Crossing That Bridge

I need a break from sorting out my parents’ belongings. My mum never packed my dad’s stuff away and she ran out of time, so it’s down to me. Their clothes are in boxes and bags, ready to go in the back of the car. At some point, I’ll find a charity shop or two that will take them, though they’ll probably linger in my boot for another couple of weeks.

           I’m keeping the books. They’re in nicer, sturdier boxes, and I’ll need to get new shelves.

           I’ve done as much as I can bear to for now, and though the sky is a mottled combination of greys, the air is still and the ground is dry, ideal for stretching my legs. I push my feet into my worn-out, comfy trainers that are begging for retirement, and plug in my earphones with the volume turned up high.

           It’s been years since I walked these roads, but my feet carry me forward without needing directions, leaving my eyes free to search and remember.

           At first, I think that nothing has changed, but the more I look, the more the little differences become apparent. New cars in driveways, knickknacks in windows. I pass a snicket that used to lead to a public path through a field that mostly yielded cabbages or potatoes. Now it’s an empty plot with fences and sleeping diggers and signs that foresee uniform houses with no character.

           Enough of the old paths are left for me to find my way to the outskirts, flat fields stretching out in front of me.

           The ground has been worn to smooth dirt by feet of all sizes, bike tyres, and horse hoofs. A few indentations are left from the last time it rained, horseshoe arches and trainer ridges dried and solidified. I avoid a pile of horse shit but notice someone else wasn’t so lucky. Dragging and scraping marks next to it echo with groans of disgust.

           Gnarled roots have since broken through the surface of the earth and attempt to block my path, but a tiny spark of childhood breaks through and I pick and clamber my way through until I break out into the open, grey light.

           Wild grass and nettles try to hide the rest of the path as it winds up and towards the little bridge. None of the nettle needles manage to pierce my jeans and as the wind causes a rush of murmurs through the grass, a phantom memory knocks against my leg and runs ahead of me.

           She’s shorter than I am, though not by much. I stopped growing quite early. She turns and smiles at someone behind her, trying to catch up, and it’s the pure innocent smile of youth. The only sadness she’s known has been losing pet cats, and that’s a pain that has always been soothed with the arrival of a new kitten. She runs ahead without looking back and I can’t help but get jealous of her.

           I take each step slowly, deliberately, imagining that I can still see her footprints in the mud.

           I stand on the brink, not yet ready to put even a foot on the bridge. Memory overlaps with the present.

           Time has not been kind.

           Flashes of the past flicker before me. I always remembered this place on sunny days, perfect summer afternoons when the grass was dewy and she used it to cool down in the heat. The last thing she cared about was getting her shorts damp.

           The village fell away behind her, a few cars in the distance the only signs of civilisation. Out there, she was the queen of her own kingdom, a wild thing set loose. Butterflies and bees and gnats flapped and buzzed through the leaves and over the water that ran through the deep trench between the fields. She could lie back and listen to their music without needing to blast her ears with music until they started to ring.

           The bridge was that perfect pale colour even though by that time it was already splintering and creaking underfoot. To her, though, those creaks did not make her falter, she never turned back. To her, it was the bridge talking to her, welcoming her back like an old friend.

           The structure before me, if it can be called that, is now a stranger. Years of rain and dirt have built up and hidden that pale wood and rot has set in, giving it a constant moist shine. I reach out and touch the post closest to me and my fingertips come away slimy and cold.

           I take the first step: testing out the planks beneath my weight. They creak and groan but nothing cracks or splinters, so I spread my weight over both feet. The bridge takes a few moments to become accustomed to the added weight and once it settles, the wood bowing slightly, I inch to the middle and to the side to look down.

           It’s not far to the ground, and even a child would only get a few scrapes and ruined clothes that they’d grow out of anyway. The water trickles past and barely covers the rocks and stones. There are no fish or frogs, though she always imagined she could spot them. Something moves in the water, rippling in the movement, and next to me she calls out “a fish, a fish!” as the cacophony of friendly footfalls echo towards her. As it enters the shadow f the bridge, the memory fades and it reveals its true self as a strip of plastic, like from a carrier bag or a film lid like a microwave meal.

           My stomach rumbles. I still need to decide what I’ll eat for tea later. Preferably something easy that I can just whack in the oven with hardly anything to wash up after.

           A layer of green scum mottles the surface of the water and clings to anything that breaches the surface. Through gaps in the green, I can see the bottom of the trench, the dark brown of soggy dirt and patches of grey reflected from the sky.

           Something cold and wet drop onto my cheek and rolls down so I pull my hood up and turn back in the direction of what is no longer home. Through the gaps of gnarled trees and bushes, metal fences and a couple of bright yellow arms reaching forward with rusted, soil-caked claws growl and bark “progress, progress”.

           The cocoon of branches and leaves surrounding the path will also be devoured one day, ripped back to make space. If they’re generous enough, they’ll pave over the path, maybe turn it into a road, but more likely their machines will trample and turn it from all directions then flatten it out for foundations and roads.

           I pass the house without a second look and continue to the shop, hoping something will jump out at me and beg to be eaten tonight.

           It’s been remodelled again. The tills are in the wrong places and I don’t know where anything is, giving each aisle a look up and down as I pass. The fridges are t the opposite end of the shop to where they used to be. That’s smart. For some reason, they used to have an issue with people trying to steal packages of raw meat, and though I could never imagine someone going into a shop and planning to steal raw chicken thighs, having them right next to the door did make them an easy target.

           They still have the “fresh” produce by the door, though. I don’t think anyone would ever want to steal brussels sprouts or turnips.

           At least the name of the shop is the same.

           I recognised only a couple of the shops in the middle of the village, but that is not surprise. She would even joke about how shops would come and go. It was part of the charm, the crumb of adventure to be licked up in such a small place.

           The woman at the till has traces in her face of someone I used to know, and her name rings a bell but I keep my mouth shut and don’t bother asking. What would be the point? She also does not recognise me, and there is no point having an awkward conversation with someone I’ll never see again. I set a lasagne for one in front of her, the machine beeps its acceptance of my card, and I’m walking out with a perfunctory thank you.

           I keep my hood up, only able to see ahead like a horse with blinders. One step after another. Polite smiles at passing strangers with shadows of familiarity hidden in the creases of their faces.

           My old key, that was once so big and heavy in her hands, turns the lock with a click that makes my heart lurch, wondering if I would pull away with only half left in my hand, the other stuck, not willing to let go.

           The lasagne needs to be cooked in the oven, rather than the microwave and I congratulate myself for putting the extra effort in.

           An hour later, I eat from the foil tray on one of the plastic trays, the TV on the first channel that came up. The layers of paster release clouds of steam that scorch my tongue, but I don’t even wince. Darkness descends in one fell swoop and my phone beeps with a text.

           ‘Hope everything’s okay there. Sleep well, love you.’

           I reply that everything is fine, according to plan. I don’t say that I can’t bring myself to sleep in any of the beds tonight.