The Little Barn of Dreams

by Lucy Knott

  The last spontaneous date had been a disaster. Florence had thought it was rather wonderful when her date had suggested visiting the garden centre and the delightful flower maze that had been built there, but her optimism was short-lived. She had been enamoured with the flowers, but her date didn’t seem all that interested, giving her odd looks every time she asked his opinion, like he hadn’t bargained for someone who actually cared about the flowers and wasn’t sure if it was a positive or a negative. The conversation kept reaching those awkward silent moments until someone changed the topic. Florence had tried to keep up when he talked about his job. It was lovely that he was so passionate about it, but it had been hard for her to ask the right questions when she had no clue what misstatements and double entries were. She had willed her brain to focus and concentrate so she could understand the fast words spitting from his mouth, but it had been no use. Her cheeks flushed furiously, and her date had looked fed up. It simply wasn’t working. The final nail in the coffin was when he asked how many followers she had on Instagram and she had to tell him that she didn’t have an Instagram. He’d tried to cover his shock with a tight grin but there was no mistaking the underlying glare that said he thought she had two heads. Florence had wanted the ground to swallow her up.

  That night she had spent the evening trying to work out what it was she had done wrong. Maybe she should have tried harder to look impressed by the amount of money there was to be made in accounting, or she should have patted him on the back when he told her that he had over five thousand followers on the gram, as he had called it, but she had failed miserably. She was simply not cut out for dating.

  Florence let out a sigh before she unlocked the front door of her and her nanna’s modest house that was nestled in a cul-de-sac in the outer edges of Manchester. Her shoulders instantly loosened, her limbs felt lighter and her spirit more joyful. She dropped her heavy bag off in the hall and breathed in the aroma of fresh basil and olive oil emanating from the kitchen. As she walked the hallway, she traced her fingers over the books that littered every available surface before she entered the kitchen where she made herself known.

  ‘Hi, Nanna, that smells delicious,’ Florence said as she picked up the book she had left on the dining table over breakfast that morning.

  ‘How was work, dear?’ her nanna asked, chopping up tomatoes and olives for the colourful salad she was preparing for dinner. Picking up from where she left off that morning, Florence curled her legs underneath her on the chair, let her dress float around her and began reading aloud, her nanna’s question getting lost in the atmosphere.

  The sweet old lady listened to her granddaughter, whom she treated and thought of as her own child, and her lips curved into a warm smile. How she loved to hear the girl read. But as she glanced across the table, her heart ached, for she noticed Florence’s tired eyes, devoid of their usual sparkle, and her shoulders hunched after a dreary day at the office. Inwardly she sighed. She wanted the world for her only granddaughter and though she believed with all her heart that in due course it would present itself, Margot felt it was time for a little extra push. Her nose so far in books is what she had always championed and encouraged, but it was time for Florence to see the magic of her own story.

  Two

  It had been another uneventful day at Paperchains if you didn’t count Florence’s brief escape to Hawaii sometime during mid-afternoon. The sand had been luscious and golden, the waves soothing, and delicious-looking cocktails were being served from cabanas in every direction. She had had to replace the toner in the photocopier but had got lost amidst the stacks of paper, card, and inventory of stationery, and when staring at the dull grey office wall her mind had decided to take a vacation. She hadn’t been on a holiday in a terribly long time.

  Of course, time had ticked on at an alarming rate meaning she received a pointed glare and a watch tap from Olivia upon returning to her seat. Florence was pleased she had made it through the workday. It wasn’t a difficult job by any means: phone calls, supply forms, data input. She was good at it now, but it was far from a dream. When she had first started the job it hadn’t been easy. The data was confusing, she stumbled over phone calls and trying to learn the names and numbers of everything in the catalogue had been a nightmare. Her saving grace had been Olivia, who had taken her under her wing. While Olivia might not always understand Florence’s need to have a book at close proximity – and couldn’t help finding it a little odd whenever she looked over and simply saw Florence’s hand resting on said book while she was talking on the phone – she had been the only person to make an effort to get to know Florence in a long time and Florence had been grateful for her guidance then, and thought fondly of their friendship now.

  Where Olivia might not identify with the mind of a bibliophile, Florence was occasionally baffled with the enthusiasm Olivia had for office supplies. However, where Olivia put up with Florence’s acting skills and quirky style, Florence respected her friend’s passion and the care she put into her work. Olivia’s desk was decorated with family pictures and colourful knick-knacks and she had the friendliest manner when answering phones, embodying the phrase: “How can I help you?” Olivia’s reasoning being that she loved supplying people with what they needed and making their work life easier. She had so many ideas for adding more lines to the catalogue and offering more exciting stationery that Florence hoped Olivia would soon get a promotion. Even if Olivia did try to mother Florence too much and even if she didn’t always do a great job at hiding her frustration when Florence glazed over, she still deserved a promotion because when it came to having a fierce, authoritative and business-like manner, Florence felt Olivia was the perfect woman for the job.

  Watching Olivia flutter around her desk or in action on phone calls kept Florence entertained, that and her own mind’s escapades. It didn’t always used to be like this though. Once upon a time Florence had had a job that had her up before her alarm and smiling as she laid her head down at night. She had felt like the luckiest women in the world to be one of the rare ones who could claim they loved their job so much that it never felt like work. Her job at Old Maude’s Theatre had lasted eight glorious years. When she was growing up, she and her nanna would spend weekends attending theatre shows. Whenever her nanna got a little extra money, which was very rare, they would even see two shows in one day. Florence never tired of seeing the inside of Old Maude’s Theatre and had been asking since she was a child if there were any jobs available. To her it was a win-win: she could help her nanna with bills and spend her days watching rehearsals and learning the magic behind the performances she adored.

  Between story times and theatre shows, her nanna had created the most enchanting childhood for her. Florence never had time to dwell on her sorrows or worry about the kids at school. She kept her head down and though she still heard when the other children called her names, like Oliver Twist or speccy four eyes, she was often too wrapped up in a book or lost in a scene to ever let it get to her too much.

  Being a loner and “different” only came to light when her dreams were realised at seventeen years old and Old Maude’s Theatre finally offered her the job of stagehand and cleaner at her beloved playhouse. Florence would help prep the theatre for productions, which mostly involved polishing everything and anything brass until she could see her face in it, before curtain call. Then she would get to stick around and be a spare body if any of the actors needed a coffee. In the beginning the digs and comments had hurt her, for she didn’t know how to be anyone but her shy self.

  ‘Look at me when you’re talking to me, dear,’ one actor had scolded when Florence had offered a coffee.

  ‘Why are you looking at the floor?’ another had barked when Florence had handed over their drink.

  ‘Earth to Florence, now’s not the time,’ the director had snapped, when she had missed a cue with the lighting, being so transfixed with the costumes hanging on a nearby rail.

  Then one day when Florence was eighteen, af
ter having worked at the theatre for a year, there came a voice, ‘Honey, those remarkable blue eyes of yours need some focus.’ Her name was Antoinette Tucci, she was the lead in the current production, and she was fabulous. Her lips were always siren red, her heels never shorter than five inches and though Florence wished to talk to her, she realised she didn’t know how, as the previous ugly comments crowded her brain, making her feel insecure and far from worthy. So, captivated with the woman and inept at social interactions, she simply ogled, spacing out with the conversations she dreamt of having but couldn’t quite bring to her lips, but Antoinette had come to her.

  ‘For every chapter you go home and read tonight you will have a conversation with someone here. Heavens knows they are all dying to talk to you. A girl as precious as you should not simply get through life gazing. You are part of this whole shebang, darling. Stop blending into the backdrop and show me your sparkle, please. I’m practically bursting to see what’s dancing behind those crystals of yours.’ Antoinette had performed this little speech with all the razzmatazz and oomph that Florence would have expected. Yet despite the dramatic hand gestures and tone of Antoinette’s voice, Antoinette’s eyes never veered from Florence’s. They had oozed such warmth and care, as well as a hint of fierceness, that Florence did what she had been told.

  Opening up to those around her gave her a new life within the theatre, one she had only ever experienced in her books. She held conversations, learnt about the actors from their very own mouths and not just from reading the playbill. Best of all she danced, she twirled and shared her elation at the end of each production with her new friends. Her voice mattered and she had felt accepted.

  She had fallen more in love with storytelling with every month that passed and then after two years of working there she fell in love with something else, or should she say, someone else. But this wasn’t something Florence liked to think or talk about and right now she was in a pickle and didn’t have the time to go down memory lane. She was stuck at Paperchains, more specifically trapped in the women’s toilets having to strongly resist the urge to stick her foot in the loo in the hopes that this evening it might just whisk her off to the Ministry of Magic before…

  ‘Flo, are you there?’ came Olivia’s voice. No such luck today, Florence thought flushing the toilet and longingly watching the water swirl around the basin.

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’ She called out, trudging out of the cubicle and washing her hands. Olivia stood touching up her make-up in the mirror, clear excitement on her face as she tried to fix her lipstick over her lips that were grinning broadly.

  Florence’s stomach flipped with horrid nerves. She couldn’t match Olivia’s smile, no matter how hard she tried. She dived into her make-up bag pulling out her compact to powder her nose and take away its shine and to distract herself from the anxiety swimming in her belly. ‘You promise me that we’re just going to have a nice dinner – me, you and Drew – and that this isn’t one of your surprise double dates?’ Florence asked, nervously, dusting the clear powder over the tip of her nose. She had added a touch of highlight to her cheekbones, making her blue eyes shine brighter under the clear frames of her glasses and complimenting the high ruffle neck of her pastel blue floaty dress, which had replaced the button-up collared pinafore she had worn during the day for work.

  ‘Of course,’ Olivia replied, sweetly. Florence didn’t miss Olivia busying herself, turning away and fishing for her mascara deep in her make-up bag to avoid her gaze when she answered. But Olivia couldn’t hide the nervous blush as it crept up the back of her neck. Olivia had admitted in the past that she hated lying to Florence, but that she felt desperate and out of options. In her opinion, the longer Florence was out of the dating game, the harder it would be to get back in. Olivia had also noted that if Florence didn’t dig her heels in so hard, then she wouldn’t have to lie when trying to get her out on dates.

  Florence’s shoulders sagged. She wished it was as easy as her friend made out, but she clearly didn’t have what it took to be a playing piece on the dating board game.

  ‘Liv, you promised me you wouldn’t do this, not after the last one,’ Florence muttered, her voice cracking with the apprehension that was creeping into her chest.

  ‘Florence, stop worrying. I just told you, it’s just us tonight. But you do realise that you’re never going to find your Prince Charming if you don’t kiss a few frogs first,’ Olivia said, resting her hands on Florence’s shoulders to calm her. The raise of her eyebrows and the twinkle in her eye suggested that she was rather pleased with her fairy-tale reference – that and her playful wink. But Florence did not smile. Though she did appreciate her friend’s attempt at using book lingo.

  ‘I have plenty of Prince Charmings in my life, thank…’ Florence began to state, her eyes wandering around the bathroom.

  ‘In books, Flo. You need a real man,’ Olivia interrupted, sternly.

  ‘I don’t need a real man. Real men are tricky and wicked creatures and I have no use for them,’ Florence said reverting to her posh character to hide her emotions and try to dispel the pain in her chest. Olivia didn’t notice Florence’s fearful state; she simply snorted at Florence’s comment.

  ‘I can think of plenty of uses for them,’ Olivia said, wiggling her eyebrows. She still had hold of Florence’s shoulders and gave them a playful shake. ‘Lighten up,’ she added, but Florence couldn’t lighten up; why couldn’t she just lighten up, like everyone else? The weight of Olivia’s hands on her shoulders suddenly felt too heavy. ‘Come on, Drew’s saving us a table. You can relax.’

  It was wonderfully pleasant outside, the July air warm on Florence’s skin. It appeared everyone was out celebrating the joyous occasion that was a Friday night. The laughter was loud under the quiet stars. The horses and carts click-clacked along the road giving the evening a beautiful soundtrack when suddenly the sugary-sweet scent of the bakery nearby caused Florence to turn her head, in search of the tantalising aroma. In doing so she did not see the tall and fetching gentleman walking towards her until it was too late, causing them to bump right into each other. Staggering backwards Florence gasped, but the kind man reached out, grabbing her hands ever so gently to stop her falling. As he did so their eyes met. His smile was handsome and shy, and she could not look away. Once he was satisfied that she was steady on her feet, he stepped back and lifted his hat. ‘Are you all right, miss?’ His voice came out like a song. Florence cleared her throat to reply…

  ‘Ouch, ow,’ Florence said under her breath as a bunch of lads barged past her, hollering and cheering with pints in their hands, knocking her out of her fantasy.

  ‘It’s busy in here tonight,’ Olivia noted, keeping hold of Florence’s hand as she navigated the sticky floor and crowded bar in search of Drew. Florence blinked a couple of times, trying to hide any hint that she had just disappeared into a daydream from her friend. But the way in which Olivia held her hand tighter indicated Olivia had seen the tell-tale signs. Olivia’s furrowed brow and slight headshake signalled that she was getting a little fed up with her dizzy daydreams.

  Words from Olivia’s previous pep talks rang out through Florence’s brain. ‘You are going to be swallowed up and spat out repeatedly if you don’t pull yourself together and accept that life isn’t some fantasy land.’ Her words had stung, but as Florence looked around the crowded pub, she couldn’t deny the truth in them. The world around her looked nothing like her fantasy land. When would she give in and accept that? A sharp tug of her hand meant that Olivia had spotted Drew in a corner booth. He stood waving them over. Olivia picked up speed and Florence followed suit. ‘Hi,’ Olivia said. When they reached the table, she let go of Florence’s hand as Drew leant down to kiss her.

  Florence took a seat at the booth, unable to stop herself from smiling. She loved love, she loved seeing people in love, she loved romance novels – it was just that love itself did not work for her. She also couldn’t help the wave of relief that hit her to find Drew on his own.
Sitting back and settling in she picked up the menu; while Olivia and Drew asked each other about their days and kissed a couple more times. Florence thought their exchange sweet but couldn’t help thinking about getting home to her nanna and to her book. If she picked something that was quick to eat and engaged in a little small talk, she might not have to stay too long. She was sure Olivia and Drew could occupy themselves in their loved-up state.

  ‘I take it this is my seat?’ came a gruff voice from beside her. Florence looked up to her right and peered over her menu. Her eyes found a broad man with his arm already comfortably leaning over the back of the booth, his hand awfully close to her shoulder. Her eyes then diverted from the man and scanned across the table to see Olivia and Drew innocently going over their food choices, taking no mind of the man and leaving the conversation all up to Florence. Florence inwardly groaned, she had fallen for Olivia’s antics again and felt stupid, not to mention hurt.

  Before Florence could offer her name, the man spoke again. ‘I’m Andy. So, you’re the bookworm, huh?’ he commented, looking her up and down, which at least got Drew and Olivia’s attention. Andy wasn’t exactly gentle in his approach.

  ‘This is Florence,’ Olivia said, when Florence didn’t speak. The hope in Olivia’s smile was not lost on Florence but she spoke in a tone that suggested she too was now harbouring a few nervous butterflies. Florence was certain the fluttering in Olivia’s stomach was nothing compared to the flapping in her own. But unlike Florence, Olivia’s stubborn streak was persistent, and she kept a confident smile on her face.