by Lucy Knott
‘Do you not need them?’ she said, worried that his hands would now get all torn up.
‘Aye, but I’m a brute of a man and I must look out for the lady,’ he said, his Scottish accent back, which took away any urge she had to argue with him on being sexist when he looked at her and bowed dramatically. She liked his old-fashioned manner and the fact that he too had a plethora of accents up his sleeves.
In a comfortable silence Florence and Jo cleared debris from around the barn, creating a small mountain of fractured logs and panels that had fallen off their hinges in the clearing.
‘What is it you do, Florence?’ Jo asked a little while later as they shuffled more rubbish onto their pile.
Florence stood up, stretching out her back and wiping at her brow with the back of her gloves.
‘I actually just got fired from my job. I worked at Paperchains Office Supplies. It was nothing glamorous, but it looked after my nanna and me,’ she told Jo, feeling more at ease in his company as the minutes went by, which made her chest rattle a touch with nervous energy.
‘Is that what you’ve always done?’ he enquired. ‘Forgive me for judging, but you don’t seem like you belong in an office.’
Florence considered Jo, unsure of how much of herself to give away. Yes, he was judging but it unnerved her slightly that he had judged her so well. Her past experiences had made her weary, yet that feeling of ease came again, slowly pushing her anxiety out of the way. There was a calmness to Jo’s voice that lent itself to genuine interest and his judgement had not been rude or wrong for that matter.
‘I was there for five years. Before that I worked at Old Maude’s Theatre in Manchester. I had worked there since I was seventeen doing everything from cleaning to stagehand to props, then I started teaching children’s classes. We did plays and productions – oh I loved it. I loved putting the sets together. The kids helped of course, but seeing their faces when it all came together, watching their eyes light up, it was a dream. The way they pranced, danced and performed on the stage uninhibited, it was a joy,’ she expressed, her voice having grown wistful at the memories. It had been a long time since she had spoken of the theatre or spoken so freely around anyone but her nanna.
She could feel her cheeks ache as her smile grew with her words, then she caught Jo looking at her and quickly turned away. She shook her head and saw to an old mouldy chair leg, throwing it onto the pile.
‘What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?’ His tone was gentle, which felt like an invite for more honesty from Florence than she wanted to give. She suddenly felt like a weight had been lifted off her chest in sharing her memories of her old job. A desire to talk openly grew but so did the familiar fearful tremor in her chest.
‘I stupidly,’ she began in her most practised and posh British accent, ‘fell in love with the art director. You see he was not the art director at the beginning of our courtship, just a young boy who loved the theatre as much as I…’ She was moving between the dirty debris now, almost like she was floating across a stage, with a cheeky smile on her face that appeared between the acting mournful and sad faces when she spoke. ‘Everyone encouraged our relationship. They so wanted it to be, for it would be good for me.’ Her arms went up beside her as she spun around on the spot, her dress twirling at her feet.
Florence clutched her chest, her hair blowing in the breeze, some strands sticking to the sweat on her cheeks as she sung out in a very Pinocchio-like voice, ‘A girl like me must not live on books alone, for a girl needs a real man. I had to get myself a real boy.’ Her eyes met Jo’s when she finished – they were clear and happy – then she tilted her head back and laughed.
When her face met his again, she puckered her lips in thought and a slight flush crept into her cheeks. Then, surprising herself, her voice returned to normal and she continued opening up as if out here in the depths of the forest her secrets would be safe.
‘I was nineteen, we’d spent lots of time together at the theatre and knew each other as kids. I was comfortable around him, so it had all been wonderful and exciting at first, especially with the support of everyone around me. But your twenties are supposed to be a time for fun and experiences and our ideas of fun ended up being completely different. I can’t blame him really, liking different things is not a crime, but he just didn’t end up being who I thought he was. I became a bit of a joke, a prude in his eyes and I guess he felt a need to keep up appearances with everyone at the theatre. His mum and dad being the owners and all, he thought he could sort of separate the two worlds without telling me. I was his girlfriend at work and then he would cheat on me and ignore me in the real world, so to speak. It went on for a while until the girls started showing up to plays and I cottoned on. I think he feared I would make a scene or ruin his reputation within the theatre or his chances with the girls and so I conveniently got fired,’ she said blowing out a breath and flopping onto the hay bale beside Jo.
‘Love doesn’t happen the way it does in our books, Jo,’ she said softly, looking up at him, from her lying position, her words coming out almost as if she were saying them to herself.
Dramatically Jo flew to his feet. ‘Who on earth told you that?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Take that back at once, Florence,’ he said, as he climbed to the top of their mountain of logs and debris.
‘Here I stand on top of the world.’ The planks wobbled precariously, Jo balancing on one of them like a seesaw. ‘And if I should not find a love to take my hand, I shall fall off the ends of the earth and it will be my demise.’
Florence didn’t move. She started at him, her lips trembling with suppressed laughter. Jo edged closer to one side of the plank, making it wobble more violently now. His arms spread out like an eagle to steady himself.
‘One lover’s grasp is all I need – that magic touch will save me,’ he called out making Florence sit up. She held his gaze and held her tongue in her cheek, but still did not move. She had only just met this man. Her body and mind felt torn. She couldn’t take his hand. She hesitated, suddenly feeling silly and confused by how he made her feel, how she had opened up so brazenly and told him all about Ryan and the theatre. He must think her an idiot for not realising sooner that Ryan was cheating on her, or worse he could think her naïve and that he could get anything he wanted from her, for she had just bared her soul so easily. The tremor in her chest grew stronger.
‘One more step and I will never know love’s…’ Jo took another step making the plank lift. Unexpectantly and by the look on his face, Florence thought unintentionally too, the logs rolled away underneath him and down he went, landing with a thud on the mud.
Florence shouted and jumped up, running over to the rubble. Leaning over the scattered debris she saw Jo lying on the ground and winced.
‘You fell,’ she stated.
‘You were supposed to take my hand,’ he choked out, sounding a tad winded.
‘I’ve only just met you. I am not your lover, Jo,’ she replied with a small smirk. He looked so helpless and not at all conniving lying there in a heap.
‘And nor do I think I will ever take one again,’ he spluttered pushing away the logs that had landed low on his stomach and high on his thighs. Florence let out a bark of laughter then quickly covered her mouth. She helped him relieve himself of the logs but stepped back leaving him to get to his feet by himself. She didn’t make eye contact, instead returning to the task of collecting debris. Somehow this action cleared her mind as she concentrated on the lines in the bark and bugs that clung to the mossy planks.
All went quiet until she heard rustling and a few bangs behind her. She assumed Jo was back to concentrating on his clean-up mission too. Neither of them said a word and Florence daren’t glance at him. Minutes passed and her back grew warm under the heat of the sun. Her skin prickled as she sensed Jo’s eyes were watching her, but she didn’t turn around. Had she been a fool to give Jo that piece of her? There was no way Jo – with his charm, his quirks and his acc
ents – could possibly be real because she’d never met anyone like him before.
Nine
The sun had sunk behind the trees by the time Florence and Jo decided to call it a day and leave further cleaning until tomorrow. After clearing the space around the barn, they had moved indoors and managed to tidy away a good portion of the rubble to the point where they could now see half of the barn floor. Their work had been done in a mix of comfortable silence and book chatter. Florence had felt safe talking about books. However, by the time the conversation turned to lunch, she wasn’t one hundred per cent certain that book club had been so safe after all, for she was pleasantly surprised with how well read Jo was, which endeared him to her a teeny bit more. Her mind was saved from overthinking by the fact that they had both skipped lunch, having lost track of time, and were now racing back to the cottage feeling famished. The summer breeze getting caught in her hair was as refreshing as the shade the rising moon was providing.
Florence’s muscles ached and her hair was damp with sweat, but she forced herself to keep up with Jo and his long strides with the incentive that once she stopped running, the best fish and chips she had ever tasted would be her reward at the finish line; so Jo had told her. The other guests must have retired to their bedrooms, for when they reached the back patio and made their way through the cottage there was no one about.
‘Sal, kind sir, can me and ma lady here trouble you for your finest fish and chips at this late hour?’ Jo panted when they reached the café. Florence was two steps behind him. Both looked dishevelled with dirt on their noses and twigs in their hair.
‘If it is not too much trouble, Sal,’ Florence piped up, wiping at her glasses that were speckled with dust.
Sal looked up from cleaning the cake counter. His grey eyes moved from Jo to Florence and back again. Then he let out a hearty guffaw with one hand on his belly. His eyes returned to Jo with a roll. ‘What on earth have you two been up to? And not at all, ma lady,’ Sal said, with a small nod of his head in Florence’s direction. This eased her guilt on bursting in on him and the kitchen staff when they were probably getting ready to close. She smiled. ‘This kitchen is always open. Whatever it is you want, I’ll make it,’ Sal told her, flipping his tea towel over his shoulder and sending a wink her way.
‘Thank you,’ Florence replied, nodding with gratitude. She wiped at her nose with her sleeve, having noticed Sal’s eyes wander over her face in amused confusion. ‘We’ve been cleaning up the old barn. It’s such a beautiful structure. Jo plans on restoring it,’ she added, feeling rather accomplished and part of something. However, that feeling quickly evaporated when Sal’s face immediately turned to stone and he gave Jo a less than favourable look.
‘I’ll bring your food to you,’ Sal said, with not a word about the barn. When he looked at Florence his features had sprung back to warm and friendly. It was almost as if Florence had imagined the anger in his eyes mere seconds ago. When she gulped and looked to Jo, she knew she had not imagined it, for his face was creased with shame and sorrow. He looked down at the counter before swiping his hand over his face, hiding his eyes for a moment. Had she said something wrong?
‘I’ll be over in a minute,’ Jo said, with a smile Florence knew now was very much forced. His eyes did not wrinkle, and his cheek did not make a dimple.
With her head down, Florence wandered over to the same spot she had sat in that morning. She could see the night’s beauty – the moon filling the sky with it lustrous glow, but she could not enjoy it. She had spent one day making friends in the real world, chatting with real people – George, Sal and Jo – and she had already ruined it, said something she shouldn’t have and messed it all up. When she looked up, she saw Jo leaning on the counter. His face looked angry but there was desperation in his eyes as he spoke. Florence couldn’t make out what he was saying from where she sat, but whatever it was, it didn’t seem like Sal agreed. When Sal threw his cloth down on the counter and walked away from Jo, she jumped and looked away feeling guilty for prying.
‘Sorry about that.’ Jo’s voice made her jump again. She pulled her eyes away from the window as Jo sat down. His flamboyant demeanour had vanished and Florence hated the way he looked so vulnerable, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyelids drooping. She had seen that closed off body language many times before in her own mirror and it broke her heart to see it in someone like Jo.
Too exhausted to speak and for fear of saying something wrong, they both sat in a self-conscious silence and watched the shadows creep over the enchanter’s nightshade. It wasn’t long before Sal appeared with two thickly battered fish, freshly fried chips, and a healthy blob of delicious-looking mushy peas.
Jo nodded his thanks while Florence thanked Sal profusely, hoping to make up for whatever she had said wrong earlier, and dived in. The batter melted on Florence’s tongue and the fish was meaty and tender. The chips were perfectly crunchy on the outside and fluffy in the centre and she had half a mind to jump into the muddle of mushy peas; they were so full of flavour she ate them in just a few forkfuls.
Sitting back in her chair, her hunger now satisfied, Florence wasn’t sure if it was the happiness from the mushy peas that had given her a boost of bravery. Fighting her eyelids that were growing heavy and sitting up straighter despite the reluctance from her thighs, which had started to seize up, she cleared her throat.
‘Are you OK, Jo?’ she asked gently.
From under heavy lids, she watched Jo’s eyes narrow and look over her features before he sat up and said, ‘Shall I walk you back lass, or shall I fetch you ya flyin’ carpet?’ His Scottish accent once again scored a laugh from her. However, Florence didn’t miss the fact that Jo had resorted to an accent rather than an answer. She knew that game too well and it was for that reason she chose not to push her question or enquire further about what Sal and Jo’s disagreement was all about.
‘I wish I could fly,’ she said wistfully instead, as Jo stood up and reached out his hand. Florence hesitated for a second. Jo’s hazel eyes shone with a need that Florence felt to her core. She knew that look. Did he need a friend as much as she did? She took his hand and allowed him to pull her up.
When they reached Florence’s hut, Florence went straight for the wicker chair on her deck, collapsed into it and tucked her feet up under her to get comfy. Jo went to his position by the tree, the same one he had taken up that morning. Just as he had done then, he pulled out his book. While Florence gazed up at the sparkling stars, Jo read aloud. He finished the chapter while Florence still inspected the stars. She had a dreamy smile on her face and didn’t see Jo lift his eyes off the book to look at her. Then quietly without looking at Jo she said, ‘Do not worry, little book, I will get him a bookmark and you will not have to suffer any more creases or dog ears.’
Florence heard a faint chuckle from by the tree. Only then did she turn to see Jo looking at her as he stood. ‘Night, Florence,’ he said, tipping his book like a hat.
‘Night, Jo,’ Florence replied and when she could no longer see him in her peripheral vision, something inside her made her turn around to watch him. When he disappeared into the neighbouring hut a couple of yards away, Florence found herself smiling a contented smile as she forced herself up and into her own hut, in need of a hot bath.
The next morning Florence set about her usual routine of waking up just before sunrise and sneaking on to her deck with a cup of tea and her copy of Sense and Sensibility. She wanted to get a few chapters in before the sun came up; finding that she was hoping Jo would come along, for she was looking forward to another day of helping with the barn. Last night she had slept like a log after a thoroughly busy day. Adventure had exhausted her, and she had felt a rocket ship away from being sat behind a desk for eight hours a day. She’d been reminded more of her old job – running around, and performing with the children – and it further cemented her determination to seek out a job in that field when she got back to Manchester after her holiday.
Jo h
ad made for wonderful company and she couldn’t believe how free she had felt when moving around the barn and focusing on the simple task of picking up branches and adding them to a neat pile. After the initial tension she had felt following Jo’s fall from the logs, her mind had not raced or overthought as they spent the afternoon decluttering. She appreciated the respite. However, as she settled into her wicker chair, her mind replayed the looks on both Jo’s and Sal’s faces last night at dinner. Sal had been angry, disappointment evident in his eyes, while Jo had looked exhausted and helpless. Her mind stayed on Jo for a little longer. Here was this handsome man who, when he stood tall and spoke in his silvery voice, looked and acted sophisticated and dapper. But the next minute he would splash on a devilishly charming smile, put on an accent, and be overcome with such enthusiasm and imagination. He didn’t seem to have any regard for society’s rule book for what a man should be, which caused Florence’s stomach to flutter. She felt drawn to him. He was like a character from one of her novels, not unlike his namesake or his namesake’s best friend for that matter, but that thought made her a tad nervous.
As the sun gave life to the fields before her, the emerald blades of grass bold and beautiful with the morning dew, Florence nipped back into her hut. She deposited her book on her bed and raced off to the café in search of her new friend. With it still being early she didn’t bump into Jo on her run or see him in the café. Rather than knock on his door – she didn’t want to disturb him after yesterday’s tiresome work – she thought she would head to the barn and wait for him there.
When she got to the café, the spring in her step became a stumble. She stepped inside tentatively. Sal was at the counter serving a slice of cake and a cappuccino to an elderly gentleman and seeing that he looked jovial, Florence decided to take her chances and act casual.
‘Good morning, Sal, how are you today?’ she asked merrily. Sal smiled when he saw her, all tension from last night forgotten.
