Freddie

“What’s good about sad?

It’s happy for deep people.”

It was the first time Flo had ventured this far from the path. Out the back of her house was a swathe of forest filled with intrigue and curiosities, waiting to be explored. Of course, Flo was a conservative child and had never felt the urge to go any further than her grandma had permitted. Despite this, it was often the setting of her more fantastical day dream; Florence the dragon-slayer. Florence the Greatest Detective in the World. Florence, hero of mice and tweety birds.

For her, that was enough. Flo’s own mind was more interesting than the trees could ever actually be, to the creative disposition of such a child.

In her minimal experience with the outskirts of the woodland she had still seen some interesting, and sometimes disturbing, things. An animal skull surrounded by many smaller, twig-like bones. A curious circle of mushrooms around a hollow tree. Chunks of scrap metal, rusted beyond usefulness, and graffitied to high-heaven in garish colours, painting out tags and words she didn’t understand but her grandma would be scandalised by. Once she had even seen an odd man emerge clothed in leaves and long, woven grass garments, muttering about the ‘bloody, conspiring’ neighbours, who were perhaps equally as mysterious as the forest; a story for another time.

Now, Flo recognised all of these occurrences as normal. The bones - the den of a wild cat or dog, the mushrooms - planted by other children to look like a fairy circle, the graffitied metal - lazy littering council members leaving their waste to the mercy of delinquent teens, the odd man - the subject of her neighbour’s wife’s affair, disguised to spy on Mrs Grant and figure out why she was so secretive.

These would soon be of no consequence, as her ride out of this town would soon be here to take her to a bigger city where she had secured a job in financial investigation. She had one more day to spend in this neverland with her grandma and she was struggling to leave the elderly woman.

Her grandma had been her primary carer for her entire life, and with so little time left, Flo regretted the decision to leave her alone so deep into her twilight years. She deserved all the love and attention Flo could give and it overwhelmed her how much she suddenly needed to give back.

So Flo had, ironically, left to wander the forest and think of something else for a bit. Dragging her thoughts away from her grandma was a sisyphean task for a long stretch of her walk.

Flo passed fallen branches and logs covered with poisonously coloured fungi and multiple skittering rodents. She even spotted a bird’s nest high above in the branches of an acacia. She walked deeper.

Uncurated bushes grew scratchier, clawing at her bare legs and catching on the hem of her summer dress. Mud dried on her nice white shoes and branches threatened to muss her hair up.

The forest itself was nice. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, allowing for a soft green glow to fill the space between Flo and everything else. Very few bugs were buzzing around and the bird calls were musical, singing into the deep silence.

The mood began to decline when she spotted a decrepit structure in a small clearing. Its proximity to her own home disturbed her, but it didn’t look recently inhabited. It was almost sad.

The melancholy that surrounded the dwelling was almost audible in the light it cast on its surroundings; dark and departed. Flo wanted nothing to do with it, yet the curiosity it sparked was one she would never forget, even hundred of kilometres away.

So, the dream of this final adventure reverberating through her body, Flo entered the house.

It was simple. Wall paper was curling off the walls, revealing planks of dead, rotting wood and a blue woollen rug was coated in ash. In fact, a great deal of the house was edged with burns and white ash.

It had burnt, a long time ago. Flo only hoped that its occupants had escaped with their lives.

A chest of drawers was still intact, just slightly charred. Hoping to discover more of those who once lived here, she inspected the set. The drawer revealed itself to be locked, but a quick search of the rest of the room revealed a fire poker.

Applying it in a similar fashion to a crowbar, Flo soon had the drawer open. The inside was lined with lead, hence why it survived the fire. She grimaced. How far they had come since using lead in everyday life truly revealed the age of this structure.

At the top of the drawer a set of war medals lay, colourful and still shiny. A victory medal from World War I, an ANZAC commemorative medallion, and a British War Medal. It told the story of a hero. One forgotten and locked away in a fire-proof drawer instead of honoured.

Underneath was a wallet of photographs. There weren’t many, but they contributed to the narrative Flo was developing. A family man. A family house. A family fleeing from the punishing licks of fire. The photos featured a lovely woman, hair tied up beneath a white cap, and adorned with an apron bearing a cross. His wife, a nurse to his soldier. She looked young. It seemed impossible that it had been over a hundred years since this photo had no doubt been taken. There was no conceivable way that this woman still lived. Flo’s sympathy grew. Perhaps her family was still in the area.

In the back corner sat a ratty diary. The cloth cover had fraying corners and the pages were crisp; yellow.

Taking it from the corner Flo moved and sat on the floor, back resting against the drawers.

The inside of the front cover contained a clue.

Frederick Campbell, 1916

The writing was elegant, characteristic of its era.

Flo was almost tentative to investigate further. It felt like a gross invasion of privacy for her narrative’s sake, but in truth she knew that to reunite these possessions with their owner, a few morals must be contorted.

The first entry was typical.

11th May 1916

This morning I said goodbye to my dear family. It hurts me to know that I may never see them again. War is nasty business, but every man must do his part. I have been dodging mine for far too long. Only now have my parents deemed me old enough to contribute to the effort. I do not condemn them for their protection of me. When the war started I was a child in their eyes, 16 years old. But now I am a man of 18 and there can be no excuse. I am to be deployed to France. May I live to tell the tale.

At this point Fredrick was younger than Flo herself, already dedicated to a war he had been coerced into fighting. Flo was not a supporter of deploying soldiers so young without any past training. She could not think of anyone who was. It was a different time, she supposed.

The following entries detailed the trip to France and the trenches Fredrick was to reside in. This diary had travelled further than she ever had and experienced hardships she could not conceptualise.

In his travels Fredrick went far, but eventually he came back to North France in 1917.

17th May 1917

It’s a nightmare this war. We do despicable things and hurt people in our same situation for the good of men higher than us. Where is God’s kindness? Where is His forgiveness? His hand, reaching to rescue us from ourselves and each other? A good Christian man like me should not think these things, but it’s all we think now.

A year since I joined up and I can only think what a mistake it was. This is hell.

A few entries went without comment.

2nd June 1917

Over 2500 died in Bullecourt. A month of warfare and heroism. We did great things, but at what cost. It is not comparative in the immediate future, the life lost to those saved. I know that in the end, our progress will result in a greater number of lives saved and a greater good achieved, but currently the ratio cannot be ignored.

Bullecourt was bad. Many of us were taken prisoner. The attack was poor and in the end we retreated. Weeks of fighting and dysfunctional tanks, to no avail. This is a poor world in which we live.

Flo did not remember much of her WWI history lessons but these words made her want to become a world-class historian, if only to show them to the world. Frederick’s words hurt with no thought for the boundaries of time and space. His experience was eternal and unforgiving, and everyone should know.

Logically, Flo knew that everything she was reading was already known and documented; even respected twice a year on ANZAC day and Remembrance day. Perhaps this year, those will mean more to her, affected as she now was. Funny, how quickly one may change, and over something as simple as the words of a ghost.

She read further, discovering that Fredrick was redeployed to the front in Amiens, another French town. It was here that he met the woman in the photograph.

22nd August 1918

Through this bloody war there is little to look at kindly, but I have found someone I can see as such. A nurse did treat a scratch up my leg, despite the greater need of others. She was beautiful. I see her now, in my dreams, and every moment awake. I hope that when this conflict is over I may find her and marry her.

There was no name.

1st September 1918

I have been called a hero today. I do not feel like one.

On the front everyone is a hero, even the man I saved from death. Especially him. Oliver was his name, Oliver Wilson. He jumped in front of a bullet for another man whose back was turned. I could not leave him there as the other man was gunned down in ignorance or Oliver’s sacrifice. I checked both for life but only Wilson was receptive.

In principle I was obliged to take him in for care. I would have anyway. Anything for a man so brave.

I took him to my lovely nurse. There was red everywhere. It looked like I had been shot too, for all of Oliver’s blood that covered me.

It was a morbid sight as the nurse removed the bullet and sewed up his chest. Even with these aids, it was not known whether he would make it through the night. I still don’t know if he will live.

I learnt the nurse’s name when waiting with Oliver. Florence Williams. A beautiful name for a beautiful gal. I will marry her someday.

Flo almost dropped the diary. The last few lines felt like Fredrick was speaking directly to her. What were the chances that Florence Williams had lived so close to where a whole line of Florence’s would once live. She did consider that maybe Florence was her great-grandmother, but her last name was not Campbell like Fredrick’s.

An idea struck.

Gathering the contents of the drawer into her arms, Flo made her way out of the charred building, old ash dusting the skirt of her dress. Back down the path she walked, focussed on one thing only.

Her own home appeared through the undergrowth and she entered the back garden through a small gate.

A smile parted Flo’s lips as she noticed her grandma having tea on the deck in her outdoor armchair. It was a familiar image, one that Flo would miss.

All her anguish flooded back at the sight of the elderly woman, but she had to push it aside. She had a job to do.

“Grandma.” she acknowledged as she sat down across from the woman.

“Florence.” Grandma sipped her tea, appraising Flo’s armful of affects. She laid them out on the small table between them. The woman gasped at the medals.

“Now where did you find these?” Flo gestured towards where she had come from.

“In the forest. There was a burnt, old house. I found these in a lead coated chest of drawers.”

Flo went on to explain who had owned the diary before arriving at the entry she had read most recently.

“The nurse’s name was Florence. Just like you, and Mama, and me.” Grandma looked about to say something.

“I know your mothers name wasn’t Florence.” Grandma closed her mouth and raised an eyebrow, prompting Flo to continue.

“But was your fathers name Oliver?” Grandma’s eyes widened infinitesimally.

“Yes, dear. Where did you learn that?” Flo opened the diary to the relevant entry and handed it to her grandmother to read.

There was silence as Grandma scanned Fredrick’s words. Flo watched her eyes grow sad and her mouth smile slightly.

“My father was once shot in the line of duty. His best friend upon returning home was his saviour, Freddie.” Flo’s expression matched her grandmothers. It was sad, but happy too.

“I was named after the nurse who healed him. This very Florence.” Grandma rose from her chair and wrapped her arms around Flo.

“I did not know my father well. He died not ten years after my birth, in World War II, dedicated to his country once more. I never met Freddie or Florence.”

“Thank you dear.”

* * *

Months later, after extensive research into Fredrick and his family, using materials from National Archives and Libraries, Flo discovered a living relation, not five kilometres from her childhood home.

On a visit to her grandma she made a stop on her way in at a lovely suburban house with a lovely front garden. There was no evidence that the forefather of the family within had suffered as he had. There wouldn’t be, but Flo was still slightly surprised, as though she had painted a picture in her head of the family living in a house as burnt as Fredrick’s.

She knocked and rang the bell. A moment later a man her age opened the door. He smiled disarmingly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. That was fine. He didn’t know her after all.

“Good morning. What do you want?” Flo thought he wasn’t great with strangers.

“I’m sorry for intruding. I’m Florence Wilson. I think I have something that belongs to you.” She handed him the diary from the box of things under one arm.

He opened the cover and skimmed a few entries. He glanced up suspiciously.

“What makes you think this is mine?” Flo sighed. She should have expected it to be harder.

“In the last entry, the author talks about a man called Oliver. He is my great-grandfather. The man who wrote it is Fredrick Campbell, presumably your own great-grandfather. My grandma, mother, and me were all named after his wife, Florence Williams. She saved Oliver and they all became great friends.” He flipped to the end and read the entry.

“I did research into Fredrick after reading this, and found your family, his living descendents.”

He closed the diary.

“I’m still not convinced, but I think we should talk. I’m Andrew.” Andrew invited her in and they sat by the coffee table, where she distributed the belongings in the box.

“My grandpa was named Oliver, after his fathers best friend who died in World War II.” He studied the medals.

“It must be the same Oliver then.”

All of a sudden Flo’s world grew larger, the stories of her family and Andrew’s intertwining.

That last adventure into that curious forest into that old house to find the diary of Fredrick Campbell was finally resolved, only for a new one to begin, untangling the narrative of her family and the lives of Florence, Oliver, and Fredrick. This time, she had help.