Green Beans and Summer Dreams Read online

  Green Beans and Summer Dreams

  CATHERINE FERGUSON

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Published by Avon an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

  Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2015

  Cover design © Debbie Clement

  Catherine Ferguson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 978-0-00-814221-6

  Version 2015-06-15

  For Dave

  The best friend a girl could have

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  SEPTEMBER

  Chapter One

  OCTOBER

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  NOVEMBER

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  DECEMBER

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  JANUARY

  Chapter Sixteen

  FEBRUARY

  Chapter Seventeen

  MARCH

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  APRIL

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  MAY

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  JUNE

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  JULY

  Chapter Thirty-One

  AUGUST

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  SEPTEMBER

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  OCTOBER

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  NOVEMBER

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  DECEMBER

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  JANUARY

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  SEPTEMBER

  You can bury a lot of troubles, digging in the dirt.

  When I braved the unseasonably cold weather this morning to dig over the vegetable garden for a new round of planting, I was in a grumpy old mood. The fresh breeze nipped at my ears so I was soon forced to retreat indoors in search of extra layers.

  I caught my reflection in the mirror on the landing – lumpy clothes, no make-up, red bobble hat – and I burst out laughing. It was a far cry from my neat trouser suits and life in a centrally heated, north London classroom. A fake white beard and I could almost pass as a store Santa.

  But, suitably clad, I went out and started on the digging. And after several hours of rhythmically turning over the earth with my gleaming new spade, I was feeling energised and much calmer.

  I can’t believe I’ve lived at Farthing Cottage for almost two years now.

  Like many people, I’d had vague thoughts of one day ‘giving it all up’ for the slower pace of country living. Moving here permanently in 1990 seemed auspicious somehow – it was not only the start of a new decade, but also the beginning of a brand new phase for me. Life would be tranquil, the bleat of a lamb after the roar of London.

  Tranquil, my arse!

  There’s as much conflict living in this house in deepest Surrey as there was in the classroom. It’s just that here my battles are waged against potato blight, carrot fly and large black slugs that munch their way through my yummy seedlings with no concern at all for the painstaking hours I’ve spent preparing their sodding feast!

  But hey-ho. That’s life in the garden. Survival of the fittest. And pests, watch out! I am determined to bloody survive!

  As a rule, I try not to think about London and the life I left behind. Although on days like this – with summer behind us and a long winter in prospect – I can’t help a pang or two.

  Izzy is coming to stay for the half-term autumn break, though, and no-one can shake up my dull routine better than my lively, ten-year-old niece! Izzy adores helping me in the garden, especially if there are raspberries to pick, which there will be. (The autumn rasps are at their best in October.)

  Today, lunching on the last of the tomato and basil soup, I came across a line in a magazine: ‘A gardener’s best tool is his memory of past seasons.’

  I reflected on the truth of this and came to the conclusion that since there are goldfish with better memories than me, I had better start keeping a gardening diary …

  Chapter One

  When Hormonal Harriet gives a violent judder then plays dead a mile from the village, I react like any other normal, level-headed person. Thumping the steering wheel with an agonised howl then pleading with her to start.

  My car might be ancient but she’s also a bit of a diva, so I should have known that forcing her to drive at breakneck speed along potholed country roads would provoke first, surprised outrage, then an all-out strike.

  Heart racing, I glance at my phone.

  Twenty-two minutes.

  Twenty-two minutes to get there and prevent myself from slithering further into the slimy pit of humiliation I’ve been trying to scramble out of since CLB left.

  When she heard the news of Jamie’s betrayal, my forthright and fiercely protective friend, Anna, declared, ‘Izzy, I will never speak that wanker’s name again!’

  So now she refers to Jamie as Cheating Lying Bastard (aka CLB). The label seems to have stuck and I, for one, am certainly not complaining.

  Twenty-one minutes!

  There’s nothing else for it. I’m going to have to run.

  I scramble out of the car and glance at my feet. Scabby trainers. Perfect. I was cross-country champion at school so running a mile should be a walk in the park.

  Three minutes later, I’m in so much agony I think I might be suffering a minor heart attack. But the memory of that doom-laden text message spurs me on. Without Jamie paying the mortgage, it’s all down to me now – and I’ve slipped up badly. Those panic-inducing words – not enough funds to cover – pinged onto my phone only an hour ago.

  I was in the kitchen, intent on a double mission:
attacking my garden’s embarrassing glut of carrots and leeks by chopping them up into soup and thereby saving money on this week’s food bill. I froze with fear. If I missed the mortgage payment – due next day – I’d be on a slippery slope I couldn’t bear to think about. Transferring funds into the account was the logical thing to do. Just one small fly in the ointment. My meagre savings had run out; there were no funds to transfer.

  Then I remembered the brand new tablet I’d bought for Jamie when we were still together and money wasn’t a problem. The tablet was a gift to mark the anniversary of the day we’d met five years earlier. But before I had a chance to present him with it, I found out he’d been cheating on me and we broke up.

  I pictured the tablet, lying in my bedside drawer, still wrapped in its romantic, heart-patterned cellophane, with a label that read: To Jamie, All My Love, Izzy xxx

  Thank God I hadn’t given it to him!

  I could return the tablet to the shop and the refund would plug the gap in my account.

  As I jog along the lane, shoulder bag clamped tight, I can hear the cellophane crackling inside. I’m panting so loudly, I sound like I’m having wildly inventive, leap-off-the-wardrobe sex. I should be so lucky. Thank God it’s a quiet country road so no-one can witness me lurching along with the sweaty complexion of a bursting tomato.

  At last the High Street comes into view.

  The shop closes at 5.30. It’s now 5.23.

  I think I’m going to make it!

  I lumber past the post office then hang onto some railings, wheezing for Britain. One big push and I’ll be there …

  Launching myself off, I stare grimly at my target and stagger on. Luckily, the shop is at this end of the High Street, just beyond a trendy juice bar and the newsagent’s.

  A hulking, mud-spattered lorry is taking up most of the pavement outside the juice bar, its back door thrown up. I concentrate hard on the very small space on the pavement between the lorry and the shops. Definitely single file only, but there’s no-one approaching from the other direction.

  I’m almost there, ready to squeeze through, when I’m momentarily distracted by the lorry’s cargo. A familiar scent wafts up my nose. Vegetables. Curious, I slow down to take a closer look at the stacked wooden trays filled with fresh broccoli and pears. Ooh, and juicy-looking clementines with their glossy green leaves still attached. Lovely. And something else – oh, it’s kohlrabi. I’ve been meaning to try growing some of that – there’s room in my vegetable patch between the winter cabbages and the cauliflowers—

  ‘Oof!’

  Not looking where I’m going, I collide with a very large, very solid object. Bouncing backwards, I lose my balance and land with a nasty thud on my bottom.

  It’s a bit of a shock to see the world from this angle.

  Thoroughly winded, I take in a pair of massive trainers, even shabbier than mine, on the end of a pair of long male legs clad in scruffy black joggers.

  A big, muck-encrusted hand is thrust into my eye-line and – still dazed and disorientated – I’m hauled roughly to my feet. The owner of the legs towers over me, glaring down from behind a pair of creepy, silver-mirrored aviator glasses.

  I’m about to launch into a profuse apology, when this sinister-looking giant barks, ‘Bloody woman. Might have known. No sense of spatial awareness whatsoever.’ He points. ‘You’ve dropped something.’ Then he stomps into the newsagent’s.

  Stunned by the unfairness of his accusation, I sink back against the lorry to catch my breath.

  But next second, I gasp in horror.

  My mortgage payment is lying in the road and a car is bearing down on it.

  Swiftly, I dive over, scoop up my precious cellophane package and set it down carefully beside the tray of clementines, before bending over into the lorry and resting my weight on my arms as I get my breath back. The scent of citrus fruit rushes up my nose.

  As if all this wasn’t weird enough, without warning my world is rocked again – quite literally this time.

  The lorry is swaying from side to side.

  I leap away in shock as the engine roars into life and the vehicle starts to move off.

  What the hell’s going on? The driver’s forgotten to close the back of the lorry!

  The crate of clementines is sliding dangerously close to the edge and as I stare after the truck, dumbfounded, several butternut squash roll out of the back and bounce gaily into the gutter.

  I start to run.

  ‘Hey, wait a minute! Stop!’

  The driver is signalling, waiting to move out and I almost manage to draw level with the cab, waving my arms about like an idiot.

  But it’s no use.

  The lorry is so grimy, I can’t even make out the name of the company on the side. Only a few letters are visible and they – rather appropriately I feel – spell out ‘arso’.

  Horrified, I watch as the lorry accelerates off into the distance with my beautifully wrapped mortgage payment nestled cosily between the kohlrabi and the clementines.

  When I met Jamie, I was in my mid-twenties, sharing a chaotic but colourful flat with my three best girlfriends in Edinburgh. We were all starting out in our careers; I’d graduated from the university with a degree in English and was now a lowly public relations assistant with a salary to match. But being broke much of the time didn’t seem to stop us enjoying ourselves and partying most weekends.

  I met Jamie at our local pub – I left my scarf behind and he sprinted the length of the street to return it and ask me on a date – and I fell crazily and completely in love.

  A financial analyst, Jamie was something of a whiz in the maths department; far more intelligent than me, but not in the least bit geeky. Quite the opposite, in fact. He could liven up any gathering with his charm and wealth of funny stories, and he was also surprisingly romantic. Once, for my birthday, he filled the entire flat with sunflowers (my favourite) – dozens and dozens of them in every room, all in pretty blue vases that must have cost him a small fortune.

  Before long, we were such an inseparable double-act, my flatmates started laughingly referring to us as Richard and Judy. And a year after we met, we decided to move in together.

  Everything was wonderful.

  I’d never been so happy.

  But the downside was that while I was so wrapped up in my new life with Jamie, my visits to family tended to get put on the back-burner. With Dad living in Glasgow, just an hour away on the train, I saw him and Gloria fairly often. And at least four times a year, I’d usually make the journey south to see both Mum and Midge. But during that first year of living with Jamie, I let things slide.

  So when Mum phoned with some grim news, it came as a truly devastating blow.

  My lovely Aunt Midge was desperately ill.

  She had undergone a heart operation without even telling us, which was typical of her. The prognosis was not good. The doctor was advising us to visit as soon as we could.

  As I moved round the flat in a daze, blinded by tears, trying to pack a bag for the journey south, Jamie arrived home.

  His concern when he heard the news was genuine. He’d met Midge just once but he’d liked her very much, especially her dry humour and her feisty spirit. He immediately phoned work, saying he had a family emergency and would be absent for a few days. He located my keys and went round turning off lights while I stood by in a useless daze. Then he drove me all the way down to the hospital in Surrey and an emotional reunion with my mother.

  Midge died two days later.

  I was numb with grief.

  And weighed down by guilt.

  I hated myself for not being there when she needed me. Midge had kept her illness to herself but that was no excuse. I should have gone down to Surrey a lot more often, then I would have known she wasn’t herself. But I’d been too wrapped up in my life with Jamie. I kept promising Midge I’d visit but it was always hazy, planned for some time in the future.

  I never actually fixed a date.

 
And now it was all too late.

  A few weeks later, I was stunned by the contents of Midge’s will.

  She had bequeathed her beloved Farthing Cottage to me, along with the adjacent field where she’d kept her rescue donkeys at one time.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  I loved the cottage. I’d spent such idyllically happy times there with Midge during my school holidays. I couldn’t possibly sell it. But what was the alternative? To live there would mean giving up my life in Edinburgh, yet as the months went by and we debated what to do, I grew more and more enchanted by the idea of moving down to Surrey.

  Then, when Jamie landed a job as a financial trader in the City of London, that was it.

  The decision was made.

  Off we went.

  Jamie had always hankered after working in London’s Square Mile, the heart of the powerful financial district, so he was happy. I immediately started job-hunting, feeling fairly confident that with my degree and experience, it wouldn’t be long before I’d be earning, too.

  I began applying for jobs locally in the PR industry. Then, when I wasn’t immediately successful, I started to spread the net wider. I reasoned that living in Surrey, it would be an easy commute by train to London and for a while, I entertained a lovely image of Jamie and me travelling in together each morning, he with his Financial Times and me with my nose in a book.