The Little Barn of Dreams

by Lucy Knott

  ‘Who’s Jo?’ Florence heard from the other end of the phone; making her jump and remember what she was doing. The voice of course belonged to Olivia.

  ‘I’m going to go now. I love you, Nanna, and thank you, Liv, bye,’ Florence said, ignoring Olivia’s question and nosy mind.

  ‘I love you too, petal,’ her nanna returned.

  ‘Is Jo a man or a woman?’ Olivia questioned faintly in the background.

  Florence hastily put the phone down but not before she heard Margot faintly say, ‘Now, now.’

  When Florence placed down the receiver, she looked around for George to offer her thanks, but he was no longer standing in the reception area and his office door was closed. Seemingly reading her mind as she glanced at the closed door, Jo said, ‘I can thank him later for you. Shall we get going?’ His words came out soft and the smile he wore was nothing short of caring. Florence considered him for a second, then nodded. Jo held the door open but as she walked past him, she didn’t miss him hesitate slightly as he looked back in the direction of his grandad’s office before following her outside. When he thought she wasn’t looking his lips pressed together and his hazel eyes turned a little murky, but they cleared as soon as they landed back on Florence.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Florence couldn’t help but query as they began walking down the path.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure it will be, in time,’ Jo replied softly, raking a hand through his hair before pulling out a book from his back pocket. It was not Great Expectations but it was very much worn and as badly dog-eared. He brought the book up to his face, covering his nose, and gave Florence a pointed stare as if to say: “I will hear none of your lectures on how to look after books” and so Florence merely opened her eyes wide and made the action of zipping her lips.

  At first, it was tough for Florence to concentrate on the story as Jo read aloud. The niggle in the back of her mind that he was doing something that was causing great distress to his grandad troubled her. But what could she do about it? She was simply a visitor of Camp Calla Lily and could she really call Jo a friend after two days? She was more of an acquaintance. Whatever was going on was nothing to do with her.

  By the time they reached the small village Jo had read three chapters from Little Men and they had discussed each chapter in great detail, which had permitted Florence’s nerves to take a back seat. The sun was still shining and lit up the cobbled streets and buildings with a beautiful happy glow. The old-fashioned ice-cream shop was tucked into the wall and for a minute Florence could remember gazing up at its multi-coloured bunting and glittery sign as a little girl. But before she could walk any further down memory lane, the shop next to it pulled her attention. She crossed the road and stared through the window of The Vintage Bookshop. The owner had created a gorgeous display of classic novels that sat under a wooden tree. Baubles of books dangled from the pink blossom branches and children’s books lay under vibrant orange sunflowers.

  Florence automatically reached out to touch the glass, wanting to stroke the bindings and feel the cloth of the hard-back books. As she did so her hand slipped through the pane. She found herself in the middle of the tiny shop. Books were flying around her, pages fluttering in the air saying, “Pick me, pick me.” Characters leapt from book to book as she stared up in awe. Was that Huckleberry Finn chasing after Tom Sawyer? A splash from the floor made her whip her head towards the ground. Oh no, was that Captain Hook thrashing around in his boat, the crocodile licking its lips awaiting his dinner?

  A rustle behind the bookshelf made Florence spin around on the spot. ‘Aww,’ she gasped as she saw a woman peering around a bookcase timidly gazing at a man who was staring longingly back at her. Was a meet-cute about to happen? The man and the woman started walking towards each other, but wait, why was Jo in the way? He had to move. If he didn’t move the star-crossed lovers were bound to kiss him on each cheek and he would scupper their first kiss. Florence lifted her hand, waving to get Jo’s attention to tell him to move but he hadn’t seen her.

  ‘Jo, move!!’ Florence said out loud, pushing Jo in the chest and startling when his willowy frame rocked into her.

  He shouted, ‘Oh God, what is it? Is it pirates making me walk the plank? Or is a witch trying to cast a spell on me?’ He spun in a circle, clumsily bumping into Florence again, shocking her back to the present.

  Drawn into his questioning and very much liking having someone to share her visions with now, Florence didn’t hesitate to answer him this time. Jo had proved himself to be a trusty companion, where her visions were concerned, like this morning with the trapdoor. She was already giggling at his dramatic reaction and at her own self for having shouted out into the real world.

  ‘Neither – you were about to ruin the most magical first kiss for a beautiful couple and I couldn’t let that happen,’ Florence told him, as a couple walked by and gave them an odd glare. Florence’s hand was still resting on Jo’s chest, having put it there to steady him when he had bumped into her. She smiled shyly at the couple. She was far more used to their rather unkind reaction than to Jo’s nurturing one. Heat prickled in the apples of her cheeks with humiliation, but Jo didn’t pay the couple any attention.

  ‘Oh, I would have never forgiven myself,’ Jo said, placing a hand on top of Florence’s where she had it pressed against his chest. Florence felt contented with the softness of his skin on hers. ‘Are you telling me there is a romantic in there after all?’ he added, before Florence took her hand away smoothly in the act of pushing her glasses up her nose. Jo matched her faux casualness and flipped back the curls that had fallen in his face. Gazing back at the books in the window, Florence squinted at the gold-embossed titles and the special edition leather-bound classics as though she were squashing out all thoughts of Jo and guiding her brain back to safer territory. She knew she shouldn’t seek that sort of contentedness from Jo and so she would talk about books.

  ‘Oh, romances are my favourite. They are beautiful when they are tucked between the pages of a book and are happening to someone who’s not me,’ Florence said, instantly regretting her words. She hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud. She avoided Jo’s gaze as he stepped in line for ice-cream. The bookshop would have to wait, for the walk had made them both desperately hungry for creamy gelato and so she joined him, keeping her lips tightly closed for fear of exposing herself even more. Jo didn’t reply straight away. He seemed to be lost in examining the menu, which suited Florence simply fine. Why did she always have to make things awkward?

  A few moments passed where Florence too took great interest in all the ice-creams on offer. The menu was rather spectacular, offering a range of simple classic scoops and fresh modern twists. So intrigued by the concoction that was a Unicorn Sherbet Bomb Supreme was she, that it took her a second to tune in to Jo’s voice when he started talking.

  ‘We mustn’t let our heartaches distort our visions. Learn from them, yes, but we can’t let them ruin us,’ he said slowly, as if reciting something he had been told many times before and was still trying to believe in too. Florence tore her eyes away from the menu and tilted her head to look at him. His heart-shaped jaw was set, and there was that sadness that passed through his eyes for a split second that he never seemed to let stick around for long. Without meeting her gaze, he added, ‘If you can believe it in the pages of a book, you can believe in it in real life.’ He then pursed his lips as though challenging that comment in his own mind.

  Florence contemplated this for a minute. ‘Yes, that might be true, but my own story hasn’t quite ended up like the great classics or gorgeous rom-coms, as I told you, and I’m learning to be OK with that,’ she said, finding herself opening up once more today before she could stop herself.

  ‘Ahh, but Florence, don’t you see? You have closed those books. Their stories have come to an end so of course they ended happily, but yours has not ended yet. You’re still writing the chapters and I shall call this chapter “Underneath the Ice-Cream Stand”,’ Jo
noted with a charming smirk, the sadness in his eyes vanishing when Florence let out a hearty laugh.

  ‘You might be right, but I believe books provide me with that joy, for love is not to happen in my life. The same way I don’t own a magic carpet, nor can I ride a unicorn, to know that those people get to have a happy ending and that the special few in real life do too, makes me happy. I find comfort in knowing that they are happy,’ Florence said, her voice light and joyful in thinking about all the fairy-tale endings she had read, and real-life stories she had heard. She didn’t want to see herself as missing out or hard done by; the knowledge that others got to experience that magic was enough for her. She hoped Jo would understand that.

  There was a touch of sadness in her admission, of course, for she hadn’t come to this conclusion on love easily. Pain had been her guide but as she had grown older, she had become more accepting of it. There were times she still wished she believed in her own happy ever after, but her nightmares would only serve to knock some sense into her. A look of understanding passed across Jo’s face. Florence took in his smile, the one he gave that she had now classed as his false grin of merriment. It was far too thin with none of his pearly whites on show and it did nothing to create crinkles around his eyes.

  ‘Is your theory drawn from experience, Jo?’ Florence asked, intrigued as to why Jo sounded as though he had had this conversation before. With such deep thought behind his eyes, making the hazel turn a hazy green-grey, Florence speculated if the conversations had been with himself or if his writer mother had imparted such beautiful words of wisdom on her son. Florence would have to speculate a while longer as the couple in front joyfully collected their delicious-looking ice-cream and moved away to enjoy it at one of the picnic benches across the road.

  ‘Florence, I have an important question,’ Jo announced smoothly changing the subject, which again didn’t go unnoticed by Florence.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. Not forgetting her questions, she stored them at the forefront of her brain for safekeeping and easy access.

  ‘One scoop or two?’ Jo asked with a smile that now lit up his whole face. Florence marvelled at the joy ice-cream could elicit for grown-ups as well as children and let out a chuckle.

  ‘Definitely three,’ she answered, scoring a laugh from Jo. A warm feeling settled in her bones when she did this, a feeling she was simply going to attribute to a sense of pleasure in making other people happy. It had nothing to do with Jo specifically, she told herself.

  And so, they ordered their ice-creams of sherbet, candy floss and vanilla with all the sprinkles for Florence and chocolate brownie, cookie dough and cheesecake for Jo and indulged in their delights as they walked along the river that ran through the village. Florence enjoyed the moments of pure contented bliss walking side by side with Jo, not having to say a word, just appreciating each other’s company and the creamy delicate flavours that ignited their taste buds. She had never walked side by side with a man before and felt this ordinary, but in a totally unordinary kind of way.

  After her last bite of the crunchy waffle cone, Florence asked, ‘How come you’re so patient with me and don’t find me and my daydreams strange?’

  Jo swallowed his last bite and placed his hands in the loops of his trouser pockets. ‘Oh, I find you plenty strange,’ he said, leaning into her with a playful smile that was infectious and caused Florence to roll her eyes at him. ‘I don’t know,’ he said after a few moments.

  ‘That was incredibly profound for a writer,’ she teased back. Jo looked at her staring up at him and Florence found she could not pull her eyes away from his. The haziness had cleared to make room for a hypnotic hazel with flecks of green that gleamed in the light of the sun. Never had she experienced banter so easy. It was something she was starting to treasure, though the niggle of doubt remained at the back of her mind whether she should fully trust him. Along with that niggle came another voice, but this voice wasn’t backing her up. This one was telling her that she was making excuses. Families argued sometimes; that didn’t make Jo a terrible person. She was just afraid of the feelings that he was beginning to stir up within her.

  ‘I grew up around books. I lived with my mum in a tiny studio apartment that had more books in it than furniture. My mum was driven and intent on writing a classic novel, always had a nose in a book, always studying. So, I guess, imaginatively and physically speaking, I’ve always seen stories everywhere. A book is more than just a bunch of paper sewn, glued or stapled together; it’s a whole other world. We can look at things as they are or as we wish and dream them to be. We see sugar, flour and eggs and we create a cake – just like that I believe the world has potential,’ he finished, his cheeks flushed, and he looked away as if he had just said something wrong, making the new feelings in Florence’s stomach whizz around at a terrifying rate, for he hadn’t said anything wrong at all.

  Florence smiled at the ground. Jo’s words wrapped like a hug around her heart. She too often questioned why she was to simply accept the world for what it was and stop dreaming the older she got. It was rather heart-warming to share that with another soul.

  ‘Did she? Did your mum write her classic?’ Florence asked, fascination rising in her tone.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jo admitted, turning back to her slowly. There was a hesitation in his movement, but Florence smiled encouragingly, as the desire to learn more about him built. ‘She had me when she was sixteen, which I’ve been told was a shock to everyone. She was all about her studies and so I kind of interrupted her plans of college and university. She tried for a few years, but I was too much of a distraction. I was six when I was put into foster care.’ His words came out in one long breath, which made Florence think it wasn’t a story he cared to tell often. She was familiar with those sorts of stories and felt touched that Jo had shared his with her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jo,’ she offered, gently touching his forearm in pause. Jo shrugged. ‘What about your grandparents?’ Florence couldn’t help asking. She had built up this idea in her mind that Jo had grown up at the camp and had had the most wonderful childhood within its grounds. The camp seemed like the most idyllic place for a child to grow up and Jo looked incredibly content moving around the place. Could his grandparents not have stopped him going into the care system? Is that why they were still arguing, were things between him and his Grandad strained because George had failed to look after him?

  ‘She didn’t tell them. Like I said, they were never close. And they had the camp to run and my grandma was sick for a long time. I think I would have been too much for them,’ Jo explained as they walked along the riverside. Florence didn’t reply straight away, allowing for Jo to continue if he wished to. It sounded like there was more to that part of the story. He looked to his feet for a moment before running a hand through his hair. ‘It was a bit of a shock when I turned up at my grandma’s funeral, a year ago. Grandad cried a lot, said he thought he’d never see me again. My mum kind of went off the grid and I was six; there was nothing I could do about it.’

  A few moments passed before Florence thought it safe to ask a question and she wouldn’t be interrupting. Her heart was beating a little harder after hearing Jo’s tale; her hand stayed on his forearm as they walked.

  ‘You said you’ve been back a little over a year. How come you didn’t seek out this place sooner?’ Florence queried, finding that she wanted to know more about the man before her, now that her assumptions had been wrong. Jo gazed down at her for a moment before turning his attention to the road. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosy. You don’t have too…’ Florence started anxiously, worrying that she had overstepped and knowing how much she disliked it when people asked her questions about her life that she didn’t want to answer.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Jo interrupted gently, smiling at her with a warmth in his eyes that made the hasty knot in her stomach unravel. Jo then fiddled with a piece of cotton on the seam of his shirt. ‘I remembered bits of it. I remembered my grandparents, but
I would beg my mum to bring me back here all the time. The day I watched her pack her bags, I mistakenly and excitedly assumed we were coming here, that we were going on holiday. She got mad and told me to forget about this place and that my grandparents were busy and didn’t want to be bothered and then she dropped me off with social services. I was angry for a long time,’ Jo explained.

  Sometime during Jo’s explanation, they had stopped walking and fallen side by side, looking out across the river with Jo holding on to the railing tightly. Florence recognised the wobble and need of support. She looked across the shimmering water, the glistening sunlight warming her skin. She didn’t want to stare at Jo; she wanted to give him space to tell his story. ‘As I got older and once it dawned on me that my mum wasn’t coming back, I angrily vowed to start afresh. If my family didn’t want anything to do with me, then I didn’t want anything to do with them,’ Jo continued. ‘My grandma had left me a little spends when she passed and that’s how I found this place again,’ he added, putting the pieces of the puzzle together for Florence, who wiped at her eyes and then turned to him.

  Looking at the shadows floating behind Jo’s eyes as he went silent, Florence felt the sudden urge to help him as he had helped her these past two days. There was nothing she could say to take away his pain but there was much she could do to bring some light and fun to his heart. She grabbed his wrist and ran back in the direction of the bookshop.

  ‘You, sir, are in need of a bookmark,’ she proclaimed, skipping along and revelling in the sound of Jo’s laughter as it filled the air. She knew too well that opening up could be exhausting and that sometimes people need to get things off their chest without having to then discuss further their emotions or hear someone else’s opinion. It was simply nice to be heard and with the way Jo leapt and ran behind her, she had been right.