Green Beans and Summer Dreams. Catherine Ferguson

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.’

      A thought occurs. ‘Pecan Nut and Raisin Crunch?’

      ‘My very own recipe.’

      I stare at her. I’ve been enthusing about those biscuits for ages – and they started their days right here, in Mrs P’s kitchen?

      Half an hour later, I head home with a bag of the famous cookies and a new enthusiasm for the box scheme. It’s a gamble pouring what little money I have into a venture that may or may not pay off. But sometimes you just have to take a risk.

      Jamie might have no faith in me to succeed on my own.

      But I’m determined to prove him wrong.

       NOVEMBER

       Shit, shit, shit, shit, shite!

       Whoever described gardening as relaxing was either lying or rich enough to employ someone to do it for them. I truly have reached the end of my tether this time.

       Mind you, I thought I’d reached it in May when the rabbits – toothy little buggers – breached my defences (well, my fences, actually) and made short work of all my beautiful lettuces.

       And again in July when my leek crop failed.

       But now the beautiful golden onions I harvested in October and stored in the garage (a cool, dark place, the article said) have all rotted away. I kept cutting into them and they were all black and slimy in the middle. Every single one. So now, instead of a lovely crop that will last me through to spring, I’ve got a box of horrors not fit to feed to Old MacDonald’s pigs.

       I’m normally calm and rational. I faced a classroom of hormonal teenagers every day of my working life, for God’s sake, and hardly ever ran out of patience.

       But seriously, I want to cry with frustration.

       Later

       I’ve decided to be philosophical about the onions. Gardeners learn by trowel and error, after all. Next time, I’ll make sure I dry them thoroughly before I box them up.

      Right now, it’s freezing outside and sleet is turning the already wet soil to mud. But I’m feeling surprisingly content, sitting in my favourite old chair in the warm, lamp-lit kitchen planning the coming year (a large gin and tonic close by). I can’t believe how enthused I get these days, looking at pictures of seed packets. Truly, give me a seed catalogue over a copy of Vogue any day of the week.

       Oh Lord, what has my life come to?

       Chapter Four

      ‘Thanks guys. Drinks are on me. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

      I hold the pub door wide and everyone trudges in, glad to exchange the raw November night for a seat and a chance to thaw out.

      ‘It’s so exciting.’ Jess squeezes my arm. ‘Just think of all those people reading your leaflet when they get in from work.’

      I grin. ‘Or chucking it in the bin with all the other junk mail.’

      I’m trying to stay calm but my insides are more jumpy than Mr Motivator overdosing on blue Smarties. We’ve trudged along every street in Fieldstone, posting my little flyer through letterboxes, and all but a handful are gone.

      Peter offers to get the drinks in and I push money gratefully into his hand. The bar is two-deep in people waiting to be served. It’s been a long day. All I want to do is collapse into a seat and wait for the feeling to come back into my feet.

      Peter and Anna head for the bar, squabbling good-naturedly about something. Anna aims a fake punch at his stomach, which he nimbly avoids. Then he grabs her and she rests her head for a moment on his shoulder.

      I feel a stab of loneliness. Whatever else was wrong with our relationship, Jamie and I could always make each other laugh.

      Jess goes off to the ladies and I’m left alone with her fiancé.

      Wesley is director of a small IT company that is struggling to establish itself in the industry, and he works extremely long hours. Anna refers to him as The Lesser-Spotted-Wes because a sighting of him at a social occasion is as rare as clapping eyes on a golden eagle flying up Bond Street.

      Now, he mutters something that sounds like ‘table’ and strides off, possibly in search of one.

      I follow him and sink gratefully onto a banquette. ‘Thanks for helping, Wesley. I’m so grateful.’

      ‘No problem.’ He glares at his beer mat. ‘If you ask me, there should be a hell of a lot more support available for small businesses. But then, what can you expect with this shower in office?’ He shakes his head at the carpet, thoroughly aggrieved.

      ‘Mmm, yes,’ I murmur, trying to think of a response that won’t betray my total lack of interest in politics. I can’t come up with anything, so I say cheerily, ‘Well, I’m determined to give it a go. Nothing ventured and all that.’

      He