Under the Bridge

                Under the Bridge

Few people have cheated death by moving at the right second. The minority of the few, have escaped death altogether. 

This story is about someone who might have escaped death, but you must deduce that for yourself.

Mary Watson didn’t like her name. It was too common to fit her situation and character. Mary wasn’t common, but she wanted to be. She wanted to mean something to someone. She didn’t want to be a beggar on the streets, she wanted parents and a home. Mary was a homeless woman living in 1871, on the dirty sooty streets of England.

Wishing she had some shillings to her name only got her so far. If Mary could be a Mary with a nice mansion, ribbons for her orangutan red hair on Sunday, a family, and someone who could say ‘Mary’ in a real tender way, maybe Mary could like her name. But she didn’t.

“Elizabeth!” Frederick Brown, Elizabeth’s father called out.

“No!” Eliza fled down the stairs, leaping off the bottom few steps and landing hard. “Leave me alone!”

The staircase trembled as Mr. Brown thundered down after his twenty-three-year-old daughter. Of course, you are thinking what could have caused this pair to act so childishly? Her father didn't love her. He was only doing his duty. Mr. Brown believed that Eliza should start courting someone. She adamantly refused anyone of her father’s choosing. More specifically, Mr. John Allen who was the ripe age of thirty-seven and was as Eliza often called him ‘An old booze-drinking suck-up.’ Firm was her belief that he only wanted to court her for her father’s money. Unfortunately for Eliza, Mr. Allen was Mr. Brown’s favorite choice for her future husband. Eliza wasn’t against marriage by any means, but she hated Mr. Allen. 

Eliza’s mother, Susan Brown loved her. Mrs. Brown struggled behind the curtains of her bed chambers with an undying sickness that baffled doctors alike. Eliza was convinced that if her mother was well she wouldn’t be forced to court Mr. Allen. It was no secret knowledge that Eliza’s deepest desire to have her mother back in her life. The only person her father had loved was her mother, and every time the doctors told him she only got worse, he became more cold and distant to his only child.

Anyways, back to the chase at hand, Mr. Brown grabbed struggling Eliza’s hand and demanded, “For once in your life, can you do as you are asked of?”

Eliza stopped struggling immediately. “I am always obedient. You just never notice. I am not going to go to Mr. Allen’s house with you. I am going to go to visit Martha. She has a book that might help Mum.”

“Your mother is never getting better! She is past help! All the doctors agree. Why do you insist on hoping?” Mr. Brown shouted, finally releasing Eliza’s hand. 

“I insist on hoping because I love her! Mr. Allen doesn’t care about me or Mum. All he cares about is pleasing you and drinking, which he does way too much. He only pleases you to get to your money.”

“How dare you downplay this highly respected man? He is extremely well thought of and is very considerate of all our problems. You are not going to Martha’s. Grab your cloak. We are leaving.”

Eliza no longer knew the man who now stood in the place of her father. She snatched her cloak and tried to stifle her tears as her father forced her to get into the buggy. “I expect you to act polite and respectful to Mr. Allen at supper tonight.” Mr. Brown looked at his daughter who was staring out into the lonely night.

“I will be respectful if he is.”

“Elizabeth!”

Mr. Brown never called her Eliza. It was her mother’s affectionate nickname for her. Distancing himself from everything that was his wife’s, even his only child, was the only way he could cope with the pain of in his mind, an already dead wife. 

Arriving at Mr. Allen’s home, Eliza trudged out of the carriage, intent on remaining silent. Mr. Allen had a home that must have at one point been the jewel of the city. Now, it was a mansion with a run-down look to it. Detesting the place and despising the draught of air she was breathing, Eliza was chaperoned inside.

“Where are we going?” Mary questioned.

“Home. You are going to live with me.”

“I beg your pardon? Won’t people think less of you for this? You, Miss Elizabeth Brown, stealing a poor maid from the street from Mr. Allen?”

“First off, my name is Eliza. Please do not call me Elizabeth, because only people who suppress kindness and love towards me call me that.” 

Mary glanced at Eliza thinking about how Mr. Brown called her Elizabeth, instead of Eliza.  

“Second, people aren’t going to find out. But if they do, I couldn’t care less about what other people think. You are mistreated. Mr. Allen has no excuse to treat you like a rat.  Third, I’m not stealing you, I’m rescuing you. Now, do you have any luggage?”

“Very little. I only have a picture of my parents. But it is hidden. Can we get it? I didn’t dare bring it with me to Mr. Allen’s home.”

“Where is it? I’m sure it will be safer at my house than wherever you have placed it.”

The streets were starting to get darker, and the lamp-lighter was beginning the long process that lay before him. Mary led Eliza through the streets, up and down alleys, before coming across a very old-looking bridge. The street ran along with it so that a little cement path was formed under the bridge if you looked close enough. The bridge itself was not pretty, but it ran over a river which helped its appearance.

Ducking under, Mary held out her hand.“Are you coming?” Gulping, Eliza shuffled under the bridge that creaked above her. 

“This is my home. My bridge. I had to fight off Eddie to keep it. I lived here from the time I was twelve until this spring.” There was enough room under the curve of the bridge so that once you had ducked your head under, you could stand up straight. In a corner, very close to where the bridge began its climb upwards, was a tiny rotten-looking chest.

Eliza suddenly realized how awful homelessness is as she reflected on what it must have been like, not knowing when your next meal was, or not having a bed to sleep in.

“I know it is not much, but it is home,” Mary said, honestly before noticing the near-stricken look on her new friend’s face. “Are you alright?”

“You are so brave to live here for so long. And all alone?”

“Well, I did what I could to survive. Shall we go?” The young ladies walked to the Brown household, which wasn’t that far, only a few blocks. 

“I can’t believe you lived under that bridge for so many years, so close to me, and I never knew,” Eliza marveled.

“No one did. Well, except Eddie. We did not get along. But he died soon after I met him.” Darkness had now completely fallen, except for the corner lamps. Mary quickly realized that talking about a dead beggar boy was most likely not Eliza’s favorite thing to discuss after dark. 

Eliza spoke before Mary could change the subject. “I should warn you about my mother. She is very sick, but you can’t catch her illness. The doctors have given up hope, and so has father,” Eliza filled in Mary on her mother’s illness. 

“That’s horrible. If I can do anything, I am willing. Thank you for letting me stay with you. How long do I have before I have to leave?”

“Leave? You are staying as long as you need. You will need to disguise yourself as a maid, so my father doesn’t recognize you. You should always keep your red hair covered when he is around. It is so eye-catching.”

“I don’t like it. The orange hair. It draws attention.”

“You should be proud of it! I was complimenting it. Red hair is rare and special. My brown hair is so common.”

“I would like to be common.”

“Being common isn’t exciting. Standing out can be a good thing.” Eliza smiled, and for the first time since her parents died, Mary felt cared for.

Over the next few weeks, the girls grew closer and closer, relying on each other for comfort and companionship. Mrs. Brown became sicker and sicker, and Mr. Brown became harsher and more distant than ever before. 

It was on a beautiful sunny day, so polar opposite to the grim-looking doctor who walked down the stairs, that Eliza and Mr. Brown were informed that Susan Brown had passed away. “Mr. Brown, Eliza dear, your mother has passed on. She with the Lord, now. I’m sorry.”

Mary watched with anguish as her dearest and only friend’s heart broke. Eliza’s soul felt as though it had been ripped apart piece by piece. Her father’s attitude toward her and all of the maids, including Mary, turned piercingly cold.

The atmosphere at the Brown’s household became increasingly unstable and unbearable. Each day brought more horror to Eliza and Mary, as Mr. Brown pushed Eliza to court Mr. Allen. Hiding every time Mr. Allen visited, caused Mary a problem. She always disappeared when the Brown’s most constant guest arrived which pushed Mr. Brown into a fury. 

Mr. Brown confronted Eliza about his displeasure with their new maid. Eliza was summoned into the parlor to talk. “Elizabeth, sit. I have decided it is time to find a new maid. This one, Margret, or whatever her name is, is not meeting my expectations. I will be sending her away in a few days. Please ask your friends or relatives if they have any suggestions for new maids.” Listening in horror, Eliza gulped hard. Her only friend was about to be sent away. Mary would probably have to go back to living on the streets. 

“Father, I think this maid should stay. I haven’t been able to do as much as I did since Mum died. Why are you sending her away? She has done nothing wrong!”

“Elizabeth, my word is final. But if you must know, she has been avoiding serving when we have guests. Mr. Allen might be dropping in tomorrow. I heard he has a special request to make of you.”

Elizabeth sprinted up the stairs, desperately looking in every room for Mary. “Mary! Mary!” Elizabeth shouted through the empty halls. Smack! Thud! 

“Eliza! I am so sorry! Are you alright? What’s wrong?” Helping Eliza off the ground, Mary pulled her into the guest room and shut the door.

“I’m fine. But my father just told me he is sending you away!”

“Why? This is my home!”

“This is your home. Father told me it was because you avoided serving when Mr. Allen visits. He also told me that Mr. Allen has a special request to make of me tomorrow. He is going to propose, I know it!”

“What are we going to do?”

“Do you remember my talking about my cousin Charlotte and her farm?” Mary nodded. “We are going to run away!”

The pair proceeded to act normal, though secretly gathering up things to take with them. They kept them in the spare room because Mr. Brown never went in there. After dark, Mary snuck out with two packs full of clothes, food, candles, the one revolver they had managed to sneak, and other essentials. She placed them under the very bridge where she had spent eleven years, with the intent to meet there again the very next evening. 

Eliza sighed as she looked in her mirror, knowing it was the last time she would use it. All her precious items were somewhere under a bridge in the middle of London. As soon as her father left for his stroll right after supper, Eliza had gone up to her room and waited for Mary to come to get her. 

Finally, there was a very subtle knock on the door. “Time to go! Hurry! Before your father comes back or Mr. Allen arrives!”

Going out the back door, the two tried to act casual as they walked hastily to the bridge. As they passed the front of the blacksmith, Mr. Allen exited unnoticed. He followed the young woman to the bridge as it got darker and dimmer. 

“Hurry, Mary. Get your pack on and we will be on our way. We are so close!” 

Mr. Allen walked down under the bridge, and pulled his revolver out, and aimed it at Eliza. “You are coming home with me, Elizabeth!” Mr. Allen spat.

The ladies whipped around, with their backs to the river. 

“No!” Eliza exclaimed.

“She is not going with you!” Mary shouted. 

“Oh! So the maid is going to make the decisions now. Look, deary, I hold the gun. It is aimed at your friend’s chest. So unless you do as I say, she is history. As I was saying, she is coming home with me and is going to be my wife.”

“I am never marrying you!”

“Suit yourself,” Mr. Allen said, pulling the trigger. As time stood still, Mary leaped in front of her friend and took the bullet. Eliza whipped out her revolver and shot back, hitting Mr. Allen in the chest. As he crumpled, Eliza heard a splash.

“Mary!” Eliza screamed. Mary was nowhere to be found. Bobbing down the river was one piece of paper. A picture of a mother, a father, and a little red-headed girl who was gone. 

Eliza stumbled to Charlotte’s farmhouse. It was months before Eliza could act normally, she was so scarred. 

In time, Eliza married the farm help, named Peter Hawkins. Peter desperately wanted to live in the city. So after years of begging, Eliza allowed the move.

When the couple arrived, they discovered that Eliza’s father had passed away and left all his inheritance to Mr. Allen. He had spent it on so much beer, he had died from alcohol poisoning. 

Eliza and Peter walked up and down London as she showed him all of the places where she grew up. Happy her husband was enjoying himself, she forgot where they were headed and came upon the bridge she had avoided for so long. 

“We don’t have to cross it, but let us at least walk past it,” Peter nudged.

As they stared at the bridge, suddenly, Eliza stopped. 

“What is it?” Peter questioned.

“It’s Mary.” There on the bridge was a young woman. She had red hair and wore a very outdated dress. Something about her seemed out of place. Like she was slightly blurry.

“Where?”

“Don’t you see her? Mary!” Eliza said running up to the edge of the bridge.

The girl wasn’t there anymore. 

“I think we have done too much today. You are just imagining things. Let’s go home.” Peter took Eliza’s hand and gently pulled her away.

It is possible Mary escaped death, or if the girl on the bridge was just a figment of Eliza’s imagination. But even if she didn’t escape death, her bravery is worth recording. Though the mystery of Mary’s death is shrouded in darkness, she proved it’s a great thing to be uncommon.