by Mavis Cheek
'Oh there'll be something else’ said Audrey to cheer him up. 'Something else to do with her wearing her crown and going in a coach and all that. She'll want a bridge for something one day.'
"There is always’ said Patrick, brightening, 'her funeral.'
Audrey laughed, but she was shocked. 'Patrick1.' she said. 'You could get your head chopped off for that.'
Patrick was so woebegone that she dared to take his hand in hers. She gazed into his eyes with adoring admiration. "There'll be something else, you bet,' she said. 'Something big and historical. You can do it then.' And she snuggled up even further, liking it. Patrick quite liked it too, though he was also quite enjoying his troubled aura. Sandy suddenly threw himself between the two of them and looked up smiling. 'Oh no, you don't’ he said, and wedged himself firmly in.
When they arrived at the station nearest to Ironbridge, Audrey let the boys deal with the bicycles while she nipped into the waiting room, rolled up her shorts, put on a bit of lipstick in the mirror and emerged feeling suitably sophisticated. The map was consulted, water bottles filled and off they set. Despite her brother's best efforts Audrey made sure that she cycled right next to Patrick. Sandy was behind them and puffing to keep up.
'I'll tell on you’ he said, though whether it was the lipstick, the shorts or the way his sister ignored him, neither of the two front parties bothered to find out. Patrick hunched his shoulders, pressing on, longing to get there, and Audrey was cycling as languorously close to him as she could while keeping up. Patrick noticed that he was puffing and sweating considerably more than she was, which increased his determination to stay ahead. And she, also determined, kept up. In the end he could neither ignore her legs as they moved up and down, up and down so close to him and in such a mesmerising rhythm, nor her smile which appeared to be stuck on with glue. It was all very disturbing.
Eventually honour was served when he skidded to a halt and said that he thought they really ought to go a bit more slowly for Sandy's sake. She, still smiling that smile, agreed. Sitting on the grass verge she undid the top two buttons of her blouse, threw back her head, and took a long drink of water. He was even more disturbed and vaguely irritated. He did not want to think about anything else but getting to Ironbridge. Once back on the road he cycled faster saying he thought single file was safer. She agreed. Sandy wailed behind them. She shouted to him to keep pedalling and shut up, gained and then slightly overtook Patrick. That was not what he had meant. It was even worse staring straight at her bottom and thighs which were now only a yard or two in front. He tried to suggest that he should overtake her but he needed all his breath. In the end he gave up and suffered the disturbing pleasure of it all.
When they were all very red in the face and sweating and when the sun was low and giving out an almost unbearably sultry heat, Audrey looked back at Patrick and, marking him and his confusion, was just about to deliver her coup de grace and suggest they stop and sit on the grass and have a cheese sandwich from her rucksack (cheese being something of a luxury still) when Patrick suddenly took both hands off his handlebars, wobbled about dangerously, pointed with both hands and yelled ecstatically: 'There, look, isn't she wonderful?' Audrey nearly lost her balance but he did not seem to notice. He put his hands back on the handlebars and began to cycle like a demon towards the brick and iron bridge, lit up like a stage setting by the rich, rosy sun and rising romantically out of the early evening mist.
'It looks just like a fairytale bridge’ said Audrey for it did to her.
He tutted. 'Nothing fairytale about it’ he said firmly. 'A thirty-metre span, not particularly wide, and its architectural style is not unusual. But it does mark one of the most significant bits of progress in the development of bridge engineering.'
Audrey rather wished she had managed to mark one of the most significant bits of progress in something altogether different, but she said no more, except to go into ecstasies herself about the beauties of Abraham Darby's vision and what not. She was about to add, and then thought better of it, that she also thought the ironwork definitely had the look of a spider's web - but she remembered his contempt from the incident in the tree that summer and decided ecstatic silence would be sensible. Behind her Sandy was crying that he wanted to go home. Oh, how she wished he would.
From Audrey's lipstick and shorts perspective, the trip was not a success. They cycled so far that they were too tired to do much more than eat and fall into bed, separated by gender of course, in the hostel dormitories. Even had they managed to stay awake, Sandy was horrible and vigilant and either playing tricks with pillows and the like, or moaning. He seemed determined never to let them out of his sight.
They revisited Ironbridge the following day, and Patrick made drawings, took photographs, made Audrey stand on the bridge, by the bridge and under the bridge, to get the scale, and generally ignored any aspect of anything that was not directly to do with Darby's wonder. She posed as provocatively as she could but it was quite hard to compete and she felt a rising sense of resentment. After all, she did like the place too, and she did think the bridge was in a lovely setting and rather a nice bit of fancy work, but she also felt that you could do both - that is, enjoy being together (she was still vague about exactly what she meant by that) and enjoy studying the thing. Patrick seemed unable to do more than one of these, and it was not the former. It did not help that Sandy, when he was not crying to go home, spent a lot of time winking at her - a trick newly learned and in her opinion, on him, particularly grotesque.
The youth hostel they settled on before they reached Clifton was more hopeful as they were its only inhabitants. When she tiptoed into Patrick's dormitory at dawn on the day they were due to reach Bristol, she sat down very gently on the bed so as not to disturb her brother in the next cot and leaned over Patrick wondering what exactly to do next. In Doris Day films it was the other way round. He was supposed to kiss her. A girl, she knew, was not allowed to kiss first. But she felt drawn to that sleeping face. He was so, so beautiful. And she admired him, he was clever and artistic: she loved him, as she confessed nightly in her diary at home. He was so - well - different. Interesting. Better than she was.
In the end, as the dawn sent more silvery light into the room and Sandy began to stir, she shook Patrick's shoulder, leaning closer, putting her face exactly above his and smiling that Ring of Confidence for the umpteenth time. It worked in the adverts. Patrick opened his eyes and in the half light saw dark eye sockets and a row of gleaming teeth above him, upon which, not surprisingly, he screamed, and jumped out of bed and ran down the corridor for the warden. For the first time, but not for the last, Audrey suffered humiliation in Patrick's wake.
When they returned, the warden holding a torch and a cricket bat, Patrick holding the warden's arm and peering from behind, she just about managed to explain her presence in the boys' room by saying she wanted to get an early start because she was so keen. The warden said that four-fifteen was a bit too early, in his opinion, and that anyway they had their tasks to do before moving on and that she was a very silly girl indeed not to check her watch. Audrey burst into tears. Patrick rolled his eyes, looked heavenward and went back to his bed. Sandy followed him, snivelling. Audrey went back to her own empty dormitory and lay there stony-faced and sleepless. Love was harder than she thought.
In the morning, by way of further humiliation and reprisal, she did both Patrick's and Sandy's jobs, cooking their eggs, washing up, sweeping the floor, and generally keeping her head down. The lipstick was put away, the shorts rolled down to a more comfortable length, and off they went.
On the next part of the journey the only thing that helped Audrey over her misery, apart from saying bugger, bugger, bugger under her breath with each pedal push, was that she could go faster than him, and she did so, and to hell with Sandy who could either get lost or keep up. He just about kept up, as did Patrick who was even more galled by her speed and her sudden indifference to staying together which she had been so good about
until now. If she had but known it, at that precise moment Audrey had lighted upon one of the golden rules of girlhood. That less is more and to withdraw is to tantalise.
The Clifton Suspension Bridge, when they reached it, drew from Patrick the smile of astonishment and delight that she rather hoped her kiss might have produced. But at least she seemed forgiven. Love me, love my bridges was the message of this trip and not a lot of room left over for anything else. She decided to approach Patrick that way.
"This is wonderful’ she said, when they gazed upon the bridge.
Patrick sighed a deep and happy sigh. 'Yes’ he said.
She moved a little closer. ‘I don't think there can be a better bridge anywhere in the world.'
'Yet’ said Patrick.
'Yet’ she agreed, and took the liberty of putting her arm around his waist. A liberty which he did not deny her, though even she realised that it was debatable whether he had actually noticed . . . Sandy, however, did - and he smacked his sister's bottom hard. The resultant fight between them put her, she was well aware, in a very bad light. On the other hand, after all the frustrations and humiliations she had suffered it seemed a great release ... 'Oh’ she said, slightly less than under her breath this time, 'Oh bloody well bugger it.'
Later, when they had paced across and back and observed the masterpiece from every angle - Audrey dared to venture that it was a sight grander than Ironbridge. Patrick took this well and she gained in confidence. The bridge was also almost entirely empty of people and traffic, Sandy had his back to them, staring at a couple of boats very far off, and it was the perfect moment and the perfect place to kiss. She was just wondering how to approach it for the second time when Patrick said, 'Well done for getting us here so early, Aud’ and gave her a slap on the back. Not a hard one but it brought tears to her eyes and very little comfort. She looked down. It was a very long way to the water below which looked sludgy and greasy.
'His name is up there’ said Patrick, pointing at one of the Egyptianesque piers. She dutifully returned her gaze upwards.
'Still going strong’ said Patrick, shaking his head manfully. 'After all these years. And still known as Brunel's bridge.'
'Great’ said Audrey.
'I knew you'd like it’ he said.
She cheered up at once. He meant that she alone was capable of understanding and appreciating his special place.
'See what I mean about those London bridges?' he asked. She nodded.
'Very boring in comparison.'
She nodded more emphatically 'Oh, they are. Very, very boring.' 'Old hat.'
'Oh yes. Very, very old hat indeed.' 'Gothic, my elbow.'
'And mine,' she said, hoping to God he would not ask her what Gothic actually was.
They cycled backwards and forwards across the bridge for the sheer pleasure of having it all to themselves, while Sandy dropped stones and spat into the water. Then they stopped to lean over the railings once more and Patrick pointed out the abutment on the far shore that Stephenson's cowardice had caused.
'I suppose you could call it cowardice,' she said, her toes tingling again as she looked down. 'But maybe he was just being careful?'
'Careful!' said Patrick scornfully. 'Do you know what Brunel said to him in reply?'
Audrey longed to say what a daft question that was, how could she possibly, and she very nearly said sharply No but I think you are going to tell me. Instead she shook her head invitingly.
'Brunel said, "What a reflection such timidity will cast on the state of the Arts today..." Meaning, of course, that you get nowhere without taking risks. Heroism is the Design of Risks.'
It crossed Audrey's mind to ask whose risk but she kept quiet. She wasn't very bright, and that was that, but she was happy leaning on the rail there with him. It was enough for her.
'You're not disappointed then?' she asked, eventually.
His eyes were shining as he looked into hers. 'Oh, no,' he said.
'Oh, no,' she mimicked, but he did not notice. She was getting just a little fed up with all this standing about. She liked the bridge well enough but she also saw that it had countryside beyond it, that it could take them somewhere new - and she wanted to explore. She gave him a sharp poke in the ribs. Then she laughed, and set off towards the-other side calling, 'Come on, race you, race you ...'
Patrick was offended. They were in the presence of his hero and she was laughing about it. He sulked. He wheeled his bicycle to where she stood and shook his head at her disapprovingly. Sandy called from the far-off riverbank below, and waved.
'Watch out for my brother, please,' she said, with her best effort at being hoity-toity, and she rode off. Leaving Patrick feeling even sulkier. Largely because he really wanted to follow her. But he could not and he would not.
When she returned, they both sat down, not talking, chewing grass and spitting it out. Stalemate. Eventually when she knew someone had to break the silence, Audrey suggested that they leave Sandy for an hour and go for a bit of a walk, and pointed to the trees in front of them - 'It's the Gloucestershire side,' she said. 'I've been up there and it's really pretty'
He said nothing.
'Please?' she asked quietly. 'For me?' Patrick said that he had weak ankles.
'Don't believe you,' she said. 'Patrick Parker, you're afraid to be on your own with me.'
'Of course I'm not,' he said. 'I've always suffered.' And, as if to prove it, he stood up, proceeded to march off, and one of his feet turned over there and then and began to swell. 'See?' he said, pleased.
Audrey gave up. When they returned to the hostel he noticed that she wore her shorts longer, her mouth looked ordinary, and she scarcely spoke. Which was both a shame, and not a shame. All in all, he thought, she was a confusing person, and disturbing, not least because the image of those legs of hers going up and down, up and down, like strong, pale pistons, stayed with him and bothered him for far too long.
When he came back from that trip Florence was standing at the front room window, behind the nets, once more looking as if she had never moved from the spot. Audrey and Sandy were safely on the train to London, she had sent George on several errands, and she could have her boy all to herself. Up the path he came and closed the gate with a flourish. Florence saw the jauntiness of his step, the new confidence about him, and did not believe it could only be the bridges. Her heart began to pound. Patrick waved and mouthed through the glass of the window, "The bridge was a cracker, Mother. Let me in.'
Florence made her slow way to the front door and opened it. Straight away Patrick saw that she was - well - something. Ill or upset - affected in some way.
'I missed you’ he said, and kissed her cheek. And he lifted his turned ankle to show the bruising. 'I told Aud it happened all the time so we couldn't go for a walk.' He laughed. 'She was not best pleased.'
'Good was it?' she asked.
'Yes’ he said. 'But I'm very glad to be home.'
If this delighted her, it was short-lived. She was just putting the kettle on when Patrick said, 'Youth hostelling is good fun, Mum . . . We'll do the Royal Albert Bridge over the Tamar next and we'll ride over it by train because that's the best way to see it. Aud's OK for a girl... And we won't take stupid Sandy with us next time, either.'
Whereupon Florence scalded her hand, suffered her first serious heart palpitations and started wheezing.
Back in London and considering aspects of frustrated love, Audrey suddenly remembered the toffee and the note from the woman in the shop. She told her mother about it. 'Wasn't it odd?' she said.
Dolly said that it was. And then added in a casual voice, 'And did Patrick give the envelope to his dad?'
'Shouldn't think so’ said Audrey, already bored with the subject. 'He's got a head a like a sieve. Unless it's about bridges, of course. I wish I'd been born a bloody bridge.'
Dolly's mind seemed to be elsewhere. 'Just as well’ she said, instead of telling her daughter off.
Audrey had one last try. In preparati
on for the trip to Cornwall she bought a brassiere and struggled into it in the lavatory as the train pulled out of Paddington. She then returned to their compartment with determined confidence, only to find that they had been joined by a woman with grey hair in a bun, some brownish knitting, and a willingness to talk. Audrey hitched up her straps, stuck out her chest and refused the woman's offer of a boiled sweet. If thoughts could kill, decided Audrey, the woman would be splattered all over the carriage floor with a knitting needle up her nose.
All through Hanwell Patrick was exhilarated, leaping from one side of the carriage to the other to pull down the window and peer out, telling Audrey and the woman (who looked up and smiled vaguely when Patrick accosted her) that this - he gestured grandly out of the window - this was the stretch where Brunel finally invented a new kind of U-shaped track. He paused for effect. Two pairs of eyes waited. Good. 'Well - it was safer and smoother because it did not have the mass - so it cooled evenly, free of latent faults
'Goodness,' said the woman.
'Golly,' said Audrey vehemently.
To which Patrick added, 'But the silly arse never patented it...'
