by Lucy Knott
‘Let me load them into my truck, Florence. I can close up for a minute and take you back,’ Roman said from behind the register. Florence appreciated his kind gesture greatly but that didn’t stop her palms clamming up.
‘No, it’s OK, thank you, Roman. I have an idea. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Is it OK if I leave them here?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ Roman replied, in his laid-back manner. Florence liked the village. In contrast to Manchester where everyone was in a rush with their heads down or eyes glued to their phones, here in Lily Pines everyone made eye contact and treated you as though they had all the time in the world to chat to you; she was really going to miss it.
Florence nodded her thanks, headed out the door and dashed over the road to the small fruit, vegetable and plant shop that had trolleys.
‘Hi, would it be possible for me to use one of your trolleys to deliver some paint to Camp Calla Lily? I promise I will bring it back,’ Florence asked. The woman looked Florence up and down – something she was not used to in this village. Everyone had been super friendly all week, at least to her. She remained suspicious about the looks they had been giving Jo. But when the woman opened her mouth, the reason behind her judging eyes became clear.
‘Are you Jo’s girlfriend?’ she asked causing Florence to let out a nervous chuckle as she stood fiddling with the strap of her shoulder bag. Oh boy, did she have to wait for an answer? Could she not just get the trolley and leave now?
‘N-no, I’m just staying at the camp,’ Florence stammered, looking over at the trolleys to encourage the conversation back on topic and so her mind did not wander back to Jo’s hut and the woman sitting on his bed.
‘Do you know if he has one?’ The woman was not done with her interrogation of Jo.
‘I think he might,’ Florence said, softly, not wanting to upset the woman. She seemed keen on Jo; maybe they knew each other from when Jo was a boy. Maybe they played together at the camp or maybe they had gotten to know each other since Jo had come back to Camp Calla Lily over the last year?
‘Are the rumours true?’ came the lady’s next question. Florence deepened her already pensive brow, puzzled by such a bold question.
‘What rumours? I’m afraid I’m only here on holiday for the week. I’m not aware of any rumours,’ she politely told the woman.
The woman slowly gave her the once-over again and seemingly deciding that Florence was no longer threatening, she smiled and leant forward.
‘I’ve seen you two popping into the village. I thought with you staying at the camp you might know something, or you might be one of them.’ She spoke in a hushed tone now.
‘One of who?’ Florence enquired, matching the woman’s quieter tone.
‘One of those big-shot architects in London. All we’ve heard is that Jo’s come back here with plans to buy out his grandad and sell off the land to one of those glamping traders. Poor George is beside himself. Jo has been in and out of the place for the past year. First those huts popped up and I’ve seen the occasional suit nosing about the village. I thought you might have been one of them, but I should have realised you weren’t. I love your dress by the way.’ The lady finished with a warm if not conflicted smile. The passion for the village was evident in all the shop owners here and by the swirling anger and hurt twisting around in Florence’s gut, she could understand the women’s inquisition. She too felt protective of the village, after just three days, and even more so of Camp Calla Lily. These rumours surely had to be false. She didn’t want to believe she had read Jo all wrong, but then again, she knew she shouldn’t have been reading him at all and should have stuck to her books, for reasons exactly like this. She had let her guard down and look what good it had done her. No wonder George had been sad, and Sal had been angry when she had mentioned the barn. Jo was doing it up to sell it off. He was going to sell their livelihood. How could he?
‘I’m not a big-shot architect and I don’t believe that that is Jo’s intention with the place,’ Florence managed, feeling a little shell-shocked. Why was she still sticking up for Jo? Maybe a part of her thought that if she did, if she believed with all her heart and said it out loud it would make it true. But she couldn’t silence the warning bells in her ears: how George was always so edgy and disgruntled whenever he spent time with his grandson. The sadness in his eyes whenever he spoke of Jo. The renovation of the barn. Jo knowing exactly what to do when building. Jo not having completed any books and the lady in his hut this morning. It all made sense now. How could Florence have been so foolish? The first day they had met he had said he needed to go to work. He wasn’t a writer, he was working on the barn. He was an architect, a builder. Florence could feel the blood pulsing uncomfortably around her head making her feel dizzy.
‘I hope so,’ the woman said with a gentle sigh. ‘Help yourself to a trolley. I trust you,’ the woman added making Florence blink and shake her head from her stupor. Realising there was a customer behind her, Florence nodded at the woman in thanks and left, her brain ticking over with how she was going to face Jo when she got back to the camp.
As Roman helped her load the cans into the trolley with an amused look on his face at Florence’s idea, Florence felt miles away. It was probably just small-village gossip and nothing more. Jo would not do that to his grandad, not when he knew how much the camp meant to him, the history his family had there. He couldn’t possibly; it would be cruel. Upon heading into the village Florence had had the intention of grabbing a bite to eat, having not had lunch yet, but now she didn’t feel so hungry. She thanked Roman and rolled her trolley past the pub, the smell of delicious everyday roasts not quite having their usual inviting effect, and trudged on in the direction of the camp.
Fourteen
Florence rubbed her thumbs over the handle of the trolley feeling irritated. Her brow was sweating in the summer sun, which was blazing down on her from another cloudless sky. The camp was quiet with no one about, but she spotted him straight away. Sitting on the deck chair with his hands behind his head lounging with his feet up. Jo had a strange smirk on his face, one that severely lacked its mischievous and sweet charm. Without hesitation, Florence marched up to him.
She cast a shadow over his slim frame, blocking out the rays making Jo sit up and acknowledge her. He didn’t greet her with his normal playful accent or kind grin, but with a look of annoyance.
‘Are you going to sell this land? Are you really a writer or was that story yesterday all a ruse? What are you doing here, Jo? Tell me the truth!’ Her voice came out strong and forceful as she held her head high, not wanting him to see the sadness this was causing her. Jo flew out of his chair with a menacing look on his face. His eyes were icy and cold, making Florence’s lips tremble and then he tilted his head back and laughed, an evil laugh that…
Suddenly a car horn blared, and Florence caught herself just before the trolley made contact with the car’s headlights. Lost in her own head she had swerved onto the road. She stopped still for a moment to calm her heavy breathing and catch her breath, then scolded her brain for thinking such vile thoughts of Jo. She shouldn’t overthink or jump to conclusions; she simply had to find him and talk to him.
When she arrived back on the campgrounds, she headed straight to the barn to drop off the paint and not finding Jo there, she then went in search of him. Florence wasn’t sure what she would do if she found him with the woman again or if they were still occupied in his cabin. Did she have a right to knock; to burst in and demand the truth? But what if the smartly dressed suit was his girlfriend and not just a big-shot architect? Florence couldn’t be so rude as to intrude on their time together.
Florence need not have worried about the woman in the suit, for when she got closer to the cottage, she saw Jo walking towards her, his hair dishevelled and grey shadows under his hooded eyes. Her anger shifted for a few seconds as his tired state drew concern from her.
‘Florence, there you are. I have been looking all over for you. Are you OK?’ Jo as
ked, his voice sounding desperate, lacking any of its usual confidence. ‘Grandad said you had gone to the village; you shouldn’t have walked all that way on your own.’
‘I’m not some damsel in distress, Jo. I am quite capable of walking by myself,’ she snapped, quite surprised by her boldness. She narrowed her eyes at him, but when she looked at him, his warm hazel eyes and rosy cheeks disarmed her, causing her not to feel quite as brave as she had felt in her daydream. But when she thought of George, anger rose in her chest and she stepped forward. ‘Why do you not listen to your grandad? Do his feelings not matter to you?’ she asked. She had thought Jo cared about him and after all he had told her about his mum, she would have thought that he would take care of his grandad, him being the only family he had left.
‘I listen to him all the time,’ Jo answered with a smile. Could he not see she was upset? His smile threw her off. Was this funny to him?
Florence stepped forward, stabbing Jo in his chest with her finger, not wishing to be lied to anymore. Emotion swelled in her chest making it rise nervously. ‘No, you don’t. Why do you not do as he asks of you and respect his wishes?’
‘I’m confused. What’s going on, Florence?’ Jo asked, not stepping back, or cowering at her touch. He reached out like he wanted to comfort her, put an arm around her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. At least now he showed some empathy.
‘Who was that lady in your hut this morning? Why did you leave me to the barn all by myself? And why, Jo, have you been lying to me all week?’ she further probed, walking forward, giving Jo no choice now but to step back. She’d never spoken to anyone like this before, but all her worries were spilling out. She didn’t like the idea of her and Jo keeping secrets. Then suddenly her eyes grew misty.
‘Are you a writer, Jo?’ Florence asked, her voice returning to its regular soft tone, but replacing its usual lilt of wonderment was vulnerability.
‘Yes,’ Jo said.
‘And?’ Florence urged.
‘And I’m an architect,’ Jo went on with a sigh, placing his hands on Florence’s shoulders, and bending down so he was eye to eye with her. Though the movement stopped her having to crane her neck into the sunlight, she did not wish to make eye contact or for Jo to touch her. Again, Florence shrugged him off and took a few strides away from him. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Florence. It was stupid of me, I know. I just…’ Florence didn’t want to hear excuses; she cut him off.
‘Are you buying this land off your grandad?’ she asked. He took a step closer to her, but she turned her back. She didn’t want comfort, she wanted answers.
‘No, but I want to…’ Jo tried to answer.
‘So, I’ve been helping you with your evil plan all along and you didn’t tell me? You’re not rebuilding the barn for your grandad, you’re doing it for you so you can flip the place, sell it and take it away from him. I can’t believe I fell for your whole act,’ Florence said, pacing now, her lips wobbling but an underlying note of anger carried in her tone. Florence wasn’t sure who she was angrier with, Jo or herself for believing him.
‘Fell for what exactly? What evil plan? Florence, would you let me explain and not just take the village gossip as the whole truth for just a minute?’ Jo asked, walking over to her now, determination in his strides. But Florence’s stubbornness was not to be messed with. She continued to pace and not look at him.
‘Your plan to rid your grandad from this property and sell it just to make money. You were just indulging me in my madness so I wouldn’t tell him or maybe you had a shred of sympathy for me and wanted to let me enjoy going down memory lane while I still had the chance before architects come in here and modernise this place, destroy its charm and its legacy,’ Florence said, turning to look at him now with a defeated shrug, her eyes wet. After having avoided this place for the past twenty-three years, she couldn’t quite believe how much this whole debacle was upsetting her. But in the last five days the place had sunk into her skin and she’d felt more alive and contented here than anywhere else. Even the occasional flicker of her parents’ faces in her mind when she looked out to the lake or wandered by the benches under the blossom trees were now bringing her more peace than grief. It was the last place her family had all been together. She needed Camp Calla Lily.
‘Florence, is this the part in the story where the two leading characters have a big misunderstanding and either never speak again or kiss and make up after realising their mistakes?’ Jo asked, when she finally gave up to his gaze.
‘Do not do that. Don’t make fun of me, Jo,’ Florence said. Her voice came out so small and quiet that Jo scrunched his nose and bowed his head seemingly understanding the gravity of her hurt now. But then how could Florence be sure he understood her at all anymore?
‘Florence, you know in your heart that I would never make fun of you. I’m an architect and I have been for the last nine years. For the last few years, I had been getting caught up in these massive projects, modern glamorous affairs, high-rise buildings and such. I didn’t start out with those projects but once I’d done one and experienced how lucrative it could be, I’m ashamed to admit, I got sucked in. The project had gone well, and I was proud to be sought after. I felt like I’d made something of myself.’ Jo’s words came out fast, he was barely taking a breath.
‘I’ve dreamt of being a writer my whole life – I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree – but I was terrified. I didn’t want to become like my mum and so I buried the desire to write and focused on other things. The creative in me turned to drawing and then a need to build what I drew grew and so that is how I became an architect and somewhat of a builder. Small projects I can build. I don’t actually get to work on any of the high-end projects, but maybe one day. I came back here for my grandma’s funeral and it gave me a little respite from my life in London. When I saw the camp in such a shambles, I thought I could help, take a year to build and create, maybe have more time to write, and help my grandad. The minute I heard you talk of magic carpets you inspired me and when I saw you, I felt like I didn’t have to hide who I wanted to be, who I saw myself as. Then when I introduced myself and you assumed I was a writer because of my mum’s choice of name, I just went with it. I’m sorry I kept a part of me from you,’ Jo told her, his eyes never straying from her face. When he paused, he stood a little taller and Florence simply watched him breathe air into his lungs not quite knowing how to respond.
She drew her brows, trying to process what he was telling her.
‘I’m not buying the land from my grandad. I wanted to give him money to help with his debts, but he refused to take it. The other option was to sell it on. Kirsty, the lady you saw this morning, gave him a great deal. She owns Luxury Acres, a hotel and spa chain and glamping company. Look, this place has been in disarray for quite some time now; the glamping trade would give it a new lease of life. He’s mad at me all the time because he is stubborn and doesn’t want my help but if we don’t do something now, he will fall further into debt and the campgrounds further into ruin. I wish we didn’t have to sell it but it’s an amazing deal. Her company have been looking to expand their sites and think this would be a perfect spot. I’ve been working on the modernising as much as I can myself with the huts, wanting to renovate the barn to keep the Hadlee legacy on the grounds and she said Grandad can still work here and live here, that not much will change bar the management and hopefully a rise in customers,’ he added, panting a little when he stopped as he had been following in her pacing.
Florence rubbed the back of her neck; it felt a tad sore from looking up and over at Jo for so long, then she looked at the grass and then over to the magnolia trees to bide her time before she spoke. She felt dumbfounded by all this news and rather regretful that she had jumped to conclusions and had been so hard on Jo. Her nanna would have been disappointed in her for not having kept an open mind and for holding such judgement against the friend she had come to know. She didn’t like what he had told her about having to se
ll the land, but at least now she knew why.
‘I’m sorry for being mean and for judging you, Jo. Please forgive me,’ she said, her voice coming out slowly as she broke the silence and returned her eyes to his gaze. Then she closed her eyes and let out a breath, holding a hand to her chest where her heart was pounding. Her emotions were running high today and she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. ‘Though, I wish you would have told me that you are an architect.’ She pushed her glasses up on to the bridge of her nose and looked at him. ‘As well as a writer,’ she added with a small smile.
At first, Jo didn’t return her smile. ‘I don’t think it’s you that should be saying sorry. I should have told you. I’ve just felt so far away from that world since being back here, I kind of liked it,’ he confessed. Florence couldn’t argue with that, for she too felt miles away from the shy, quirky Florence who skirted around Manchester skittishly, afraid of everything and everyone. She liked who she was at Camp Calla Lily.
‘So, you really have to sell it?’ she asked, her shoulders sagging.
‘I don’t have a choice. The upkeep of the land costs too much. We can’t afford to pay anyone to run it and Grandad’s getting old. Sal tries his best but it’s too much,’ Jo replied with a heavy sigh.
Florence looked out across the rolling green fields. It had not occurred to her how expensive the land’s upkeep would be or the cost of keeping it afloat and in the Hadlee name. With no customers, how could one man keep the flowers blooming and the gardens maintained year-round? The thought saddened her.
