Green Beans and Summer Dreams. Catherine Ferguson

      ‘I’ve been looking for a box scheme.’ A young woman smiles at me and pats her baby bump. ‘I’m determined to eat organic for junior’s sake.’

      I smile back, my confidence growing. This isn’t so bad after all. If only Erik wasn’t standing there, arms folded, listening to every single word. I don’t even have to look at him to know he’s grinning from ear to ear.

      ‘Do you grow it all yourself?’ someone asks.

      I shake my head. ‘There isn’t enough variety in an English garden – especially during the winter. And I couldn’t grow the volume I need. So I use a company that imports fruit and vegetables from all over the world.’

      ‘But I don’t want broccoli that’s clocked up more air miles than a British Airways pilot,’ is the stern response. ‘How can you justify that?’

      ‘I … erm …’ I rub my nose. ‘I know what you’re saying and it’s something I’ve considered. But the thing is… I swallow. The inside of my head is suddenly as deserted as the Marie Celeste. My brain cells have clocked off early and gone down the pub.

      In the expectant silence, a mobile phone vibrates on mute.

      Erik steps in. ‘I think what Isobel wants to say is that in an ideal world we’d eat produce from local farms all year round. But sadly, that’s not a realistic proposition.’

      I shoot him a grateful look.

      During a lull in customers, I go over and thank him for coming to my rescue.

      All but three of the two dozen leaflets have gone. I can’t quite believe it.

      ‘Hey, no problem. Tea?’ He produces a flask, and pours some into a mug. I take a sip and shudder.

      ‘Too sweet, right? Gran’s a great believer in sugar for energy. Beats me how she stays as thin as a whippet.’ He hands a cup to Jess.

      ‘So do you do this for a living?’ she asks. ‘Are you a market trader?’

      He laughs. ‘God, no. I’m just helping out for the day.’

      ‘But you honestly look as if you’ve been doing it all your life,’ she says admiringly.

      He downs his tea. ‘First time actually. I was a solicitor for a while but it was too much like hard work.’ He glances at me, almost apologetically. ‘So I chucked it in and applied to drama college.’

      ‘Wow,’ breathes Jess. ‘Do you want to be an actor, then?’

      He grins. ‘Well, that’s the idea.’

      ‘Gosh! You might be famous one day. Can I have your autograph just in case?’

      I check her expression for any trace of sarcasm.

      Nope. She’s beaming like a loony.

      I have to get her away before she decides she’s not marrying Wesley after all.

      ‘Well, thanks.’ I hand back the cup. ‘It’s been …’ I tail off and go pink.

      ‘It was a pleasure,’ he says seriously. ‘And if you need any more help just let Gran know and she’ll pass on your message.’

      ‘Er, right. Excellent.’

      He gives me another knee-trembler smile.

      ‘Well, someone has an admirer,’ Jess remarks on our way back to the car.

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He was only being friendly.’

      ‘Well, there’s friendly. And then there’s friendly. If you know what I mean.’

      Driving home after dropping Jess off, I find myself thinking about Erik, and about Jess saying he fancies me. It’s rubbish, of course. He was being nice because I’m Mrs P’s friend, that’s all.

      I’m not even thinking about the business as I go upstairs to the office.

      So when I see the answer machine is flashing with three messages, I nearly faint with shock.

      First is my mother with a long-winded tale about some boxes that need to go in the loft. ‘I cleared out your bedroom, Isobel, because let’s face it you’re so rarely here and I need a dining room. But now I’ve got these boxes of books in the hallway that I keep tripping over. And I can’t possibly ask Bill Next Door to help because he already puts my bins out every second Tuesday, bless him. You know the silly man has a crush on me and I really can’t afford to rub Vanessa up the wrong way. That’s his wife. She used to be a weightlifter, apparently. Or a wrestler, I can’t remember which. But she’s quite gone to seed and you know my opinions on fat people.’ She pauses for a fraction of a second. ‘But anyway, I expect you’re busy so I won’t keep you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll sort it out somehow.’

      The second message is from a woman wanting a taxi.

      And the third is Jess. ‘Just called to wish you luck. Bet you’ve had dozens of orders already!’

       End of messages.

      Sighing I pull my diary over and resign myself to a weekend at my mother’s.

      Then I go down to the kitchen and make cheese on toast, trying to ignore the spiteful voice in my head that’s hissing, See! You were a fool to think you could make it work!

      Sinking down in Midge’s chair, I stare out at the flat, grey November sky. Life is hard and exhausting and I have no answers. I close my eyes and start to drift off to the steady ticking of the kitchen clock. And in that space between wakefulness and sleep, I hear Midge’s voice, as clear as if she’s sitting on the arm of my chair. ‘Get out for a run, my love. It’ll mend your spirits.’

      Long-distance running is something I’ve done on and off since schooldays. Getting back to it feels like coming home. I’d forgotten how good it makes me feel.

      At school I was an awkward, skinny kid; painfully shy, with masses of red-brown hair that made me the butt of many a joke. My hair was healthy and shiny, but it stuck out wildly no matter how I tried to manhandle it with hair grips. I wanted to cut it all off but my mother wouldn’t let me. She used to say my hair was my crowning glory and one day I’d be glad it was glossy and I had so much of it.

      I’m convinced my hair would have made me a target for bullies – but for one thing.

      I could run.

      I didn’t even know I was good at running until Year Six. I wasn’t particularly fast but when it came to long-distance, I had the stamina to run for miles. Some of the kids tried to get out of PE when long-distance running was on the agenda, but for me it felt as natural as walking – and it granted me a sort of kudos with my peers.

      After Dad left, when I was twelve, I started running after school every night, pounding the pavements round our house, dodging shoppers on the high street and circling the grassy perimeter of the local park. I used to lose myself in the hypnotic rhythm of my shoes hitting the ground. People used to ask me why I did it. Turning out on cold, rainy nights. Putting my body through all that.

      I think the most tangible reward was that it provided a structure for my evenings and gave me a sense of control over my life. (Watching TV at home with my mother, who would be up one minute and down on the floor with self-pity the next, didn’t make for a particularly fun home life.)

      Dad lives in Scotland now with his second wife and I go up to Glasgow to visit them as often as I can. Gloria fusses around me as if I’m her real daughter and Dad loves that we get on so well together. He seems far more content now and I’m glad. After the constant hen-pecking he got from the first Mrs Fraser, my dad definitely deserves some happiness at last.

      It’s just a shame my mother can’t see it like that. Despite all the years that have gone by, she’s just as bitter about his departure as she ever was.

      Gloria, Dad’s new wife, is