and lows. Just now, for instance, it’s marvellous to get a rest from mowing the grass and the eternal bloody business of weeding.

  I know some people find weeding therapeutic but I hate it with a passion.

  I’ve always been of the firm opinion that weeds are like grey hairs: if you pull one out, two will invariably grow back in its place. (And as they say in gardening circles: ‘With fronds like these, who needs anemones?’)

  Now I’m off down the lane to see Posy. I’ve got a surplus of Bramleys and she does make a wonderful apple cake. (I keep telling her she should go into business, selling her baking. She’d make a fortune!)

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The morning of the party I wake up with a knot of anticipation in my stomach.

  Jess comes over mid-morning and we set to work, stringing up fairy lights, polishing the furniture and cooking up a feast for forty. All three of us have issued invitations so there should be an interesting mix of people.