Bridges

The bridge was always thronged with people in high summer.  Office workers, dressed in sober dark colours; tourists, in shorts and bright colours, chattering in a dozen different languages.  The bridge heaved and swayed with their motion, making it impossible to stop and look around.  If he was there, she simply dropped a couple of coins in the open music case, sometimes a can of food for the dog.  He never thanked her, never caught her eye, as she was absorbed into the flow of people and carried along.

Other times of the year the bridge was quiet.  He sat in his usual place, playing his music regardless of whether there was anyone to listen.  Without the crowds to sweep her along she could stay longer although she felt more comfortable stopping several feet from him.  She loved to stand at the mid-point of the bridge, gazing towards the centre and the tumbling water of the cascades.  Looking down at the grey green water to see if she could catch sight of her own reflection.

When the music had calmed her, dulled the anger inside, she would slip the coins into the hat, still not catching his eye.  As she walked away she could hear the flute playing, and wondered if there was any significance in the tunes he chose.  Danny Boy, When the Saints…. Probably just chosen to appeal to passers-by.

Today it was winter, the shortest day.  The day she had buried her father.

Coming home from the funeral – a cremation, poorly attended, just her and a few colleagues from his working days – she had let herself back into the cold, dull house.  Paused in the hallway half expecting to hear his roar from the sitting room, his demand for her to account for time spent away from the house, the list of people to whom she had spoken.  At the silence, relief flooded through her.  He was really gone.

She had climbed the stairs to the musty landing, turning into what her father always called the “spare room”.  At the back of the cupboard was the big box of photos she had hidden there, afraid he would destroy them after Cam had left home.  She had carried the box down to the kitchen, taking out the photos one by one and placing them on the kitchen table.  There were the usual baby and child photos, her and Cam in the garden, on a swing, in a paddling pool.  Her mother was present in some of them.

Further back there were photos of her father in his RAF uniform, confidence and hope brimming from his eyes.  Photos of her mother and father together in the early days, glamorous posed shots,  enjoying their place in the world.  There were no photos of the later times, when mistrust had sucked the relationship into a dry brittle thing, so fragile it took only that final puff of anger to blow it away altogether.

She had looked at the photos of herself and Cam growing up.  It was almost possible to trace in the photos that withering of joy and independence.  By fifteen, Cam was scowling and rebellious.  By contrast she was placating, holding her hands out as if to say she had nothing to hide.  But she had not been able to stave off the inevitable.  Cam had left.

For six years she had waited for Cam to return.  Now, he could.

She stood on the bridge, listening to the flute.  Will you still love me tomorrow?  Did he know?

She crouched down and petted the dog, who always looked so much healthier than Cam.  Cam came to the end of his tune and stopped.  He looked at her.

“It’s time to come home,” she said.

They walked together, slowly.  She didn’t know what to say but the silence was not uncomfortable.  At the front door, Cam hesitated.

“It’s ok.  He’s not here.”  She opened the door and led him inside.

He stood in the hallway, listening, just as she had always done.  She knew what he was listening for.  Finally he heaved a sigh and relaxed his shoulders.  The dog took this as a sign and began to explore, sniffing decorously around the door-frames and peeking inside the rooms.

“Come into the kitchen.  I’ve made us something to eat.”

She poured tea, dished up mince and potatoes.  He ate quickly, glancing at her every now and then.  He left about a quarter of the food, put the plate down on the floor for the dog.

“Its ok, I‘ve got dog-food for him.  Or her?”

Cam shook his head, beckoned to the dog who bounded forward and began to eat.  They both watched in silence until the plate was licked clean.

“Your old room is ready.  Or perhaps you’d like a bath?”

It was dark outside but it was only just after six o’clock.  Suddenly she wasn’t sure how they were going to get through the evening.  Cam just looked at her, as though her words were a different language.

She stood up, and he did too.  She ushered him up the stairs and into the little room at the back of the house.  There were still a couple of his posters on the wall, but otherwise it was bare and monastic.  She had made up the bed with the least worst bedding, turned to hide the holes and stains.

She moved to the door, and to her surprise felt a hand on her arm.

“Thanks.”  His voice rusty, rarely used.

“I’m glad you’re here.”  And she was.  Of course it felt odd just now.  They had been apart for so long.

She left him then, went downstairs.  She put the tv on, for the comfort of the noise.  After a few minutes, the sitting room door was pushed open.  The dog came in and sat down.  It nuzzled up to her legs, curling around her feet.

She must have slept.  Woke in confusion with her head fallen on one side and an ache in her neck.  The dog was sitting up, looking anxious.  Something had disturbed her.  An unfamiliar noise.  As if on cue, the doorbell rang again and she realised what it was.  No-one ever came to the door.  Not for as long as she remembered.

She pushed herself up off the sofa, the dog following.  She opened the door.  The tall figure was familiar but for a moment she couldn’t work it out.  She just stood, staring.

“Letty?”

“Cam?  But you’re…..”

She got no further as he rushed forward, enveloping her in his arms.

“I’m so sorry, Letty, I got here as fast as I could.  But I’m working in Leeds, and I didn’t know about his death until a friend rang me…..”

He swept her into the hallway, still hugging her.  His embrace, his voice, his scent were so familiar.  And yet….

“So how are you coping?”

“Um.  Yes.  Well.  Yes, I’ve been coping well……”

In the kitchen he fell upon the box of photos with delight.

“Oh, look, do you remember this?  That really hot day in the summer holidays and mum let us have ice-creams  and I dropped mine and you gave me half of yours?  Wow – look at that shirt.  I can’t believe I ever wore anything like that…..”

Cam produced a bottle of Irish Whiskey and poured them both a healthy slug.

“I’ve thought about you often,” he said.  “I should never have abandoned you to him, but when I first left I had nothing to offer you, nowhere to go.  I had to make my own way.  I’m doing alright now – got a job and a flat – and I kept telling myself I’d come back and see you but something always seemed to crop up…..”

She heard a creak on the stair and the dog shifted and whined.  She petted it, motioned it to stay.  It sat down.

After several whiskies, and dozens more anecdotes, Cam was yawning.  It was safe, now, to show him to his room.

“God, Letty.  This house – it’s like something out of the ark!  How on earth have you stood it, all these years?”

The question was rhetorical and soon he was hugging her goodnight.  Down in the kitchen, she cleared the glasses and put the photos back in the box.  Then she fetched something from her bag.  The dog was watching her again, as she fished out the pills, remembering the feel of them in her fingers as she’d crushed them into his drink.  The look on her father’s face as he’d subsided slowly into that final sleep.  She crushed the pills one by one and flushed them down the sink.

She didn’t walk across the bridge again.  Sometimes she thought she heard the notes of the flute drifting high above the crowds, but she walked briskly past, taking the long way round.  Encouraging Susannah, who paused at the sound, straining faintly at her lead, before coming to heel and walking on.