The Toll Bridge Read Free Page B

standing at the sink washing up the breakfast things, dressed in my only pair of spare jeans and my only spare sweater, sleeves pushed up above his elbows.
    He will look sheepishly at me, I think as he looks sheepishly at me, and say, as he says, ‘Heard you talking to somebody. Thought I’d better put sommat on in case they came in.’
    At which, as suddenly as it came over me, this spooky sensation, this knowledge of the future-past invading the present, leaves me. Disappearing into my unknown future again, like Tess disappearing just now over the bridge. I feel I’m tottering on the edge of the river, and must wave my arms to keep from falling. And that I’ve been given a glimpse of something important, something life-changing, only for it to be swept away before I can fathom what it is or what it means.
    I’m trembling a little from the excitement as well as the fright.
    Which Adam notices, thinks I’m angry with him, and says, ‘Was it OK, borrowing your stuff?’
    Half an hour ago it wouldn’t have been, but after the
déjà-vu
his cheek doesn’t seem to matter because in some peculiar, inexplicable way, I know he has only done what he had to do.
    I go to the fireplace and finger his clothes.
    â€˜Your own things will be dry soon.’
    The warmth is calming, a comforting encouragement to do what has to be done. I plant a thick unsplit log, one that will burn slowly, on the bed of glowing cinders, and add, ‘You’ll be wanting to get going.’
    â€˜It’s all right here.’
    I stand and face him. He’s leaning against the sink, his ice-blue eyes watching, his arms crossed over my best blue sweater.
    â€˜Look, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go, I’ve work to do.’
    â€˜Work? What work? I thought this was a squat.’
    â€˜No, no, it’s a toll bridge, didn’t you see?’
    â€˜It was dark.’
    â€˜Well . . . I collect the money.’
    He thinks for a minute before saying, ‘I could help. I could spell you. You could have some time off. Many hands make light work, as the Chinaman said when the electricity failed.’
    He flashes his wrinkling-eyed grin but I won’t give in.
    â€˜Sorry, my boss wouldn’t allow it.’
    â€˜Ask him.’
    â€˜It’s not just that. I want to be on my own, that’s why I took the job.’
    â€˜On your own?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    He shrugs, stares at his feet.
    An awkward silence. The fire crackles behind me. With relief I hear a car approaching, go out, take the toll, come back inside.
    Adam has gone. The back door stands open letting in a draught that is causing the chimney to backfire and fill the room with the heady incense of slow-burning wood. ‘Vanished in a puff of smoke,’ I say to myself.
    I shut the door, glad he’s gone, and only then see his clothes still hanging by the hearth.

Letters
    1
    . . .  SURELY, SWEETHEART, YOU ’ VE had enough by now? Aren’t you fed up of looking after yourself? And aren’t you lonely? You never mention any friends. It’s not good for you to be stuck away in the middle of nowhere all on your own in that awful little house, which I’m sure must be damp and giving you rheumatism. Besides, it’s such a waste of your young life. Your father says I mustn’t nag, but, darling, what am I to do, I’m only concerned for your welfare, and hate the thought of you not getting the best out of life.
    I’m sending you one of Zissler’s pies this week. I’m sure you need feeding up and Zissler’s are still the best. The woollen socks are from Aunty Jenny. She knitted them for you to wear when you’re standing in the road taking the money, which is something I don’t care to think about.
    I was talking to Mrs Fletcher the other day. Her Brian only got a B and two Cs but was accepted at college quite easily – he’s going to