A Bridge Too Few

by Heide Goody

  Table of Contents

  A Bridge Too Few Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  A Bridge Too Few

  Heide Goody & Iain Grant

  Pigeon Park Press

  ‘A Bridge Too Few’ Copyright © Heide Goody and Iain Grant 2019

  The moral right of the authors has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except for personal use, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Published by Pigeon Park Press

  www.pigeonparkpress.com

  info@pigeonparkpress.com

  A Bridge Too Few

  Chapter 1

  “We never leave fairy tales behind when we become adults; we simply stop looking for them.”

  It Bears Repeating: The Enduring Appeal of Goldilocks

  Epiphany Alexander, Sheffield Academic Press

  There was a knock at the door to the undertaker’s viewing room.

  Dr Epiphany Alexander looked up from her work.

  The knocking came again — two slow and solemn knocks.

  “Is there anybody there?” called a frail plaintive voice. “Unquiet spirits, respond if you can hear me.”

  “I’m in here, Westerby,” said Epiphany.

  “One knock for yes. Two knocks for no,” wailed Professor Smutcombe.

  “I have no time for your games,” said Epiphany. “Now either get inside or go away. I have impossible tasks to do and I would like to get home for my tea.”

  The door opened and the septuagenarian Westerby Smutcombe, professor emeritus in Oral History entered. He tried to give her a fierce and irascible scowl but failed because he had the soul of a clown.

  “You’re no fun anymore, Epiphany,” he said, removing his brown Panama hat.

  “I don’t recall I was ever fun,” said Epiphany.

  “There were those garden parties at your grandparents’ house in Hathersage. You were a ray of sunshine.”

  “I was eight years old.”

  “Really?” said Professor Smutcombe and frowned like a man who wondered where the last forty years had gone, as though he had simply misplaced them and surely would find them if he just had a bit of a look. “Back then you were capable of performing six impossible tasks before breakfast.”

  “One impossible task is quite enough these days, thank you.”

  “Which is?”

  “The tying together of the deceased’s toes to stop them a-wandering.”

  “Doesn’t sound too difficult.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Let’s have a look then,” he said and came over to peer into the coffin.

  The coffin sat in the viewing room of Ecking and Trowel funeral directors in the Sheffield suburb of Hunter’s Bar. Epiphany knew Mr Trowel of old, had even assisted him with an unfortunate kobold problem in the nineteen-nineties and she had been given space and time to prepare Elsa Frinton for burial.

  “Ah,” said Professor Smutcombe, seeing the problem.

  “Ah, indeed,” said Epiphany.

  There were a number of tasks that, at first sight, appeared impossible.

  Resuscitating and rehoming a mermaid caught in an oil slick in the Irish Sea had been a logistical nightmare and almost entirely impossible to keep out of the national newspapers but Dr Epiphany Alexander had succeeded.

  Getting a naïve young woman out of a contract with an improbably named sprite who had granted her the ability to spin selfies into social media likes in exchange for the life of her firstborn child had been almost hopelessly irresolvable but Epiphany had persevered.

  Tying together the toes of a dead woman who had no toes, no feet and was indeed entirely absent was more difficult yet. It had all the hallmarks of utter impossibility but Epiphany was not one to give up just because something was impossible.

  “There’s no body,” said Professor Smutcombe.

  “Well spotted,” said Epiphany. “Nonetheless…”

  Elsa Frinton, who had been a keen student of fairies, folklore and all manner of superstitions had made some very clear stipulations in her will. Coins were to be placed over her eyes in order to pay the Ferryman. She was to be buried with iron nails in her pockets so that neither elves nor witches might disturb her grave. Salt was to be placed in her left hand in case she met the devil on her spiritual travels. And her toes were to be tied together with ribbon in order to stop her corpse wandering before its burial.

  Epiphany approved of much of this. Elsa had been one of Epiphany’s undergraduate students at Sheffield University and it was rewarding to see that Elsa had taken Epiphany’s teachings to heart. On the other hand, in the litany of will requests, Epiphany saw a frightfully ‘pick and mix’ attitude towards folk belief.

  Professor Smutcombe looked at the list on the table next to the coffin.

  “Iron nails and elf-crosses placed in the coffin?”

  “A bit belts and braces there, Elsa,” said Epiphany.

  Epiphany did not wish to speak ill of the dead but she was an honest woman and saw no reason to honey words just for the sake of the departed.

  “Elsa was an only child,” Epiphany told Professor Smutcombe. “And an orphan since the age of twelve.”

  “How Dickensian,” said Smutcombe.

  “Raised by a distant and elderly uncle who had preceded her into the great beyond by some years. She was only twenty-two when she died but had no living relatives so I, as her tutor, have taken it upon myself to ensure that she is sent on her way with due deference.”

  “Sent on her way…” said Smutcombe. He ran his fingers over the trinkets and items placed in the coffin, the two silver coins that had been carefully placed where the woman’s eyes would have been. “May I ask where the body is?”

  “You may,” she said as she measured out a length of red ribbon. “You might recall the disaster at Alvestowe last Christmas.”

  “Oh, that awful landslide.”

  “If that’s what it was.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  Epiphany considered the length of ribbon. “Against my advice, Elsa went there to investigate rumours of a lost yule-elf tribe.”

  “You think she found them?”

  “I think she destroyed them,” said Epiphany. “Along with the entire town, buried under a mountain of rubble. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this is the tricky part.” She bent over the coffin and made a loop of ribbon and tied it in the air around nothing but in the spot where a corpse might be reasonably expected to have a big toe. She then made another loop next to it.

  “Giving her a bit too much wiggle room there, dear,” said Smutcombe. “An enthusiastic corpse could do a decent waddle with that free length.”

  “Shush,” said Epiphany tersely. “I’m concentrating.”

  “On what?”

  “Believing that I’m actually tying her toes together. The action means nothing without belief.”

  She tied off the ribbon and let it fall to the base of the coffin. She stood back and huffed breathlessly at the exertion.

  “Done?” said Smutcombe.

  “All done,” she whispered.

  “And you’ve tied her toes together.”

  “I believe I have. Surely that’s what counts? Funeral’s not until next week but at least she’s ready.”

  “And I’m sure you deserve a restorative drink after such a Herculean effort.”

  She looked at the elderly academic suspiciously.

  “M
y treat, dear Epiphany,” he said.

  “I think I’d rather go home. I am somewhat hungry.”

  “Dinner then?”

  She smiled politely. “Thank you, Westerby but —”

  “It grieves me to think of a young woman living alone in that squalid terraced house.”

  “It’s not squalid and it’s an end terrace so, technically, it’s semi-detached. Also, I’m no longer young and that goes doubly so for you. I know you, you wily goat. You’re thirty years older than me and should know better.”

  “Oh, and I do,” he said, with a sudden twinkle in his eye. “I know a lovely Italian bistro that does a tagliatelle carbonara to die for. I also know a thing or two regarding magical goings on in the city which I wanted to pick your brains about.” He did a little ‘here I am’ gesture. “Hence the reason for my visit. I was particularly keen to discuss what you were doing about the rogue troll causing all manner of trouble.”

  She was suddenly quite still. “Troll?”

  “Troll, yes. Surely, you knew?”

  “Pretend I don’t,” she said. “Tell me…”

  Smutcombe grinned. “Over a bowl of carbonara and a mediocre house red?”

  Epiphany was bone-tired and she did really want to go home, to curl up with something fattening to eat and something nourishing to read. But she also wanted to know about any miscreant magical folk that might be loose in the city without her knowledge. Also, she suspected that she had no food in at home, except half a left-over steak and kidney pie and a box of Weetabix. She did like Italian.

  “Troll first then dinner,” she said.

  “Capital!” said Smutcombe, patting his hat back onto his head.

  “We’ll go to the Wicker Arches,” said Dr Epiphany. “All and any trolls in the city should be living there.”

  “Then let’s jump in the old jalopy. I’m parked out front.”

  Chapter 2

  “The troll is customarily noted for its enormous size, truculent manner and vile appearance. In truth not enough emphasis is placed upon their teeth, which are uncommonly large and capable of crunching more than goat bones.”

  The Charge of the Sprite Brigade

  Epiphany Alexander, Sheffield Academic Press

  Smutcombe’s ‘jalopy’ was a carefully maintained orange 1963 Hillman Imp. Smutcombe shooed the black and ginger long-haired cat curled up on the warm bonnet and held the door open for Epiphany to get in. Once in motion, the car rattled like a dancing skeleton and had seats with vicious springs that had a tendency to poke passengers when least expected. Epiphany held onto the coat hook to avoid rolling on the corners and getting an unwanted spring in the fundament. Once, Smutcombe ‘missed’ the gearstick when he went to change gears and ‘accidentally’ put his hand on her knee. Epiphany rapped his knuckles sharply and told him he was dirty old professor with tenure and had better behave himself if he wished to see retirement.

  Smutcombe chuckled but then behaved himself for the rest of the journey.

  The Wicker Arches were part of a Grade II listed railway viaduct over the River Don. Its full length was nearly half a mile but the arches in question were on the side roads either side of the Wicker dual carriageway. The arches here had been walled off, given shutters and doors and were home to garages, workshops, niche trading companies. And trolls. Mostly trolls.

  “There should be no rogue trolls in Sheffield,” said Epiphany. “My grandfather —”

  “A fine chap,” said Smutcombe.

  “If you say. He and his colleague were responsible for rehousing them all after the war. If a troll has a bridge, it has no reason to leave. Let’s try here first.”

  Smutcombe drew to a stop. The Hillman Imp gave a final death-rattle grumble and was still.

  Epiphany got out and approached the door of a car repair shop arch.

  “How long will this take, my dear?” asked Smutcombe from his car seat. “A fine dinner awaits us.”

  “And it can wait as long as it takes,” said Epiphany. She hammered on the repair shop door.

  There were clanks and groans much shuffling and then the door was opened. The door was seven feet tall and the thing on the other side had to duck its head to step out. It wore ragged dungarees and was conspicuously wiping an oily rag on its hands. Epiphany wasn’t certain if it was wiping the oil off its hands or on.

  It sucked through its teeth and shook its head.

  “It’s the parts, you see,” it said in a low, thick rumble. “Can’t get the parts these days.”

  “Good afternoon,” said Epiphany.

  “No, you see the main gasket ‘ead cylinder bracket ‘as gone. I can’t order a new one until Furssday.”

  “You can drop the act,” she said.

  The troll peered down at her. It stroked its shaggy beard and then, contemplatively, stuck a finger up its nose up to the second knuckle. The troll looked left and right and then gave the archway above a doubtful look. It removed the finger from its nose, cleared its throat and intoned: “Who’s that trippin’ over my bridge?”

  “I’m not doing anything over your bridge,” said Epiphany. “I’m next to it, not on it.”

  The troll considered this and decided to press on.

  “I’m goin’ to gobble you all up,” he said and reached down to her with one of his fat hands. His square yellow teeth glistened with saliva.

  Epiphany sighed. “Fine!” she said and then adopted a sing-song voice. “Oh, please don’t eat me. I’m much too small. Wait for my friend. She’s a much bigger, er, university lecturer than I am.”

  The troll looked around again, sceptically scouring the quiet back street for sign of plump academics.

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Epiphany.

  The troll huffed. There were rules. He saw Professor Smutcombe sitting in the open door of his Hillman Imp.

  “’Allo, professor. Ow’s the car runnin’?”

  “Sweet as a nut, Grak-Ak. How’s business?”

  “Slow,” said the troll. “We ain’t eaten nobody since two fousand and two.”

  “The railway worker,” nodded Epiphany.

  “‘i-vis gets stuck in my teef,” said Grak-Ak.

  “We’ve heard that one of your lot has gone rogue.”

  “Frightened some teenagers in Hollins Lane,” said Smutcombe. “And out in Eccleshall, there’s been a spate of people complaining about their ponds being vandalised.”

  “Don’t know nuffin about that,” said Grak-Ak. “We’re good folk. Got our bridge, why move?”

  “Quite,” said Epiphany.

  “You could try them lot in Walker Street,” said the troll, pointing along the arches with an arm as long as a sapling. “Funny lot on the other side of the big road.”

  “Much obliged,” said Epiphany and turned to leave.

  “This other lecturer…” said Grak-Ak.

  “Yes?”

  “How big is she?”

  “Oh, positively corpulent,” lied Epiphany. “Succulent even.”

  “Right, best get the oven on then,” said the troll and went back inside.

  Epiphany looked at Smutcombe. “You actually let these trolls repair your car?”

  “Their methods might be a tad unorthodox and their manners a little coarse but they get the job done.”

  Together, they went from arch to arch, questioning the troll occupants, Smutcombe complaining all the time that there was a fine meal to be had at the little Italian. There were trolls pretending to be mechanics, trolls pretending to be tattooists, trolls pretending to be welders, trophy makers, delivery couriers and industrial caterers — all of them notionally fake, for what did trolls need with actual work as long as they had a bridge to lurk under and the faint promise of someone or something to eat every now and then. Several offered to eat Epiphany but this was merely a ritual to be honoured and she made several false promises of fat academics who would soon be going into their bubbling pots or hanging from greasy meat hooks.


  They drove round the dual carriageway and down the second set of arches in Walker Street which were, despite Grak-Ak’s parochial comments, just like the ones they had first seen. Epiphany clocked a potential cause of the current situation almost immediately. Traffic cones and construction barriers were erected at the front of the furthest arch.

  “I should have been informed of this,” said Epiphany softly and got out of the car.

  There was big sign in front of the construction works.

  BRIDGE STRENGTHENING WORKS

  CARRIED OUT BY

  MCVITIE DAINTY

  FOR THE

  NORTHERN POWERHOUSE CITY-LINK RAIL PROJECT

  “Not good,” she said.

  The barriers around the site, whilst tall and very official looking were hardly secure and she slipped through a gap into a construction area dominated by diggers and cement mixers. A sleek silver cat sat on a generator and washed itself. The archway under the bridge had had the front wall and doors ripped away and the cavernous oval space had been filled with concrete. The troll home was gone.

  “Ay up, duck,” called a man in a yellow hi-vis and a hard hat. “Members of the public aren’t allowed in here.”

  “Who’s in charge here?” she said. “Under whose authority is this being carried out?”

  The construction worker was about to answer but another man was already approaching. He was dressed very much the same except that under his hi-vis jacket was suit and a tie. The tie was brought up tightly around his thick neck as though it was trying to keep his double-chin corralled and contained to the general neck area.

  “What’s this?” he said of Epiphany.

  “Lady wants to know who’s in charge, Mr McVitie,” said the builder.

  McVitie looked her up and down. “Are you some sort of…?” He fished around but clearly Epiphany’s appearance — the green woollen stockings, the solidly sensible skirt, the eminently practical cardigan and the satchel slung from left shoulder to right hip — did not provide him any clues.

  “I am Dr Epiphany Alexander of Sheffield University,” she said. “Department of Folkloric Studies.”