Читать книгу Green Beans and Summer Dreams - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 13

It’s market day in Fieldstone and as usual, parking is a nightmare.

Bunting, strung between lampposts, flaps in a stiff November breeze, dancing in perfect rhythm to the triumphal choral music filling the car.

‘What’s this one?’ I ask Jess, scanning every side street for a space.

She frowns. ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.’

‘It’s nice. Sort of jolly.’ I’m not sure this is the right response. Perhaps wedding music should lean towards the sombre and serious, reflecting the life-changing nature of the occasion.

Jess stares glumly out of the window. ‘He didn’t bring me tea. He always brings me tea in bed in the morning.’

She and Wesley have fallen out over who should photograph the wedding. Jess booked a company recommended by her wedding planner, not realising Wesley already had someone in mind.

‘Wesley is the photography expert,’ I murmur.

‘I know.’ She heaves a sigh. ‘But if we cancel, we’ll lose the deposit.’

The market, when we finally get parked, is an odd mix of quality country produce and cheap tack. The smell of gourmet sausages frying makes me feel hungry.

‘Where’s Mrs P’s patch?’ Jess asks, as we amble past a stall selling T-shirts with ‘witty’ slogans.

‘Over there.’ I point at a stall with a large hand-written sign above it that reads ‘Oldies But Goodies’ in spidery black capital letters. Whoever wrote it ran out of space and the last few letters are all squashed up together.

‘It’s popular,’ Jess says, looking at the people, mostly women, who are crowding round the stall. ‘Mind you, I’m not surprised. Their cakes are scrummy.’

‘I know. And it’s so kind of her to let me put my leaflets on her stall.’

I’m grateful for any advertising that will help get the business off the ground. The money from my shares has given me some breathing space but it won’t last long.

Jess nudges me. ‘Stall holders get sexier every day.’

A man in well-worn blue jeans and a pale green sweatshirt is standing behind Mrs P’s stall, rolling an oblong package from one hand to the other. ‘Last Battenburg. Only one left.’ His tanned face breaks into a smile as he scans the crowd.

Someone claims the cake and money changes hands.

‘Now, these little smashers’ – he picks up another package – ‘they’re my all-time favourites. What do you think, ladies? Date and walnut buns?’

I study him curiously. He’s average height but fairly broad. A fit, outdoors type who should be hauling himself up a rock face or snowboarding off-piste. Not standing behind a stall talking up a date and walnut bun.

He holds the package aloft. ‘Can I tempt anyone?’

‘Not half,’ says a woman near us in a comically suggestive tone.

I snort loudly and he swings in my direction. Feeling myself redden, I’m relieved when a customer diverts his attention.

But when he’s served her, he glances back at me, a hint of a smile on his lips.

I’m the first to drop my eyes.

‘Not only delicious but good for you too.’ He’s right back into his patter, holding up a pavlova, full of fresh fruit and cream, and more shoppers pause by the stall.

What exotic destination has given him tanned forearms in November, I wonder. An Alpine ski resort, perhaps? Or snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef?

‘Organising a family is just like running a business,’ he’s saying. ‘It’s a constant battle keeping the house clean, the bills paid and the kids fed. And in an ideal world that food would be home-cooked. But who’s got time these days for home-baking?’

I look around at the rapt faces and almost laugh. He has the crowd exactly where he wants them. Has he rehearsed this or does flattering women just come naturally? I strongly suspect the latter.

Jess, beside me, is mesmerised.

‘So why not get ahead of the game?’ He flashes his megawatt smile. ‘Forget trying to be Superwoman—’

‘And what would you know about that?’ shouts a stout, middle-aged woman. ‘You’re just a man! And I’d bet my bingo money you haven’t got no kids to wear you out!’ She folds her arms and challenges him with a stony glare. Several people laugh and I exchange an interested glance with Jess.

Mr Alpine Skier looks winsomely thrown. ‘Fair point. And yes, you’re right. I’m not fortunate enough to have children…’ He glances in my direction when he says this. Flustered, I turn to see who he’s talking to. ‘I may be just a man, but I’ve been enjoying my grandma’s incredible cakes from being knee-high to a grasshopper.’

‘Is that “incredible” or “inedible”?’ barks the woman.

As the crowd titters, a realisation hits me. No, he couldn’t be. Could he…?

‘What’s your name, Madam?’ he asks the bolshie woman.

‘Rose. What’s yours?’

‘Erik.’ He gives her the benefit of those very white teeth.

Bloody hell, it is him. Mrs P’s grandson. But this is no gangly college boy just out of his teens. He’s a mature student, probably about the same age as me.

Wait a minute, has Mrs P set me up?

Erik leaps athletically over the side of the stall. ‘Rose. What a lovely name.’ He presents her with a lemon drizzle cake. ‘Look at that. Beautiful. Made from natural, wholesome ingredients. Not a preservative in sight.’ He puts his arm round her shoulders and leans closer. ‘If you served me this, Rose, I’d definitely be coming for tea.’

Rose purses her lips but you can see she’s charmed.

‘What a load of old bollocks,’ I mutter in Jess’s ear, and she hisses back, ‘Yes, but it’s good bollocks. And he’s gorgeous.’

‘If you like that sun-kissed beach boy look. Let’s just leave the leaflets and go.’

Jess looks at me, startled, as I ease through to the front and drop the pile of flyers on the corner of the stall. I turn to say, ‘Let’s go,’ but before I can get the words out, my wrist is gripped by firm, warm fingers.

‘You’re Izzy, right?’

I spin round and that wolfish smile nearly knocks me off my feet.

I nod and make some pathetic attempts at getting my arm back. Up close I notice his eyes are an unusual shade of green, flecked with gold.

And he’s not letting go.

I paste on a fake smile, hating being the focus of attention. ‘Your gran said I could leave these flyers on the stall.’

‘I know. She told me all about you.’ His tone makes me blush from head to toe. ‘And she was right about that incredible hair.’

‘See, I said you were right to grow it longer,’ Jess pipes up.

I shoot her a frosty look. ‘I’m not growing it longer. I just can’t afford to get it cut.’

‘Stay there. Don’t move,’ Erik commands.

He lets go of my wrist and holds up one of my flyers.

‘Fruit and veg!’ He addresses the crowd but keeps one eye on me, presumably in case I attempt another vanishing act. ‘Home-grown and delicious. Guaranteed fresh and organic.’ He flicks the leaflet with the back of his other hand. ‘And delivered right to your door.’

He raises his eyebrows at me as if to say, am I doing OK?

Feeling foolish, I shrug.

‘And we have the woman herself right here!’

Oh no you don’t! I clutch Jess’s arm, but he’s propelling me forward and for some reason my legs are obliging him.

‘This is Isobel.’ His tongue rolls provocatively over my name. ‘And she’ll answer all your questions. Go ahead.’

A dozen pairs of eyes turn in my direction.

‘How does it work?’ someone shouts. ‘Do you get to choose what you want in the box?’

‘Well … not exactly.’ My cheeks feel hot enough to fry eggs. ‘You pay a fixed price for a box of the best fruit and veg available that week.’

‘But my family hates celery. Must we have it?’

I shake my head. ‘You tell us your likes and dislikes and we make sure we tailor the box to suit you.’

‘What size are the boxes?’ asks the woman called Rose. ‘There’s only me and my son, and he won’t eat fruit.’ I pass her a leaflet explaining the sizes and prices, then find myself putting them into other outstretched hands.

‘I’ve been looking for a box scheme.’ A young woman smiles at me and pats her baby bump. ‘I’m determined to eat organic for junior’s sake.’

I smile back, my confidence growing. This isn’t so bad after all. If only Erik wasn’t standing there, arms folded, listening to every single word. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s grinning from ear to ear.

‘Do you grow it all yourself?’ someone asks.

I shake my head. ‘There isn’t enough variety in an English garden – especially during the winter. And I couldn’t grow the volume I need. So I use a company that imports fruit and vegetables from all over the world.’

‘But I don’t want broccoli that’s clocked up more air miles than a British Airways pilot,’ is the stern response. ‘How can you justify that?’

‘I … erm …’ I rub my nose. ‘I know what you’re saying and it’s something I’ve considered. But the thing is… I swallow. The inside of my head is suddenly as deserted as the Marie Celeste. My brain cells have clocked off early and gone down the pub.

In the expectant silence, a mobile phone vibrates on mute.

Erik steps in. ‘I think what Isobel wants to say is that in an ideal world we’d eat produce from local farms all year round. But sadly, that’s not a realistic proposition.’

I shoot him a grateful look.

During a lull in customers, I go over and thank him for coming to my rescue.

All but three of the two dozen leaflets have gone. I can’t quite believe it.

‘Hey, no problem. Tea?’ He produces a flask, and pours some into a mug. I take a sip and shudder.

‘Too sweet, right? Gran’s a great believer in sugar for energy. Beats me how she stays as thin as a whippet.’ He hands a cup to Jess.

‘So do you do this for a living?’ she asks. ‘Are you a market trader?’

He laughs. ‘God, no. I’m just helping out for the day.’

‘But you honestly look as if you’ve been doing it all your life,’ she says admiringly.

He downs his tea. ‘First time actually. I was a solicitor for a while but it was too much like hard work.’ He glances at me, almost apologetically. ‘So I chucked it in and applied to drama college.’

‘Wow,’ breathes Jess. ‘Do you want to be an actor, then?’

He grins. ‘Well, that’s the idea.’

‘Gosh! You might be famous one day. Can I have your autograph just in case?’

I check her expression for any trace of sarcasm.

Nope. She’s beaming like a loony.

I have to get her away before she decides she’s not marrying Wesley after all.

‘Well, thanks.’ I hand back the cup. ‘It’s been …’ I tail off and go pink.

‘It was a pleasure,’ he says seriously. ‘And if you need any more help just let Gran know and she’ll pass on your message.’

‘Er, right. Excellent.’

He gives me another knee-trembler smile.

‘Well, someone has an admirer,’ Jess remarks on our way back to the car.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. He was only being friendly.’

‘Well, there’s friendly. And then there’s friendly. If you know what I mean.’

Driving home after dropping Jess off, I find myself thinking about Erik, and about Jess saying he fancies me. It’s rubbish, of course. He was being nice because I’m Mrs P’s friend, that’s all.

I’m not even thinking about the business as I go upstairs to the office.

So when I see the answer machine is flashing with three messages, I nearly faint with shock.

First is my mother with a long-winded tale about some boxes that need to go in the loft. ‘I cleared out your bedroom, Isobel, because let’s face it you’re so rarely here and I need a dining room. But now I’ve got these boxes of books in the hallway that I keep tripping over. And I can’t possibly ask Bill Next Door to help because he already puts my bins out every second Tuesday, bless him. You know the silly man has a crush on me and I really can’t afford to rub Vanessa up the wrong way. That’s his wife. She used to be a weightlifter, apparently. Or a wrestler, I can’t remember which. But she’s quite gone to seed and you know my opinions on fat people.’ She pauses for a fraction of a second. ‘But anyway, I expect you’re busy so I won’t keep you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll sort it out somehow.’

The second message is from a woman wanting a taxi.

And the third is Jess. ‘Just called to wish you luck. Bet you’ve had dozens of orders already!’

End of messages.

Sighing I pull my diary over and resign myself to a weekend at my mother’s.

Then I go down to the kitchen and make cheese on toast, trying to ignore the spiteful voice in my head that’s hissing, See! You were a fool to think you could make it work!

Sinking down in Midge’s chair, I stare out at the flat, grey November sky. Life is hard and exhausting and I have no answers. I close my eyes and start to drift off to the steady ticking of the kitchen clock. And in that space between wakefulness and sleep, I hear Midge’s voice, as clear as if she’s sitting on the arm of my chair. ‘Get out for a run, my love. It’ll mend your spirits.’

Long-distance running is something I’ve done on and off since schooldays. Getting back to it feels like coming home. I’d forgotten how good it makes me feel.

At school I was an awkward, skinny kid; painfully shy, with masses of red-brown hair that made me the butt of many a joke. My hair was healthy and shiny, but it stuck out wildly no matter how I tried to manhandle it with hair grips. I wanted to cut it all off but my mother wouldn’t let me. She used to say my hair was my crowning glory and one day I’d be glad it was glossy and I had so much of it.

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.