Green Beans and Summer Dreams

I’m convinced my hair would have made me a target for bullies – but for one thing.

I could run.

I didn’t even know I was good at running until Year Six. I wasn’t particularly fast but when it came to long-distance, I had the stamina to run for miles. Some of the kids tried to get out of PE when long-distance running was on the agenda, but for me it felt as natural as walking – and it granted me a sort of kudos with my peers.

After Dad left, when I was twelve, I started running after school every night, pounding the pavements round our house, dodging shoppers on the high street and circling the grassy perimeter of the local park. I used to lose myself in the hypnotic rhythm of my shoes hitting the ground. People used to ask me why I did it. Turning out on cold, rainy nights. Putting my body through all that.

I think the most tangible reward was that it provided a structure for my evenings and gave me a sense of control over my life. (Watching TV at home with my mother, who would be up one minute and down on the floor with self-pity the next, didn’t make for a particularly fun home life.)

Dad lives in Scotland now with his second wife and I go up to Glasgow to visit them as often as I can. Gloria fusses around me as if I’m her real daughter and Dad loves that we get on so well together. He seems far more content now and I’m glad. After the constant hen-pecking he got from the first Mrs Fraser, my dad definitely deserves some happiness at last.

It’s just a shame my mother can’t see it like that. Despite all the years that have gone by, she’s just as bitter about his departure as she ever was.

Gloria, Dad’s new wife, is quite Bohemian. She paints dramatic landscapes, lives very much in the moment, and wears fabulously flowing clothes in all the colours of the rainbow. She has a great sense of adventure which Dad seems to be embracing wholeheartedly. In July they rented out their house and set off on a round-the-world backpacking trip. I’ve had postcards from lots of exotic places. They seem to be having such a good time, I’m starting to wonder if they’ll ever come back.

Thinking of Dad brings a lump to my throat. I miss him. And Gloria, too. If they were here, we’d go to the pub and have long discussions about life and what I should do next. As it is, I’m on my own. Trying to start a business and not having a clue if it’s the right thing to do.

I jog a two-mile circuit round Farthing Cottage, along the narrow, potholed lanes smelling of damp hedgerow.

The steady rhythm of my feet hitting the tarmac is soothing and the tight knot of anxiety inside me begins to loosen.

When I arrive back an hour later, red-faced and sweaty, the phone is ringing.

‘Hello, Isobel Fraser?’ I pant, and a man barks, ‘Are you the fruit and veg people?’

‘Yes. Can I help you?’

‘I’m a pensioner and I’ve got lumbago. Can you deliver?’

‘Er, yes we can.’

‘How much do you charge?’

When I tell him the price of a small box, he shouts, ‘For a few potatoes and carrots? Bloody disgrace. You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

‘Organic does tend to be more expensive,’ I say apologetically.

‘Orgasmic or not, it’s a bloody rip-off,’ he roars and crashes the phone down.

Stunned, I sit there listening to the dial tone.

Then I realise I have a message.

It’s probably my mother, annoyed I’m not leaping on the next train to remove the hazardous book mountain from her hallway.

Seconds later, I grab a pen and paper and begin scribbling furiously.

Mrs Jessop lives in one of the new houses on the outskirts of Fieldstone. She would like a small box of fruit and vegetables but no onions. If she’s out, I can put it in the shed and she will leave the money under a plant pot. She’ll probably want a large box next week as she has her grandchildren coming to stay.

I leap up and dance around the room, knocking a pile of carefully organised paperwork off the desk but not even caring.

Mrs Jessop wants a box and will leave the money under a plant pot!

They are the most exciting words I’ve ever heard.

Later I run into Mrs P at the post office and she’s over the moon to hear that I have my first bona fide customer. (Technically, Mrs P is my first customer. She’s ordered a small box every week. But we both know this doesn’t really count.)

She’s muffled up against the cold in beige quilted boots and a poncho in greens and browns that gives off a delicious caramel scent. Putting her purse back in her bag, she says, ‘I remember the morning we went to the Deli and sold our first batch of flapjack and iced gingerbread. To celebrate, we popped into Ruby’s little teashop on Sycamore Street.’

Smiling, I say, ‘For chocolate fudge brownies?’ Ruby, a leading light in Mrs P’s WI, is renowned for her tray bakes.

‘Oh no, dear.’ Mrs P smiles fondly, remembering. ‘Tequila slammers. Excellent invention. Florrie had a bit of a block about licking salt off her hand but once she got the hang of it there was no stopping her.’ She tucks a wisp of hair under her bottle green wool beret. ‘My, the ideas did flow that afternoon!’

‘I bet they did,’ I say with feeling, remembering the outpouring of creativity I myself experienced when Jamie left and I decided to drink my way through his premier wine collection. (The idea of sneaking into Emma’s flat and sewing kippers into her curtain linings sadly never came to fruition.)

Mrs P gives me a sharp look. ‘Has that grandson of mine been in touch?’

‘Er, no.’ My heart skips a beat as a vision of green eyes and tanned forearms pops into my head.

Mrs P smiles serenely and taps the side of her nose.

Oh God, what if she’s putting pressure on Erik? Along the lines of She was dumped horribly for a much younger model, you know, but she’s ever such a nice girl. A mercy date would be beyond humiliating.

‘Keep me posted about the business, dear,’ she says, as we go our separate ways. ‘I’m willing to bet you’ll have half a dozen customers by Monday.’

As it turns out, she isn’t far off.

During the rest of the week, I take calls from seven potential customers and five of them order boxes. Every time I put the phone down, I whoop with excitement.

On Saturday I call the supply company in London. They’re called Parsons, and I speak to Mike, who runs the warehouse there. He senses I’m nervous and spends time advising me on the best fruit and vegetables to order that week. And instead of laughing when I place my pathetically small order, he says kindly, ‘Five customers already, eh? Not bad at all.’

Later, it occurs to me I’ve been so engrossed in the business, I haven’t thought about Jamie at all.

When I embarked on this, a big part of me wanted to succeed so I could prove to Jamie I wasn’t completely useless.

But now I want to succeed for me.

Chapter Six

On Monday morning I wake at 5.30 a.m., before the alarm.

The Big Day has arrived!

It’s less than a week since we did the leaflet drop. And I’ll be delivering boxes of produce to customers this morning for the very first time.

A shot of adrenalin surges through me.

I peer through the curtains but it’s still pitch black outside and there’s no sign yet of my delivery. I shower quickly then go down to the kitchen and make some tea.

But by 7.15 a.m., the lorry from Parsons still hasn’t appeared.

I’ve been out looking in all the places a delivery driver might have left my order – in the garden shed, on the terrace at the back of the house, by the gate (I’ve checked both entrances). But there’s nothing there. I run upstairs to look at the email Mike sent me confirming the order. It’s definitely today.

Then I hear a noise outside and I rush out just in time to see a big truck manoeuvring slowly out of my side gate, its reversal warning noise slicing through the silence and probably waking everyone up for miles around. There’s a wooden pallet by the front door containing a stack of trays and boxes, all held together with clear plastic wrapping.

But something’s wrong.

I know I didn’t order all that.

I rush into the house for scissors and start cutting away the wrapping.

One look in the boxes and my heart starts to beat very fast.

This is not my order.

I pull trays off the pallet to look inside and the scent of citrus fruit fills my nose. There are enough apples, grapefruit, melons and oranges to make fruit salad for an army – but apart from three trays of carrots, there are no other vegetables at all.

Where’s my lovely broccoli? My leeks and my celeriac? My red peppers and my field mushrooms? I run out to stop the driver but he’s already accelerating slowly up the lane. I hare after the lorry, waving the invoice and shouting, ‘Stop!’ For a second the brake lights appear and I’m hopeful of a miracle. But he’s only slowing for the bend in the lane.

A second later, the engine revs and the vehicle lumbers off into the gloom, swaying and juddering over the potholes in the lane.

I feel like howling with frustration but instead I take a deep breath and go inside to phone Mike.

A sing-song voice says, ‘Hello, Parsons. Gemma speaking. How can I help?’

I tell her about the mix-up and she says, ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. Mike’s at a funeral today and I only started last week. Can I get someone to phone you?’

I wait all morning for a call. Gemma contacts me regularly with an update but it’s always the same. She can’t get hold of anyone. Even the boss has gone AWOL for some reason.

Tension bubbles under the surface of her pleasant manner. I suspect it’s only the desire to live up to her new employer’s faith in her that’s stopping her from shrieking, ‘They’ve all just fucked off and left me!’ before snatching up her bag and running for the hills.

My panic is rising at roughly the same rate.

Then just before one, Gemma phones with some news. A lorry will be with me soon after three. My order has apparently got mixed up with a delivery to the juice bar in Fieldstone.

I feel a brief pang of sympathy for the owner of the juice bar. I’ve never tried juicing leeks but I can’t imagine it would have customers clamouring for more.

I thank Gemma and hang up, mightily relieved.

A little later, I’m at Mrs P’s having a soothing cup of chamomile tea when my mobile rings.

‘Isobel Fraser?’ a man’s voice barks.

‘Yes. Who’s speaking please?’

‘Parsons. I’ve got your delivery.’

‘Oh, great.’ I glance at my watch. Two twenty. He’s early. ‘Where are you?’

‘Ah, now, let me see.’ There’s a rustling of paper. ‘Farthing Cottage, Fieldstone. Ring a bell?’

‘Right, well—’

‘Nightmare to find.’

‘Yes, it can be—’

‘Then I get here and you’re not even in.’

‘But I’m just minutes away.’ I scrape back my chair. ‘I’m so sorry – but you did say after three and it’s only—’

‘Look, I haven’t got time to chat. Either you’re here in three minutes or I’m afraid I’ll have to leave.’ There’s a loud crackle in my ear. Grovelling or protesting is not an option. He’s cut me off.

‘Problems?’ asks Mrs P.

‘Oh, not really. They’ve sent the grumpiest delivery driver on the planet, that’s all.’

I make for the door and as I jog back up the lane, I hear Mrs P shouting, ‘Go girl! You’ve got buckets of your aunt’s spirit! You can do it!’

I stop smiling when I spot the lorry from Parsons attempting to turn round in the lane outside my house. The driver is backing perilously close to Midge’s precious gates. Horrified, I break into a run, picturing wrought iron mangled beneath the lorry’s monster wheels. He hits the brakes with inches to spare and starts moving forward again. And that’s when I realise he’s about to thunder off with my fruit and vegetables still on board.

I run into the middle of the road in front of the lorry as it gathers speed, waving frantically, and for a few horrible seconds I squeeze my eyes shut, not sure if he’s going to stop in time.

Or stop at all.

There’s a squeal of brakes and when I open my eyes, my nose is inches away from solid green metal.

I walk round to the driver’s side, my legs as shaky as if I just stepped off a rollercoaster. The window rolls down and I’m staring up at a scruffy baseball cap and a pair of silver reflective shades that seem vaguely familiar.

Oh my God. It’s that horrible man I collided with on Fieldstone High Street – the time I lost Jamie’s tablet. He must have been the driver of that mud-spattered lorry that zoomed off with my tablet on board … something clicks in my brain.

Ha! It’s Mr Arso!

Only the middle letters were visible on the side of that filthy lorry – and the name, now I think about it, must have been Parsons.

I’m about to demand he hands back my tablet. Then I take in the grim set of his mouth and change my mind. There’ll be time later to make enquiries.

I fix on a smile. ‘Hi. I’m Isobel Fraser.’

Be nice or he might leave!

I make to shake hands, before realising I would actually need a small set of step-ladders to reach the cab. I shove my hand behind my back.

‘If you’re expecting me to reverse back up this lane to your gate, you’ve got another thing coming,’ he says bluntly. I can’t see his eyes but I know they’re glaring at me.

‘OK, well, why not just unload it by the side of the road here and I’ll move it myself.’ I smile up at him, pleased at how decisive I sound.

But either his brain or his hearing are sub-standard – or he’s even ruder than I thought – because he completely ignores me, jumps down from the cab and disappears round the back of the lorry. The door swings up and I feel the vibration as he leaps inside and starts thumping trays around.

I hold out my hands to take a tray of broccoli but he pretends he hasn’t seen me, jumps down and lifts five trays off the lorry at once. Then he hefts it up the lane to the house. I grab a box of mushrooms and – balancing it on a tray of red peppers – follow mutinously behind, eyes fixed grimly on the small tear in his washed-out jeans, just below his left buttock.

Suddenly I realise he’s heading for the main gates. ‘Can you use the side entrance, please?’ I call out in a panic.

He nods abruptly but doesn’t turn around.

He’s very tall with huge strides and I have to keep breaking into a girly run just to keep up with him. We march through the side gate and crunch across the gravel driveway. Then he barges round the house into the back garden, straight into the shed.

‘Here?’ He honours me with a glance.

I give a curt nod and he sets the trays on the workbench. Then he strides from the shed without another word.

Stunned, I stare after him. He obviously doesn’t recognise me. Did he find my tablet on the back of his lorry that morning? I’ll ask him when he comes back.

And why the hell hasn’t he apologised for this morning’s mix-up?

I fume a bit more, kicking at some soil with my toe, and when I hear him returning, I snatch up the invoice and get busy checking off the trays of produce as if I haven’t a care in the world.

‘Right, that’s it.’ He thumps the remaining trays onto the bench then frowns at a box on the floor. ‘What are they?’

I stare at his surly mouth. Is he having me on? ‘They’re potatoes?’

Isn’t it obvious what they are?

‘Po-tat-oes,’ I add helpfully. ‘I grew them myself. Don’t they have root vegetables where you come from?’

‘You can’t sell them as organic if they’re not organic,’ he says flatly, ignoring my sarcasm. He checks the produce against the invoice, tears off the top copy and hands it over.

‘But they are organic,’ I tell him smugly.

‘Certified organic by the Soil Association?’

I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about but I do know I have never ever used pesticides of any sort in my vegetable garden. And that qualifies as organic, doesn’t it?

‘I’ve never ever used pesticides—’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ His deep voice is almost a growl. ‘In order to sell produce labelled organic, the land must be certified organic by the Soil Association.’

‘Right, well, I’ll give them a call tomorrow,’ I say airily.

I have no idea what this Soil thingy is, but I’m not about to let Mr Arso know this.

‘Good idea.’ He folds his part of the invoice and shoves it in his pocket. ‘Then in three years’ time you can actually start selling your organic po-tat-oes.’

‘Three years?’ What on earth’s he talking about? Is he trying to scare me?

He shrugs. ‘The land has to be free of pesticides – after the Soil Association has examined it – for three years. Look it up on the internet if you don’t believe me.’

Then he claps soil off his hands on the back of his jeans and walks out.

I stare after him, stunned.

And then I realise he’s heading off down the main driveway. My gates!

I run after him but I can see I’m already too late. He’s wrenching them open, and as I watch, the gate that is attached by string comes loose and crashes to the ground.

And does Delivery Man of the Year look back? Of course he bloody doesn’t.

He balances the gate against the post, climbs in his cab, adjusts his shades and pulls down his cap.

Then he roars off on his next mission, like Superman’s surly cousin.

‘I hate him. He’s spoiled everything.’

Mrs P sets a plate of ginger cake on the table in front of me. ‘Well, I don’t know. I think he might have done you a favour, you know.’

I stare blearily up at her and she offers me a hanky.

‘You know all about the Soil Association rules now.’ She lays her hand on my shoulder. ‘Mind you, if I see him, I’ll tell him exactly what he can do with his courgettes.’

I start to laugh but then my face crumples and I start sobbing afresh. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so emotional these days.

But perhaps it’s forgivable.

After all, I’ve got five customers expecting deliveries and I can’t even put potatoes and onions in their boxes because I grew them and apparently they’re not officially organic. So my beautiful plan to grow my own and supplement it with produce from Parsons is dead in the water.

The doorbell invades my misery; pressed five times in quick succession by some joker who’s clearly having a much better day than I am.

I grit my teeth and prepare to leave. I’m here to soak up some of Mrs P’s wisdom. I do not feel like being nice to some unbearably cheerful stranger.

When Erik walks in, I blanch.

What the hell is he doing here?

He looks at me in surprise, clearly thinking the same, and murmurs, ‘Hey you.’

‘Hi.’ Furtively I try to wipe under my eyes with my sleeve.

This is a disaster.

Quite apart from the tragi-comedy that has been my day so far, whenever I’ve imagined bumping into Erik again, I’m wearing my most flattering jeans, lip-gloss freshly slicked, hair newly washed and at its sleekly tamed best. My line in cool banter is nothing short of knock-out.

I have never once featured in saggy-kneed sweat pants with dripping nose and a barnet that resembles a hedge.

Erik kisses his grandmother and she holds his face for a moment in her hands and smiles. It’s a really sweet gesture and a lump rises in my throat.

‘What’s up?’ He pulls out a chair and sits beside me so our arms are touching.

I tell him what happened. Then he says, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got an afternoon off college. I’ll help you sort it.’

‘Oh.’ I stare into his eyes and instantly forget everything else. Are they jade, I wonder, or more a grassy shade of green? And those smile lines. They are so sexy …

I’m aware he’s speaking. But his words are swimming lazily around inside my head and in my dazed state, I’m finding it hard to link them up into a sentence.

‘Say something.’ He nudges me gently. ‘More carrots in place of potatoes? Good idea? Yeah or nay?’

I force myself to concentrate. ‘But I promised them potatoes. They won’t like it if they don’t get any.’

Although to be fair, basking in the glow of Erik’s full-on attention and with the warmth of his shoulder seeping through my sleeve, the welfare of my customers is just about the last thing on my mind.

‘As long as the produce is good, it doesn’t matter a jot to me.’ Mrs P’s brisk tone snaps me out of my trance. ‘Why don’t you just tell them you’re really sorry but there will definitely be potatoes and onions in next week’s boxes.’

Erik grins. ‘Which is a great excuse for asking if they’d like another delivery next week.’

I smile at Mrs P. ‘I wish I had your common sense. And your entrepreneurial flair.’

‘My what?’ She hoots with laughter. ‘Entrepreneurial flair, my arse! Don’t go thinking I fell into the cake-making business just like that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if you must know, it was sheer fluke.’

I heave a sigh. ‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’

Mrs P pours tea into a mug for Erik and sits down opposite. ‘Do you know what I’d really set my heart on? I wanted to be a car mechanic. Do the training and everything.’

‘Really?’ My eyes widen in astonishment. It makes sense, though. The woman is a marvel under the bonnet.

‘And you’d have been brilliant,’ Erik says.

She shrugs. ‘You’re biased. And anyway, that’s not what the lady from the business support agency said.’ She plops three lumps of sugar into her tea. ‘I thought I might be eligible for a start-up grant so she came round and she listened and patronised me a bit. She said how great it was that someone at my stage of life was thinking outside the box and had the guts and energy to start up a new enterprise. She was very kind to me but for all her diplomatic waffle, I knew she had me down as a batty old dear with a head full of eccentric fantasies.’

‘But that’s ageist,’ I say indignantly. ‘You would have been fantastic!’

‘Well, maybe. Maybe not.’ She shrugs. ‘The point is, she made me see it wasn’t one of my better ideas. But then I made her some tea and just as she was leaving, she gave me the idea for my business.’

Erik sits forward. ‘I didn’t know this. What did she say?’

Mrs P smiles at the memory. ‘She nudged me and said, “Do you know, Mrs Puddephat, that Pecan Nut and Raisin Crunch is a real winner. I’d pay good money anywhere for that.”’

Erik grins. ‘And the rest, as they say…’

‘…is history,’ I finish.

Mrs P leans over and squeezes my hand. ‘You have to work with what you’ve got. And what you’ve got, Izzy, is a promising business. It may not be the business you first thought it would be. But it’s still a business.’

Erik chews rapidly on a mouthful of ginger cake. ‘It’s my guess,’ he says, swallowing, ‘that you’ll still make a decent profit even if you have to buy in all your produce from Parsons.’

Mrs P nods. ‘You can still grow your own vegetables but just keep it as a nice pastime. A way to relax in your spare time.’

‘Sometimes,’ says Erik, ‘it’s better to keep what you love as a hobby. Then none of the joy is taken out of it by having to meet deadlines.’

I smile at Erik, in full agreement.

Mind you, at that moment, staring into those gorgeous green eyes, he could have told me his uncle was a penguin and I’d have gone along with it.

Their sensible words have a galvanising effect.

‘Right.’ I get to my feet. ‘I’d better get back. I’ve got boxes to pack.’

By seven o’clock I’ve met all my customers and presented each one with a fragrant box of fresh fruit and vegetables.

No-one seemed to mind about the lack of potatoes. They seemed far too intrigued by the box scheme itself. And having Erik as my driver made it huge fun. Even Hormonal Harriet behaved herself perfectly with him at the wheel.