Green Beans and Summer Dreams Read online

  ‘There’ll be a man on a stool with a dog,’ Erik murmurs in my ear on the way in. ‘Bet you a fiver.’

  I grin and nudge him. ‘Behave. I need my friends to approve of you.’

  Erik pretends to go rigid with shock. ‘What if they don’t?’

  ‘You’re chucked. Simple as,’ I grin, looking around me.

  The pub is dominated by a huge, horseshoe-shaped bar topped with hand pumps to serve the real ale. They have names like Pigswill and Fursty Ferret.

  ‘This pub is definitely more Peter’s style. Peter is Anna’s boyfriend, remember?’ I prompt, spotting his confusion. ‘Or rather, friend. She hates us calling him her boyfriend.’

  ‘Why? Does she prefer girls?’ he asks out of the corner of his mouth.

  I nudge him again, harder this time.

  ‘I think your mates are coming over.’ His face is fixed in a smile and it suddenly occurs to me he’s nervous. I take his hand, loving his vulnerability.

  I make the introductions and Erik shakes hands with Wesley in that very vigorous way blokes do.

  ‘I’ll give you the guided tour,’ Wesley offers, and the two of them go off on a real ale exploration.

  ‘Bloody Peter,’ says Anna as soon as they’re out of earshot. ‘I chose this pub because I know he loves it. But he still wouldn’t come.’

  ‘Why not?’ I ask.

  ‘He said if I couldn’t make the effort to go to his sister’s wedding, why should he come out to please me?’ She purses her lips. ‘So. Incredibly. Childish.’

  I glance at Jess. Privately, I think it’s Anna who’s being mulish.

  We sit on stools at the bar and order wine.

  ‘Perhaps you should just go to the wedding. If it means so much to Peter?’ Jess suggests.

  Anna groans. ‘But you know how I hate all that boring chit-chat to people you’ll never see again.’

  ‘You make small talk all the time in your job,’ I point out. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘The difference is that it’s a wedding and everyone will be asking if it’s us next. Just like they do.’ She waves her hand impatiently. ‘But anyway, Izz, this man of yours. Bit of all right, isn’t he?’

  ‘Sssh! He’ll hear you,’ I whisper delightedly, glancing across the bar.

  She laughs. ‘Only if he’s wired you up to a bugging device.’

  ‘Wesley’s probably boring him into an early grave about photography,’ says Jess matter-of-factly.

  ‘Ooh, that’s a bit harsh,’ says Anna.

  Jess frowns. ‘It’s just I don’t get his passion for photography – at least, not the kind of photos he likes to take.’

  I nod in sympathy. Trailing round churchyards after Wesley would not be my idea of a fun way to spend weekends either.

  Jess looks worried. ‘Is that awful of me?’

  ‘No, of course it isn’t,’ I tell her. ‘You’ve just got different interests, that’s all.’

  Jess frowns. ‘I suppose. It’s just I’ve been feeling guilty.’

  ‘What about?’

  She shrugs. ‘Lately he’s been going to the photography club with Eloise instead of me. And I’ve been encouraging it because –’ she drops her eyes – ‘well, to be honest I’ve found it a bit of a drag. It takes up all my Tuesday nights.’

  Anna opens her mouth to speak and my heart sinks, remembering our chat about Jess and Wesley’s relationship in the bridal shop. She’d better not start expressing her doubts…

  But to my relief, she says, ‘It sounds to me like you’ve found the perfect compromise. Wesley goes to the club on Tuesdays and you have a night to do your own thing.’

  Jess smiles gratefully at her – although it’s probably more for not calling him ‘Wes’ than anything else.

  Anna shoots me a sideways look. ‘Erik seems smitten.’

  ‘Well, you know. Who can blame him?’ I joke, flushing with delight.

  I look over to where Erik is standing with Wesley watching the barman pour out Rancid Rat, or something equally tempting. All three are staring at the glass with the concentration of a snooker player lining up his next shot.

  ‘He’s very easy on the eye,’ says Jess.

  I smile and it dawns on me then that if we become a proper couple I will have to get used to the fact that other women find him attractive. I’ve never gone out with anyone quite as good-looking and charming as Erik.

  Later, as we’re leaving, he nudges me. ‘Look at this.’

  I take his hand and follow him to the other side of the bar.

  A man with grey hair straggling over his Grateful Dead T-shirt is sitting on a stool, slouched over a pint. At his feet lies a black Labrador with the most mournful eyes I’ve ever seen.

  ‘What did I tell you? Man on stool with dog.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Fiver, please.’

  I flick my eyes to the ceiling. ‘So bloody jammy!’

  DECEMBER

  The snow arrived during the first week of December.

  I opened my curtains to find the entire garden had been blanketed in pure white overnight, blurring the edges of the shed and the greenhouse, and weighing down the branches of my fruit trees.

  It was good fun at first.

  In December the garden sleeps anyway. There are still jobs to do but there’s none of the frantic urgency of high summer.

  I slept late and read a lot. And I took long walks in the lanes around the house, enjoying the unexpected leisure time and planning Christmas treats for Izzy’s stay over the festive season. I spent the whole of one day putting up the big Christmas tree in the hall and bringing in foliage, holly and ivy from the garden to decorate the house.

  Then a week before Christmas, when Izzy’s visit was planned, Val phoned and said Izzy’s dad was away so she wanted Izzy at home for company. Would it be all right if she visited after New Year instead?

  I went round in a grump, crashing plates about and glaring at the Christmas tree every time I passed it in the hall. I knew it was childish but this was Christmas, for goodness’ sake! I was cocooned in the house. The world had grown eerily silent. All my lovely plans were ruined.

  It’s the most magical time of the year.

  But sometimes it can be the loneliest.

  I’m normally very self-sufficient. But I’d never known loneliness like it in my life! I hadn’t realised how much the garden nurtures me. It’s such a vital part of my life and with it temporarily unreachable beneath the ice, I felt strangely lost.

  It’s the last day of 1992.

  The snow is melting and I finally managed to get my car started this morning. Thank God for bloody January!

  Chapter Fourteen

  It’s a wintry morning in early December and I’m sipping tea in bed, listening to Erik in the shower.

  He’s singing like Pavarotti at the top of his voice. Either he knows all the words in Italian or he’s making them up as he goes along.

  Either way, it’s fairly impressive.

  He was out last night with some mates and I was convinced it would be a heavy drinking session. So I was surprised when I heard his key in the lock soon after eleven. I ran into the hall, happy to see him back so early, but he seemed a little subdued. He brushed off my questions about the night, saying he was tired and would I mind if he went straight to bed.

  Happily, though, he’s in fine spirits this morning.

  It felt odd having an evening to myself. I caught up with all the paperwork I’ve let slide over the past few weeks. I also swallowed my pride and left a message on Dan Parsons’ phone saying I’d like to take him up on the loan of his van.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about his incredibly generous offer and I think I misjudged him. He was obviously in a bad place when I first met him, so perhaps I should cut him some slack.

  I still think he’s arrogant and a little bit pompous, but that’s neither here nor there. We don’t have to be best mates for me to use the van.

  And anyway, I can’t afford to look a gift horse in the mou
th. Not when Hormonal Harriet is hinting at retirement and I’m in danger of slipping into my overdraft any day now.

  I’m spending as little as possible on food and everyday essentials in order to save as much money as I can. I’ve completely gone off parsnip soup, I’ve eaten so much of the damn stuff. And any day now I’m expecting to actually turn into a Savoy cabbage.

  But even putting away most of the week’s profits, I’m still barely able to cover the mortgage at the end of the month.

  Trying to keep customer numbers up (and preferably rising) is my biggest challenge. If I don’t sit down every week and phone each customer on my list to ask if they’d like another delivery, numbers tend to start falling back. I’ve got Mrs P to thank for that tip. But it is time-consuming, especially when there’s so much else to do.

  I could really do with an admin assistant. But then I’d need the cash to pay them a wage. Sometimes my brain hurts from going round in circles, trying to work out what to do for the best.

  At least my relationship with Erik is motoring along nicely.

  It’s clear he likes me, although I’m not daft enough to imagine it’s anything more than that. And after Jamie, I don’t want anything heavy anyway. I’m determined to just have fun and not get too attached.

  Erik’s energy levels astonish me.

  He springs out of bed every morning and often stays downstairs reading or catching up with coursework late into the night. It puzzled me at first that he wasn’t attending lectures, but he told me things at drama college are fairly relaxed and much of the work can be done at home.

  It suits me fine. It’s lovely having him around.

  He’s forever joking that I can’t take the pace and it’s true that sometimes I feel too exhausted for sex, after a day grafting in the open air. I’m often yawning on the sofa well before the nine o’clock news. But Erik usually manages to change my mind. And I’m determined to keep up. Because when you’ve experienced a man drought for months on end, a steady downpour is something of a miracle.

  Today he’s promised to help me in the garden and he’d better not think he can waste time, mucking about.

  True to his word, though, he puts in a good shift, turning the soil over in the vegetable plot, pulling up the leeks I planted in July (more soup!) and picking the last of the apples while I stand at the foot of the tree, holding the ladder.

  ‘What’s wrong with that other tree?’ he calls down. ‘Is it on strike or something?’

  ‘Which other tree?’ I frown up at him.

  Then I realise he’s talking about the annoying apple tree in the front garden.

  ‘Oh, I’ve given up on that one,’ I call back.

  ‘But it looks lovely and healthy. Shouldn’t it be full of fruit too?’

  I shake my head. ‘Midge planted it years ago, right in the centre of the lawn, when she first bought the house. But it’s never blossomed or fruited. Not even once.’

  ‘Have you tried pruning it?’

  ‘Yep. And putting loads of compost round the trunk. But nothing works.’

  I’m pleasantly surprised by his interest and the serious effort he’s putting in.

  It’s nice to know that even a joker like Erik isn’t immune to the calming, therapeutic pleasures of working in a garden …

  The sun is surprisingly bright for early December and I’m wearing the huge, celebrity-style shades my mother bought me for my last birthday. They’re not ‘me’ at all and probably cost her more than a fortnight in Benidorm at high season. But I’ve mislaid my usual ones.

  When he comes down from the tree, Erik starts calling me J-Lo and pretending to be an American chat show host, asking me vacuous questions. Such as, ‘So, Jen, we’re all dying to know. How much is your ass insured for exactly?’

  We’re about to go inside for lunch when we hear a car pull up.

  Erik sprints round the side of the house and comes back, grinning. ‘Whaddya know,’ he says, still in his American drawl. ‘It’s Dan the Man with his Van.’

  As I go to investigate, Erik shouts, ‘Tell him to have a nice day, y’all!’

  I turn and gesture at him to zip it. Dan’s doing me a huge favour, after all. But Erik just laughs and calls, ‘Aw honey, don’t get mad!’

  Dan’s rubbing a mark off the side of a small white van. He walks me round the vehicle, telling me lots of boring stuff like the size of the engine and how many miles it can do per gallon. Then he hunkers down and wipes some grime from the registration plate.

  ‘Sorry about lecturing you that day in your shed,’ he says, looking up, fixing his intense blue eyes on me.

  I shrug it off, feeling unaccountably shy. ‘You were right. I am a novice. But I’m determined to make it work.’

  ‘I know you will.’ He’s squinting into the sun. ‘That’s why I’m lending you the van.’

  I stare at him, bemused. How can he feel sure of my success when I’m not even convinced myself?

  ‘The soup was great, by the way,’ he says, standing up.

  I smile. ‘Zak liked it, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He chuckles. ‘My son gives me lectures on vitamins and the importance of a varied diet. He thinks we have far too many ready meals and salad.’

  ‘Well, salad’s OK.’

  ‘Yes, but I gave him carrot sticks again the other day and he looked at me in a sort of pitying way and said, “You can cook carrots as well, you know, Dad.”’

  I smile in spite of myself. ‘Any more raw stuff and Zak’s leaving home?’

  ‘Exactly. Your soup might just have stopped him packing his bags.’

  At the sound of an engine, we both look up. A small red car that I don’t recognise is pulling up just inside the gate.

  I walk across.

  The driver is a young woman with long brown hair and hazel eyes enhanced by pretty, vivid green make-up. She’s wearing faded jeans, a brown cowl neck jumper and a pale green mac, and a big canvas bag, patterned with green and orange swirls, sits on the passenger seat beside her.

  She winds down the window and gazes at me nervously. ‘I’m looking for Erik. Is he here?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’ My heart starts to drum a little faster. ‘Would you like to come in?’

  Her pale hands remain clamped to the steering wheel, the skin stretched tight across her knuckles.

  ‘Or shall I get him to come out to you?’

  A noise distracts us and we look up to see Erik crunching across the gravel. He moves me gently but firmly from the window and murmurs, ‘It’s OK. I’ve got it.’

  I hesitate, wanting to know who she is. But Erik shoots me a glance and instinct tells me neither of them will speak a word until I’m out of earshot.

  In a daze, the van forgotten, I walk back to the house and stand at the kitchen window, running hot water into the sink and pouring in washing-up liquid. I’m trying not to look but my eyes are drawn again and again to the little red car.

  Erik, on the other side of the vehicle, keeps bending to the window to talk so I can’t see his face.

  Who is she?

  And how did she know Erik was here?

  Perhaps she’s a friend who knows all about me and where I live? Or his sister, perhaps?

  Has he got a sister?

  I suddenly remember. Yes, he has.

  The only reason I know is because Mrs P sometimes mentions her granddaughter, Sharon. Who must be Erik’s sister.

  Erik never really talks much about his family. I know his parents live in Devon and he moved to Surrey when he was eighteen. But the majority of our chat is just silly banter. I often joke he must have Attention Deficit Disorder because when I probe beneath the surface, trying to get a better picture of his life before we met, he tends to get restless and wander off.

  Soap bubbles are frothing up from the bowl and I quickly turn off the tap. I try to wash a cup, but it slips through my fingers back into the sink.

  Erik straightens up and frowns into the distance. Then he walks round to the passenger s
ide and gets in. Whatever is wrong, a brief chat through a window is clearly not going to resolve it.

  The noise of the engine startles me. As I watch, light-headed with bewilderment, the car reverses slowly into the lane, turns and moves off.

  Erik has not looked over at the house once.

  Someone coughs and I spin round. I’d completely forgotten Dan was here.

  He looks at me quizzically but I turn away and go through the motions of washing cutlery. The foam sits on my wrists like frothy bracelets.

  ‘I need to be going,’ he says, apologetically. ‘But if this is a bad time, I can bring the van back tomorrow.’

  I nod but my brain is not making the right connections. Then I remember. He brought me the van so he needs a lift back to the farm.

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ I dry my hands on a tea towel and he holds up the keys.

  ‘Do you want to drive? Or would you rather I…?’

  ‘No. I’ll drive.’ My legs are like jelly as we head out to the van and it’s a relief to slide into the driver’s seat.

  Dan gets in beside me. ‘Are you all right?’ The way he says it, like he really cares about my answer, takes me by surprise and my eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Oh, never better.’ I attempt a laugh. ‘Relationships, eh?’

  He gives me a rueful grin. ‘Can be messy. It’s even worse when kids are involved.’ He looks away for a moment, a sudden tension in his jaw.

  ‘Yes. I’m sure.’ I stare at him, not knowing what to say. He lives alone with Zak. Does that mean he’s separated? Or going through a nasty divorce? He looks lost in his own private torment and I don’t want to pry.

  Then he turns. ‘Anyway, let’s go.’ He raps the dashboard. ‘Home please, driver.’

  I’m so wrapped up in wondering about him, it takes me a second or two to realise what he means.

  When I do, my heart sinks.

  Why on earth did I agree to drive?

  With a grimace, I study the unfamiliar dashboard. Even though I passed my test years ago, I’m suddenly sick with nerves. I’ve now got to drive with Dan sitting beside me, watching my every bad habit.