The Little Barn of Dreams

by Lucy Knott

  ‘There is always time for a chapter. How about Camp Laurence?’ her nanna replied. Florence couldn’t help the laughter that erupted from within her at Margot’s pick of chapters, and because the day had been rather unexpected. She was free of Paperchains and she was going on holiday.

  Five

  The steam train whistled and chugged along the line. Children in their stockings and waistcoats ran side by side waving sticks and throwing stones, trying to keep up with the rickety-rackety beast. On the platform, flags and signs were being waved. Handsome men dressed in dapper suits and beautiful women in elegant dresses hopped from foot to foot, eager at the arrival of their beloved. Passengers leant out of windows too desperate to wait for that first touch, for it had been so long since they had held their loves. Cheers rang through the air in celebration and Florence herself punched the air with glee. She wanted to stand and rejoice with the others. Would her nanna be waiting for her on the platform? It had been months since she had seen her, the hospital having required her stay for longer than initially expected, but it was all over now. She was finally getting to go home and couldn’t wait to…

  ‘Excuse me, I need to get off,’ a curt voice said sharply, suggesting that this request had been made more than once. Immediately Florence snapped right out of her thoughts, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. This was why her nanna should have come with her and why, when she did venture out, Olivia was often by her side. At least when they were with her, she had support, another person at her side to indicate to the people around her that she wasn’t totally cuckoo; she had friends.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, where are we, if you don’t mind?’ Florence replied, a little dazed, as was the case when she visited such faraway times in her daydreams.

  ‘We’re at Rose Hill station,’ the lady answered with a deep crease in her brow, clearly concerned for Florence who had been staring at the slim black tie of the man in front of her for the past twenty minutes, her orb-like blue eyes glazed over as trains whistled through her brain.

  ‘Ooh this is me too,’ Florence expressed, leaping out of her seat. She eagerly helped the lady with her bags to show she wasn’t crazy, then she saw to her own. The lady smiled and nodded warmly yet wearily before disappearing into the crowd. Florence had not meant to drift off like that, but it was growing late, the sky a deep navy and the moon a pearly glow, an ambience that only enticed Florence to step into her dreams even more.

  With her one small suitcase and backpack, Florence meandered through the station, smiling at everyone nervously. Most didn’t smile back, for they had their heads down chatting on their phones. Florence simply couldn’t keep up with their fast pace. Her walk was timid, a little more careful. Without her nanna or Olivia by her side, she felt quite isolated and alone when facing big crowds, not knowing how to fit in and wondering if people even made eye contact or said hello anymore. When she walked past the newsagent’s near the exit, the hand that was holding her suitcase loosened its grip, so her nails were no longer digging into her palms and her breathing steadied. She caught glimpses of the books on the shelves, their covers crisp and bold, like beacons of light and hope. ‘Hello,’ Florence muttered as though she felt her friends were calling to her and encouraging her to go on with her journey and see her adventure through. She gave a small nod in their direction and continued.

  Camp Calla Lily was situated a thirty-minute walk from the train station. Florence had brought a torch and had written down instructions from her nanna. She had been but a small child on their last outing so directions were not something she could remember clearly. The air was still quite warm, and Florence had no doubt the walk would soon make her sweat and keep her from getting cold. Walking was something she enjoyed, the fresh air always lending itself to inspiration, and so Florence set upon the path. Margot had told her the road did not bear a whole lot of traffic, for the camp was set back in its own rather grand spot of land. Florence didn’t think she would come into any trouble. She certainly found more peace within the shadows than she did within the bustling train station.

  It did not take long before the noise of the station was well out of earshot. The initial busy roads and roundabouts had surrendered to a narrow strip of concrete lined with blackberry hedges and fields and fields of green. Florence looked up as she walked, unable to keep her eyes off the glorious stars that burnt brighter without the pollution from the city. She only looked down or ahead when she heard rustling in the grass or noticed a change in the road in her peripheral vision. A sudden squeaking sound drew her attention to her right. Quickly illuminating the spot with her torch, she smiled at the sight of two tiny field mice scurrying between the brambles. Taking her eyes off the happy pair enjoying a late-night snack she noticed the path ahead formed a particularly sharp bend.

  Suddenly, beads of sweat began to form on her brow and she felt a shiver run down her spine.

  ‘This was a stupid idea,’ Florence mumbled to herself angrily. Her steps became tentative, but she had to keep going; it was too late to turn back now. She quickly looked around, across the fields either side of the dirt road, but her torch light came up empty of any suspicious figures and there was no other path she could take.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she protested.

  Automatically her ears pricked up for any sound of cars. Her stomach somersaulted as she neared the sharp curve, and her mind was attacked by a loud screech and a blinding flash of light. Florence dropped her torch with a mighty crash and bent over to catch her racing breath.

  ‘Stop. Stop. Stop.’ She panted, her knees meeting the concrete as she braced herself in foetal position, curling in on herself. Oh, if the world could see her now, so weak and silly. Would it understand her resistance, or would it deem her the fool she believed she was? Normal people overcame such obstacles. Brave people built a successful life for themselves, but not her.

  ‘Make it stop, Mum,’ she whimpered, as sirens filled her head. Her knees began to ache against the hard surface, but she couldn’t move, not yet.

  It had been quite some time since her brain had conjured up images of that night. A night she wished she could take back; maybe even forget. It was hopeless of course. She knew she couldn’t take it back just like she knew there was no forgetting it.

  ‘Help me please, Dad, help me,’ Florence cried softly into the night. When Florence opened her eyes again, she was unsure how much time had passed. Her dress was damp with tears and she struggled to feel her legs from the numbness the cool concrete had provided. There had been no divine intervention, no moment of clarity, her heart simply felt heavier than before and all she wanted to do was turn back.

  She had no hand reaching out to grab her and pull her off the ground and she couldn’t hear any words of wisdom from her mum to encourage her to stand. Her only motivation was to get as far away from this spot and rid her brain of the painful images it held. Her legs shook violently, as though they were delicate branches caught in a fierce storm, as she forced herself to stand up straight. Wiping at her eyes, she took a deep breath in. Florence then tried, as she always did when this nightmare taunted her, to conjure up the laughter she could remember. She tried to envision a world more colourful than a rainbow and brighter than the sun to diminish the darkness that engulfed her, but tonight it was no use. There was no colour and no light, just emptiness. She set off on wobbly legs, this time with her head down following the beam of the torch and keeping her eyes to the ground, not wanting to see the path that had led her to such unbearable agony.

  By the time the world had grown pitch black, Florence stood facing a large, mismatched stone building that was lit up faintly by old-fashioned lanterns. A wooden decking wrapped around the entire first floor and five windows displayed their own balconies on the second floor. The sky around it held stars that beamed bolder and brighter than the ones Florence had seen earlier, and so she stood transfixed. Only when she could feel the wearisome ache in the balls of her feet, now that she had stopped still to gander, d
id Florence close her mouth and make for the front door.

  ‘Hello. Hello, George,’ she called out to the empty reception area, using the name that Margot had told her. Her voice sounded hoarse from her earlier tears, so she coughed a little to clear it as she took in the room. The reception area housed a stone desk-like structure that was built atop a wooden floor. Florence could just about see the wood, for it was covered in ancient rugs. A mixture of old-fashioned rectangle lanterns and hanging flower baskets dangled from the stone walls. Florence smiled as she looked around.

  Just then an elderly gentleman with a grey beard speckled with white strands and bushy drooping white eyebrows poked his head around a doorframe. There was no mistaking his annoyed expression, which Florence met with a bright smile, for she was engrossed by the charm of the room. She felt a tug of comfort in her heart that made her imagination stir in her brain. No more flashbacks attacked her; it felt like she was seeing the cottage with fresh eyes and her tears were kept at bay.

  ‘Did you have any trouble finding the place? I take it your journey was OK?’ the man asked, his voice a little rough around the edges as the well-rehearsed words left his lips.

  ‘I do apologise that it’s late, but my journey was indeed splendid, and I had no hiccups, for my magic carpet knew the way,’ Florence said, her nerves getting the best of her. She hid her grimace behind a too bright smile, not wanting to think about her journey, though now the man probably thought her a crazy woman. Why did her imagination always have to get carried away? However, as her nostrils picked up on the smell of the potted calla lilies on the desk, the place only seemed to embolden her imagination. She couldn’t help herself. Her tired eyes and heavy legs suddenly wanted to twirl around on the gorgeous flower-print rug that lay before the entrance to a lounge area and she imagined her ruffled Theo dress fanning out around her.

  Shaking her head, Florence reduced her smile to a tight-lipped grin, not wanting to scare the man by showing too many teeth. He was giving her a look not unlike Olivia often gave her when she began to speak in gobbledygook. ‘Sorry, I’m Florence. It’s nice to meet you,’ she added, her voice returning to a soft whisper as she tried to tone it down away from talk of magic carpets. Awkwardness was her expertise whenever she was nervous. The man looked her up and down for a moment. Something passed through his eyes that Florence could not place and when he spoke again, his words were slightly warmer.

  ‘Please, follow me, Florence.’ Florence watched his mouth move like it was attempting a smile, but it came off weak and resigned. She wondered if this was how he treated all his guests, whether they spoke of supernatural carpets or not.

  It was a stark contrast to how Margot had described him, for she had said: ‘Ask for the friendly gentleman by the name of George.’ Florence didn’t see how his attitude would be good for business; then again, she had checked in at just gone eleven p.m. The man was probably exhausted.

  Florence decided against asking George any questions about the building. He was walking rather sprightly and speedily for an elderly gentleman, which suggested he didn’t care to engage in conversation at such a late hour. He led the way past a staircase, through a magnificent room with a crystal chandelier and a beautiful stone fireplace where oohs and aahs slipped from between Florence’s lips.

  Each room she walked through warmed her skin from the chill the cool night had coated her in. The gentle tremor in her hands from her nerves settled as the vintage feel of the building spoke to her and wrapped her in a welcoming embrace. Suddenly George stopped abruptly causing Florence to teeter on her tiptoes, so she didn’t crash into his back. He fiddled around with a crowded key chain and unlocked a door at the back of the building. More old-fashioned lanterns hung from the stonework, casting a faint golden glow over the decking. What Florence could see in the dim light, she liked tremendously.

  Down a few wooden steps, a short walk across a field of green, then just a little further on a dusty path, George stopped in front of what Florence assumed was to be her home for the week. She gazed at the oak hut that under the white glow of the moon looked to be painted a light pink shade. It looked like a hut out of a fairy tale. Florence almost hugged George but stopped herself when she looked over at him and saw that he stood tense and rigid with a sad look on his face. Florence wasn’t quite sure if it was the hut or her that was making him sad.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said simply, as he handed her the key and promptly left with a muffled, ‘Enjoy your stay.’ Florence made a note to tell Margot about George to see if she knew any more about him. If her nanna had known George back in the day when they all used to visit and he had been the friendly man she had told Florence to ask for, something had certainly happened that her nanna must not be aware of. Florence watched him walk away for a moment and resigned herself to the thought that once the sun was out tomorrow, she would introduce herself again and maybe see if he was chirpier after some sleep.

  Then she climbed the one little footstep and unlocked the hut door. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ Florence gasped, a hand clasping over her mouth. The hut’s interior was bright and snuggly hosting a double bed with a plush cream duvet in the middle. To the right side was a small counter area with cupboards and a tiny stove upon which a vintage teapot sat. At the back, an old-fashioned freestanding rose gold bath with the cutest little legs was tucked away amongst a few potted plants.

  Florence kicked off her shoes, unable to believe how at home she felt as she popped her bags down. Her toes sunk into the fluffy cream rug and she felt as if she had entered an enchanted forest. The small hut was lit up by a honey-coloured lamp on the bedside table and a string of fairy lights above the bed. She couldn’t wait to see the place in the daytime, though she was rather fond of the magic of the night. Retrieving her books from her suitcase, she immediately arranged them on the bedside table, and some on the floor by the bed, and felt the tension in her neck loosen. She then ran her hand along the cushy duvet before jumping atop it and sinking into the softness.

  Lying back onto the inviting fluffy pillows, the business of the day catching up with her, Florence felt miles away from the trauma she had experienced earlier. She had thought coming here was a horrible idea and she had promised herself that when she arrived, she would get a little rest and return home tomorrow. Now, though, a small voice in the back of her mind was telling her to stay. The unexpected bursts of happiness she had experienced when the building had come into view and now as she looked around the darling hut were pleading with her to stay.

  But with that came a spasm of guilt. How could she be so happy away from home, away from her nanna? How could she enjoy a vacation when she should be looking for work? The guilt gnawed at her. Her entire life she had told herself that she would never come back here, that she could never be happy here. Whenever her nanna had suggested she visit, fear had made her sink her heels in, not least because she could read the fear on Margot’s face. If her nanna couldn’t bring herself to come back, then she had no right to challenge Florence to. Oh, the arguments they had had.

  The fairy lights over the bed cast tiny shadows onto the ceiling, Florence watched them, thinking about how something so delicate and pretty as the lights still created something so mysterious, foreboding even. But facing the shadows, looking at them with intent and not turning away, allowed her to see them for what they were: something not so scary after all. It was kind of how she felt about being here now. Though fear had engulfed her on her walk she had not run backwards; she had moved forwards with intent to get to her destination. Here she was, actually at Camp Calla Lily and her fears did not seem so terrifying.

  Her nanna had so often told her that she had the power to control what she created, and that she could have a say in her visions. Control could sometimes be taken away – that was inevitable – but she should never let those struggles, surprises or bumps in the road rid her of her deepest wishes and her purest beliefs. The vision she had created of Camp Calla Lily was one of pain and suffering. Never did s
he imagine it could be beautiful again, but this hut alone proved otherwise. Reliving that horrendous night on the corner of the junction had been awful but now she was here in this gorgeous hut. She had overcome one obstacle she thought she never would, which only gave her further pause.

  Florence tilted her head away from the fairy light shadows towards the tiny window to her left with its curtains still open. More shadows lurked in the darkness, this time of the large trees out in the grounds. Her eyes threatened to glaze over as she thought about how her love of books and theatre had saved her from her deepest heartbreaks. They had saved her when she was five and then again five years ago when she split with her boyfriend, Ryan. With a book in her hand, she didn’t have time to overthink her relationship and it had suited her just fine. Yet something niggled inside her. Five years had gone by. Five years of settling for a job that didn’t light a fire in her soul. And five years where she had let each day pass without a fight. She had not stood up for the kids she left behind, or the theatre Ryan had taken from her and her nanna. Florence had run from it all and not looked back.

  Swinging her legs off the bed, she didn’t feel so sleepy anymore. She stood and wandered over to the kitchen area. Filling the teapot on the stovetop and lighting the happy flames, it occurred to Florence that these were thoughts she didn’t stay with for long. Instead, she always chose to safely bury them in her heart’s treasure chest, conveniently misplacing the key for months at a time. But with the twinkly lights glowing warmly at her and the stars so vivid and bold in the night sky outside her window, she ruminated on these ideas. She knew she didn’t belong behind a desk; the theatre had been her entire life. The dreams she had been having of getting back into teaching drama classes were becoming more frequent as were the scenes that bounced around in her head.

  For the first time in five years she felt the sudden urge to act on her visions and possibly come up with a plan. Maybe these daydreams were not meant to be left alone? Through the children, through her classes, from the pages of her books to the stage, she used to do just that. Maybe it was time to bring them to life once more and not be content with them simply playing out in her mind. Yes, that was it, those beautiful productions, the spectacles that took place in her mind, she would make them happen. For the future kids that she hoped to teach, she could make them a reality. At least on a stage no one could give her funny looks or scold her for her silly visions.