Catherine Ferguson - Green Beans and Summer Dreams

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 .

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.