Let me say before 'Anonymous' attacks my story as being something that is unrealistic and could never have happened, I have personal knowledge of this story. The character of 'Shuffling Freddie' is based on a real person, as are the other main protagonists, and the reason for his bizarre behaviour is as depicted in this story. I have merely used my imagination to get inside the heads of those concerned. As in this story the incident was set in a small rural village (where my mother's family have lived for over a hundred years) and the mores and attitudes of that time and place were as depicted.
*
It was one of those days and one of those scenes that exist only in picture postcards and I know this because that is my job, I drive around the country looking at the scenery and taking thousands of photos, some of which might eventually end up in calendars or on postcards.
The road wound its way through a wooded valley and beside a stream from which glistened sunlight diamonds. The tall trees bordered the road and stream, enclosing, but not imprisoning, it in a green curtain from which emerged the sounds of life, the birdsong in harmony with the gurgling stream creating a symphony, on which man could never hope to improve.
I pulled off the road and grabbed my camera. I stood and took it all in before walking to the edge of the stream and sitting down, I knew that if I sat patiently the birds would emerge from the trees to investigate my intrusion. I could sit sometimes for hours before the timid creatures showed themselves for my lens, but the wait was often worth it.
My focus was on a small blue wren, its tail twitching as it flirted with its mate, a plain soft brown creature that was obviously interested in the attention. My finger was on the shutter release and the soft sound of the digital camera hardly disturbed them as it recorded frame after frame of their frolicking from twig to twig.
Into this idyll intruded a strange sound, a shuffling sound, that sent the birds higher into the tress but not hiding, just watching. I turned and saw what had attracted their attention, a man, or at least I assumed it was a man, dressed in a huge black overcoat and hat. His shoes and trousers had probably been black at some point, but now were the colour of the gravel verge that clouded his shuffling feet. He noticed my Land Rover just before he shuffled into the back of it, and with head still bowed he detoured briefly around it before resuming his journey through the gravel. I found this scene quite strange and resolved to find out more of this apparition.
As the sound of his muffled step disappeared behind the resumed birdcalls, the birds returned to doing what they had been doing before this obviously familiar occurrence interrupted them. I continued my work, close-ups of the birds and long shots of the scenery, the water rippling over the round stones in the stream bed, the dragon fly helicopters on reed stems, but all the while my mind drifted back to the man on the road.
Packing my gear away I resumed my journey satisfied with my pictures but not satisfied. I had to find out more about this man. A small settlement appeared and I took the opportunity to stop for lunch at the small café.
It was cool inside and as I entered a young woman came from a back room in response to the bell's tinkling. I looked at the board behind the counter and decided that the hearty beef stew with chips and vegetables sounded just about right. "How are you today? What would you like?" Her voice had the same musical quality as the birdsong, what was it about this place where everything seemed to have the same quality of sound, well almost everything.
"I would like the hearty beef stew please." I tried not to sound too condescending. "And I would like some home made apple pie with fresh cream and a cup of tea. I think that will be all, thank you." She had scribbled something on her little pad before excusing herself and leaving through the same door through which she had emerged minutes before. I sat at one of the four tables and took my camera from its case and started scrolling through the photos that I had just taken, deleting those that I didn't want.
I had just finished my task when she came in with her hands full. A large bowl of stew and a side plate with the chips were followed by another side plate with thick slices of home made crusty bread and a bowl with small pats of butter. The cutlery she placed beside the plate consisted of a fork and knife and when I attacked the stew I realised that the fork was more than adequate, the gravy was so thick it clung to the chunks of meat. "Can I interest you in a glass of red wine to have with your meal, it's nothing fancy, just a good local wine."
"That sounds perfect. This is nice, did you cook it yourself?"
"Yes, I can't afford an executive chef like those fancy city restaurants."
"Ouch! I asked for that didn't I?" She chuckled softly to herself as she left to fetch the wine. It was good.
"I wonder, can I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"When I was taking photos a couple of kilometres down the road I was passed by this strange man in black. What's the story?"
"What you saw was 'Shuffling Freddie'. He's something of a legend around here."
"What's his story, I assume that there is one?"
"Freddie's story is a sad one. If you're not in a hurry I can tell you all about it."
"I'd like to hear it, it's could be fascinating."
She sat down at my table but it was several minutes before she began her story.
"Fred Hodge is from a local family and he's about fifty years old and every day for the last thirty years, rain or shine, and wearing the same heavy overcoat, he has shuffled along the road between his home just down the road to Smithton and back."
"Why?"
"I'm coming to that. Fred was a handsome lad and very popular, especially with the ladies and one in particular, Theresa Sylvester, the oldest daughter of twelve kids and a beauty by all accounts. Fred and Theresa were engaged to be married and everything looked rosy for them. But that was when things went horribly wrong for Fred. You have to remember that back then it was customary for young couples to 'save themselves' for their marriage bed and Fred was very strong on this. Theresa it seems was not as strong.
Father Patrick was a strapping young priest fresh out of the seminary and this was his first parish. He was a popular man, energetic, well spoken with a ready smile and a quick wit. The locals adored him, and it seems he returned the adoration, at least with the young women, and this included Theresa. Nothing of course was spoken of this at the time, but it was common knowledge that he strayed from time to time, but no-one knew or was talking about who he did it with. It was thought that he sought solace outside the church. Fred was blissfully unaware of any of this, all he could focus on was his forthcoming nuptials and his future with the most beautiful girl in the valley.
"Come in Theresa, how can I help you?"
"Father Patrick, I'm worried about getting married, what it means to be married."
"You're not having cold feet are you?"
"No Father, I love Fred dearly and want to be his wife more than anything, it's just that I don't really know what to do as a wife, what's expected of me."
"You haven't discussed this with your mother?"
"I have but all that she'll tell me is that I have to obey him in all things and not to worry about him because he's a good man. That tells me nothing, it doesn't tell me what is expected of me in the marriage bed, and she won't say anything other than to do as he wishes."
"Why have you come to me, surely there are other people that you can get advice from, your friends perhaps."
"I've asked some of my friends and they have told me that, because what happens in the marriage bed is a laying with one another in the Biblical sense, and because the church tells us what we can and can't do in that area, that I should seek advice from the church and because, there are no nuns here, you are the person that I should ask."
