Strangers on a Bridge

by Louise Mangos

  ‘Just as well Ben called,’ I said, leaning against his doorway. ‘And turn on your desk light or you’ll go blind, my love.’

  As Leon mouthed the oft-spoken words in synch with me, I glanced around at the teenage chaos in the room. The usual end-of-weekend clear-up hadn’t yet taken place. In the morning when the two boys deigned to get out of their pyjamas, every available article of clothing was hauled from their cupboards with dissatisfaction, the chosen uniform generally the one at the bottom of the pile. The scene resembled a jumble sale recently hit by a tornado. The phone rang again. I pointed silently but meaningfully at the disarray of clothes and backed out of Leon’s room.

  ‘No peace for the wicked.’

  I sighed loudly as I headed towards our bedroom, leaving Leon twirling a pencil between his fingers and swivelling in his chair.

  ‘It’s probably Ben again, Mum. Can you tell him I’ll call back in a few minutes? I just need to get my ideas down on paper.’

  ‘Ideas?’ I called back over my shoulder. ‘I thought this thing was supposed to be finished by tomorrow.’

  I reached for the phone.

  ‘Hallo, Reed,’ I announced, the upward intonation at the end of my surname really implying: Speak now, Ben. I’m tired and it’s late to be calling.

  Silence. A static crackle. Silence.

  ‘Hello?’ I asked, with a more polite and distinctly English accent. Sounded somehow long-distance. Perhaps it was my aunt who lived in the States.

  ‘Hellooo,’ I said persistently. Still nothing. I had no time for this. I put the phone down.

  My contentedness at being home now transitioned to an aching head and dragging need to sleep. I went to the office and stood behind Simon, then put my arms over his shoulders and around his chest, smelling the musty bike-helmet aroma of his hair.

  ‘Phew. Haven’t you showered yet? Honey, I’m so pooped. I could never have imagined today’s events would take so much out of me,’ I said.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Simon asked kindly. ‘Why don’t you just go straight to bed? I’ll see to the boys. Tell me all about it tomorrow, okay?’

  I gratefully mumbled my thanks, having known he would suggest it, and went to brush my teeth.

  Exhausted, I lay down in bed, closed my eyes and begged for the escape of sleep. It wouldn’t come easily. When I heard Simon come in, shed his clothes and go through the usual nightly routine, my throat closed with the heat of gratefulness for this simple familiarity. As he shuffled under the covers, he laid his hand on my head and gently kissed my shoulder.

  ‘I love you, Al,’ he whispered.

  And the lump in my throat finally gave way to tears. I let out great sobs, simultaneously attempting to suppress them to avoid being heard by the boys. As I turned onto my side, Simon gathered me to him, shushing me like a baby, pressing into my back in our usual spooning position.

  ‘Crikey, Al. Hey. It’s okay. It’s okay now. It’s the shock. That’s it, get it all out. My poor baby.’

  He crooned these soothing words as I cried, until my tears were spent, and my breath returned raggedly to normality. My eyelids were hot and gritty.

  And as sleep finally grabbed me, I reflected on the irrationality of the emotions I was now experiencing. I couldn’t stop wondering where Manfred was now. Who was looking after him? My tears were for him, for his despair, and for the relieved gratitude I felt at having been able to stop him from jumping.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘The irony is, when Kathy and I have run there before, we’ve often wondered about finding a body under the bridge.’

  It was early the following day, and I hadn’t slept well. I’d had a recurring dream about a body falling from the Tobel Bridge. The first time it bounced like a ragdoll on the ground, and I woke with a start. The second time the body stretched into a marvellous swan dive and swept up through the forest like Superman, disappearing over the ridge of the canyon. The third time the falling image repeated itself over and over, never quite reaching the ground. After that I dared not go back to sleep.

  Simon and I dodged each other through our breakfast routine like some ritual dance. He kissed my head and patted my backside as I paused to take the milk out of the fridge. A memory of how we couldn’t keep our hands off each other at the beginning of our relationship sprang to mind, and I trailed my hand across his shoulder as he passed. His butter knife clattered into the sink, and the coffee machine whirred, clicked and trickled his morning pick-me-up into a minuscule cup. The kitchen filled with the delicious aroma of a rich Arabica blend, and my thoughts returned to the bridge.

  ‘Kathy read about a woman who took her life last year in the local paper, and we were so glad it hadn’t been us that found her. We’d run there a few days before. The paper said Tobel Bridge is a suicide hotspot,’ I said.

  ‘That would explain the flowers and candles I sometimes see clustered on the pavement there on my drive to work,’ said Simon.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s kind of weird? I think the relatives or loved ones should leave those trophies where the body lands, not up on the bridge. Surely the soul departs down below, at impact.’

  I shuddered to think of witnessing a jump. To think of Manfred jumping.

  ‘They need a wider audience to see their pain, Al. Better a string of commuters on their way to and from work than the occasional runner and mountain biker.’

  ‘You have to wonder what goes through someone’s mind when they jump, between takeoff and the final lights-out. I wonder if anyone has ever regretted their decision in the moment it takes to fall?’

  ‘Some people make stupid decisions every day,’ said Simon, and I swallowed. ‘But that one would be pretty final. No going back.’

  He crunched into his toast. I shook my head, attempting to eliminate the thought of a jumper realising with horror they had made a terrible mistake in that split second before hitting the earth. I imagined them wanting desperately to turn back the clock, hoping an invisible force would lift them back onto the bridge, plant their feet securely on the tarmac. That could have been Manfred.

  ‘There would be no chance of survival at that height,’ I said absently, sipping my tea.

  Simon licked a buttery finger and pushed his chair away from the table.

  ‘Al, I’m not sure what you were thinking, but can you tell me again why you came home first? I feel like we have another case of a rescued mongrel here, not just a clinical experiment for a psychology assignment. You and your hare-brained SOS help routines. Florence Nightingale or Mother Teresa, I’m not sure which.’

  I had relished his jovial mood this morning, and wanted to treasure the light feeling between us for a little longer. But as he said this, my stomach heaved. I hoped I hadn’t made a huge mistake. I put my hand on his arm.

  ‘I thought you might be home. This was beyond anything I’ve ever experienced at college or work. I thought a male influence would help. We would have had to wait over an hour for the next bus down to Zug. I was so cold by then, I knew I had to change my clothes.’

  Simon nodded nonchalantly, accepting my logic.

  ‘Well, I’m very proud of you, Al, for saving that guy’s life. He should be grateful. It’s a terrible thing, suicide. But it’s good there are professionals taking care of him now. I know you’re concerned, but there’s only so much you can do for someone with such an unstable disposition.’

  He gave me a concerned smile.

  Once the kids and Simon had been packed off to school and work respectively, I thumbed through the local phone directory for the number of the police station where we’d stopped the day before.

  ‘Zuger Polizei. Reto Schmid.’

  The brevity and gruffness of the voice when he picked up on the second ring threw my confidence. I’d written down a few words in case I couldn’t get the message across.

  ‘Sprechen Sie Englisch?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Ein bisschen, but you can always practise your German, Fraulein,’ he replied in German.<
br />
  My heart sank. His tone, immediately patronising, was weighted with a message now familiar to my ears. These bloody foreigners should learn to speak our language if they want to live in our community.

  ‘My name is Alice Reed. I wanted to inform you of a suicide attempt yesterday.’

  ‘Ein… was?’

  ‘A suicide attempt. Selbstmord Versuch. Yesterday. On the Tobel Bridge.’

  ‘Are you sure? Did you, how do you say, intervene?’

  ‘Yes, I intervened. I took the man to the hospital in Zug. His name is Manfred Guggenbuhl. I just wanted to make sure someone knew, officially. I wanted… I wondered if you had heard anything about this man. If he’s okay…’

  ‘Someone knows at the hospital if you went there,’ he said pointedly. ‘If they make a report, usually they send this to my colleagues in Zug. I was not informed.’

  ‘Well, I’m informing you now,’ I said crossly, and heard a sniff on the other end of the line. ‘I mean, I thought you might want to be vigilant, in case he tries again.’

  ‘Vigilant?’

  ‘Aufmerksam,’ I explained.

  ‘I know what the word vigilant means, Frau… Reed, gell? But are you suggesting the Zuger Polizei is not… vigilant?’

  ‘No… I… You misunderstand. I’m sorry. I just hope… Herr Guggenbuhl is okay.’

  Chapter Eight

  Kathy and I met the next day for our regular Tuesday run. A balmy breeze blew across the lake, a gentle Föhn from the south, threatening to strengthen as the day wore on. We ran slowly up the hill behind the house where the village road narrowed to a winding lane. I took a deep breath and my spirits lifted as I adjusted to Kathy’s rhythm and pace. I could hear her struggling beside me on the steep sections, so I slowed down a little.

  The road levelled out, following the contour of the valley and, as the trees thinned, we were afforded a magnificent view of the Aegeri Valley with the lake as its centrepiece. Towards the southeast lay the snow-capped Glarner Alps and to the west, through a gap in the hills, the magnificent Rigi rose like a giant anvil through a mauve haze.

  We decided to continue to the Raten Pass on the easier forest trails skirting the valley. A few clouds scudded across a blue sky, casting the occasional shadow on the newly sprouting grass in the surrounding meadows. As we ran, we chatted about her son, Tommy, and my boys, and the improvement in the weather for running.

  ‘You’ll never guess what happened when I was running the Lorze route on Sunday. I saw a guy up on the Tobel Bridge about to jump off. I managed to stop him.’

  ‘Holy cow, Al, that’s pretty serious! How did you know he was going to jump? Must have been scary. Ironic that we’d only been talking about it last autumn. Remember that woman who chucked her dogs off first, then topped herself? We invented that new word, canicide. But this is no laughing matter. Jesus, what did you do?’

  Kathy’s curiosity had slowed us to little more than an exaggerated walk.

  ‘I ran up that hellishly steep path next to the viaduct and managed to talk him out of the deed on the edge of the bridge. It was pretty weird to think that, if I’d been ten minutes later, I might have found him somewhere at the base of the bridge, maybe even floating in the river,’ I said.

  ‘Shit, Alice, I can’t imagine. Did you call the police right away?’

  ‘I didn’t have my mobile phone with me. We went to the bus. I… We eventually went to the hospital and I left him there. They said someone would take care of him. I called the police yesterday, but it made me so mad they weren’t very helpful. I wanted them to contact him, make sure he was okay, but they didn’t seem to care.’

  ‘Wow, Al. Hope the guy’s okay now. You probably saved his life. Good girl!’

  I wasn’t feeling convinced about being a good girl.

  ‘I really hope they took care of him at the hospital, poor sod. Attempted suicide shouldn’t be treated lightly, but I felt like no one was taking me seriously. Of course, he didn’t seem to want help, was probably more humiliated by his failure than anything.’

  As we approached a thicket of trees next to a picnic spot near the pass, our mood was lightened by the haunting sound of a trio of alphorns. We stopped in our tracks at the beauty of the music.

  ‘Can you believe it? I tell you, we’re living in a fairy tale,’ said Kath. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve felt so blessed to live in this country where we don’t have to worry about locking our doors, we can run free in the mountains, and then get the occasional Heidi moment like this.’

  I put my hand to my side and dug in my fingers to relieve a stitch that was threatening, before taking a moment to enjoy the evocative music, with the snowy Glarner Alps as the magnificent backdrop.

  Three old men, dressed in traditional black wool jackets intricately embroidered with edelweiss, had carried their bulky instruments up the hill to this idyllic setting. The melancholic music drifted across the fields.

  As the music came to an end, a long, hollow, three-pitch harmony fading to silence, I smiled and raised my hands to my mouth in a silent gesture of appreciation. Tears pricked at my eyes, and my throat wobbled with emotion. Kathy broke into a round of applause and one of the men beckoned her over to try the alphorn. After much honking and huffing, we were reduced to girlish giggles, and the musicians shared our amusement.

  As they began packing their instruments away in their cases, Kathy said, ‘Race you home,’ though she knew I could beat her on any day. We started off at a jog.

  ‘Speaking of races, when are we going to get you to run this elusive marathon then?’ I asked.

  Kathy snorted.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I continued. ‘I know you said you didn’t think you’d ever be able to set the distances in training, but I honestly think you can finish a marathon. It would be so much fun to train together.’

  ‘Well, I was considering running Zürich next April,’ she stated, as though it was something she had never stopped thinking about.

  ‘Brilliant!’ I said.

  ‘But, Al, a marathon! You have four under your belt. It will be my first. I’ll be holding you back. You’ve had so much more experience than me. Jeez, you were county champion. How can I compete with that?’

  ‘It’s not a competition, Kathy. Well, only on a personal level. I’m keen to see if I can get anywhere near my previous personal best time. My PB. And I’m not thinking of April next year. I’m thinking about something closer. Perhaps one of the autumn races.’

  She looked at me incredulously.

  ‘This year? Oh, Al, I don’t know,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ll talk to Matt about it and let you know.’

  ‘Come on. If you commit, you must sign up straight away. It’ll give you the incentive to train if you know you have a place waiting for you. I’m going to sign up on Monday. You know Matt would be only too pleased for you to set yourself a big goal.’

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You’re serious. Bossy, but serious.’

  Earnest dedication to a training programme was needed for such an event, but a little voice told me to persuade her to make the commitment. Our breath now came easier as we loped downhill side by side.

  ‘If we start a sixteen-week training programme before the school holidays, it’ll be perfect timing for the October race. We can build a pyramid schedule, training up to a run around the Zug Lake six weeks before the race. That’s about thirty-six kilometres. Perfect for the longest run. We can do a weekly speed session at the Zug Stadium track. It’ll be great to keep each other motivated.’

  She sighed. She knew I wasn’t going to let it go. We were approaching the turnoff to our home.

  ‘Okay, look, I’ll try. I’ll sign up too, and hope I can keep up with you. I’m not going to come in for tea this time, Al. I have a lunch with the library committee at the international school, so have to get spruced up for them.’

  My phone buzzed as Kathy unlocked her car. We hugged and I pulled it out of my belt as I walked towards the door. Simon must have
forgotten something. I looked at the screen, a number I didn’t recognise. Must be a wrong number. I clicked open the message.

  Thank you.

  I waved absently as Kathy drove off, with promises to stick to all our run dates as we prepared for our marathon.

  Thank you.

  I was confused, couldn’t think who would want to thank me. And in English. Could this be Manfred? It made sense if it was. But my automatic relief that he was okay was short-lived as my heart skipped a beat.

  How the hell did he get my mobile phone number?

  Chapter Nine

  MAY

  Leon’s class at school had organised a public presentation about European cultures, and his teacher had asked whether some of the mothers from the Chat Club could help with an English-language exhibit. I was thrilled to be asked, for this was a tiny step closer to being accepted as part of the community.

  I was helping Leon’s teacher move a folding table in the foyer of the sports hall when the bell rang for the end of school. Children spilled out of the schoolhouse like marbles from a jar. Some of them dribbled into the exhibition and were joined by their parents later. Leon and a friend of his were in charge of one of the exhibits on the other side of the hall. He hadn’t wanted to participate in the English project and had instead chosen an exhibit on Serbian culture with some friends.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you specifically, Mum, but it’s kind of embarrassing to be standing with your own mother at an exhibit all afternoon,’ he said when we initially talked about the project.