Green Beans and Summer Dreams

‘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.’

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 (#u280aa637-c211-5d70-8486-fff00b654792)

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 (#ulink_8ff25d8c-1129-555e-ba16-7ec20d0dbe03)

‘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.