Green Beans and Summer Dreams. Catherine Ferguson
voice says, ‘Hello, Parsons. Gemma speaking. How can I help?’
I tell her about the mix-up and she says, ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry. Mike’s at a funeral today and I only started last week. Can I get someone to phone you?’
I wait all morning for a call. Gemma contacts me regularly with an update but it’s always the same. She can’t get hold of anyone. Even the boss has gone AWOL for some reason.
Tension bubbles under the surface of her pleasant manner. I suspect it’s only the desire to live up to her new employer’s faith in her that’s stopping her from shrieking, ‘They’ve all just fucked off and left me!’ before snatching up her bag and running for the hills.
My panic is rising at roughly the same rate.
Then just before one, Gemma phones with some news. A lorry will be with me soon after three. My order has apparently got mixed up with a delivery to the juice bar in Fieldstone.
I feel a brief pang of sympathy for the owner of the juice bar. I’ve never tried juicing leeks but I can’t imagine it would have customers clamouring for more.
I thank Gemma and hang up, mightily relieved.
A little later, I’m at Mrs P’s having a soothing cup of chamomile tea when my mobile rings.
‘Isobel Fraser?’ a man’s voice barks.
‘Yes. Who’s speaking please?’
‘Parsons. I’ve got your delivery.’
‘Oh, great.’ I glance at my watch. Two twenty. He’s early. ‘Where are you?’
‘Ah, now, let me see.’ There’s a rustling of paper. ‘Farthing Cottage, Fieldstone. Ring a bell?’
‘Right, well—’
‘Nightmare to find.’
‘Yes, it can be—’
‘Then I get here and you’re not even in.’
‘But I’m just minutes away.’ I scrape back my chair. ‘I’m so sorry – but you did say after three and it’s only—’
‘Look, I haven’t got time to chat. Either you’re here in three minutes or I’m afraid I’ll have to leave.’ There’s a loud crackle in my ear. Grovelling or protesting is not an option. He’s cut me off.
‘Problems?’ asks Mrs P.
‘Oh, not really. They’ve sent the grumpiest delivery driver on the planet, that’s all.’
I make for the door and as I jog back up the lane, I hear Mrs P shouting, ‘Go girl! You’ve got buckets of your aunt’s spirit! You can do it!’
I stop smiling when I spot the lorry from Parsons attempting to turn round in the lane outside my house. The driver is backing perilously close to Midge’s precious gates. Horrified, I break into a run, picturing wrought iron mangled beneath the lorry’s monster wheels. He hits the brakes with inches to spare and starts moving forward again. And that’s when I realise he’s about to thunder off with my fruit and vegetables still on board.
I run into the middle of the road in front of the lorry as it gathers speed, waving frantically, and for a few horrible seconds I squeeze my eyes shut, not sure if he’s going to stop in time.
Or stop at all.
There’s a squeal of brakes and when I open my eyes, my nose is inches away from solid green metal.
I walk round to the driver’s side, my legs as shaky as if I just stepped off a rollercoaster. The window rolls down and I’m staring up at a scruffy baseball cap and a pair of silver reflective shades that seem vaguely familiar.
Oh my God. It’s that horrible man I collided with on Fieldstone High Street – the time I lost Jamie’s tablet. He must have been the driver of that mud-spattered lorry that zoomed off with my tablet on board … something clicks in my brain.
Ha! It’s Mr Arso!
Only the middle letters were visible on the side of that filthy lorry – and the name, now I think about it, must have been Parsons.
I’m about to demand he hands back my tablet. Then I take in the grim set of his mouth and change my mind. There’ll be time later to make enquiries.
I fix on a smile. ‘Hi. I’m Isobel Fraser.’
Be nice or he might leave!
I make to shake hands, before realising I would actually need a small set of step-ladders to reach the cab. I shove my hand behind my back.
‘If you’re expecting me to reverse back up this lane to your gate, you’ve got another thing coming,’ he says bluntly. I can’t see his eyes but I know they’re glaring at me.
‘OK, well, why not just unload it by the side of the road here and I’ll move it myself.’ I smile up at him, pleased at how decisive I sound.
But either his brain or his hearing are sub-standard – or he’s even ruder than I thought – because he completely ignores me, jumps down from the cab and disappears round the back of the lorry. The door swings up and I feel the vibration as he leaps inside and starts thumping trays around.
I hold out my hands to take a tray of broccoli but he pretends he hasn’t seen me, jumps down and lifts five trays off the lorry at once. Then he hefts it up the lane to the house. I grab a box of mushrooms and – balancing it on a tray of red peppers – follow mutinously behind, eyes fixed grimly on the small tear in his washed-out jeans, just below his left buttock.
Suddenly I realise he’s heading for the main gates. ‘Can you use the side entrance, please?’ I call out in a panic.
He nods abruptly but doesn’t turn around.
He’s very tall with huge strides and I have to keep breaking into a girly run just to keep up with him. We march through the side gate and crunch across the gravel driveway. Then he barges round the house into the back garden, straight into the shed.
‘Here?’ He honours me with a glance.
I give a curt nod and he sets the trays on the workbench. Then he strides from the shed without another word.
Stunned, I stare after him. He obviously doesn’t recognise me. Did he find my tablet on the back of his lorry that morning? I’ll ask him when he comes back.
And why the hell hasn’t he apologised for this morning’s mix-up?
I fume a bit more, kicking at some soil with my toe, and when I hear him returning, I snatch up the invoice and get busy checking off the trays of produce as if I haven’t a care in the world.
‘Right, that’s it.’ He thumps the remaining trays onto the bench then frowns at a box on the floor. ‘What are they?’
I stare at his surly mouth. Is he having me on? ‘They’re potatoes?’
Isn’t it obvious what they are?
‘Po-tat-oes,’ I add helpfully. ‘I grew them myself. Don’t they have root vegetables where you come from?’
‘You can’t sell them as organic if they’re not organic,’ he says flatly, ignoring my sarcasm. He checks the produce against the invoice, tears off the top copy and hands it over.
‘But they are organic,’ I tell him smugly.
‘Certified organic by the Soil Association?’
I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about but I do know I have never ever used pesticides of any sort in my vegetable garden. And that qualifies as organic, doesn’t it?
‘I’ve never ever used pesticides—’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ His deep voice is almost a growl. ‘In order to sell produce labelled organic, the land must be certified organic