The Little Barn of Dreams

by Lucy Knott

  Florence let out a giggle. ‘I like your take on brunch,’ she said, her eyes wandering over the chocolate cake and doughnuts, the strawberries, the cheese and cucumber sandwiches and the ice-cream that was tucked into a small, cooler compartment. Jo gave her a little wink and passed her a pretty pastel yellow knife and fork set. That reminded Florence of the huts and how each one was a different pastel shade. She imagined the others also had their matching kettle and watering can and teacups inside too, like hers did. With so much swirling through her mind over the last twenty-five hours, finding out Jo was an architect and their argument, Florence couldn’t bring herself to disappear into her new book just yet.

  ‘Why did you choose pastel colours for the huts?’ she asked, lifting her head up and looking at Jo.

  ‘Pastel colours, they make me think of new beginnings. They’re fresh and happy and bring clarity to the mind,’ Jo answered quietly, handing her a plate with a chunky slice of cake on it, which was covered in multi-coloured sprinkles.

  ‘Do you think when you go back to London you’ll get back to the smaller projects you love, like making children’s dens?’ Florence questioned, nodding her gratitude as she carefully put her book on the cushion next to her and took the cake Jo was offering.

  Jo nodded, modestly, and took a bite of his cake. He didn’t jump to speak right away and so Florence took delicate nibbles of her cake as she savoured its gooey texture and rich chocolatey goodness while she surveyed him. Then she smiled and nudged him playfully. ‘Jo, you can talk about your work you know. I’m not going to think you are showing off or you’re being egotistical. I want to hear about them. You’ve done a magical job and I can only imagine the beauty of the playhouses you made,’ she said, her eyes encouraging and warm. Jo returned her smile and gave a look that suggested to Florence she had just read his mind.

  He took another bite of chocolate cake, thoughtfully before, hesitantly, he began to speak. ‘If you would have met me in London, I don’t think you would have liked me much, Miss Danver,’ he said with a shake of his head.

  ‘Whatever gives you the impression that I like you now, Mr Hadlee?’ Florence teased and giggled into her cake. Jo bowed his head and licked his lips, hiding his smirk behind his fork. ‘Sorry, do continue,’ she said, forcing her face straight and her tone serious.

  Jo rolled his eyes playfully.

  ‘London is incredibly fast-paced. In my world it can be competitive, driven by materialism. There’s something tranquil about the pastel shades, something innocent and childlike that filled my mind with possibilities. I wanted to create castles and princess houses for adults.’ Jo told her all the while Florence sat up straight, her legs crossed, taking in every word as she munched on cake and felt Jo’s passion in her own veins.

  ‘Oh, Jo, that’s amazing. They’re the finest and most darling huts and I dare say they are simply capital,’ Florence gushed, with a wink that made Jo blush, but then her face fell sombre. ‘You’re really going to give all this up, hand it over and go back to London? What will become of your novels when you’re thrown into the rat race once more?’ she enquired, thinking that his life in London sounded very unlike him and full of people who didn’t quite understand how his mind worked or appreciated his fashion choices. People Florence was all too accustomed to herself.

  ‘Even if I finished my novels, Florence, who’s to say they would get published right away, if at all? I have to make money. This place isn’t making money, I can’t support my grandad with no money. And I have a life in London, a life I should get back to,’ Jo said, pushing a bite of cake around his plate. As Florence took in Jo’s drooping eyes and solemn features, she felt it best not to debate Jo’s decision. She could feel a tension in the air, how when talking about the future of the camp, it seemed the life was sucked out of the trees as well as Jo. The summer breeze stilled, and the birds paused their chirping. It was as if the grounds were in limbo, not quite sure of the next move and when they could breathe again. He was right, he had a life he had to get back to just like she did, however that didn’t stop her brain from running away with her and dipping into her imagination, hoping to smooth out the worried creases in Jo’s forehead and maybe, just maybe give him some ideas that would make him rethink Camp Calla Lily’s destiny.

  ‘Can you imagine…’ Florence started, her voice soft and airy; a few sprinkles scattered over the rug as she disappeared for a moment, her eyes glazed over, her plate tilted, ‘…a story trail around the grounds? Imagine taking the little ones on a bear hunt or roaming the fields with the one you love in search of love letters stored in mini post boxes hidden in the trees.’ Goose bumps rose on Florence’s arms at what she thought a rather brilliant idea. Passion filled her voice, and she was sure Jo rubbed at his forearm too. Was there hope left yet?

  ‘I love that idea, Florence,’ he stated, finishing his last bite of cake and shaking his head. His eyes were large with a mixture of amazement and disbelief.

  ‘What?’ Florence questioned.

  ‘I think you’d be better running this place,’ he said giving her a meaningful look before retrieving two small bottles of milk from the hamper and passing one over to her. Suddenly, Florence could feel the weight of Jo’s worries. She couldn’t possibly run the camp; she would be terrified of running it further into the ground. No, she would have to trust Jo. The new owners would look after it and restore it to its former glory. She would visit and everything would work out. She gave a wry smile. ‘Hmm, you should pass that idea on to the new owners. Tell that lady about the huts. They could be used for “The Three Little Pigs”.’

  ‘I will,’ Jo noted, clinking his bottle against hers in a melancholy cheers.

  Florence looked around at the quilted tent, in between the thick tree stumps, over at the pretty flowers and up at the canopies of leaves and blossoms, letting out a sigh and breathing in the fresh air as she did so. She felt it best to change the subject before both she and Jo were lost in the depths of despair of not quite being able to save Camp Calla Lily the way they would have liked. But Jo was doing his best and Florence had no doubt that all his efforts would pay off and that Kirsty would help restore the camp to the quaint, quirky, and enchanting place it once was.

  ‘You should be writing,’ she quipped.

  ‘You should be reading,’ he retorted.

  Their stomachs now full of chocolate cake with little room for much else just now, Jo turned over to lie on his stomach, scribbling away in his notebook, and Florence retired to her book. They indulged in the quiet for a long while until Florence’s eyes grew sleepy from focusing so diligently on the tiny words and she thought it would be nice to rest her head on the cushions inside the tepee. Closing her book, she crawled along the rug and into the quaint enclosure and lay back, delighting in the shadows of the trees and blowing leaves she could see on the canvas. It was a few moments before Jo joined her, having had to wait for his pen to pull away from the paper, for his words had been flowing.

  They lay side by side. Just their breathing and birdsong could be heard when Jo glanced at Florence and noticed her eyelids begin to flutter. He reached out and held her hand.

  ‘What can you see?’ Jo whispered.

  Florence squeezed his hand and after a brief pause wistfully expressed that she could see: ‘This, exactly this. Blankets, cushions, forts and lessons in the forest.’

  Seventeen

  The hours ticked by in a pleasant daydream of reading chapters aloud from every book, some of which they even acted out. Logs became shipwrecks, carriages, and caves. The tepee became the rabbit hole where they found the Mad Hatter and offered him a sprinkle-covered doughnut. The forest floor became an elegant ballroom with all the space in the world to dance until their feet grew sore. And when finally, the sun began to set, the candles and fairy lights lit up the night sky as if the princess had found her way home and was where she was meant to be.

  Florence helped Jo tidy away the rest of their picnic, which had all been perfect an
d delicious, and they sat back on the cushions to watch the flames flicker and enjoy what the night now had to offer; the creamy moon, the mass of glittering stars and the hoots of the owls in the trees.

  ‘I feel Manchester is going to be appear noisier now than before,’ Florence said with a small chuckle, her chest deflating slightly at the thought of leaving the camp behind. She was ridiculously excited and ready to see her nanna, but she wasn’t all that thrilled about her forthcoming job hunt and the interview processes. She would do it though. She would always do what was necessary to look after her nanna, no matter how much meeting new people terrified her. Those formal interviews always made her sweat. They felt so forced and like everyone was just trying to say the right thing and Florence never knew what the right thing to say was. Maybe this time luck would be on her side and she would find something that she was actually good at and enjoyed. Being around Jo and talking about her love of theatre and working with children had certainly given her a small confidence boost to at least look for work in that field.

  ‘Aye,’ Jo replied, with an Irish lilt, making her giggle and distracting her from her worrisome thoughts. ‘Don’t you settle, miss, you make sure ya follow your rainbow – it’ll lead ya to your pot of gold,’ Jo added, with a flash of his cheeky grin.

  ‘Do you think we could actually sleep out here? Or will bears eat us in our sleep?’ Florence asked when her laughter died down.

  ‘Bears for sure will eat us, especially if they know we’re full of cake and doughnuts,’ Jo replied casually, ensuring further laughter.

  ‘I think we should be fearless like Belle and brave the beasts,’ she said with a grin as she curled herself up on the blankets and rested her head back on a blue and gold patterned cushion. ‘You never know, the bear could like books and simply just want to sit and read.’ Her eyelids flickered as Jo propped himself up on his elbow, seemingly studying her with his piercing hazel eyes that dazzled like emeralds under the candlelight. Heat ignited in her stomach.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, her voice a touch hoarse.

  ‘Just looking at you,’ Jo said innocently, wearing a soft smile.

  ‘Well don’t,’ Florence said, forcing a little chuckle, but his gaze was doing something to her.

  ‘Wait, so you can look at me, but I can’t look at you?’ Jo harrumphed with laughter in his tone, but there was a serious flicker behind his eyes. ‘But what if you’re rather beautiful to look at?’ he added, filling the atmosphere with a static-like charge.

  Bells chimed in Florence’s head, though not the wondrous melody of wedding bells, or a clock at midnight ringing in the New Year, more like alarm bells and those of a screeching fire drill.

  ‘Florence,’ Jo said, his voice now a little raspy. Florence’s pulse quickened. A loose curl fell over one of his eyes and she had to resist the urge to want to tuck it behind his ear, for her hand would be too close to his flushed cheek, and she knew in her gut that to touch him would be dangerous.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, her voice matching his.

  ‘I would really like to kiss you.’ The words hung thick in the atmosphere. Florence’s breath caught; their eyes remained locked. Did he just say he wanted to kiss her? Surely not. She wasn’t someone men wanted to kiss. But Jo wanted to kiss her. He had asked so eloquently and gently that her heart had skipped at least two beats. She wasn’t in some dream. He had actually said it, but did she want to kiss him? Did she want to be kissed by Jo? Abruptly, Florence sat up making Jo wobble on his elbow. When he steadied himself, he sat up so that their faces were mere inches apart.

  ‘We can’t,’ she whispered, her eyes drawing to his plump bottom lip as her mind wandered with great curiosity over what it would feel like pressed against hers.

  ‘We can’t,’ Jo repeated. Then his eyes narrowed in confusion.

  ‘No, we mustn’t,’ Florence agreed, with herself, despite the flutter low in her belly and the lump in her throat telling her otherwise.

  ‘We mustn’t,’ Jo again echoed. This time he gave his head a small shake making his curls flop across his face. ‘I like you, Florence, and I know that I’m not a physical specimen of a man with a six-pack and bulging muscles or a stylish suit-wearing lawyer or fearless knight or powerful king.’

  ‘Jo, stop, please,’ Florence said, taken aback by the insecurities that fell from Jo’s lips. To her Jo was beauty and brains and everything she would want in a man. Sitting up straighter and putting a hand on his chest, where his heart was beating erratically, she cried and shook her head. ‘Stop being silly, Jo – those things, you think you have to be those things. You’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘But I’m not. I’m not like those men, Florence,’ he started.

  ‘Of course, you’re not, Jo; you’re you as you should be,’ Florence interrupted, sounding maddened.

  ‘Then what is it?’ Jo asked. ‘Am I an idiot? I’m so stupid. You don’t like me in that way? I’m so sorry, Florence. Forget I said anything.’ Jo raked a hand through his hair and looked away embarrassed. Florence was having a hard time keeping up with his questions as her brain tried to decipher what her heightened pulse and her hammering heart were trying to tell her. She didn’t care for Jo thinking so little of himself, but words were failing her miserably.

  She took her hand away from Jo’s chest, hoping that would make her think straight and looked around at the cushions to buy herself more time. ‘Jo, please don’t. Look it’s not you, it’s me,’ she stammered softly when her mouth finally decided to move. Of all the clichés in all the world – she cringed inwardly.

  Jo rubbed the back of his head as he looked around the tepee. Then he nudged Florence with a playful smirk on his face. ‘You really just fed me a line from a movie,’ he said, teasing.

  Florence pushed up her glasses, grateful to hear the laughter in Jo’s voice though her chest was still rattling, her hands clammy. ‘But it’s true, Jo. For me, love belongs in books, where it is safe and stable and where it can’t hurt me.’

  ‘But maybe that’s why we should try, Florence, because I believed that too until you came along. I’ve been more myself with you in a week than I have ever been around anyone else in my entire life. Maybe me and you together can work,’ Jo urged, his voice losing its lightness from moments ago.

  ‘But it can’t, Jo, and it won’t because fairy tales don’t exist in real life. You don’t need muscles or to change who you are; you will find someone who loves all of you. But this – you and me – I can’t have it. Who you are, the things you do, the things you say, it’s all in my head. It’s like I’m dreaming. You can’t possibly be real,’ Florence expressed, her lips now trembling.

  ‘But I am real, Florence. I’m right here, and you know that. You know it deep down fairy tales do exist, I know you do. Your fairy tale is real too, you just have to believe in it,’ Jo pleaded but a tenderness to his voice remained. He swiped a hand through his curls and ducked his head to search for Florence’s eyes, but she could not bring herself to look at him.

  ‘I don’t, and I can’t. This happens in books; it doesn’t happen to me,’ she said, scooting out of the tepee and stretching her legs as she stood on the rug and collected her shoes.

  ‘Of course, it can happen to you. Florence, those things I just told you, not being flashy enough, not being muscly enough, those things are real, those are things I’ve been told time and time again. If that’s real, then why can’t love be real? Why can’t we dream and make the beautiful and good things true? You’re telling me you want to live in a world where we don’t try and change that?’ Jo asked, begging with her now, his voice growing firmer, his hands drawn together. He took a step towards her, having followed her out of the tepee.

  ‘What do you want me to say, Jo? The real world is not the kindest of places. Bad stuff happens. This is not real. I made you up,’ Florence said, feeling flustered, her chest rising and falling painfully as she held on to her shoes and started walking out of the clearing and back towards her h
ut. She didn’t want to be doing this now, to be arguing with Jo. He shouldn’t have spoilt what they had, but hadn’t she too been curious? Hadn’t her brain imagined what it would be like to kiss him? Had she not allowed her heart over the past few days to care more than she should have?

  ‘Stop saying that. I’m here. Look at me, Florence, please. This is real,’ he said, the tremble in his voice making him sound desperate, water filling up his eyes. Florence stopped walking and turned to look at him. Her usual welcoming pools of blue had been replaced with anger.

  ‘You stop it. Don’t you see? I live through my books. I visit these worlds to give me a break, Jo. But my life is not some romance novel. I’m not a strong, empowered heroine. This has been a wonderful holiday, a little break from reality but tomorrow I wake up and I go home. I go back to worrying about bills, worrying about my nanna’s health and I go back to being the girl who saw her mother die and was not good enough for her dad to stick around. I’m not strong, Jo. I miss them every single day. I don’t come out of this on the other side. I just don’t. Love for me, Jo, is pain. Please, let me be grateful for this story and tomorrow we close the book. We can stay in touch; we can be friends but please don’t make this into something it can’t be,’ Florence told Jo, her face damp now with tears that had fallen while she spoke.

  Jo stood stock-still staring at the muddy earth beneath his bare feet. He held a hand to his chest, looking the picture of a man who had just had the wind knocked out of him. His breathing was ragged like he was struggling to get air into his lungs.

  ‘So that’s it, this is all our lives will ever be huh? The book is finished, done. My mum didn’t love me. I have never fit in. I’ve been made fun of my whole life. And now the one person who I thought might just get me, who might just accept me for who I am, is telling me that the life I keep hoping for, the life that this week I felt I might actually be deserving of, is not meant for people like me. That my book has already been written and I don’t get the fairy tale because it’s not real for people like us. I get it, Florence; I may have thought that before too, but I don’t believe that anymore,’ Jo said, tears streaming down his own cheeks now. Tears that Florence had put there. Her heart ached. He rubbed at his face harshly. Florence watched the water drip over his lips and Jo shudder at the salty taste of them.