The Little Barn of Dreams

by Lucy Knott

  ‘You know, it has been three days and you haven’t shown me any of your work,’ she said, nudging him gently, hoping that talking about writing would lift his spirits. He always wore a smile when they talked about books.

  ‘That’s because I’m yet to have anything published. I’ve been working on a novel, but I can’t seem to finish it,’ he confessed, not looking at her but into the flames. ‘I’m sorry, I seem to have turned this evening to doom and gloom.’

  Florence placed her plate on the ground and sat up straighter in her chair. ‘Nonsense,’ she said, no judgement coming from her lips. When she had worked at the theatre, she used to do an activity with the children when they put on plays. She would go around the circle asking them to each give her a sentence and together they would create a story. It helped her whenever she got writer’s block and it helped bring the shyer children out of their shells as no sentence was wrong and they would all work together and marvel in what they had created together. ‘Tell me the last sentence you wrote,’ she said with great enthusiasm, her heart warming thinking back to her theatre groups.

  Her excitement had the desired effect as after a brief pause where Jo eyed her curiously, he took a deep breath, turned towards her so their knees were touching and told her. Except once the sentence was out of his mouth Jo didn’t stop. Words flew out of his mouth as he unwrapped his novel in fine detail. Florence occasionally reached down and picked up a crisp, chewing it ever so slowly and thoughtfully as she hung on his every word, not wanting to miss the action as Jo spoke theatrically and passionately. Minutes passed. Jo stood, then sat, stood again, then sat again and when he finished Florence demanded, ‘Then what? Don’t stop. What happens next?’

  ‘Well, I guess that would be the end. It would be a cliff hanger,’ he said with a chuckle.

  ‘So then, pray tell, Mr Hadlee, when exactly were you stuck? I think this is more a serious case of procrastination, not writer’s block. Just pick up your pen and write all that down,’ she said waving her hands in the direction of his animated performance that contained all the words for his novel. Jo let out a light and hearty laugh that made Florence beam.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I think you might be right, Miss Danver,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I want to know what happens next, Jo. That poor man, you can’t leave him in despair; he needs you. You have not one great novel but two and they must be written,’ Florence said. She didn’t like the thought of characters being left in limbo. It was ever so hard for her to stop reading if one of the characters was in trouble. She felt she was doing them a great disservice to not continue reading and see them out of it before she got on with her day. Jo smiled and this time his eyes twinkled.

  ‘Can I interest you in dessert?’ he asked. Florence could almost see the thoughts whizzing through his brain through the twinkles.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said, her own eyes glistening under the moonlight and the low flames. ‘Jo, will you promise me one thing?’ Florence felt a rumble of excitement in her veins, but also a touch cheeky asking this question of a writer, knowing that his story was entirely up to him.

  ‘What’s that?’ Jo asked, collecting all the things they needed for their fondue from the table behind where they sat.

  ‘That you give the man a happily ever after,’ she said. Jo considered her a moment and Florence held his gaze. Then he simply nodded casually, a small smile at his lips, as he saw to unwrapping the Snickers. Florence turned away, her own lips curving into a satisfied grin.

  ‘This is the fun bit,’ Jo then announced, handing a Snickers bar to her. They both knelt closer to the fire, stirring the chocolatey treats in the pan until they became a gooey, sweet mixture.

  ‘You should advertise campfires here, Jo. Families would love this,’ Florence noted, reaching for the strawberries and a stick.

  ‘I like the way you think,’ Jo replied, spearing a marshmallow on the end of his stick. Florence hoped that whatever it was Jo and George were arguing about would be resolved soon. From what she could gather, Jo cared about Camp Calla Lily and wanted to see it thrive and George had certainly held on to the place even when it wasn’t profitable and had fallen into disarray. She believed that together they could bring it back to life. In that moment she certainly felt as if it had brought so much life back to her.

  It was there by the fire they sat chatting and quoting their favourite lines from books until the fire had burnt out and every trace of chocolate had been scooped out of the pot by eager fingers.

  Once they had tidied away and cleaned the pots and pans in the cottage kitchen, they made their way back to their huts, Jo dropping Florence off outside hers first. In saying goodnight, Jo casually leant in and kissed Florence’s cheek. The spark that sizzled as his lips grazed her skin meant he lingered longer than necessary but neither of them pulled away and Florence found that her eyes closed, savouring his touch.

  ‘Night, Jo,’ she whispered, her eyes still closed unaware that Jo stood watching her, his feet not functioning properly.

  ‘Night, Florence,’ he said just as she opened her eyes. Florence felt her cheeks flush and she took a step back feeling embarrassed. Her feet became rather interesting as she reached out for the door handle. She could feel Jo’s gaze on the back of her neck. Had she just made a fool of herself again?

  ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ she croaked, with a brazen nod as if shaking herself from her thoughts. ‘Tomorrow, I’m going to paint the barn and you are going to write. And that is an order,’ she stated, reverting to her clear and playful tone before slipping inside her hut.

  Jo bowed with a cute smirk, which she caught as she turned to close her door. When he smiled like that she so wished life came with a narrator so she could hear the thoughts going on in his head.

  Thirteen

  For the first time in a long time Florence had missed the sunrise and had had to skip out on reading her book, for when she woke her clock had informed her that it was already past nine a.m. and she had a lot of work to do today. She had thrown on her puff-sleeve flower-patterned dress and made her way hastily to the café to pick up two butties and then galloped to the barn. Jo was nowhere to be found and she found herself smiling at the memory of last night, staying up late reading under the stars and enjoying his company. He had put a lot of work into dinner. She felt he too deserved a lie-in, what with all the stress and pressure he was under to help his grandad and get this place up and running while finding time to write his great novels. A shadow always crept over his face whenever he discussed his grandad and it worried Florence. Maybe George was worried that Jo was spending too much of his energy on the barn when he needed to concentrate on his job as a writer and getting published. Florence wondered for the first time what Jo did to keep himself afloat; maybe George was struggling to pay him, and it was causing a rift between the two of them? With his grandad being all the family Jo had left, it pained her to think they didn’t see eye to eye, when it was clear Jo loved this place just as much as George did and was only trying to do what he thought best.

  After their thorough soak of the barn, as well as themselves, yesterday, the wooden floor was looking exceptionally sparkly and the place looked a far cry from the depleted shack it had resembled only a few days earlier. But they still needed to sand down the good panels before they could be painted, and they could breathe some life back into the walls and make them shiny again. Jo’s butty had gone cold by the time Florence had sanded down the barn doors and the two panels either side, as there was still no sign of him. He must have needed the rest, Florence thought. However, as lunchtime rolled around worry had crept to the forefront of her mind, so much so that she ventured back to the huts to check on him.

  She knocked lightly on his hut door but received no answer and so she walked a little around the back and peeked through the tiny window, where she saw him sat at his desk looking exasperated, his hands in his hair and talking to a woman who was perched on the edge of his bed. Florence’s stomach p
erformed an uncomfortable lurch, her eyes grew misty and she darted as quick as she could away from the window and up to the cottage. Collecting herself on the patio, she took in a few deep breaths of the glorious fresh air and shook her head. There had been no need for such a ridiculous reaction to seeing Jo, otherwise occupied with a woman other than her. He was a companion, a friend, an acting partner; he was allowed to have a girlfriend. At the mere thought of the word girlfriend, a wave of queasiness hit Florence hard. She was not girlfriend material; she knew that, and it was clear Jo didn’t see her that way either. Had she wanted him to? The thought made her clutch her stomach and her eyes sting. These were not feelings she was used to.

  A shuffle of feet behind her made Florence jump. She turned to find George walking on to the patio with a newspaper in hand.

  ‘Is everything OK, my dear?’ George asked, sounding sprightlier today than when she had seen him last.

  Florence raised her head with confidence, thrilled to see the old man out of his office and enjoying the sunshine and also feeling grateful for the distractions he gave her from her silly thoughts of wondering who the woman had been in Jo’s hut and how it made insecurity swamp her.

  ‘It most certainly is, George. It’s stunning out here,’ she answered clearing her wobbly throat and forcing her words to sound merry. George had problems of his own; she didn’t want to burden him. The fact that the scenery was indeed stunning, and the leafy green trees were swaying in the warm breeze, the birds singing upon their branches, helped with Florence’s merriness. She didn’t have to try too hard to smile. ‘How are you today?’ she asked, her discomfort from mere moments ago dissolving the wider George’s grin grew as he matched her gaze in looking across the fields. Love for the land was evident in his green eyes, the trees reflecting in their hazel hue.

  ‘I’m well thank you, Florence,’ he said, sounding a little unsure of that statement but not expanding on this fact. ‘What have you been up to this morning? I see you dancing around the grounds just as you did when you were a girl,’ he added, glancing over to her this time. ‘Those crystal blue eyes of yours are full of just as much magic as they held when you were tiny,’ he added, with a look that told Florence this pleased him greatly. It was a shift from the night she had checked in when she thought he must think of her a prize idiot talking of magic carpets. ‘I hope I didn’t embarrass you the night of your arrival, my dear. That was never my intention,’ George said as if reading her mind. ‘I’m afraid the day had been rather challenging, and I took that out on you; for that I am most sorry.’

  Florence was taken aback by the words that came out of George’s mouth. How had she not remembered him when he remembered her? Of course, he would have been here when she was a girl. The camp had been in the Hadlee name since long before she came along.

  ‘Forgive me for not remembering you, George. My memories of this place have been under lock and key for quite some time and if ever one did escape, I have to admit they were never very fond,’ she told him truthfully, her hands intertwined nervously fidgeting on her lap.

  ‘I know, dear, and that is quite all right,’ he returned, placing a caring hand on top of her hands and giving them a squeeze. With this action, Florence didn’t feel the need to explain herself, like somehow, she knew George understood her reasons. ‘Your nanna told me as much. Now, do tell me of where your dances have been taking you these days,’ he said, his eyes crinkling when he smiled at her.

  Florence looked up feeling overwhelmed by his warmth and his revelation of knowing her and her family. She didn’t mean to ignore his question, but she backtracked on his mention of her nanna.

  ‘You have spoken with my nanna.’ It came out more like a statement, but she had meant it as a question.

  ‘Ah yes, Margot is a dear friend,’ he said, wistfully, making Florence smile with the fondness in his face when he said her nanna’s name. ‘We have never lost touch all these years. That is why you must forgive me, dear girl. I was anticipating your arrival and promised Margot I would look after you, but I have not been myself.’ He looked down to where his hands lay over hers, the shame rising on his features.

  ‘Don’t be silly. I understand. It was late; we all have those moments. It brings me so much happiness that you know my nanna. I apologise we’ve not been back here for some time,’ Florence started but her words trailed off, for she didn’t know how to finish that sentence. With George being so kind she felt guilty for having hated the place and sad that her nanna had feared it so much that she had stayed away from her friend.

  ‘Oh, I will hear none of it. Life happens. I talk to her most every day. I believe she will come back here in her own time. I will not push her,’ he said, raising his hands. With a small shrug, he smiled cheekily. ‘Though I know she does a lot of pushing. I do hope that her pushing has served you well, for it brings me great joy to see you exploring this land again. I have not quite made my mind up on your spending time with my charming grandson admittedly,’ he said, his bushy brows raised with his playful tone, making Florence laugh, but something else fluttered in her stomach. Why had Margot never told her about George? They had been friends all these years and her nanna had never cared to mention him. Florence felt the urge to enquire about their secret friendship but the cheeky look on George’s face squashed down any demands she had to know why her nanna had been hiding it from her.

  ‘Is that what you call him? I would call him trouble,’ she teased back. Their banter and understanding of each other comforted Florence and allowed her to slip back into easy conversation rather than get caught up in secrets.

  ‘Yes, I have called him that before too,’ George said and though he smiled a flash of sadness passed over him when he spoke of his grandson.

  ‘He has a beautiful imagination,’ Florence said, hoping to keep the conversation fun and thinking that maybe George just needed to be told how wonderful his grandson was and then he might not be so mad at him for whatever it was he was mad at him for.

  ‘Arrgh, yes, that imagination of his. Where has it taken the two of you this week?’ he enquired making Florence smile. How nice it was to be surrounded by people who encouraged imagining. At the same time, a flash of guilt washed over her that she had spent her life living with her nanna, who never made her feel silly for her wild ways, while Jo had been in foster care, his grandparents unaware of his whereabouts and Jo missing out on their love and encouragement as a result. She pushed her glasses up her nose, collecting her thoughts, not wanting to upset George with them. ‘We’ve been out by the old barn,’ she answered. It seemed that Florence could upset George even when not talking about Jo’s upbringing, because at the mention of the barn, his face fell and hurt clouded his eyes.

  ‘Ah, the old barn. Don’t you be getting lost in that barn now, Florence. There’s plenty of other things to see and do,’ he said, putting on a cheery smile.

  ‘But Jo says that he’s doing it up to help this place. If we revive it to be like the good old days, then maybe business will pick up,’ Florence said, unable to hide the glee in her voice and really wanting George to be on board with Jo’s great idea. Is that why Jo had been getting so frustrated with his grandad? Because George didn’t believe in his vision?

  Before Florence could stand up for Jo and explain how if the barn were up and running, they could hold dances and events and entice a new generation of families, George spoke. ‘Is that what he said?’ Though it came out more like a disbelieving whisper more to himself than Florence; then he shook his head.

  ‘Don’t you be worrying about the camp, my dear. That’s my job. Now, do you not have other places to be than sitting here chatting to an old man?’ he said with a chuckle, letting Florence know that he didn’t want to discuss that topic further and leaving her to wonder what on earth he meant by: “Is that what he said?”

  ‘It’s been lovely chatting with you, George, but yes, I’d best be off. Can I get you anything from the village?’ she asked, standing up and feeling a fresh
wave of determination to complete all the jobs on hers and Jo’s to-do list. With or without Jo, she wanted George to have his lively camp back and to rid himself of worry. And maybe, just maybe, if they could bring the good old days back to the barn, Florence could get her nanna to come back too, which she had a feeling would make George see that it was all worth it.

  ‘No, I don’t think I do, sweetheart. Have a pleasant walk dear and do be safe,’ he said. Florence could feel her cheeks burn with a slight flush at the warmth in George’s voice in knowing and not judging her walking habits. She curtseyed, feeling free to be herself before heading in the direction of the road.

  The walk to the village felt a little longer without Jo by her side reading and entertaining her but it was beautiful nonetheless. It also gave Florence time to think and calm the emotions that ambushed her earlier. She wasn’t one to get attached so easily and Jo had come out of nowhere on her holiday and made for such great company that she had unmistakably become a tiny bit attached. Once she reached the village, she had settled her mind on being slightly jealous over seeing him with another woman who may or may not be his girlfriend because she had gotten so used to having him all to herself. And she admitted that him not turning up at the barn had upset her; leaving her to all the jobs that morning had been somewhat disappointing. She had thought him more thoughtful than that – that was all.

  But it was no bother. Florence had invested herself in the barn and wanted to do her bit in the renovations before it was time for her to leave on Saturday morning. It felt extra special now that she knew George and her nanna were good friends. It gave her a new goal of getting her nanna back here again and securing George’s future. Those thoughts kept her mind focused on the task at hand.

  Jo had told her the day before that the paint order was going to be available to pick up from the corner shop today, so after popping in to say a quick hello to Ella at The Vintage Bookshop, she called in to check if it was ready. Expecting to find maybe two to three cans of paint, Florence was shocked to see there were six rather large cans. She had clearly underestimated the size of the barn and had maybe been a tad overzealous in her plan of carrying the paint back to the camp. She stood for a few moments, lips pursed, hands on her hips as she tried to come up with a plan to get the paint back to the barn in one smooth run.