A Midsummer Night's Scene

The soft whirring of Anna’s wheelchair cut through the peaceful silence in my greenhouse hideout. It came both as a comfort and an intrusion. I’m not going to lie. A small, shameful part of me wished she’d just bugger off and leave me to sulk in peace.

If you’re wondering why I’m hiding from my family like a three-year-old with a stolen liquorice pipe, I’ll tell you. But first, I should probably introduce myself properly—name, backstory, secrets. You know, all the usuals.

So, my name is Felicia Myrén-Wallin. I’m Finn’s mum, Anna’s wifey, and Foxy to friends and family. Most people know me as Foxi French, the gobby siren behind Paradise Hotel, Brighton’s most seductive boudoir club, but only a handful realise we’re one and the same.

I was born in Myrnäs, in the north of Sweden, but moved to England when I was eighteen. I’ll never forget that day. It was the 29th of September, Anna’s birthday, when her great-grandmother brought me over. As a gift! Long story, but if you stick around, I’ll tell you all about that too at some point.

Midsummer is a difficult time of year for me. That’s when all the crazy shit that eventually led to me hiding out here began, but there’s no need to get into that tonight. Suffice it to say, some memories are too painful to bear, and my insecurities get the better of me when I’m sad. No one needs that kind of drama, though, so I’ve benched myself in the one place where I can hear my own thoughts: our greenhouse.

Anna bought it for my first birthday here, but it didn’t exactly look like this back then. She found it for sale ‘as is’ online and got the contractors who’d worked on our house to dismantle it and bring it over. It was like getting a massive construction kit without a manual.

“Happy birthday, Foxy! Here’s some rusty beams and a pile of broken glass. See if you can build a castle for the tomatoes or something.”

No, she didn’t say that. She said she’d bought me a gothic Victorian greenhouse, hoping I’d grow some roots here. I know, right? It’s the size of a standard swimming pool and looks like it was designed by an architect who couldn’t decide if they wanted to build a church, a mosque, or the biggest bloody birdcage in the world.

Madness aside, it’s gorgeous. It’s like stepping into a fairy tale every time you walk through the door. The air is warm and humid, laced with a sweet, earthy scent that reminds me of home. Much of its cosy, calming vibe come from the soundscape—the trickle of moving water and the koi darting through their pond. And then there’s the greenery.

We have lush evergreens, fruits, vegetables, and fragrant herbs sharing space with all sorts of domestic and exotic flowers. Like a slice of Mother Nature herself—a glorious jumble of smells, sounds, colours, patterns, and textures all coming together to create some kind of order out of complete and utter chaos. I love it.

Our gardeners beg to differ, though. Apparently, our style messes with their Feng Shui or something. As if it’s our fault they can’t see the beauty in a masterful compromise.

Anna wanted a Japanese-inspired paradise garden. I wanted to recreate an old Midsummer Night’s dream of mine and make it fully accessible for her. So we made two wildly different visions possible, blending one third Scandi folklore with one third Japanese myth. Then we left the rest of it as a let’s just give it a go and see what happens kind of space.

The focal point in this dream world of ours is the little island we built over the pond. You have to cross a bridge to reach, then you can climb into the rattan egg chair I’m snuggled up in. It looks a bit like a bird’s nest hanging from a thick wire attached to the ceiling, and there’s a remote that controls the height and sway. But the best part? It’s big enough for both of us.

The country bumpkin in me also loves the fact that we’ve converted some posh tosser’s pride and joy and made it our hedonistic haven. Let’s just say there’s a reason the tomatoes are blushing. We’ve spent hours curled up here, talking the night away or losing ourselves in a good book. We have even had a few film nights with subtitles, snacks, and blankets disappearing into the dark.

Speaking of posh tossers, we have a surplus of them in our family. You’ll meet them soon enough, but let me tell you something about Anna before she finds me. She’s the biggest pain in the arse I’ve ever met. But she’s also the bravest, beautifullest, and most brilliant woman to ever roll across the face of the earth. Which, frankly, makes her even more of a pain in the arse.

Still, there is no me without her.

Remember how I said I was her birthday present? Well, we celebrated our first anniversary with a budget version of a Swedish Midsommarfest. It wasn’t much of a party, but it was the start of our partnership.

Six years later, we ‘blackmailed’ Anna’s mother into giving her a severance package of sorts. No need to feel sorry for her. Alice Roberts was a right cow, and she got exactly what she wanted in that deal.

The money wasn’t a fortune by any stretch of the imagination, but it was more than enough for Anna to buy Hedgerow Hill and still have a few pounds left to invest. This was a dilapidated disaster zone back then and as the one who went to check it out, I told Anna as much. I advised her against buying it, but where I saw problems, she saw potential. And here we are.

This old stage station is her battle station now. We restored it to its former glory, and Anna manages all our operations, and her music studio, from here. It’s all purpose built to cater to her needs, so she rarely wants to go anywhere else.

Our humble abode is also the scene for the traditional Midsommarfest. No longer a sad little pity party for two, it has evolved into a long, lavish weekender where we celebrate life, death, and rebirth with the little gaggle of brainiacs we call family. They’re all lovely people, but they really get on my nerves sometimes. Especially after a few drinks when they get loud and obnoxious. Then they turn everything into a pissing contest they just have to win.

When I slipped out to get away from them earlier, they were so caught up in their debate I didn’t think anyone would notice. But of course, Anna did. I knew my time was up when the whirring stopped.

“Ha! I thought I’d find you here. Penny for your thoughts?”

Anna’s warm smile said she was happy to see me.

“Hey, Bun-Bun.” I smiled back at her. “Just thinking about pruning the plum tree.”

“Yeah, nice try, you sly fox you. I’m not buying it. What’s going on?”

I didn’t want to burden her with my insecurities again, but Anna’s like a bloodhound when she’s on to you.

“I just needed a minute to clear my head.” I said, opting for a partial truth.

“Well, you’ve had way more than that now. Scooch, I’m coming in.”

Grabbing my hand to steady herself, she climbed into the hanging chair and curled up beside me.

“You alright, babe?”

“Nothing a good squeeze can’t cure,” I said, pulling her closer, burying my face in her hair. It smelled of the lavender and geranium shampoo she likes and some citrusy hair styling product. “Are they still at each other’s throats?”

“Of course, they are. It’s a full-on flyting now. I have no idea what’s gotten into them tonight. You’d think it was Loke and Freya over there, hurling insults across the table.”

“Tant Stina always said midsommartider är trolltider. Midsummer time is troll time. They do believe that back home. That our world is one of many realms separated by a thin veil. It’s supposed to be weaker around the solstice. You have to be extra careful not to cross the troll then. They can cast a spell on you, or send you to the other side, if you upset them.”

“That’s wild. But it does feel like a magical time, doesn’t it? Some of the best moments of my life have happened around Midsummer.”

“And some of mine,” I agreed. “But can we please not talk about time right now? That’s what set them off in the first place.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Well, it was mostly friendly banter at first, but then I think Steph felt like she was losing the argument. She hit back with some choice words about ignorant Americans. Said he should count himself lucky that time heals all wounds and made a silly burnt fingers gesture.”

“A bit mean, isn’t it? Even by her standards.”

“I don’t think she meant to be mean, though. She just wanted to score a point. I thought for sure Maddox would come back with a witty retort about stuck-up Brits or something, but nope. He went all Professor Rhinehart on her arse with half a lecture on poor translations. Apparently, it was a Greek bloke who wrote it in a two-thousand-year-old poem. Melander, I think his name was. No, Menander! And guess what? He never said, ‘Time heals all wounds.’ He said it’s ‘the healer of all necessary evils.‘”

“As tyme hem hurt, a tyme doth hem cure.”

Anna’s attempt at a serious impression of Steph quoting Chaucer back at him in her best school-marm voice had us both in stitches.

“You funny!” I kissed her forehead. “Anyway, that’s when things got really weird. One moment, I was right there in the courtyard, trying to keep up. Eyes on the ball like it’s the bloody Wimbledon. The next, I was trapped in a pocket of time, watching you all from a distance.

“It really got to me what he said about time and healing and necessary evils. I felt all cold and clammy, so I had to get out of there.”

“Aww, you silly sausage! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s not true. Some wounds just learn to hide in the shadows. It hurts. And it drudges up old shit that makes me feel invisible again.”

“You’re not invisible,” she said, stroking my hair. “You never were.”

“Maybe not, but that’s how I felt. And listen, I know I’m as thick as mud in many ways. That’s fine. We can’t all be bloody doctors. No, don’t give me that look. You know it’s true. But it still washes over me sometimes, this awful sense of not belonging. Not here, not with you, not with our family. It’s like no matter what I do, I’ll never be good enough. I’ll never deserve any of this.”