Short Story: Bridge Building

Short Story: Bridge Building

That first year at Uni hadn’t gone according to plan. He was pretty clear in his own mind he was on the wrong course but couldn’t decide what he ought to be doing. It wasn’t a lack of study that had brought him to this conclusion, more an instinct that no matter how hard he tried he would never find any satisfaction in continuing his studies, and to this resolve he had come home early for the holidays. He found it hard to explain to his parents his state of mind; being away from home had allowed him to clear the clutter that all the effort of getting through A levels had created, together with the need to find a place at a decent Uni and settle in, find new friends, tackle the course and achieve a number of personal goals. He had completed some, not all of those, but it left him dissatisfied at the outcome. There was little in the way of personal gratification and a feeling of emptiness pervaded as if the hill remaining to climb was greater than the benefit he would find in achieving it. He felt frustrated, and annoyed with himself to be the one to cause exasperation in his parents, his tutors and maybe a couple of his friends. But there it was.

He stared out the window and saw her again. It was the same girl he’d seen on the previous evening, strolling along the opposite bank of the mill stream that ran at the bottom of their garden. Tonight she was dressed in a flouncy dress that bounced as she swung her arms. She appeared dreamy, dawdling along, probably humming or singing to herself as she batted the occasional bug with a swing of her hand. To his mind she looked elegant and appealing, and he would have liked to talk to her but felt a little bit shy. She was probably not much older than him but seemed decidedly grown up. He’d only ever had one serious girlfriend in his entire life and spent this last year at Uni trying to get to know some of the girls there, but apart from a couple of grungy types met at parties or in bars he’d not succeeded. Desperation, or something akin to it, forever etched into the expression he turned upon them. He was hoping that as his maturity developed he’d find a route, but it wasn’t his primary goal. The girl on the opposite side of the mill stream glanced up in passing, and he thought for a fleeting second he discerned a smile. He couldn’t be sure; the shifting light and the distance between them playing tricks. Nevertheless it brought him out of his room to wander outside.

His mother caught him putting on his trainers.

“What do you want to eat?”

It was the perennial question his mother raised, and he shrugged.

“Whatever….”

He never wanted to think about food and wandered out the back door with the dog following in his wake. During his brief absence the dog had grown older and no longer ran if he threw a stick or a ball. It wagged its tail complacently and followed wherever he went as it had done since he was eight or nine. He supposed it had grown tired of waiting for his return and was getting to an age when it felt it should no longer have to pursue hopeless causes. Perhaps he felt the same. He patted its head as they made their way down to the banks of the mill stream to watch swirling waters racing past.

When they had first moved to the house his mother had warned him to keep away from the stream; he was six at the time, and she feared a drowning, or at the very least he would get wet or muddy and drag it indoors. His mother was fiercely house-proud and he had been raised to respect her point of view. Not that he followed her guidance absolutely and did as most boys do - the opposite from time to time – sometimes to test her patience, but more often as a dare to test his own courage. As he grew older he had waded into the waters, which were freezing and fast running, coming up to his waist and making swimming impossible because the current carried him downstream before his strength could get him from one side to the other. Over the years boats and rafts, logs and inflatables had been tried out, again with everything swept away on the current, but it had been fun trying and the friends he’d brought to the house had helped him to build dams and sluices to control the flow. These had lasted a short time before being overwhelmed as the waters overran, knocking them down. They were games of course; there had never been any intent to cause floods or stop the flow altogether. Now, staring at the muddy stream, he was reminded of those heady boyhood games wishing he could behave as foolishly or as playfully again.

Lifting his eyes he stared at the opposite bank where he’d observed the girl, knowing there was a path that ran alongside and led from the village a couple of miles upstream to the road junction where the old mill (and now disused) was located a mile or so downstream. It was mostly local people that used the path; dog walkers, couples out for a stroll, the odd rambler following a map, even an occasional birdwatcher. Their house was pretty isolated, lying as it did on a bend of the B road that meandered towards the nearest town. Isolation had never been an issue growing up; his parents both possessed cars and he’d relied on his bike to get around. Now he supposed if he came back to live at the house permanently he’d be expected to get a car too, but for now he could borrow his mother’s if he needed it. Living there he had never felt out on a limb; there was always something to engage the mind and later when his studies took over it was something of a blessing not to have distractions crowding out his need to get on with the work. Maybe it had made him obsessive and far too single minded. He knew he cut himself off from people at times, and could appear distant. But student life had shaken that out of him for good or for ill as he had been thrown onto whatever resources he possessed to make an impact. Returning home, he felt the quietness of the house get into his bones again and after the raucous (often deafening nature) of student accommodation it seemed too placid, and far too undemanding. He wanted some action, something to do; a project or a task to occupy his mind and take away the need to think. What he really did not want to do was be forced to make a decision about his future which he knew in his heart of hearts would only disappoint, only cause grief – not just to him but to his parents too. At times he felt so worked up about not disappointing his parents it made it almost impossible to think or to function clearly, arriving at a point where he had grown morose and almost incommunicative. He knelt next to the dog, patting and roughing its fur. It seemed as if no one understood what he was going through or was able to help. No-one.

———————

A new day dawned bringing with it fresh hope and bright sunshine, and a kind of victory over the state of mind that had held him in its grip. There was a bounce to his step and a new found confidence and determination not to be held down by factors which appeared to be outside his control. He decided to take a long bike ride to rediscover a few of the haunts he’d known growing up, and if he bumped into one or two of the people known previously so much the better. Since returning he had deliberately kept away from old friends, unable to face questions or to give them the satisfaction of believing going to Uni had been entirely misguided. None of that mattered, and if necessary he felt able to gloss over facts he didn’t want to have to explain.

There was a fair bit of traffic on the road so he turned off into the lanes, taking shortcuts used since childhood through side streets and alleyways. It was a working day so there few people about and although he’d hoped to bump into those known at school he didn’t want to start actually knocking on doors. By lunchtime he had made a circuitous journey towards town, revisited the old school (albeit at a distance), and was now loitering beside a park bench to eat a turkey and ham sandwich bought from the café he and his mates used to go to at lunchtime. The park was filling up; it was a bright sunny day, warm enough not to wear too many layers and he observed the passing traffic with a lazy gaze, watching girls strolling about, mother’s pushing their buggies, the knots and bundles of school kids wandering or gathered into places he recalled once having gone to. It was only as he became aware he was staring that he saw the same girl he’d observed the evening before. She was with a group of other girls, grinning broadly at something that had been said, smoking and texting. From what he could discern she was a sixth former or college student, carrying a weighty bag over one shoulder and dressed in similar style to the girls she was with. It made him wonder where she was in fact heading as she strolled along the path on the opposite side of the mill stream; probably to meet a boy. She looked the ‘type’ to have somebody in tow. He watched for a couple more minutes as she texted and messed about with her friends, finishing his sandwich in silence before turning the bike to cycle home. The girl remained on his mind during the entire journey as he devised various plans to engage with her.

He saw the worried look on his mother’s face as he parked the bike, feeling certain she saw right through him, but wasn’t able yet to determine the cause of his distress, hoping perhaps it had nothing to do with the usual problems parents often imagine their offspring get into. Once inside she started asking the kind of questions he had been trying to avoid and this led to an almighty row as he slunk off to the bedroom to avoid further confrontation. By then he had almost forgotten the girl, but she returned to mind later that afternoon as he lay on the bed contemplating what he ought to do. He had dismissed the notion to run off like a petulant sulky schoolboy; what was the point? He had an open invitation to visit friends who were staying in Ibiza – that would easily take up two or three weeks, but what then? The problem remained; the problem of his future that lay unresolved.

He went down to apologise to his mother for shouting; this time she glanced at him oddly unwilling to push by asking further questions. He knew she would return to the pursuit in due course and eventually winkle it out of him, but he wasn’t ready to admit to his failures. No, he wasn’t ready to think about the alternatives; to be frank the choices frightened him a little and it wasn’t because he was timid, just confused and being a male saw little point in talking through the options. He returned to the mill stream to stand on the bank where the dog found him and sat at his side. He was a long time contemplating nothing specific, staring into the fast flowing waters until he became fascinated by a new idea, and at first he dismissed it as being far too fantastic, too fraught with difficulty and maybe also slightly mad. He knew he needed something to do; something physical; something physical and demanding, deciding there and then to construct a footbridge across the stream. He wondered why it had never been considered previously. It seemed a simple matter to connect his side of the mill stream to the other. It would certainly become a project to occupy him while he thought through the options for when he returned to Uni, and it would make it easier to cross over and talk to the girl if he saw her again. It was a mad scheme really; the mill stream was probably about twenty feet wide and waist deep in places, and the banks either side accounted for another five feet or more. What did he possess or more what could he build that would stretch thirty feet to bridge the void. If he thought more clearly he would have seen the difficulties and abandoned the idea. He could easily call across to the girl as she passed if that was the intent, but it wasn’t really. She was simply a factor and her presence no more than a pretext in the brief he was creating for himself, and besides it was a much better scheme if the ends did not determine the need.

Going onto the internet he searched for bridge designs; not new bridges but older styles from bygone era’s, finding examples dating back to pre-history when men depended on their wits for survival. He felt pretty certain that modern materials ought to play a part but had no idea where to obtain them and had little money if he found them. Rooting around the back of the house he uncovered tree branches and rickety old bits of timber, but nothing substantial. Make do and mend as his long lost grandfather might have suggested. And this brought him via a circular route back to the farmer for whom he’d worked two summers previously; the farmer’s son had been a decent sportsman at school and the two had shared a number of crucial innings for the school team. Perhaps he could help, or his dad if the son wasn’t around. He certainly recalled a pile of old materials stacked up at the back of one of the barns, hoping there might be something reasonable he could ‘borrow’. It was odd really how his mind evolved to deal with this project with no thought for the labour involved, the outcome or the certainty he would be able to carry it through. If he’d stopped to think clearly he would have seen a number of difficulties likely to scupper his chances, but thinking didn’t come into the equation as he went headlong in search of his objective.

The farmer’s son proved to be away at Uni but his father recalled various matches during which the pair of them had thrashed the ball around. It was during a pause in these reminiscences he was able to describe the reason he had called in. The farmer maintained a doubtful glint in his eye as the bridge project was outlined, laughing gently as the need for materials was provided as the reason for the visit today. As a working man himself he obviously admired the young man’s resolve even if he doubted his ability when told the task involved.

“Look around by all means.” He was told. “I don’t know what I can spare.”

The pile perused was an odd mixture of whatever a farmer might have used or bought or made redundant over the past thirty odd years, and some of it proved too far gone even to be considered. There were however a pile of what must once have been telegraph poles and these were seized upon to provide the length necessary to span the millstream. Additionally there were railway sleepers, scaffold poles, fence stakes and a quantity of planks that had survived the years in varying condition. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss as he displayed his finds before the farmer.

“I don’t know.” The farmer remarked.

“I’ll work to repay you.” He was promised.

The farmer could easily have refused but laughed instead.

“You’re a young man with a plan, and I like that.”

It felt good to receive a compliment even when in reality he was yet to achieve anything, but that was of less importance. Indeed what really mattered was making a start; that was worth far more than praise or approval.

He was still to explain his intent to his parents, but in some ways they accepted his reasoning for building a bridge as of far more importance than the actual need for the bridge, indeed the only question his mother asked (ignoring the requirement to ask why) was would it be secure? Meaning, will it encourage hooligans to traipse through their garden or break into the house. It was a lesser consideration for him, but he promised to install a lockable gate so that access could be controlled if necessary. His mother examined him closely as he finished, asking.

“Is this what you really want to do?”

It was a loaded question and she might have extended it to demand ‘is this what you want to do with your life’ but stopped short, expecting no doubt that if this task was permitted the reasons behind his early return might be revealed, but she was prepared to wait and see.

That evening as he was surveying the topography of the stream bank to find the right crossing point he became aware of the girl he’d observed previously heading in his direction. She had assumed a figmentary role as a character in the story he was telling himself, and he wondered if he should reveal his plans to her. You could never tell with women what their reaction was likely to be and it might sound odd if he sprung it on her; he had met some peculiar examples during the first year at Uni and with women wasn’t always able to determine what his approach ought to be. The conversation started conventionally enough.

“Hello. Nice evening.”

She took him in at a glance; she was texting.

“I suppose so.”

She wore black trousers with a jacket over a white top, and he recognised the fact she probably worked in a restaurant. He’d seen others wear that particular style, realising she must be on her way to the gastro pub at the crossroads.

“Going to work.” He smiled.

She nodded. “What you doing?”

He grinned, pleased to be allowed to reveal his plans. “Bridge building… I’m building a bridge.”

She stared at the house behind him. “You live here?”

It was a perfectly reasonable question, but he turned to stare at the house before nodding.

“Why?” She asked, and for a moment he felt stumped before smiling shyly.

“To meet you. Not you specifically, but other people….” He felt it sliding away from him and tried to correct himself without appearing as a weirdo. “I’ve seen you on the path and thought it would be good to meet.”

She stared at him as if he was off his head, pleased no doubt that the width of the millstream remained between them, and walked on without comment.

He felt devastated by his own inadequacy; it was just like being back in the Uni bar again, but at least there the benefit of alcohol had enabled him to glaze over his errors. Here it was different, almost immediately deciding to abandon everything he had felt so determined to achieve. She was certainly not worth the effort; a common little piece, with as much charisma as….. He let it go, jostled by the dog as his mother emerged from the house.

“We’re going for a walk.” She announced. “Do you want to join us?”

He shook his head, knowing precisely what his mother was up to. She called the dog to her side and clipped a lead onto its collar, leading the animal away. For a moment he watched after them as they disappeared towards fields that bordered the house on the other side of the road and then he turned back to the mill stream, feeling somewhat thwarted in his ambition. If he wasn’t building this bridge to reach the mystery girl (who really contained little mystery after all) then he would do it for himself - to achieve the goal he had set himself. And if it didn’t work out then no one would be the wiser, for not even he placed the slightest weight upon the outcome.

———————

Next day returning to the farm he helped load the selected materials aboard a trailer the farmer delivered to site, leaving him to sort everything into the lengths and sizes required. The telegraph poles proved to be cumbersome and heavy, and he saw immediately the problem he would have in actually lifting them into position to span the mill stream. His intention was to place four of them side by side across the gap and then lash them together for stability before nailing boards onto the surface to provide a safe footing. Once again, the internet provided illustrations of bridges in primitive locations, so in principle he felt he knew what to do. The struggle to drag the poles into position proved harder than he would have believed, and more than once his strength gave out. He recognised if he positioned a suitable vehicle on the far side he could use it to drag the poles across the gap, but he didn’t possess anything capable of doing the job and felt unable to ask the farmer to lend him a tractor. It was as he sat on the bank contemplating this dilemma that a dog walker chanced by on the far side, and they fell into conversation. It turned out the man had spent time in military service and recognised the problem, suggesting the use of an ‘A’ frame to create the necessary lift but remarking that without adequate manpower nothing could be achieved and it would require a number of able bodied men on both sides to drag the poles into position across the stream.

“Got any mates?” The man asked.

That evening a visit to the pub proved in order where he hoped to bump into some of his former classmates. Not everyone had left for Uni; quite a few were working or had taken a gap year instead. It cost him a few drinks to obtain their interest but four agreed to come and help, and the following day he was pleased to discover they actually turned up. He didn’t know why he was so surprised to discover they were willing to fulfil promises made, but he had grown cynical after encountering people that let him down at Uni and imagined his friends might have become the same during the time he’d been away. He knew perfectly well it wasn’t true, but as in so many ways what he imagined to be true was held to be more correct than the evidence of his own eyes. He felt glad to discover how wrong he was, and what was far more pleasing was to be given the help and guidance of others. His mother came out at regular intervals to watch the young men at work, providing tea and coffee and making sandwiches at lunchtime. It proved to be harder work than any of them envisioned but at the end of the day four poles were in place; laid across the stream and lashed together. He felt exhausted but proud, dragged off to the pub by his friends who wanted to celebrate what they saw as a remarkable achievement.

It couldn’t stop there of course; he needed to complete the task. Perhaps he was driven; perhaps he was set on discovering some new understanding through the work he was accomplishing. Whatever the reason, it felt good. It felt a little like one of those Amish things when the whole community comes together to erect a building, except it was just him (and his friends), just his own vision and enterprise. He worked on and during the second day received support as a couple of the friends who had helped with the poles returned to observe his progress. He thought he was doing well to accomplish what he was doing, sawing planks into even lengths before nailing them down onto the poles. It created a safe walkway, but there were a couple of drawbacks they were able to point out that he hadn’t seen. He should have been grateful for their constructive criticisms but wasn’t entirely, and when they offered to change the structure slightly he was forced to stand aside as they took over. Perhaps they offered a more practical wisdom than his own but he didn’t see it that way, feeling miffed to be excluded from his own project.

———————

Next day and for the following three days it absolutely tipped down as he sat indoors frustrated at not being able to complete the task and forced to stare out the window at the partially completed bridge. It began to feel as if it had somehow stopped being his accomplishment and turned into a joint enterprise. He knew he was acting foolishly and that he should be grateful for all the help he could get, but remained obstinate and stubborn. On the evening of the fourth day his friends turned up in a car to drag him out of the house and he was ordered to have some fun. It turned into a long drunken evening that concluded at a club somewhere in the small hours. He had never been a drinker, and when he did indulge it changed his personality. He smiled a lot, made outrageous comments or crass and often stupid jokes as he attempted to chat up women that were out of his league. The beer glasses helped; the vodka glasses; the whisky glasses too; but one whiff of perfume and he was a goner. He woke up in the back of a speeding car zooming through the countryside at breakneck speed to arrive at someone’s house where he was bundled inside, sprawling onto a sofa. It felt like he was being kidnapped, but how could it be when he recognised at least one of the friends he had started the evening with, but now the group contained more women and at least one other young man he thought he recognised. It didn’t matter as he became locked into a casual embrace with an equally intoxicated woman who wasn’t exactly fighting him off.

That’s as much as he knew until the next morning when he woke slumped in an armchair with the sun beaming in through open windows. His head felt terrible; his body ached as if he’d run a marathon and he needed to pee. He’d been drunk before, but never like this. Around him bodies were stirring as he stumbled towards what he took to be the way to the loo but found himself outside, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight and immediately pitched headlong into a swimming pool. It proved a shock as he fought to rise above the surface and swim to the side, discovering a pair of curious blue eyes examining him.

“Did you mean to do that?” She asked, staring down.

He spat a long fountain of water from his mouth and climbed out. She remained staring at him as he shivered in the early morning glare.

“Come inside.” She insisted, wrapping him into a towel and once inside offering him a bathrobe to wear.

“It’s my Dad’s. They’re away in Spain. You came home with my brother last night – remember? You made quite a racket.”

“Did I? Sorry.”

“Not just you – all of you.”

God. Too much information for a man with a splitting head. He sat down heavily as the girl produced coffee, handing him a couple of paracetamol before setting about tidying the chaos from the night before. He had never been good at estimating ages with women; they either dressed too old or too young in his experience, but imagined she was sixteen/seventeen. He focused on her briefly as his head refused to allow speech, and his eyes were so bleary they could barely keep up, but when the house began to feel stuffy he drifted outside again, this time managing to skirt the pool to fall into a recliner where he closed his eyes. It felt good, real good, and he might have drifted off but the girl followed him out, sitting opposite and starting to chat. Thankfully he didn’t need to offer much in the way of responses, trying only to avoid nodding his head. She appeared to have a lot to say, or maybe she said so much because he said so little. Twice she stopped talking to gauge whether or not he was still awake, and on a third occasion he sat bolt upright aware of an uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“I should go. Where are the others…?”

He smelled bacon and stood up resolutely, but as quickly ran towards bushes that bordered the pool area where he was sick. He turned back to find the girl staring.

“Feeling better?”

“Sorry.”

She laughed, unreeling a hose from the wall with which she doused the worst of it out of sight. The two friends he had come with tumbled out onto the patio and he joined them unsteadily. Later, a taxi took them home where he fell into bed, sleeping until late afternoon and only rising as he remembered the bridge. Outside, the dog bounded after him as he trod a path back to review the progress made. He was regretting what he had thought previously of his friend’s best efforts to help; their work proving to be a vast improvement on his own, and he felt the need to acknowledge this fact.

The ‘mystery’ girl came by later, again wearing her restaurant ‘uniform’ and paused to admire the handiwork.

“Is that it?” She asked brightly. “Are you done?”

He stared at her, feeling a little depleted, not to say a little disappointed that he had ever put any degree of faith in her. Not that he knew her, but felt he knew enough now to ignore whatever she had to say. He had come to the decision not to take an interest in any person that couldn’t be bothered to show enthusiasm for him or for what he was doing. It had nothing to do with ‘cool’ or any of that pretentious stuff. He felt he deserved a better reaction to the effort involved, even if they didn’t share in his enthusiasm.

“Nearly.” He said. “Nearly.”

“Can I cross over?” She asked, preening herself to be given approval.

He shook his head. “No, I was once going to cross over to talk to you - if you remember, but now I can’t be bothered.”

“Why build the stupid thing?” She demanded petulantly.

“Not for you it seems.”

She shook her hair, tossing away his final remark. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you around.”

He watched her depart, feeling vindicated and slightly pleased with himself. Tomorrow he would finish the job by adding the final elements after which there would be a grand bridge opening. He imagined champagne, as in the launch of a ship. It needed some form of razzmatazz after all the effort that had been put in. He intended inviting friends that had helped, the farmer and of course his parents, but who else? He was interrupted in his thoughts by his mother calling to him from the back door.

“Someone to see you.” He heard her call. “A girl.”

He plodded back to the house to discover the blue eyed girl he’d met that morning standing in the lounge, with a quizzical parental gaze directed at him expectantly.

“Hello.” She said. “I’ve a friend lives out this way and thought I’d say hello.”

He stared at her for a brief moment before bundling her out of the house and back towards the bridge.

“It’s what I’m doing.” He announced as they stood before it. “Building a bridge. Do you like it so far?”

She smiled shyly. “I suppose so. Can I try it out?”

He examined the girl as she walked to and fro across the existing structure; to be honest, he hadn’t properly taken her in during the morning and now discovered her to be prettier than he recalled, but also slightly more nervous than she had exhibited previously. He wondered why - as an almost bridge builder he felt relaxed, more aware of his own capabilities as he watched her return towards him. It gave him confidence.

“What do you think?” He asked excitedly.

“It’s a bridge.”

He laughed. She laughed too. The dog ran towards them barking loudly at the presence of a new person and she put her face down to nuzzle its head. He felt suddenly tired and sat on an unused railway sleeper gazing towards the sun set as she reclined nearby with the dog at her feet, and then remarkably he started to talk; talking until it all poured out of him. She remained where she was, listening, stroking the dog’s head and occasionally batting away an intrusive insect. When it grew dark they were interrupted when his mother called from the back door to ask if they wanted anything to eat or drink. He examined his watch, suddenly aware of how late it had grown.

“Am I keeping you from your friend?”

She shook her head, smiling shyly. “No, I made that bit up.”

He examined her through the twilight. “Are you hungry?”

“A little bit.”

He grabbed a hand pulling her to her feet and escorted her back towards the house; the last stages of bridge building had taken on a distinctly rosy glow. It was the rest of his life that required attention now.