by Lucy Knott
Florence went to step forward, wanting to comfort him, to hug him, to touch him, to stop the hurt she saw in his eyes, but she couldn’t do it, not after what she had just said. What was wrong with her? She retreated. What had she done?
‘Oh, Jo. You know I didn’t mean you. You are brave, you are brilliant, and you are every bit the hero and leading man. And you are a writer, I know you will have the life you dream of; you will create it and you more than deserve it, just not with me,’ Florence said, her head bowed, her hands shaking. After the uncomfortable ache of jealously she had felt seeing a woman on Jo’s bed only yesterday, her mind really was becoming rather masterful at turning a blind eye to her feelings. Now, she was telling Jo he would find happiness, find love with someone else. This beautiful man whom she cared deeply about had simply asked to kiss her. How had she turned it into this? Right now, Florence didn’t want to be in her own head, neither in reality nor in a daydream; she was far too angry with herself. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she clenched her fists together and closed her eyes, wanting just once to be normal.
‘You deserve it too, Florence. You are still brave, even when you miss them and even when you’re scared. That doesn’t make you any less brave,’ Jo noted, his hands in his pockets now for comfort.
‘I’m sorry, Jo,’ she mumbled, fidgeting with the fabric of her dress. ‘I can’t lose you too.’ Her words were barely audible, so much so that Jo took a step forward to hear her and while he took her hands in his to steady them. His touch made Florence’s whole body fizz. It’s easy, just hold on tighter, embrace him, let him in. Her heart fought but her body was paralysed, overcome with fear. She couldn’t do it.
‘Florence, you can’t fight your heart, fighting with your heart is the only way you lose.’ Jo spoke gently, his words soft but matter-of-fact. Then ever so slowly he released her hands and wrapped his arms around her neck, pulling her to his chest. His hug felt safe, like she was wrapped up tight in protective body armour. Feeling the warmth and affection in his embrace, Florence briefly laid her head against his chest until the anxiety in her chest began to slowly trickle away.
‘It’s hard to stop fighting when you’ve been doing it your whole life,’ she replied with a heavy head.
‘Let’s get you back to your hut,’ Jo whispered, dropping a heartfelt kiss on to the top of her head.
Abandoning the tepee and Jo’s magical setup, they walked the familiar path back to her pink pastel hut. Camp Calla Lily, though normally peaceful under the moon’s watchful eye, now felt eerie. In the warm night Florence felt ill at ease; her bones felt cold and frail.
Neither of them said a word until they reached the hut’s pink door.
‘I’m so sorry, Jo. I hope you don’t hate me and that you will still be my friend,’ Florence mumbled; her blue eyes glassy. Jo gently rubbed a hand over her bicep and bent his knees to look her in the eyes. He gave her a kind, crooked smile and tilted his head.
‘I don’t believe I could ever dislike you, Miss Danver. Now, get some rest,’ he said before bowing slowly and turning away.
Florence watched Jo fade away into the night before she fell onto her bed fully clothed. Her limbs felt stiff and hard from the tension that zipped through her body and her mind felt somewhere between numb and exhausted. Too tired to change into her pyjamas, she rustled into the duvet and pulled it over her head. Soon her tears were falling as if the dam had been broken and no cement would ever be strong enough to fix it.
When Ryan had left her, she had not felt this distraught. When the many dates that Olivia had set her up on had not quite panned out, she had not felt this empty. But the sadness behind Jo’s usually bright and happy eyes flashed through her mind, it was all she could see. It was a look she had seen many times growing up, when she would look in the mirror after school. Trying to hide her tears from her nanna, she would splash water on her face and close her eyes to fill her brain with good thoughts, so that the sadness would go away. There had been weeks and months where this had been an everyday occurrence, when Florence still had the ability to have hope that the children at school would let her join in, only to then have them shut her out and call her names, until finally she got the hint that she was different. Jo had given her the very same look. The look of someone who had been robbed of hope, of someone who had thought for once he was about to fit in, only to have the very idea snatched away from him within minutes. She had just done to Jo what the children at school had done to her, what the many dates had done to her over the years and the worst part about it was that she hadn’t meant it, any of it.
Eighteen
Florence saw Jo standing on a thick branch high up in the apple tree, not far from the barn. When he saw her, he smiled brightly and waved her over enthusiastically. She picked up speed, skipping along, the sweet perfume of the apples propelling her forward. As she took in the glorious summer’s day, she hummed a merry tune feeling lucky that she had found a friend in Jo. His abundance of energy and penchant for playing along made each day she had spent with him fun and unique. When she reached the tree, she noticed the grooves Jo had used to climb and began scaling the same path. Just a little further and Jo reached out his hand. Looking behind her to see how far she had climbed, her forehead began to sweat. Nothing but clouds swam beneath her and where she was expecting to see the luscious lawn below, it was grey and gloomy. She blinked. Suddenly the air felt thin and she found herself gasping for breath. She hastily turned her attention back to Jo for guidance. He was still reaching for her, but his face was no longer cheerful.
‘Take my hand,’ he urged.
Florence stretched further but her foot slipped and before she knew it Jo’s fingertips were getting further and further away as she hurtled towards the ground.
A loud cry jolted Florence awake. She was sitting in bed, her hair sticking to her sweaty cheeks and forehead, with a mouth as dry as sawdust. It took her a few moments to realise that the scream had come from her own vocal cords. She held her chest hoping to calm her unpredictable heart. It had not been a restful night, but now the sun beamed through the open curtains indicating the start of a new morning, her last morning at Camp Calla Lily.
Slowly and unsteadily, she climbed out of bed and set about making a cup of tea. All the while her brain thought of Jo. She had tossed and turned all night thinking about what she was going to say to him today, how she was going to make it up to him, before she had to leave to catch her train, but she hadn’t come up with anything that she felt was good enough. Sorry was the only word that kept popping up. After a quick change, a quick packing job and an even quicker cup of tea, Florence bid farewell to her hut and dragged her suitcase out in search of Jo.
When he didn’t appear to be in his hut, she headed for the main cottage. No one was about except George who was stood behind the reception desk with his head down and brows furrowed. He was tapping his pen against the desk calendar with a look of deep concentration.
‘Hello, George,’ Florence said, feeling a little guilty for disturbing him but knowing she needed to get on her way and say her goodbyes.
‘Oh, hello dear,’ George said, smiling when he saw her. He then placed his pen down and gave her his full attention. It reminded Florence so much of Jo and how whenever she spoke, he gave her his undivided concentration, never making her feel rushed or uninteresting. ‘Are you all set to leave? Is there anything else I can do for you?’ George added.
‘I am yes. I very much wish I didn’t have to leave; I have loved it here, George. The camp is beautiful. I hope to come back with my nanna,’ she replied, smiling when she saw George’s own smile broaden at the mention of Margot.
‘As long as there is something here for you to come back to, it would be my pleasure to see you both again,’ George said, causing Florence’s brow to raise with curiosity at such an odd choice of phrasing. Whatever did he mean by if there was something for them to come back to? Conscious of the time, she stored those words at the forefront of her brain
to go over later.
‘Erm, thank you, George. I don’t suppose you have seen Jo around?’ she enquired.
‘I’m afraid he had to leave early this morning, my dear, but that reminds me, he did tell me to give you this,’ George said, stepping out from around the desk and handing her a folded piece of paper. Florence felt her stomach sink, like she’d just hit the dip on a rollercoaster. She wasn’t a fan of rollercoasters. She and Margot had been to Blackpool only once and it was enough times for her to figure out that rollercoasters were not for her. She had too little control over the metal beasts and the twists and turns. ‘Now, you get home safe, Florence, and please give Margot my regards.’ Before George could walk away, Florence collected herself and let go of her suitcase to embrace him in a grateful hug.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered before stepping back. ‘And I will. Erm, I’ll just pop into the café and say bye to Sal but thank you again, George,’ she added, suddenly feeling a little discombobulated as she held on to Jo’s letter, tried to push her glasses back up her nose and grab her suitcase at the same time. Jo was not here; she couldn’t say bye to Jo. Was he mad at her? She didn’t have time to stand there and bombard George with questions on whether Jo had been happy when he left or if the letter held good news or bad. She was stumbling over the words in her brain, wanting to ask but scared to face those realities. ‘OK. Bye, George,’ she mumbled instead, knocking over her suitcase.
‘Are you all right, Florence?’ George asked.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ she said, forcing a smile that bared no teeth. Then she bent down hurriedly, gripped her suitcase tight and nodded another thank you to George before walking through the cottage to the café.
There was a lot of noise coming from the kitchen when she entered the conservatory. A few of the regulars she had become accustomed to greeting were sat enjoying a lazy breakfast, seemingly not paying any mind to the clatter and crashes. Florence edged closer to the counter. ‘Sal, is everything OK?’ she called out. A few moments passed before Sal appeared, not looking at all like his cheerful, bubbly self. Though he pasted on a smile when he saw her.
‘Everything is fine thank you, love. Though I will certainly miss seeing your face around here,’ he said, disappearing again for a moment and then re-emerging through a side door next to the cake counter to give her a hug. Florence was taken aback by his friendly action. She had only been here for one week. Of course she was going to miss Sal, but she didn’t think he would miss her as much. He saw people come and go all the time.
She returned his squeeze and replied, ‘I’m going to miss you too, Sal, but I hope to be back with my nanna next time.’
‘Oh, now that would be a treat, if this place is still standing,’ he said when he released her. Then he retreated back behind the counter before she could get a good look at his eyes. People were speaking rather oddly this morning, she thought. Why would this place not be standing? Just as she was about to ask that very question, Mr and Mrs Phillips shuffled up behind her to place their breakfast order.
‘OK, right,’ Florence started, a little flustered. ‘Bye, Sal; bye, Mr and Mrs Phillips,’ she said with a nod. Grabbing her suitcase, she made her way back through the cottage and took one last glance at the living room with its grand fireplace and enticing bookshelves and sighed. She truly was going to miss this place and couldn’t believe that after putting up such a fuss all these years about coming here she had actually enjoyed her stay and wished it could be longer. But the real world beckoned.
The sun began to rise higher now as the morning drifted on, warming her bare shoulders with its orange Calippo-coloured rays as she walked the country roads in the direction of the train station. Her long tea dress swished around her ankles while Jo’s letter burnt a hole in her pocket. A slight tremble in her fingers and a tightness in her chest signalled that she was coming up to the bend where one week ago she had crumbled to her knees on the concrete as the painful memories of her mother’s death haunted her. Today, Florence held her head high and when she came to the sharp turn, she looked around for a safe spot in the grass, a few metres from the road, and sat down.
Florence gently traced her fingers over the sprinkle of daisies that were scattered about the grass and breathed in deeply through her nose. The road was quiet with no screeching cars or grunting engines to disturb her. As she let out her breath she spoke. ‘Hi, Mum.’ Saying the words out loud that she had been unable to voice since she was just five years old, was both painful and freeing. She could feel her bottom lip begin to wobble and so she pushed on. ‘I finally went back, Mum. The camp was beautiful just like you always said when we visited. I know I was only five, but I can still hear you. You laughed so much at the lake and everything you saw – the water, the flowers, the stones and bricks that made up the cottage – you said it was all beautiful. But you used to tell me that I was the most beautiful thing of all.’ Florence chuckled at that memory just as she did when she was five and her mum said it while tickling her belly.
‘It was like I fitted in there, Mum. I’m not sure if you can see me from up there but I’ve not quite mastered the art of belonging in the real world. Some people make it look so easy, but for me it’s one of the hardest things. You know what nanna’s like – she’s all about me embracing who I am. I imagine you would have been the same, but just once I’d like to be good at blending in.’ Florence paused to look up at the sky where the plumes of white clouds had dispersed so that the sun beamed directly over where she was sitting. As the heat hit her cheeks, she smiled. ‘I met a man. He didn’t make me feel like I was so peculiar, but I wish you were here to guide me in matters of the heart. I know he’s special, but I can’t let him in.’ As she spoke those last few words, her nose became damp from a trickle of tears as the weight of what she was saying hit her. Was she truly happy to resign herself to a life without a true love or more specifically was she truly happy to resign herself to a life with Jo as her companion and nothing more? ‘I miss you, Mum; I miss Dad. Why does love have to be so tricky and painful?’ she said, squinting into the sunlight and then bowing her head. A low and warm breeze made the grass sway and Florence’s pocket rustle. She wiped at her fallen tears with the back of one hand and tentatively reached into her pocket to retrieve Jo’s letter with the other.
Unfolding the paper, her heart gave a gentle spasm at Jo’s scrawl, as the soft breeze blew around her encouragingly once more.
Florence,
I apologise for my hasty departure, but I have urgent business to attend to back home in London.
Meeting you this past week has been nothing short of serendipitous.
Take care of yourself, Miss Danver, and do not forget: “Everything that is real was imagined first.”
Yours, Jo
Upon reading Jo’s note, Florence felt a flurry of confused emotions. There was a tiny hint of sadness that he had called London home, which was rather silly of her if she was honest because though he may have looked content and at home at Camp Calla Lily, he did not live there. A slight fear weaved its way in next in thinking of what urgent business Jo had to attend to. Did it have something to do with George and Sal’s disgruntlement when she left the camp earlier this morning? Then came hope, for he had called their meeting serendipitous. Then anxiety came to say hello. He had not expressed a desire for further interaction or divulged a way of getting hold of him. A wave of happiness came after, for she was grateful for Jo’s graciousness, that his words read with the same kindness he had displayed to her last night, walking her back to her hut and not belittling the magnitude of emotions that had poured out of her, even when they were not the emotions that he had been hoping for. Lastly, a smile tugged at her lips at his words of wisdom. In all her complex emotions she rose to her feet. It wasn’t by any means a mean letter, which she half thought she deserved.
‘Thank you, Mum, I love you and I love you too, Dad,’ she said looking up to the sky and hugging Jo’s letter tight to her chest. She took a few steady
ing breaths, tucked the note safely away and continued on her way. A new voice was calling her name and it was telling her she had work to do.
As Florence neared the train station, the world seemed to pick up speed. Car horns beeped, traffic lights hummed, people shuffled about with their heads down and she found herself turning around to look back down the path she had just walked, all the commotion threatening to take away her newly acquired determination and confidence. It was hard to believe that only a few miles down the road she had found a place where she had felt like she belonged, almost like she’d stepped into one of her books and disappeared for a week into another world, a world where her wildest dreams became reality and no amount of fairy talk made you immature. Where there was no limit on ice-cream scoops or books that one could read and where people made eye contact and spent hours in nature talking and playing. But she could not let this other world scare her anymore.
When Florence arrived home around Saturday lunchtime, she was overcome with emotion upon wrapping her arms around her nanna. A week might only seem a short time, but Florence had missed Margot dearly, having never left her for that long before. People came and went from Florence’s life, she knew that much. It was one of the reasons she struggled to get attached to people and let them in. But her nanna, her nanna had been her angel since she was a baby. She was the only person Florence could trust and the only person she could not bear to part with for too long. She released her nanna and they both sunk into their dining room chairs where Margot had prepared a lovely lunch of tea and sandwiches. Having skipped breakfast, she dove into a delicious roast beef butty while Margot sipped on her tea and surveyed her granddaughter. There was something different about her that pleased the old lady.