by Lucy Knott
Maybe it was sheer exhaustion from the day’s events, the fairy-tale-esque vibe of Camp Calla Lily in the dark of the night or the smell of the camomile tea that filled the room as it brewed, but Florence found herself feeling strangely determined. Cupping her mug, she walked back to her bed and settled on its edge. Could she find closure and solace in this holiday after all?
Six
Florence woke with the sunrise the next morning feeling rested and refreshed. Her dreams had been as vivid as always, clearly depicting little ones running around in epic homemade costumes, laughing with pure glee as they acted out scenes – last night it had been scenes from Peter Pan, and it had been wonderful. She stretched her limbs like a starfish and made to open the cream curtains so she could watch the sun bloom into the sky.
As she moved across the hut, its full beauty became evident in the new light. The craftsmanship was stunning, no detail left unspoken for. The beams on the ceiling arched with smooth curves and were painted to match the outside of the tiny house. The knobs on the two kitchen cabinets and the small dresser were vintage and made of shiny ceramic and those too were painted a gorgeous pastel pink. Next to the potted calatheas and Boston ferns, a small pale pink, slightly rusty watering can rested on top of a stool. Florence walked slowly, pausing at each of the features, before filling the kettle on the stove to get the water boiling for tea. While she waited, she took great delight in feeding the plants from the cute watering can.
Whoever had designed these huts had thought of everything. If it had been the old man, she wondered why he had been so grumpy. He should be proud, Florence thought. Though no childhood memories had yet sprung to mind, Florence knew that these houses had not been here when she had visited before, not least because her nanna had told her they were new but because she didn’t believe that she, her mum or her nanna would have ever wanted to leave if they had seen them. It was like every bookworm’s dream, a tiny hut so peaceful and serene with the perfect amount of cosy to make you want to cuddle up inside. With a coffee table, or treat table as she liked to call them, stacked high with books, and the fact that the huts themselves looked so unassuming and rather cute, resembling garden sheds, no one would bother you for days.
The thought made her cheerful as she stirred a teaspoon of sugar in her tea and collected Sense and Sensibility from the pile of books she had set out on her bedside table. She’d needed to place some books on the floor, worried that the tiny table might topple over with the weight of them. She made her way to the light oak door. The door was like a piece of art with fine ridges and natural knots. Florence paused a minute before opening it just to admire the work.
With her book tucked under her arm and teacup aloft, Florence peered her head around the door to check for any signs of movement. She was conscious of not making too much noise. She didn’t want to wake the old man or those staying in the distant huts. With the coast clear she crept out onto her decking and was immediately blown away by the vast land that spread out before her. Under the glow of the rising sun the deep green grass glistened with morning dew. The pink and white magnolia trees, of which there were many, gifted the breeze with a sweet aroma and she could just make out a lake that shimmered in the morning light hiding at the bottom of the rolling hills. Florence wished her nanna had come with her. She missed her so and it didn’t seem fair that she was enjoying this view without her. Maybe once Florence explained how she had conquered a piece of her fear and how beautiful the camp was, her nanna might feel inspired to try and conquer hers too.
Taking a seat in the egg-shaped wicker chair that was canopied by the nearby pink Jane tree, Florence opened her book and read while the birds sang aloud.
The next time she looked up, the sun had made its full appearance and seemed set on providing another glorious summer day. Florence coloured for a moment, ashamed of the luxury that had been bestowed on her on a Tuesday morning, when she heard a voice from behind her.
‘Hello,’ the voice said softly, timid in its approach and sounding from a distance as though the person was opposed to scaring her or intruding on her reading.
Florence shot up from her seat and turned around, suddenly aware that she was in her strappy cotton nightdress that reached just above her knee, but the man did not survey her body, his eyes were trained on hers. Instinctively though, she clutched her book over her chest for comfort.
‘Hello,’ she replied, feeling apprehensive. The man was disarmingly handsome with curly brown hair and a heart-shaped face. He wore trousers, not jeans, and a white shirt that was crinkled, rolled up at the sleeves and seemed a little too big for his slim frame. He looked away to the Jane tree and when he returned his gaze, a smile spread across his features. It was kind, but his hazel eyes displayed a glint of mischief.
‘I wondered if you needed storage for your magic carpet, ma lady.’ He spoke with an Irish accent and a sudden confidence that made Florence’s wall go up.
She clutched her book tighter, confused. She had not heard or seen anyone in the main cottage last night except the old man. Had George already warned the other guests of the strange new visitor?
‘Don’t tease me,’ Florence said, boldly, the hurt and humiliation of Friday night at the bar still fresh in her mind. This time, however, she would have to stand up for herself – not having Olivia or Drew by her side.
‘I would not tease,’ the man said, stepping forward. He had his hands in his pockets and a smile still danced on his lips. Florence did not care for the smirk.
‘Then don’t mock me. I don’t care to be mocked,’ she countered, narrowing her eyes, her lips pressing together. Then she turned around. Florence felt a small rush of irritation with herself and with the man. She did not mean to be rude to the stranger, but nor did she want to engage in his playful banter. ‘I don’t desire a Mr Grey and I’m not going to be your Anastasia Steele,’ she added, getting straight to the point. She kept her voice monotone and uninterested as she returned to her seat and opened her book, needing the comfort of its pages.
‘I should think we would have to get to know each other better first, love.’ No longer Irish, the man spoke with a thick Scottish accent as he stepped under the tree, a few feet away from her at the side of the decking. Florence looked up. Despite herself the change of accent gave her pause and she had to fight to keep her lips from curving. His words had come out so robust and full of alarming disgust at her insinuation. She had wanted to laugh. It was clear that he hadn’t been thinking anything of the sort. When that thought registered in her mind, her cheeks coloured at having been the one to bring up Mr Grey.
Shaking away her awkwardness, she carefully placed her bookmark between the crease of her book and half closed it, keeping her fingers between the pages so she could return to it the minute she got rid of this annoying man.
She looked over to him. He stood tall under the pink flowers, one hand gently touching the branches, the sun highlighting his sharp cheekbones. He caught her watching him and their eyes met again.
‘I take it you are on vacation, ma’am?’ he asked, again with the Scottish accent that had Florence trying to decipher whether the man was really Irish or Scottish. The cheeky glint seemed to falter for a moment as he looked away from her and to the sky, like he too knew the question was a tad silly.
Florence turned back to her book. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ Again she forced the words out cold in hopes that he would take the hint and leave. The man shrugged and squinted his eyes across the fields. When he didn’t move, Florence chanced a quick glance at him, her big Uranian blue eyes widening with curiosity at his calm stance and the way he stretched his long limbs to lean against the high branch of the tree; then she returned to her book. The atmosphere was restful. Being miles away from the city she could hear no cars, no people, just the peaceful chatter of the birds, but the man was disrupting her view.
‘Have you taken up being a tree?’ Florence said, without looking up but sensing the man had still not moved. She could
feel him glance her way now, but she kept her head down. She wanted to get to the end of her chapter before going for breakfast.
The man ignored her comment.
‘I think I shall join you, for you make such friendly conversation and are a delight to be around,’ he said, now in a distinguished British accent. Florence had to fight harder this time to keep from looking at him. Who was this man?
When he sat down at the base of the beautiful magnolia tree and pulled out a battered copy of Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations, Florence gasped. She hadn’t even realised she had been looking but she had a sixth sense when it came to books and a desire to know what everyone was reading. Yes, that was what had made her look over at him for the third time.
‘What on earth have you done to that precious book?’ she demanded, her eyes bulging, forgetting for a moment her intention of being uninterested in anything to do with the man. He smiled. Florence quickly looked away. She didn’t catch him looking at her with fascination. She could not know of the thoughts going through his head, for he did not share them with her. But there must be many thoughts racing through his head. For one, he could surely tell by the way in which she perched her book so gently on her knees and by how she delicately turned the pages that she might not care for his wayward ways.
‘Books are to be loved,’ he said, with no false bravado, as he looked the book over in his hands.
‘You and I clearly have very different ideas of what love is,’ Florence stated. She didn’t miss that the man’s voice came out calm, his accent southern with a gentle cockney lilt, making something inside her stir. Thinking it safe to glance at him again, with his nose buried in his book now, she looked over only to find him gazing at her. A moment passed between them before they quickly cast their eyes down to the pages before them.
Blinking away the world she had been immersed in, Florence looked up to find herself running along the lake. She had her imaginary horse beside her, and she was giggling with childlike glee. Wildflowers, daisies, and dandelions carpeted the field around her, and pebbles washed up along the grassy verges. She paused, stroking her horse’s long mane before picking up a pebble and skimming it across the water. The pebble didn’t ripple; it simply hit the water with a loud plop and sunk. Undeterred she ran along further in search of another stone. Catching the chatter up ahead after a few paces, she looked up to a bench that stood underneath a large oak tree. There sat her mum, dad and nanna and so she stopped and waved. Her mum blew a kiss making Florence laugh as she jumped to catch it. Her mum then rested her hand over her heart, smiling over at Florence, joy etched on her face from the pure happiness that could only be elicited by the sweet sounds of her baby girl’s laughter. Filled with love, and content with her family watching over her, Florence stayed playing with her horse, finding a spot in the long grass. They sat down and plucked at the daisies, collecting them to make a crown. Suddenly a loud crash startled her…
Florence blinked again and shifted uncomfortably in her chair. When her vision became clear she realised there was a man kneeling in front of her, his hazel eyes flickering with concern beneath his dark curls and he was holding the teacup that she must have knocked to the floor.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, her voice trembling, a blush rising in her cheeks as her brows scrunched up in irritation. She had only just met the man and already he had witnessed her silly haze and clumsy actions. Why did her mind do this to her? ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘Just a silly dream – you should have woken me.’ She was not altogether out of her stupor and looked around anxiously. He was too close. His eyes were too searching. Embarrassment washed over her. His eyes looked sad, like he was embarrassed for her. She cringed, wiping the sweat off her brow.
‘I thought it would be rude to disturb you,’ he said, placing the cup and saucer back on the armrest and standing. He didn’t move away but Florence couldn’t make eye contact. Why wasn’t he moving away?
‘I’m sorry, just a vivid dream – embarrassing I know. It wouldn’t have disturbed me. You can go now,’ she tried, still looking at the ground, her words coming out rushed.
‘You could have been fighting off dragons for all I know and one distraction from me and one might have eaten you alive,’ the man said, as he took a step back. With him not towering over her, her jaw relaxed.
The battle between Florence’s stubborn heart and her lips was proving fierce. Her lips betrayed her and curved slightly as she looked up, a long way up from her sitting position. She squinted at him in the sunlight, touched by his words. Florence had spent her childhood being admonished by frustrated teachers whenever she disappeared into a daydream. Even now Olivia always seemed more worried than intrigued by them and like the lady on the train and George at the reception desk, people often thought of her as weird. No one other than her parents and her nanna ever asked about her dreams or cared to venture a guess as to what she could see.
The man stood patiently as Florence, with one eye closed and her lips pursed to one side, considered a bee that flew by. She had been rattled by her dream as it had all felt very real. She had known it would happen given time; she simply hadn’t quite been as prepared as she had hoped. Now her irritation had settled, she was grateful to the man for his distraction. A little hesitantly she stood, so they were mere inches apart, which made Florence laugh when she came level with his chest.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, tucking her book under her arm, and tilting her head skywards.
He took a step back, considered her for a moment, and bowed. ‘The name’s Jo – J, O.’ He said, raking a hand though his hair to tame it as he returned to standing. Florence had the urge to reach out and mess it up again.
‘Should you not be enjoying your holiday in your own hut or off bothering other holidaymakers?’ Florence teased.
‘I don’t believe bothering others would be half as much fun as bothering you,’ he replied, all side smirk and dimples.
Florence couldn’t hold back; she swatted him and cracked a smile as she did so. Curiosity got the best of her and she let her guard down just a touch.
‘Jo, as in Jo March?’ she asked with a quirk of her brow.
‘The very same.’ He nodded, surprising Florence.
‘Why Jo?’ It intrigued her.
‘My mum had high hopes for me.’ He nodded, with a wrinkle of his nose and a casual shrug.
‘As a writer?’ Florence rocked forward on her bare toes.
‘As a writer,’ Jo confirmed leaning forward, hands in his pockets.
‘Arrgh, so you are not to get caught up in the nonsense of men…’ Florence started, finding her posh accent coming through as she relaxed in Jo’s presence.
‘Women,’ Jo interrupted, with a boyish grin.
Florence continued, ‘…women then, and you should be off in an attic alone somewhere scribbling away, not disturbing me.’ She grinned back, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.
‘But where would the fun in that be?’ They were both now grinning at each other, Florence looking up and Jo gazing down.
Florence gave a thoughtful, ‘Hmm, so you are named after a girl?’
‘One of the very best,’ Jo contended.
‘And that does not bother you?’ Florence probed, rocking on to her tiptoes, for her neck was beginning to ache looking up at him.
‘Not at all. Does it bother you?’ Jo answered, curving his shoulders, and leaning down having noticed her standing on her tiptoes.
‘Why would it? Jo March is my favourite.’ Florence beamed.
They stood quite content in smiling at each other trying to figure the other out, until Florence’s stomach drew their attention with a gurgle.
‘You are hungry,’ Jo commented.
‘You are perceptive,’ Florence teased, surprising herself. ‘I am hungry, and I am also Florence,’ she said, sticking out her hand for him to shake and smiling when he did so. Then she turned towards the door and disappeared inside her hut.
Seven
Jo was sat swinging on the bench that hung from a large thick branch of the magnolia tree when Florence returned from inside her hut after getting dressed. He looked up when he saw her, and Florence noticed that his eyes always went straight to hers rather than scanning her body. It made her instantly relax and feel like she could be herself around him.
‘Are you ready for the best breakfast you’ve ever had?’ Jo asked, giving his eyebrows a little wiggle. Florence’s stomach gave another rumble as if to answer for her.
‘I think that’s a yes,’ she said, Jo’s smile rubbing off on her.
Jo led Florence up to the main cottage, which burst with colour in the daylight. They walked across the patio area where Florence had walked last night but instead of continuing in a straight line that would lead them to the reception area at the front, Jo turned right, which took them to a room with high ceilings and gorgeous large windows carved out of the stone that encouraged the sunlight to pour in and fill the room with its warm glow. The tables were mismatched, different colours of wood, shapes, and sizes. Plant pots that were home to pretty primulas and tulips created space between the variety of chairs and sofas. When the sun caught the petals, the prisms of light bounced from flower to flower almost as if they were saying hello.
The smell of bacon frying and crispy toast with melted butter made Florence’s mouth water and pulled her attention to the corner of the room where a sign above the countertop read “Calla Lily Café”. Behind the display of cakes Florence could see the chefs in the kitchen happily chatting as they prepared each breakfast. There were five tables occupied, each with couples who looked to be a little younger than Florence’s nanna. Florence smiled at them all as some sat deep in conversation whilst others sat reading the newspaper, passing pages to their other half when they were done.
