Catherine Ferguson - Green Beans and Summer Dreams

I decide to run back up the lane but two minutes in, my lungs are back on the protest line.

As I plod past, my nearest neighbour emerges from her cottage. A widow in her early seventies, I call her Mrs P because she has a surname I can’t pronounce. I raise a cheery hand in greeting and Mrs P, startled by the puce-faced apparition puffing past her gate at 7.30 in the morning, nearly drops her carton of milk.

I slow right down as I near my house, then walk the last few hundred yards, noticing as I go that one of the driveway gates is propped slightly out of alignment, as if it might crash to the ground at any second. I go to investigate, easing it gently back into place.

The gates don’t look much now but I can see beyond the rust. When they’re latched shut, as they are now, a delicate rose appears in the centre, and swirls like fine plant tendrils spread out in a series of graceful curls and spirals. They’re a fairytale creation – a labour of love by some long-ago craftsman – pounced on with glee by Midge during a trip to Italy. She had them shipped back to Britain and I remember one hot summer day, when I was about twelve, spending hours helping her to scrape away the rust with sandpaper then sitting cross-legged on the grass verge watching as she painted each swirl and spiral a delicate dove grey. Even now, the smell of paint takes me right back to that summer.

Jamie loosened the left-hand gate from its moorings but then the money ran out and he never got round to fixing it back into place. I’ve tied it with string to the gatepost but I get anxious when it’s windy and I always use the side entrance instead.

Back in the house I shower, have breakfast then collect some apples from my store in the shed to take along the lane to Mrs P.

I have a shadowy memory of Mrs P from the days when I used to visit Midge during my school summer holidays, and I’ve learned more about her through Midge’s diary.

When Jamie and I came to live at Farthing Cottage, I knocked on her door and asked her if she remembered me from way back, and she smiled wistfully and said of course she did. She invited me in and made me tea and we chatted for a while, sharing a few precious memories of Midge.

But I didn’t get to know Mrs P properly until about a month after Jamie left.

I’d got a raging toothache and had to psych myself up to drive to my dentist in Guildford. I put on my dark glasses and set out but half way down the lane, Hormonal Harriet shuddered to a halt.

The pain in my tooth was searing, and I fell on the steering wheel and sobbed.

After a while, Mrs P knocked on the window.

She took me inside and offered to make me a drink. I mopped my eyes with the lavender-scented handkerchief she gave me and sat back in the rocker, expecting hot, sweet tea served in a floral teapot with a strainer on the side.

One stiff brandy later (she absolutely insisted I join her), I’d told her the whole story of my break-up, my tooth was numb and I was feeling pleasantly uncoordinated.

‘Another?’ She crossed to the drinks cabinet and waggled the bottle.

I looked at my watch: 10.30 a.m. ‘Er, it’s a bit early for me, thanks.’

Her response was brisk. ‘Rubbish. It’s never too early for a small one.’ She refilled her own glass and turned to me with a wistful smile. ‘You know, you sounded just like Midge then. Or “Thelma” as I used to call her. She was always trying to make me behave, too.’

I smiled. ‘Why Thelma?’

‘Ah, well.’ Mrs P adjusted her glasses. ‘Remember Thelma and Louise ? That was our all-time favourite movie. Midge was Thelma and I was Louise. She used to say to me, “Lou, when we’re both too old to hobble along to the garden centre on our own two legs, we’ll hire a Stingray Corvette, speed down to Dover and launch ourselves over those cliffs. I want to go out in a blaze of glory!”’

Laughter burst right out of me then because that was just so like Midge.

‘I used to say, “Count me in, Thelma. Just as long as we’re not too doddery to find the bloody cliffs in the first place.”’

We smiled at each other.

Her eyes were suspiciously shiny.

‘But why a Stingray whatever-it’s-called?’ I asked.

‘Stingray Corvette. My favourite car. Cars are my passion.’ She got to her feet. ‘Speaking of which, let’s go and have a look at your rust bucket.’

I followed her out and flipped the bonnet as she collected an oily rag and some tools. Then she did something with a wrench that made the engine spring to life at the first try.

After that, we got on famously and I found she wasn’t quite the sad, lonely widow I’d assumed she was. Despite being over seventy, she had a better social life than me. (Not that this was hard.)

Today, with my bag of apples, I’m suddenly worried 8 a.m. might be too early to call. But she answers the door as soon as I knock.

‘Ooh, lovely,’ she says, sniffing the apples.

She’s wearing purple-framed glasses that are surprisingly trendy and there’s a dusting of flour on her cheek. Her apron bears an image of a bronzed and rippling male torso.

‘I’m baking bread. For the WI,’ she says, beckoning me in.

‘Right.’ I’m trying hard not to look at the posing pouch down below. ‘I – er – didn’t know Fieldstone had a Women’s Institute.’

‘Oh, we don’t dear. The nearest branch is forty miles away, so we decided to invent our own.’

I suddenly recall an entry from Midge’s diary. ‘I know this! Your WI stands for Women Inebriated!’

She smiles. ‘You’re quite right. Midge must have told you. But we’ve updated it recently. Seeing as our combined age is about a thousand and two, me and the gals decided to change it to Wrinklies Inebriated.’ She winks. ‘But don’t spread it about.’

Laughing, I watch her spoon loose tea leaves into a pot.

‘You might meet my grandson,’ she says, half-turning. ‘He said he’d pop round early and fix my front door knocker. He’s got a free period at college.’

‘Oh. What’s his name?’

‘Erik. With a “k”. Lovely boy. I’m biased, naturally.’ She glances up. ‘He’s single.’

I smile politely. The last thing I need is Mrs P trying to fix me up. I do not need a college student toy boy.

To change the subject, I start telling her about my whacky idea for a business.

She nods slowly as she places a plate of Bakewell tart on the table. Then she sits down opposite me and stares pensively at the sugar bowl.

At least she’s not looking at me like I have two heads. The way Anna and Jess did. My stomach growls and I take a piece of tart.

‘I like it,’ she says at last, nut brown eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘Beginning of a new year, people making resolutions to live a healthier life. What better start than buying a box of fresh fruit and vegetables every week? And they don’t have to lug them back from the shops because you’ll be delivering them right to their door. Have you got a name for the business?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You could have a brainstorming session with your friends. That’s what we did. It’s amazing what you can achieve in just ten minutes of shouting out ideas.’

I stop munching.

‘That’s what you did?’

‘Yes. And we came up with Oldies But Goodies.’ Her eyebrows rise. ‘Oh, didn’t you know about the business?’

‘No. This Bakewell tart is melt-in-the-mouth gorgeous, by the way.’

‘Good. We bake twenty-five of those every week for the Deli Café.’

I stare at her. ‘The Fieldhorn Deli Café?’

‘The very same. Sorry, dear, I thought you knew. I set up Oldies But Goodies a few years ago. We bake all the traditional favourites. Plus some inventions of our own.’