The Little Barn of Dreams

by Lucy Knott

  ‘I’m sure she understood, and you’re here now. Grandparents sometimes have a funny way of expressing their love,’ Jo said in a way that felt to Florence like he was saying that last part more to himself than to her. Then he stood up and reached out his hand to help her up. Florence smiled and took his hand, jumping to her feet as he pulled.

  ‘Now, stop being lazy when we have work to do,’ he said, grabbing his mop and catching her forehead clumsily with the handle. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ He took a step towards her as she rubbed at her head.

  ‘No, stop! Don’t come too close, Jo!’ Florence shouted. Jo froze. Then a smirk lit up Florence’s face. ‘I might just have to get you back for that one,’ she said, holding one arm between them in warning.

  A couple of hours passed as they saw to washing down the walls and scraping moss from the window ledges when Jo announced he had an idea for dinner. It was getting late and they had spent another full day at the barn, having brought sandwiches with them for lunch. Florence was intrigued, though she would also be perfectly happy with Sal’s fish and chips.

  ‘I say we call it a night,’ Jo said, propping the mop carefully against the wall and gesturing for Florence to take off her gloves to which she obliged, arching her back and stretching out. The day’s work was catching up with her.

  ‘Can you wait until eight o’clockish to have dinner?’ Jo asked, as they walked down the path towards the cottage and the huts.

  ‘Ooh I don’t know about that,’ Florence said playfully, but truthfully. They had eaten lunch around one o’clock and it was currently half past five. She would be in need of a snack or two before eight.

  ‘Trust me? It will be worth it,’ Jo said, a questioning infliction in his voice when he said trust me, causing Florence to glance sideways at him.

  ‘If I must,’ she teased, with a shrug while stifling a yawn. Trusting him with dinner was one thing, but could she fairly say she trusted him as a friend completely?

  ‘OK, great. See you later,’ Jo said and then he ran off towards the cottage leaving Florence to spend a few hours relaxing and attending to her books in her hut.

  Twelve

  It truly was a gorgeous little hut with all the amenities one could ever need. With her hair starting to dry matted and feeling a little shiver in her damp clothes, Florence went over to the tub and began running herself a bath. Drawing the pretty cream curtain over the small window, she stepped out of her summer dress and placed it by the door to hang outside once she was ready to go meet Jo. She then spent ten minutes deciding which book would accompany her in the old-fashioned bathtub.

  The twinkling lights gave the room a warm and cosy ambience and with a touch of extra light from the lamp, her eyes were not in danger of straining when reading. The room was a bookworm’s haven; it even had a shelf over the bath to prop up books. Whoever built these huts sure was a genius. Florence hoped that maybe with Jo around and with the resurrection of the barn, Camp Calla Lily would start to gain some recognition as being a totally luxurious holiday destination. The endless fields, wonderful food and now the addition of these huts, it was the perfect place for adults to relax and for children to let their imaginations loose. Adults too for that matter could come and unwind and get lost in wonderful dreams, for they often more than children needed to allow their imaginations to guide them sometimes. As Florence waited for the bath to fill, a memory came to mind of when she had visited Camp Calla Lily as a five-year-old. She accepted the reminiscence as it came. She remembered staying in one of the rooms up at the main cottage, jumping in the big bed with her parents while her nanna stayed in the room next door. Sometimes she would sneak out in the middle of the night and knock on her nanna’s door, not wanting Margot to be lonely, and climb in bed with her. Thinking over the memory as it came flooding back sent goose bumps over her skin, but a smile found its way to her lips.

  Once the tub had been filled and the bubble bath had saturated the room with a rose-scented perfume, Florence climbed into the water and sank into the bubbles.

  It didn’t take long before she was running alongside Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy, joining them in their Pickwick productions, storming about the attic and laughing until tears sprung to their eyes. With every chapter of Little Women Florence’s nanna had read to her when she was a little girl she had wished for a sister or a neighbour like Laurie, but having her guard up all the time and disappearing into her own faraway lands meant that she struggled to get close to people. Not even Ryan had been able to pass the guards. Only Jo. In thinking of her Jo, suddenly there he was, her Jo dancing merrily with the sisters, a flower in his hair and a broad smile on his face. He saw her watching him and made his way over to her holding out his hand. ‘May I have this dance?’ he asked mischievously, and Florence accepted. They danced through the fields long after Marmee had called the little women in for supper, their dance moves outrageous, their hollers and laughter scaring the birds. They were free and racing down the hill when something smacked Florence in the head causing her to jump in shock. Her bottom slipped on the base of the tub and her head sunk into the water. She let out a shriek and promptly swallowed a gulp of soapy water.

  Her eyes stung from the bubble bath as she flailed desperately in search of her towel. When she found it, she grasped on tight, holding it high so as to not get it wet and dabbed at her face. Feeling a little breathless, she carefully opened her eyes, fearing a spider and was relieved to find a packet of yoghurt-covered raisins floating a top the water. Noticing a shadow, she looked up and let out another frightful cry when she saw Jo was stood with his back to the bath but twisting a hand behind his back holding out her towel for her.

  ‘Jo!!’ she yelled, though a small wash of relief fell over her that he wasn’t an axe-wielding murderer.

  ‘I didn’t look, I promise,’ Jo stammered, his head fixed on the headboard above the bed. ‘I threw them over from the door but then I missed, and you panicked,’ he added. Florence listened and as she did her heart rate slowly went back to normal and she could feel a little laughter bubbling in her belly.

  ‘You, sir, have a very bad habit of hitting me in the head with things,’ she mused, calming her breathing, and feeling thankful for his assistance with her towel, lest she drown in the bathtub alone.

  ‘I was at the door; I couldn’t see a thing and I was aiming for the bath shelf,’ he said, innocence in his tone as he hastily tried to explain himself. But Florence was certain he was muffling a laugh. She had to believe him, for he was standing truly rigid respectfully keeping his eyes trained on the bed in the middle of the room. The laughter crept higher in her belly; she’d never seen Jo’s limbs so wooden.

  ‘Well, you have exceptionally bad aim,’ Florence said, looking down at the snack bobbing about in the water and smiling.

  Jo chuckled, his shoulders moving up and down while his head remained still.

  ‘You can let go of the towel now and please promise me you won’t turn around?’ Florence asked, feeling strangely warm and at ease with Jo’s proximity but also a little chilly with the drop in temperature of the bath water.

  ‘You have my word; I have to be off now anyway,’ he said, sounding slightly flustered as he let go of the towel and shoved his hands into his pockets nervously. Jo took a few strides forward, while Florence tried not to slip in the bathtub. The soapy bubbles made her movements squeaky and slightly perilous, but she made it onto the fluffy bathmat unharmed.

  ‘Jo,’ she said, her voice sweet and melodic, causing him to stop in his tracks.

  She adjusted her towel, tightening it around herself as Jo turned around slowly. The look on his face, the flush in his cheeks and the brightness of his hazel eyes when he did so, caught her off guard and nerves fluttered in her stomach. Did she look a mess? For the first time since she had met Jo, she cared about what she looked like and it didn’t bear thinking about. Her wavy wet hair was probably fuzzy from where she had manically patted her face with the towel. Her lips were most likely pruney f
rom staying in the bath so long. She was grateful for the dim light of the lamp and the twinkling lights that caught the water droplets on her shoulders and hopefully gave her a little healthy glow while her brain tried to figure if Jo’s look was scrutinising in a good or bad way. Deciding lasted mere seconds before she cleared her throat and pushed those thoughts away, for the room was beginning to heat dangerously. She waved the bag of raisins at Jo with a big smile on her face. ‘Thank you for my raisins; they’re one of my favourites.’

  When Jo didn’t speak, it only allowed Florence’s brain to happily take over again. This moment felt like every meet-cute ever written in any book. Jo hadn’t taken his eyes off her, but that was only because she had just made a fool of herself and probably looked like one of those tiny dogs whose hair flattens and sticks to their faces when they get wet.

  Her looks aside, there was something about Jo looking so innocent, his lips slightly parted, his hazel eyes sparkling behind his curly locks and his cheeks flushing a rosy hue that made Florence not want to look away from him either or want him to leave.

  But she couldn’t confuse their friendship. She didn’t do love and relationships; she would only mess it up. And what was she even thinking? Jo didn’t see her like that. He’d just admitted he wasn’t the settling type. They got on so well because, though Jo talked in pretty poetry about her story not having ended yet and her finding her happy ever after, Florence wasn’t silly enough to miss that when Jo had made this grand speech at the ice-cream shop, it was aimed at her, not himself. She had felt that connection, where just like her he believed that everyone else could have love but not himself. And so, she let out a heavy sigh and smirked, rubbing at her forehead where the bag of raisins had hit her, breaking whatever spell had been momentarily cast over her.

  Her smirk seemed to bring life back to Jo and he rolled his eyes with a laugh. Giving her a quick nod, he ruffled his unruly hair, turned on his heels and left. When he did so, Florence’s chest deflated. She rubbed a hand over one shoulder, trying to ease the tension there. Her chest felt tight with a pain she could not place. Anticipation? Want? Need? She climbed onto her bed, the fluffy duvet snuggly against her bare skin, and opened her snack. She chewed on each raisin one at a time slowly and thoughtfully, trying to decipher the feelings fluttering around in her stomach. Was she really craving more than a friendship with Jo? After a good ten minutes, she decided that it was best to deem those feelings as hunger pains and got herself dressed.

  When Florence stepped out of her hut at ten minutes to eight, she delighted to find a trail of sprinkles, like tiny stepping stones for a fairy, positioned along the path. She hungrily followed the colourful strands and what she saw at the end of the trail as she rounded the back of the main cottage was a rather spectacular site. Though not a scrumptious candy-coated house made of liquorice and strawberry laces like the Hansel-and-Gretel-esque trail might have suggested, the roaring campfire surrounded by lanterns, deck chairs and a table that sported an array of tasty-looking dinner options was, in her opinion, far greater. She stood and gawped taking in the woodsy smell of the burning wood in the firepit, her eyes following the wispy smoke as it ascended into the air.

  ‘Ma lady, your dinner awaits,’ came Jo’s voice from behind the flames. He was dressed in a baggy navy jumper and loose-fitting khaki trousers and his hair seemed to bounce a little extra after his shower. Florence smiled when she saw him, her awkward feelings from earlier vanishing with the distraction of the ashes and embers.

  ‘This is amazing,’ Florence breathed as she skipped around the fire, her long flowy baby pink dress swishing as she did so. She cast a look up to the dark sky that was littered with golden stars that were so fluorescent out here in the country it was like someone had painted them individually sparing no expense on their detail. The she tuned in to the calming crackle of the fire. ‘I can’t believe this,’ she said when she stopped and stood by Jo, surveying the options he had prepared for dinner. He had thought of it all: sausages, hot dog buns, burgers, and baked beans. There was even Snickers and marshmallows and fruit to dip in the fondue for dessert. ‘I can’t believe you did this,’ she added, nibbling a pickle Jo had garnished their plates with.

  ‘I remember the boys used to talk about camping at school and how they would tell ghost stories and melt Snickers and you must remember when Tom Sawyer went camping?’ Jo told her with an enthused smile. Florence nodded. She too had heard the girls talking about campfires and s’mores when she was growing up, but she was far too shy to join them at Brownies.

  ‘Sausages or burgers first?’ Jo asked, holding out a silver dish and his cooking tongs in the air.

  ‘Ooh sausages,’ Florence replied, helping Jo unwrap the juicy sausages and popping them in the metal dish. He then put it on the small metal shelf, almost like a cooling rack, he had made over the fire. ‘There’s a lot of food here, Jo,’ Florence noted as she helped herself to another pickle, her stomach growling, seemingly telling her to be quiet as all the food looked delicious and she could no doubt eat it all.

  ‘I mentioned the campfire to Sal when I was picking up the food from the village and I bumped into Mr and Mrs Phillips earlier. To my knowledge they come here every year. They are a sweet elderly couple – you’ll have seen them at breakfast. I told them that they are welcome to join us, and they said they would consider it if they didn’t fall asleep,’ Jo said, with a soft shrug, which made something inside Florence’s stomach somersault. No, she told her mind and popped a slice of tomato in her mouth to quench the troublesome hunger, which she was stubbornly ascribing these unusual feelings to. ‘If I make extra and they don’t make it, I’m sure Sal will rustle up something incredible for breakfast with the leftovers,’ Jo added, keeping an eye on the sausages while opening a big bag of Kettle Chips and placing them in a bowl by two of the deck chairs near the fire.

  Florence took a seat and when she was comfortable, she pulled out her book. With Jo being otherwise occupied with dinner, she felt it was her turn to read tonight. Currently she had three books on the go: Sense and Sensibility, Alice in Wonderland and Little Women, always Little Women. She had been dipping in and out of that book since she was small, her nanna having read chapters to her most evenings, but tonight she had chosen Wind in the Willows from her bedside pile.

  Florence read a few chapters while Jo saw to the food and when the sausages were ready, they made up their plates and sat side by side in front of the fire, savouring the flavours of the scrummy sausages with ketchup and mustard.

  ‘I thought a place like this would never go out of style,’ Florence said after she had finished her first hot dog. She had understood their earlier conversation when Jo had told her that Camp Calla Lily hadn’t been able to compete with the parks offering so many activities. Sitting by the fire, it was an experience so magical that she felt created endless possibilities for kids and adults alike. Imagine stories around the flames while the children made fondue and roasted marshmallows or evenings where adults got to sit and talk under the stars with a glass of wine. It was like heaven to her, and not to mention the huts.

  ‘Do you think if you rebuild the barn, you can resurrect this place, Jo?’ Florence asked, as her mind danced with possibilities. Jo seemed to shuffle uncomfortably on his spot. He looked away into the flames, that flash of worry flitting through his eyes.

  ‘Erm, yes. I think with some new offerings and a little advertising, I believe it could stand a chance. The huts haven’t been here long – that was a start, a step in the right direction – so yeah, I think they can save it,’ Jo said. Then he tucked into his second hot dog, with a mixture of determination and uncertainty behind his eyes. Something gave Florence the impression that he didn’t wish to continue with this topic but then he spoke again. ‘Looking through the photo albums Grandad has, they used to have a campsite, allow people to pitch tents but the washrooms grew too dirty and hazardous and got knocked down some time ago. It looked incredible, a true way to connect with nature
, but people don’t want to pitch tents anymore; they want to experience the outdoors with all the luxury and amenities of the indoors,’ Jo explained while Florence ate.

  Florence’s eyes lit up at the idea of camping and pitching a tent, but she didn’t argue that case with Jo, for it seemed as if he was trying to justify these words to himself, like the more times he repeated ‘people don’t want to pitch tents anymore,’ the more chance he had of believing it himself. She wondered why he was going against his own beliefs and who ‘they’ were.

  ‘So, do you plan on sticking around here?’ Florence enquired, not wanting to press the matter of the tents, which seemed to spark struggle behind Jo’s eyes, as she pinched a few crisps from the bowl. Armed now with the knowledge that Jo hadn’t grown up on the camp, she wondered about his life before finding his grandad again. ‘I imagine it’s a great place for a writer, so peaceful and tranquil. Where did you live before?’

  ‘No, this isn’t my home and my grandad isn’t my biggest fan right now,’ Jo replied sounding a little defeated. The hesitation was back in his voice when he spoke of the camp and George. Florence forced her Uranian blue eyes to remain bright and free of judgement. Did she tell him she had overheard them arguing the other day? Did she ask why George wasn’t happy? But before she could ask any questions Jo continued. ‘I live in London and you’re right, this place is heaven for a writer,’ he added dreamily, though his eyes drooped with sadness. He didn’t offer more information about London and so Florence decided a change of topic might help.