by Lucy Knott
‘Hi, Sal,’ Jo said when they reached the breakfast bar. ‘This is Florence,’ he added leaning on the counter casually and smiling as he gestured at Florence.
‘Nice to meet you, Sal,’ Florence said, giving a small wave.
‘Nice to meet you too, love. What can I get for you two this morning?’ Sal replied in a jolly manner, which made Florence’s grin broader.
‘Please can I get a full English and a pot of tea,’ Florence replied.
‘I’ll get a bacon butty please, Sal,’ Jo said.
‘Will that be to go again, Jo?’ Sal enquired, giving Jo a narrow-eyed look like he was trying to read him.
‘Please.’ Jo nodded, before standing and looking around for a table. Florence followed his gaze and stopped upon a table by one of the large windows.
‘I’ll bring them over. Go take a seat,’ Sal said, so Florence made her way over to the sunny spot and Jo followed. Florence felt silly at the touch of disappointment she felt in her stomach at Jo taking his breakfast to go. It conflicted with her earlier thoughts of wishing he would go away and leave her alone and so she really shouldn’t be upset over getting her wish. Yet, she felt a tug of gloom at the thought of not being around him. Taking her seat, she focused on the smatter of clouds that filtered the sky, for she didn’t want Jo to think she had gotten attached already, when she really hadn’t. She barely knew him.
‘I guess a writer never stops working, even when they’re on holiday?’ Florence questioned, turning her attention back to Jo, who had taken the seat opposite her, if just for a short while. For a moment, Florence thought she saw the brightness in Jo’s eyes faulter. His brow knotted for a matter of seconds before his face bounced back to cheerful.
‘Something like that,’ he said, with a shrug and a wave of his hand.
‘Do you holiday here often?’ Florence asked, when Jo didn’t offer further information about his work. But before he could answer Sal appeared with her breakfast and Jo’s sandwich. Jo stood and bowed graciously to Sal before looking back at Florence.
He dipped into his regal accent and then took a bite out of his sandwich with an air of confidence that made her laugh. ‘Might I suggest that the barn over the hill—’ he pointed out of the window at the direction she should take ‘—is situated among pathways perfect for an afternoon stroll.’ He raised his eyebrows and made his eyes wide before taking a few steps back and bidding her adieu.
Florence watched him leave, her elbow on the table, her lips resting against her fingers, as she did so. She wondered if he had a secret cave or den that he wrote in. The huts certainly seemed idyllic for a writer’s retreat; maybe he came to Camp Calla Lily often to pen his novels. She suddenly felt a prickle of excitement that she must find a bookshop and search out Jo’s name. Though she must enquire as to his last name or ask if he wrote under a pen name first. The thought that she could tell her nanna that she had met a writer made her grin.
There was not a single baked bean or crumb of toast left on Florence’s plate some thirty minutes after Sal had placed it in front of her. She had taken her time savouring every bite and had enjoyed it immensely. It wasn’t until the bacon was right under her nose that she realised she hadn’t eaten since her nanna’s roast dinner last night, and after her train journey and walk, she had been ravenous.
She thanked Sal and waved at the kitchen staff as she left and thought she would take a look at the lounge area and maybe try to catch the old man and make amends for having checked in so late. Maybe after a good night’s sleep he would be in a better mood.
The bookshelves either side of the fireplace accommodated all the classics Florence had adored as a child. All were in beautiful condition, hardback and spellbinding. She absentmindedly traced her fingers over them as she read their titles.
‘You are more than welcome to help yourself to any of the books, my dear Florence.’ The voice from behind startled her and she spun around, having to push her glasses back up her nose to see its owner.
‘Thank you,’ she said seeing George watching her from behind the reception desk, indeed bearing a kinder face than she had witnessed last night. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, not quite knowing what to say at his sudden brighter appearance. ‘This place is beautiful, and I’m in love with my hut,’ she told him when her brain clicked back into gear.
‘I am glad you think so,’ George offered with a warm smile as he continued writing in a book that he had out on the desk.
Taking Alice in Wonderland from the shelf, Florence stepped out of the room and closer to the desk with a question on her lips that she hoped the gentleman would not think her cheeky to ask, now that he was in a warmer mood.
‘Sir, would it be possible for me to use your phone?’ Florence asked, fiddling with the book in her hand. George looked up at her, the smile on his face being replaced by a sad expression, his fluffy brows covering his sorrow-filled eyes. Florence instantly regretted asking and worried that he had thought her request rude. Landlines could be expensive. ‘I’m sorry, it’s no trouble if not,’ Florence started.
‘Of course you can and please call me George,’ he answered hastily as though forgetting himself for a moment, the smile now back on his face. Puzzled by his reaction, it took Florence a minute to take the phone he was holding out to her. She had to step closer, for it was a corded phone and didn’t stretch far from the desk.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, putting her book down so she could dial her nanna’s number. George retreated into the back office, which Florence thought was sweet. She appreciated the gesture of privacy though aware she was standing in the main lobby and people were free to come and go as they pleased.
After three rings, her nanna’s voice came down the line. ‘Hello treasure, what are you doing calling me? I thought you would be off dancing with the wildflowers by now,’ Margot said, securing a laugh from her granddaughter, which warmed her heart. Florence hated thinking of her nanna alone in an empty house. Margot had always encouraged Florence to get out and experience the world. She’d insisted she not lock herself away forever when the world had so many wonders to offer. They would dream big together, talk of the places Florence would visit, then they would get comfy on the couch with a book and the dream would be forgotten. With her nanna’s vivid imagination, Florence felt like she had no need to actually visit another country, for it would appear so clearly in her mind. Quite to her satisfaction, she had vacationed in half of the globe by the time she was nine.
But here she was now at Camp Calla Lily when her nanna was home alone. She knew of course that this had been her nanna’s choice, but still, doing things without her was new territory.
‘I wanted to let you know I got here safe and, Nanna, there are flowers everywhere, they are gorgeous,’ Florence told her, leaning on the desk, gazing at one such bunch of flowers that bloomed in a tall ceramic vase and filled the room with a heavenly perfume.
‘That sounds lovely, my dear. Now all is fabulous here, so please do not worry yourself and go and enjoy your holiday,’ her nanna said and it pleased Florence to hear that her voice was indeed chirpy and did not sound tired or troubled; maybe she didn’t need to feel so guilty.
‘OK, I will but if you need me or anything, I don’t think George will mind if you ring the front desk and ask for me, OK?’ Florence noted.
‘I do not think he will either. I love you, my dear Florence, now go on.’
‘I love you too,’ Florence said, then she placed the phone back on the receiver, shouted another thank you through to George and headed out into the sunshine.
Florence couldn’t bring herself to walk down to the lake just yet. The morning’s daydream had left her with mixed feelings, and she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with them yet. On the one hand the memory had felt like a cuddle around her heart, like she could still feel the kiss in the palm of her hand that her mum had blown her way. And on the other it crushed her in ways she didn’t know how to handle, other than to retreat into her books and wat
ch the world go by.
She was not about to forget the lesson from her walk to Camp Calla Lily, of facing the painful bits to find the gold at the end, but she might need just a couple more days to face that memory. While the sad memories were indeed sad, sometimes the happy ones hurt more – only serving to remind her of the good that had been taken away. The wispy clouds from this morning had since dispersed to allow the pale blue of the sky to shine in all its glory as Florence shuffled along the dusty path in thought. Before Florence made her return to the camp just last night, after twenty-three years away, she had been trying so hard not to block everything out completely, to let people in and to face her torments. People like her friends at the theatre; the kids she had worked with; Ryan, Olivia and Drew had all been given access to her heart. Besides Drew and Olivia, when those at the theatre chose sides and Ryan showed his true colours, Florence concluded that letting people in only further damaged her heart. Since then, her daydreams had become grander and her heart more stubborn.
Cruelly, she knew she kept Olivia at arm’s length. While her friend knew about Ryan, of the heartache he had caused, Florence had not mentioned the story of her parents. No one but her nanna and her school teachers knew. Some stories felt real when you read them aloud and this was one Florence wished with all her heart was nothing more than a twisted, dark fantasy that ended the moment she closed the book.
Instead of the lake, Florence found herself walking in the direction Jo had pointed out earlier. The path was lined with bright pink magnolia trees and the occasional English oak and London plane. All were in full bloom, the pink of the blossoms popping out with the backdrop of the vibrant greens. Everywhere Florence looked there were dog roses, begonias, honeysuckles, periwinkles, lavender and of course calla lilies. She also noticed the benches hiding in the shade and the hammocks swinging in the sun and decided she would stop for a while and soak up some sunshine and read a chapter or two of her new book. It had been a while since she had read Alice in Wonderland and after her big breakfast she felt deserving of curling up in the sunshine with a good book.
Eight
Sometime later, when the pages of the book illuminated a little too bright as the sun moved higher into the sky and made Florence’s eyes sting, she stopped the hammock from swinging with her heels against the grass, and went in search of the barn that Jo had told her about. It was a pleasant walk with the summer breeze guiding her along the path.
When Florence came to a gap in the clearing, she couldn’t believe her eyes. For there nestled behind two large common beech trees was a grand structure. With two turrets on either side waving flags at passers-by, a window on the second floor with a balcony and two gorgeous windows on the first floor either side of a great double barn door. The panels were painted a sunflower yellow with white and mint accents and old-fashioned lanterns hung above the doorway. Inside there seemed to be some kind of gala going on with the music that streamed from the windows. Florence couldn’t possibly enter, for she was not dressed for a ball. She wouldn’t go inside but she most certainly had to peek. Crouching down so she would not be seen, Florence took a step closer when something flew at her and hit her on the forehead…
Florence jumped backwards fearing she had walked into a spiderweb but when she looked down a paper aeroplane lay at her feet. When she looked up to find its pilot, the grand structure was gone, and she saw Jo standing atop a hay bale on the second-floor balcony that was dressed in scaffolding and did not look safe.
Florence reached down, picked up the dusty aeroplane and unfolded it to see words hastily scrawled on it.
“How did you see it?” they read, making Florence smile. She looked up using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Jo was leaning against a haggard window frame wearing loose-fitting jeans, a white T-shirt, thick boots and gloves. It was a more barbarian kind of look in contrast to how he was dressed this morning, but it suited him all the same.
‘Less crumbly,’ Florence shouted up playfully, grinning at him and seeing the barn for what it really was – a little on the run-down side. After Jo’s mention of dragons this morning, she found herself spilling her vision to him with no hesitation.
‘Colourful panels, sunflower yellow with mint ice-cream green accents. Flags waving welcomingly in the wind. A sturdy brass knocker on a big double front door. Lanterns outside every window and fairy lights…’ Florence paused for effect and stretched out her arms ‘…everywhere. This entire space, the whole barn, covered in them.’ She laughed, a laugh that sounded alien to her own ears. It erupted from the depth of her belly and felt freeing as it sounded out through the forest. When she looked back to Jo, he was smiling, his head tilted as if he were trying to picture what she saw. He probably thought her naïve. It would take a lot of work. For starters, the splintered beams had to go, as did the broken panels, the moss and dust and general debris. There was so much to do, and Florence didn’t have the first clue about renovating a barn. For all she knew, one swipe of paint on these panels and the whole thing would tumble to the ground.
‘Should you really be up there?’ she asked. Her laugh lines had been replaced with worried creases as she skipped a little closer to the barn and out of the sun so she could see Jo without squinting.
‘I like the view,’ Jo voiced. Florence laughed again and looked around. The clearing was certainly spectacular. She didn’t doubt that from his viewpoint, looking down on the smaller trees, being closer to the canopies of leaves and getting a bird’s eye view of every colourful flower, was entrancing.
‘It certainly is beautiful out here,’ Florence replied, looking around then turning her attention back to the barn when she heard creaks and thuds. Suddenly, Jo appeared at the spot where Florence assumed the barn door used to be. ‘What happened to this place?’ she asked, moving closer still and pulling a piece of moss off the window ledge.
‘Unfortunately, it’s not been able to compete with the big theme parks, adventure centres, even iPads. Each year we’ve been getting fewer visitors and so this place was of no use anymore,’ Jo explained, gathering up broken pieces of wood and adding them to his bonfire-like pile. A shadow of sadness crossed his features. Florence absentmindedly began passing him bits of rubble and splintered wood.
‘We?’ she questioned.
‘My grandparents own this place. The old fella who checked you in is my grandad,’ Jo informed her. Florence noticed the same flicker of darkness pass through his eyes, like it had done earlier when he spoke of work.
‘He seems troubled. Is he OK?’ Florence asked, genuinely concerned for George. She had much preferred seeing him happy this morning rather than grumpy as he had been the night before.
‘Yes, he just doesn’t like to hear of change. Since my grandma died, he’s not been the same. This place is not the same. He can’t keep up and doesn’t like to hear of help,’ Jo said, throwing a larger plank of wood a bit harder at the pile, his frustration evident to Florence.
‘I’m sorry about your grandma,’ Florence said. ‘And I’m sorry about this place. It’s stunning. I used to come here when I was very little but then we stopped coming and I don’t remember too much about it to be honest,’ Florence confessed, feeling a touch guilty that her family had been one to desert the place too, though not because they had given their business to another place and certainly not because of iPads.
Moving her hands to her hips, she looked over Jo, his attire and the loose curls that kept falling into his eyes and said, ‘So, writer Jo, do you work here?’
He stopped what he was doing and placed a long leg on a smaller pile of wood. Florence watched as he leant forward to rest his hands on his knee. ‘Not exactly. I don’t remember much of this barn either to tell you the truth. Up in the cottage there are pictures of this place bustling with people on the walls. I think they used to hold dances and parties here,’ he told her in a tone that graduated from solemn with a hint of heartache to enthusiastic and hopeful that one day it could be restored to its former sple
ndour.
‘And so, the writer thought to swap his pen for a hammer?’ Florence asked dubiously. She had to ask, for when she looked around there was a lot of work to do and an awful lot of heavy lifting. Jo was slim and his arms were not much bigger than hers, though she could see the muscles in his biceps twitch as he moved the panels, showing he clearly did not lack strength. Catching her looking at him, Jo smiled mischievously at her. Her cheeks heated. He clearly read her lack of confidence in him and for a moment she felt ashamed for judging.
‘I read about it in a book somewhere. How hard can it be?’ Jo retorted, his voice light and playful, as he looked up at her under hooded eyes from his bent-over position. Florence was unable to resist laughing. She bit her lip and scrunched up her nose.
‘Would you like some help?’ she found herself asking.
‘I wouldn’t want to keep you from your books or your holiday,’ Jo said with so much sincerity she was taken aback. She was not used to that genuine tone when most people begged her to remove her nose from her books. She was a little shocked at herself too, when it dawned on her that she wanted to do something other than read.
‘I would like to help,’ she told him sweetly, walking around to collect more fallen branches lying in the barn’s doorway.
‘Take these please,’ Jo said, stopping her with a gentle touch to her elbow and passing her the thick garden gloves he had just been wearing. Florence smiled at his generosity and thoughtfulness.
