Catherine Ferguson - Green Beans and Summer Dreams

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.’