Catherine Ferguson - Green Beans and Summer Dreams

A thought occurs. ‘Pecan Nut and Raisin Crunch?’

‘My very own recipe.’

I stare at her. I’ve been enthusing about those biscuits for ages – and they started their days right here, in Mrs P’s kitchen?

Half an hour later, I head home with a bag of the famous cookies and a new enthusiasm for the box scheme. It’s a gamble pouring what little money I have into a venture that may or may not pay off. But sometimes you just have to take a risk.

Jamie might have no faith in me to succeed on my own.

But I’m determined to prove him wrong.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shite!

Whoever described gardening as relaxing was either lying or rich enough to employ someone to do it for them. I truly have reached the end of my tether this time.

Mind you, I thought I’d reached it in May when the rabbits – toothy little buggers – breached my defences (well, my fences, actually) and made short work of all my beautiful lettuces.

And again in July when my leek crop failed.

But now the beautiful golden onions I harvested in October and stored in the garage (a cool, dark place, the article said) have all rotted away. I kept cutting into them and they were all black and slimy in the middle. Every single one. So now, instead of a lovely crop that will last me through to spring, I’ve got a box of horrors not fit to feed to Old MacDonald’s pigs.

I’m normally calm and rational. I faced a classroom of hormonal teenagers every day of my working life, for God’s sake, and hardly ever ran out of patience.

But seriously, I want to cry with frustration.

Later

I’ve decided to be philosophical about the onions. Gardeners learn by trowel and error, after all. Next time, I’ll make sure I dry them thoroughly before I box them up.

Right now, it’s freezing outside and sleet is turning the already wet soil to mud. But I’m feeling surprisingly content, sitting in my favourite old chair in the warm, lamp-lit kitchen planning the coming year (a large gin and tonic close by). I can’t believe how enthused I get these days, looking at pictures of seed packets. Truly, give me a seed catalogue over a copy of Vogue any day of the week.

Oh Lord, what has my life come to?

‘Thanks guys. Drinks are on me. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

I hold the pub door wide and everyone trudges in, glad to exchange the raw November night for a seat and a chance to thaw out.

‘It’s so exciting .’ Jess squeezes my arm. ‘Just think of all those people reading your leaflet when they get in from work.’

I grin. ‘Or chucking it in the bin with all the other junk mail.’

I’m trying to stay calm but my insides are more jumpy than Mr Motivator overdosing on blue Smarties. We’ve trudged along every street in Fieldstone, posting my little flyer through letterboxes, and all but a handful are gone.

Peter offers to get the drinks in and I push money gratefully into his hand. The bar is two-deep in people waiting to be served. It’s been a long day. All I want to do is collapse into a seat and wait for the feeling to come back into my feet.

Peter and Anna head for the bar, squabbling good-naturedly about something. Anna aims a fake punch at his stomach, which he nimbly avoids. Then he grabs her and she rests her head for a moment on his shoulder.

I feel a stab of loneliness. Whatever else was wrong with our relationship, Jamie and I could always make each other laugh.

Jess goes off to the ladies and I’m left alone with her fiancé.

Wesley is director of a small IT company that is struggling to establish itself in the industry, and he works extremely long hours. Anna refers to him as The Lesser-Spotted-Wes because a sighting of him at a social occasion is as rare as clapping eyes on a golden eagle flying up Bond Street.

Now, he mutters something that sounds like ‘table’ and strides off, possibly in search of one.

I follow him and sink gratefully onto a banquette. ‘Thanks for helping, Wesley. I’m so grateful.’

‘No problem.’ He glares at his beer mat. ‘If you ask me, there should be a hell of a lot more support available for small businesses. But then, what can you expect with this shower in office?’ He shakes his head at the carpet, thoroughly aggrieved.

‘Mmm, yes,’ I murmur, trying to think of a response that won’t betray my total lack of interest in politics. I can’t come up with anything, so I say cheerily, ‘Well, I’m determined to give it a go. Nothing ventured and all that.’

He meets my eye and gives a stern nod, and for the life of me I can’t think of a single thing to say. So we both focus on our beer mats.

Wesley is average height with a wiry frame and lots of bristly dark hair that sprouts above his shirt collar, creeps over the backs of his hands and unites to form one long mono-brow. He would be quite handsome if he smiled more and didn’t look permanently vexed. His other passion, aside from Jess and his IT company, is photography. He drives Jess all over the country taking artistic shots of stained glass windows and church pews, and the resulting photographs dominate the walls in their modern, three-bed semi.

Jess returns and sits down next to him, shuffling her chair closer, and Wesley loops his arm around her waist. He’s clearly mad about her and more than happy to indulge her plans to turn their big day into a fairytale extravaganza.

Jess is leaving no harpist or lake with swans unturned in her quest for wedding day perfection. She has relaxed her policy of not mentioning her nuptials to me and I’m now kept abreast of every single detail. We’ve discussed in depth where best to seat her two old school friends who hate each other with a passion. And which auntie is robust enough to handle Wesley’s cousin, Graham, who apparently considers it his charitable duty to grope older ladies at weddings to boost their self-esteem.

Wesley hitches up his trouser leg and glares at his sock. ‘Bloody soaking. Stepped in a bloody great pothole. The state of the roads these days.’

Jess and I shake our heads sadly.

Wesley’s favourite topic is the parlous state of Britain.

I brace myself for a stern monologue on local government spending cuts. But luckily, Anna and Peter return at that moment with the drinks.

Peter raises his glass at me. ‘To Veg-R-Us!’

Anna snorts. ‘I prefer “Izzy’s Organics”.’

‘Hey, there’s plenty more where that came from, girl.’

I laugh. ‘Go on, then.’

Peter clears his throat. ‘Twenty-Four Carrot Deliveries. Eh? How about that? You should have asked me for a name.’

Peter has this lovely Welsh lilt that becomes more pronounced when he’s fooling around, which seems to be most of the time. It’s hard to believe he’s a solicitor, specialising in commercial property sales.

A mobile phone rings and Jess dives into her bag.

She puts her hand over the mouthpiece and mimes, wedding planner. Turning away, she presses a finger to her other ear.

Jess has these intense conversations with her wedding planner on a daily basis.

Wesley leans towards her but she brushes him off, listening intently. ‘Baby pink? I thought it was cerise … yes… right … but won’t that clash?’

Anna leans over and murmurs to me, ‘Hope that’s not the bridesmaids’ dresses.’ She holds out a length of red hair. ‘Pink with my colouring? I don’t think so.’

‘Maybe it’s Wesley’s outfit,’ I whisper in a ‘gottle-o-gear’ kind of way.

‘Ooh, you bitch. Now, if I ever get married—’