The Toll Bridge

by Aidan Chambers

  I first met her the day after I arrived, just at the moment when I was wondering what the hell I had done. The day before, still high on adrenalin, the empty, damp bleakness of the house hadn’t mattered, had even seemed just what I wanted. Satisfactory neglect. All the clutter of home left behind, all the suffocating stuff I’d grown up with cut away at last. Room to think. Make everything the way I wanted it, starting from scratch. From scratch with the house, from scratch with myself.

  ‘You’ve not brought any bedding and such,’ Bob Norris said. ‘Told you at the interview that you’d need it.’

  ‘I’ll be OK for tonight.’

  ‘I could fetch a few essentials from home to tide you over.’

  ‘I’ll be OK, thanks. You said I’d have a couple of days to settle in. I’ll go out tomorrow and buy what I need.’

  ‘Must like roughing it. But I suppose you do at your age.’

  I spent a miserable night. Couldn’t get the fire going, not knowing how to deal with a damp chimney or a wood fire, filled the house with choking smoke instead. Sandwiches, brought from home, tasted like cold dishcloth and gave me indigestion. An apple, to follow, only increased my hunger. All there was to drink was water because I didn’t have tea or coffee or any of the everyday things you usually take for granted. By the time I hit bottom about ten o’clock, admitted defeat, and walked to the village, the shops were shut of course, and at the pub door I suddenly felt such an idiotic mess I couldn’t face the questions I knew the locals would ask. (The toll bridge and its fate were headline gossip I could have guessed even if Bob Norris hadn’t already told me.) So I trailed back to the bridge and curled up as best I could in the only easy chair, hoping sleep would bring tomorrow quickly.

  But I had reckoned without the night noises of a lonely riverside house, and without my own nervousness. Not the nervousness of fright, I wasn’t scared, but the nervousness of being on my own for the first time in my life and of not knowing. Not knowing what caused the noises or why, not knowing if the skitterings across the floor were made by mice, whether the flitterings in the roof were birds roosting there that might invade my room, whether the ceaseless slurge of water passing under the bridge, sounding so much louder, more powerful, in the night, seeming to fill the house, meant the river had broken its banks and was flooding the place.

  Once my mind is fixed on something I can’t bear not knowing about it. So whenever a new sound caught my attention I got up to find out what caused it, which meant any warmth I’d managed to cook up, huddled in the chair, escaped, and I came back, usually little the wiser, chilled again, wearier, and narked.

  In the way it often happens after a bad night, I fell asleep at last when dawn came, a smudged grey light that morning. And was woken, the next minute it seemed, the room bright with sun, by Bob Norris rattling at the door and calling my name, my mouth like a sewage farm, my body gutsick, painfully stiff, and my mind confused, not remembering where I was.

  Bob laughed and teased, not taken in by the show of cheerfulness I tried to put on, and left me to pull myself together while he stood outside taking the few early morning tolls. I washed, brushed my teeth (still didn’t need to shave more than twice a week), changed into fresh underclothes and shirt. But though this helped me feel physically better, the thought that already I had laundry to do and no one to do it for me and no washing machine to throw it into, finally made me face what I had brought upon myself.

  All night long I’d told myself I was bound to feel strange at first, I’d soon settle down, get used to the place, make myself comfortable. But the sight of dirty clothes lying on the crushed old armchair in that bleak slummy room zapped any remaining particles of confidence and I wondered what the hell I was doing there.

  Which was the moment when Tess walked in, carrying a bulging plastic bag and a blanket. Not, this first time, on the way to school, it being a Saturday, nor dressed in her biking leathers but in a loose white shirt and baggy washworn jeans and tennis shoes, a mane of lush jet-black hair framing the firm outlines of her face.

  ‘Is it all right to come in?’ she said, dumping the blanket on top of my laundry. ‘Dad asked me to bring you this stuff.’ She unpacked her plastic bag onto the muck-stained once-white pine table. Half-used packet of cornflakes, quarter of home-made brown loaf, jar of marmalade, bottle of milk, three eggs in a carton, quarter pound of farm butter, knife, fork, teaspoon, plate and mug, roll of paper towel. ‘Should see you through till you can shop.’ She looked me over as I stood gawping across the table. ‘I’ll give you a hand, if you like. You won’t know your way around yet.’

  All I could think was: Shut up, go away, I don’t want any help, I’m going home, this is all a stupid mistake. What I managed to say was, ‘Thanks, sure, yes, I could do with some help.’

  [– What you didn’t know at the time was that I was thinking: Why can’t this creep look after himself? What’s wrong with him? Why didn’t he sort himself out yesterday? Why should I spend my Saturday morning booby-sitting him? I’d planned to play tennis but Dad asked me to help because he was worried you might be disheartened and leave. Then he’d have trouble manning the bridge again. Did he ever tell you that you were the only applicant willing to take the job?]

  So there I was that first Saturday morning, cold, hungry, aching, bog-eyed, wanting only, longing, to bolt back home at whatever cost of derision, but my way out blocked by this high-energy girl standing between me and escape like a jailer (which she was, after all, as she was only there to help keep me there).

  This is how my friendship with Tess began, the first true friendship of my life. My closest friendship still.

  8

  I don’t think I believe in fate. Not if ‘fate’ means your future is planned, every detail, before you’re born. Nor do I feel singled out, not like some people say they do, not in any special way, not destined to be anything but ordinary, muddling through life, as most people seem to.

  But that morning with Adam, three months after first meeting Tess, as she throttled away, disappearing over the bridge, I suddenly felt I’d been here and done all this before. I know what is going to happen next, but am not able to do anything to stop it – a weird sensation of having had, sometime in the past, a glimpse into this future, of having forgotten, and only remembering now in the very second when the future becomes the present.

  I hadn’t experienced déjà-vu before. I’d heard people talk about it. But no one had said that it felt like a revelation. Suddenly the day seemed more alive, the air sharper, the light brighter, colours more colourful, objects more noticeable, more solid, more there. To tell the truth, as well as startled by it, I was a little frightened.

  I turn towards the house, knowing I will turn in just this way. And walk inside, catching my hand on the doorknob as I pass, knowing I will catch it so but unable to prevent it. And find Adam, knowing I will, standing at the sink washing up the breakfast things, dressed in my only pair of spare jeans and my only spare sweater, sleeves pushed up above his elbows.

  He will look sheepishly at me, I think as he looks sheepishly at me, and say, as he says, ‘Heard you talking to somebody. Thought I’d better put sommat on in case they came in.’

  At which, as suddenly as it came over me, this spooky sensation, this knowledge of the future-past invading the present, leaves me. Disappearing into my unknown future again, like Tess disappearing just now over the bridge. I feel I’m tottering on the edge of the river, and must wave my arms to keep from falling. And that I’ve been given a glimpse of something important, something life-changing, only for it to be swept away before I can fathom what it is or what it means.

  I’m trembling a little from the excitement as well as the fright.

  Which Adam notices, thinks I’m angry with him, and says, ‘Was it OK, borrowing your stuff?’

  Half an hour ago it wouldn’t have been, but after the déjà-vu his cheek doesn’t seem to matter because in some peculiar, inexplicable way, I know he has only done what he had t
o do.

  I go to the fireplace and finger his clothes.

  ‘Your own things will be dry soon.’

  The warmth is calming, a comforting encouragement to do what has to be done. I plant a thick unsplit log, one that will burn slowly, on the bed of glowing cinders, and add, ‘You’ll be wanting to get going.’

  ‘It’s all right here.’

  I stand and face him. He’s leaning against the sink, his ice-blue eyes watching, his arms crossed over my best blue sweater.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go, I’ve work to do.’

  ‘Work? What work? I thought this was a squat.’

  ‘No, no, it’s a toll bridge, didn’t you see?’

  ‘It was dark.’

  ‘Well . . . I collect the money.’

  He thinks for a minute before saying, ‘I could help. I could spell you. You could have some time off. Many hands make light work, as the Chinaman said when the electricity failed.’

  He flashes his wrinkling-eyed grin but I won’t give in.

  ‘Sorry, my boss wouldn’t allow it.’

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘It’s not just that. I want to be on my own, that’s why I took the job.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He shrugs, stares at his feet.

  An awkward silence. The fire crackles behind me. With relief I hear a car approaching, go out, take the toll, come back inside.

  Adam has gone. The back door stands open letting in a draught that is causing the chimney to backfire and fill the room with the heady incense of slow-burning wood. ‘Vanished in a puff of smoke,’ I say to myself.

  I shut the door, glad he’s gone, and only then see his clothes still hanging by the hearth.

  Letters

  1

  . . . SURELY, SWEETHEART, YOU’VE had enough by now? Aren’t you fed up of looking after yourself? And aren’t you lonely? You never mention any friends. It’s not good for you to be stuck away in the middle of nowhere all on your own in that awful little house, which I’m sure must be damp and giving you rheumatism. Besides, it’s such a waste of your young life. Your father says I mustn’t nag, but, darling, what am I to do, I’m only concerned for your welfare, and hate the thought of you not getting the best out of life.

  I’m sending you one of Zissler’s pies this week. I’m sure you need feeding up and Zissler’s are still the best. The woollen socks are from Aunty Jenny. She knitted them for you to wear when you’re standing in the road taking the money, which is something I don’t care to think about.

  I was talking to Mrs Fletcher the other day. Her Brian only got a B and two Cs but was accepted at college quite easily – he’s going to teach – so I don’t think you should feel at all upset about an A and two Bs. I know you wanted As, we all wanted that for you of course but an A and two Bs when you were a year ahead of yourself anyway is respectable enough and would get you into any reasonable university. As a matter of fact, I had a talk with Mr Colbert at school today and he says if you come home in time for next term they’ll be glad to have you back to do whatever you like till summer. He thought that with a bit of extra work to make up for the lost time you’re quite capable of picking up a scholarship. Now you’ve had a break you’ll feel better about things. Won’t you think about it?

  Gill called in on Saturday as usual. She puts on a cheerful face, but I can tell she misses you. I made her stay for supper and got out of her that you still haven’t written or even phoned. Sweetheart, that’s very unkind. She’s devoted to you, and you’ve been such good friends. I told her – you don’t deserve her! You don’t either. If I were her I’d have gone off with someone else by now. Won’t you just drop her a line? It would make all the difference.

  Dad says thumbs up, whatever he means by that, and to tell you he’s planted 120 daffodil bulbs where the begonias used to be, the ones that caught the strange disease and died last year, which I still think was caused by those dreadful cats from next door. And also would you like the radio he uses in the garage? Just ask and he’ll post it. He says it’s better than the old thing you took with you. He sends his love, of course. He’s going round sniffing on the edge of a cold because he hasn’t bothered to have his anti-flu shot this year, even though it did him so much good last winter, though the winter isn’t here yet, but these autumn nights are quite chilly. When you talk to him on the phone next, would you encourage him to have his jab. I’m sure he listens to you more than he ever does to me.

  We’ll be out at the Smithsons on Sunday – it’s his fiftieth birthday – so ring before 7.0. (And that’s another thing – having no phone. I hate not being able to ring you and you having to use a call box.)

  All my love, darling. I long to have you home again.

  2

  . . . I know she’ll tell you and you’ll be mad at me, but I couldn’t help it. These last few months have been foul. Agony. Torture. The pain, the pain! But, honestly, I never thought I could miss anybody so much. When you went I expected withdrawal symptoms for a few days, even a week or two, but didn’t think they’d go on this long. Every night I go to sleep thinking of you, every morning you’re still there in my mind when I wake. During the day, when I’m doing something, I’ll look up, expecting to see you, and when I don’t I almost burst into tears. I have a couple of times actually, once in the middle of Gerty’s French. God, the embarrassment!

  I feel your skin on mine, the shape of you pressed against me, your hand on my breast, as if my body has a memory. But that only makes me feel worse because it’s like loving a ghost. And then I begin to wonder if you’re ill or hurt or perhaps even dead, and I can’t bear it.

  If only I knew what you were doing, what you’re thinking and feeling. If only I knew you’re missing me as much as I’m missing you. Couldn’t you write? Or even just phone? I wasn’t going to ask, I swore to myself I wouldn’t, wouldn’t make any demands. But now I’ve blurted it out to your mother I might as well be honest and tell you how desperate I am, even just to hear from you.

  Remember how we used to say we didn’t know what ‘love meant’? Didn’t know if we were really ‘in love’ or just liked being together and screwing? Well now, if I’m not in love with you, I don’t know what love can be. All the time, every minute, every day, I want to be with you, want to hear your voice, see your lovely face, caress your lovely body, wrap myself around you, put my mouth on yours, spread my fingers in your hair, feel your long hard fleshy sinewy body on mine, do everything with you. I want to live with you, do things for you, have you do things for me, argue with you, eat with you, read with you, dance with you, screw with you, sleep with you, die with you.

  You see – I need you. Desperately. Can ‘love’ mean anything else?

  Remember the weekend your parents were away? Our first weekend on our own together all the time. We had that silly row about condoms just because I’d bought a different kind from our usual and you didn’t like it and then got the giggles when you were putting one on! Well, that weekend was the happiest two days of my whole entire life. I would give anything to have more days and more nights like them. All my days, all my nights.

  This is stupid. I shouldn’t be writing to you like this. Letters are hopeless. They get misunderstood. Is that why you don’t write? If only we could be together even for just an hour and talk. Won’t you let me visit you? Just for a weekend. Just a Saturday night.

  I’ve taken a Saturday job in the bookshop. (Let me know of any books you want, I can get them cheap. I’ll send them, though I’d rather bring them.) I’m saving my wages (for Christmas, I tell Mum) so I’ve money for the train, which will cut travelling time and give us as long as poss together. They’re good at the shop and will let me off for one Saturday. Just seeing you would be such a relief. I won’t tell your mother, honest. Not a word. Not to anyone.

  I love you. I love you.

  3

  . . . No, I don’t want you here. Keep away. Beware of the dog. Trespassers wi
ll be persecuted. I do not want you here.

  I explained the best I could before I left. I can’t do any better now. Not yet. When I can you’ll be the first to know.

  Please do not quote memories at me. I don’t care about memories. I don’t want to hear about them. You say letters get misunderstood. You’re right. But memories get misunderstood even worse. People do what they like with them. They make them mean what they want them to mean. I want to live only in the present. That is where I am.

  Yes, I enjoyed screwing you. If you were here I’d screw you again. But that’s another reason I don’t want you here. It would only confuse things. And I think that was what I wanted with you the most anyway. I’m not sure I wanted anything else. I won’t pretend otherwise.

  Pretending has been one of my problems. I’d got into the habit of pretending. Trying to be what everybody wanted me to be.

  I’ve made a rule for myself here. I will only be what I feel I am. I will not pretend, even if that means being disliked and saying no when people want me to say yes. I want to be honest with myself. I don’t know how else to start finding out what I really truly am. Who I am, I mean. There is so much old garbage inside me already, so much dutter, even after only seventeen years. What must it be like after thirty years or fifty? Is that why so many old people go round looking like they’re weighed down by two tons of compressed crap? I don’t want that to happen to me. But how do you stop it?

  I don’t like all this talk about love. What people call love is only things they want from someone else. Like a good screw or a nice time together or even just someone to keep them from feeling lonely. As far as I can see that’s what most people mean by love anyway. It isn’t what they want for anybody else, it’s what they want for themselves. Eating people is wrong.

  I just want to be me. I take money from people crossing the bridge, I repair the house a bit, I keep the garden tidy, I read a lot, I mess about with a rowing boat on the river now and then, I listen to music, I watch telly, I think, and I look after myself. And no one pressures me. For the first time in my life I am completely responsible for myself. And not responsible for anybody else. I like that. It’s what I want.