The Toll Bridge

  But this developed over the next few days. That first morning all I could think of was how I wouldn’t have enough money to feed us both, even with the stuff Tess gave me and my mother’s weekly parcel. But I was too morose to mention it. Just glowered into my tea.

  And another thing niggled me.

  ‘We’ll have to get you a bed,’ I say when we’ve finished eating.

  ‘I’m not bothered.’

  ‘But I am. The place looks like a dosshouse with you on the floor.’

  He doesn’t respond.

  ‘And more bedclothes.’

  ‘There’s plenty.’

  ‘No, there isn’t. I was cold last night. It’ll get worse as well, winter coming on.’

  And that was the moment when the postman arrived, delivering Dad’s letter about Mother.

  2

  ‘She’ll be OK,’ Adam says.

  ‘I ought to go home.’

  ‘Why? Your dad says don’t.’

  ‘He’s just saying that so I won’t feel pressured. He’s always like that. Do nothing till you have to, that’s his motto.’

  ‘I like it! He’s right.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘OK, don’t believe me, ask Tess.’

  ‘No, no! I don’t want her to know.’

  ‘Why not? She could help.’

  ‘No, leave it.’

  ‘Why . . .?’

  ‘Because I don’t. I don’t know why. I just don’t, that’s all. You said yourself, you don’t want everybody knowing your personal details.’

  ‘But Tess is supposed to be a friend.’

  ‘Just shut up about it, will you! You say one word, and that’s it, all right?’

  ‘OK, OK, I’m not saying a word.’

  ‘Well, just think on!’

  ‘Calm down, will you. No sweat. I’ll be tight as a duck’s arse, honest. But at least talk to your dad before you go. Ring him. He says you can.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Yes, you are. Do it.’

  ‘It’s too early, he won’t be at the office yet.’

  ‘But as soon as he is.’

  ‘There’s the tolls.’

  ‘Remember me? I’m here. I’ll hold the fort. You’ll not be gone for long.’

  I dither.

  ‘Told you I’d be useful, didn’t I,’ Adam says.

  ‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ I say, clearing the table. ‘Bloody painting. We’ll never be done in time.’

  Adam stands up, stretching in his loose-limbed animal way. ‘You worry too much. Relax. Leave it to me. I like painting. You can see where you’ve been and it passes the time. Everything’ll be OK, honest.’

  ‘That a promise?’

  ‘You betcha, squire.’

  Suddenly I really am glad he’s here. Everyone needs somebody to break the closed circle of his mind. Adam used a blunt instrument and banged his way straight in, no subtlety, no fash about wounded feelings. The quickest form of ventilation. If you can stand the blows. A month before, I couldn’t have survived them.

  3

  Dad was adamant. Stay away. Mother would feel worse if I suddenly turned up for whatever excuse and she had to explain. Christmas was the right time. She was expecting me then, was preparing herself for it.

  I told him about Adam. Or, at least, that I’d made friends with this out-of-work boy who was good at decorating so he was staying for a while to help me get finished.

  ‘You’ll need a bit of extra cash then,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll send you something.’ I suppose I knew he would and had subconsciously hoped he would. So didn’t refuse, but felt a twinge of failure as well as guilt for exploiting him while talking about Mother’s trouble.

  4

  Half past ten, Bob Norris appeared. We were busy clearing stuff out of the living room to get it ready for painting.

  ‘Come outside,’ he said to me while giving Adam a close inspection. ‘Want a word with you.’

  He took me to the middle of the bridge and leaned on the parapet, looking down at the water.

  ‘What’s this I hear about a friend staying with you? Is that him?’

  ‘He’s a good help. I need it if we’re to get done in time.’

  ‘How good a friend?’

  ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘Known him long?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘In other words, not long enough. You should have asked.’

  ‘I only decided last night. There hasn’t been time.’

  ‘Look, son, you’ve done all right so far. Don’t go and spoil it.’

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘It’s a position of trust, you know, yours. There’s money involved.’

  ‘We’re hardly taking ten quid most days!’

  ‘Ten quid is ten quid, and I’ve only your word about how much you take.’

  ‘Are you saying I fiddle the books, Mr Norris?’

  ‘No, no! Just the opposite. I trust you. It’s this other lad. You’re sure he’s all right? It’s not just money. There’s property as well, and the bridge to keep an eye on. And with all this other business, these sackings and plans to sell, it’s getting difficult, that’s all. I’m having to be extra careful. There’s a lot at stake.’

  I recognized his tone of voice. The breathiness of anxiety. I’d heard it in my own voice only a couple of hours ago.

  I said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Is it OK?’

  He stared down at the water and thought for a while before saying, ‘All right. But you’ll have to answer if anything goes wrong. So remember, he’s your responsibility.’

  That word again! Another cold grey regretful realization. But I’d talked myself into it and pride wouldn’t let me back out. At least I had enough wit left to say, ‘While we’re at it, Mr Norris, is there any chance there might be a camp bed or anything going spare somewhere? He’s sleeping on the floor.’

  It was the only time he smiled. ‘I’ll see. Might be something in the scout hut.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  His smiled faded. A few days before he’d have been joshing me now, but since B-and-G he’d become solemn, bad-tempered even.

  ‘Sure you can manage, two of you, on your pay?’

  I shrugged. ‘We’ll get by.’

  He glanced at the toll house, his brows furrowed, lips pursed.

  ‘Everything has its day,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just get on as fast as you can. The agent says there’s a lot of interest. Wants to start showing the place as soon as things have settled down after New Year.’

  He turned away and walked back to his van.

  ‘There might be a sleeping bag as well,’ he said as he climbed in.

  5

  ‘What did he want?’ Adam asks.

  ‘To know if I could trust you.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He smirks. ‘And do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lied, then!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’ He’s serious now.

  ‘Because I’m an idiot.’

  He says nothing for a moment. Then he undoes a silver chain from round his neck and holds it out to me. ‘Here, take this.’

  ‘No. What for?’

  ‘Because I want you to. Go on. It’s worth a few quid. Real silver, nothing fake.’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘It’s OK. It’s mine. Didn’t nick it, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘Wear it. Insurance.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘No.’

  He moves towards me. I step back.

  ‘Take it, craphead!’

  ‘No!’

  He lunges at me, grabs my shirt. I try to push him away but he pulls me to him and tries to get the chain round my neck. I knock his hand away, sending the chain flying
across the room. We struggle, saying nothing, wrestling, not half-hearted, not playful, but using all our strength, meaning it. A contest. I am heavier, but he is stronger. The first time I feel his strength. It takes me by surprise. And he is so much tougher than I, harder muscled, and practised, knows what he’s doing, where to hold, how to shift balance, when to move. And whereas I am tense, his body stays relaxed, supple all the time.

  I feel trapped, become desperate, flay with my hands, swing and punch and strain against him and push. He easily dodges and absorbs and deflects and uses my movements to his own advantage, which makes me feel even more trapped, more a victim.

  Soon I’m breathless. And Adam begins applying a painful force, a frightening violence that I don’t know how to deal with except in the end by giving in, going limp, allowing him to put me down and sit astride my waist, his knees on my upper arms, like kids do in playground fights.

  I stare up at his flushed face, on which a sheen of sweat has broken out, smiling, his eyes full of the pleasure of the fight.

  The chain lies within reach. He leans over, causing me to cry out as his knee digs into my bicep, picks up the chain, slips it round my neck, and sits back again, regarding me now with that absent stare which turns his face into a mask.

  For two, perhaps even three whole minutes we remain there, silent, unmoving, staring at each other, until able to bear it no longer I say:

  ‘Have you done?’

  The Grin then. Adam again. Pushes himself up. I too, dusting myself off. My arms ache from the bony pressure of his knees, and other bruises burn on my body.

  6

  A car horn tooted. I went out and took the toll. When I got back Adam was busy Polyfilling cracks round the fireplace. Neither of us said anything, not then nor later, about the silver chain. I went on wearing it simply to prevent another bout of wrestling. Or at least that’s what I told myself. Every morning as we passed each other on the way to and from washing at the sink, he’d make a show of checking it was still there, and grin and nod, until this daily inspection became a routine, a ritual we would only have noticed had it not been performed.

  I still wear his chain, never take it off, now as a kind of talisman, a memento, a charm against the evil comfort of forgetting. Insurance after all, though not of the sort Adam had in mind. Not that it was Adam who gave it to me, as I should have known from that mask-faced absent stare.

  Toll-Bridge Tales

  1

  ONE DAY WE were painting the bedroom when we heard a noise like the sound of drunken children echoing up the approach road. We dropped our brushes and rushed outside, janitors ready to do a Horatius.

  But there was no need of defence. Along the road came a party of about twenty Down’s people. Four of them were in wheelchairs. One, a young man who was singing loudly in a strange tuneless falsetto, had no legs.

  They weren’t drunk on anything but happiness because they were having a trip out on a sharp, frosty, sunny December day. Five or six caretaking adults were sprinkled among them, shepherding them along and tending to the chairborne.

  This patter of humanity strode, wobbled, limped, danced, skipped, hopped, rolled in well-behaved disarray towards the two of us, as we stood by habit in the middle of the road outside the toll-house door.

  ‘Hello! Hello!’ unembarrassed voices called as they approached. ‘It’s Timmy’s birthday. Happy birthday, dear Timmy, happy birthday to you!’

  Timmy was the legless young man.

  ‘This is a toll bridge,’ one of the minders said. ‘It’s very old.’

  ‘As old as Timmy?’

  ‘What’s a toll bridge?’

  ‘Dong, dong, dong.’

  ‘You have to pay to cross.’

  ‘Do we have to pay?’

  ‘I haven’t no money.’

  ‘Timmy doesn’t have to pay, does he, not on his birthday, do you, Timmy?’

  We were surrounded, our hands taken and caressed, our arms stroked. Faces beamed at us, some dribbling, others open, all glad to see us as if coming upon friends.

  ‘You’ve been painting,’ a girl said to me.

  ‘There’s a notice that tells who has to pay.’

  ‘Where, what does it say?’

  ‘I’ve no money today.’

  ‘I like painting. I like the smell. Painting smells like you.’

  ‘Well, it says “Four wheels twenty pence. Lorries and trucks fifty pence. Two wheels and pedestrians free.”’

  ‘What are pedestrians?’

  ‘We are pedestrians.’

  ‘Where are you painting? I’d help but it’s Timmy’s birthday and we’re taking him out. He’s eighteen.’

  ‘Pedestrians are people walking.’

  ‘Eighteen means you’re grown up. I’m fifteen.’

  ‘Four wheels pay,’ Adam said, finding his voice and giving in

  kind. ‘Two legs go free.’

  ‘We’ve two legs.’

  ‘We go free.’

  ‘Timmy’s on four wheels though.’

  ‘So is Janice and Rachel and Jason.’

  ‘Oh, Jason, you have to pay. Twenty pence!’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘And Janice and Rachel.’

  ‘Not Timmy though, eh, it’s his birthday.’

  ‘But he’s on four wheels. We had to pay to cross the Seven and it was my birthday that day. They didn’t make allowances.’

  ‘Allowances.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean wheelchairs, does it?’

  Adam said, ‘No, no. I’ll tell you the rule. It’s like this. Four wheels pay. Two legs go free. No legs get paid.’

  ‘Get paid!’

  ‘Where does it say that?’

  ‘What – you pay Timmy?’

  ‘And Rachel and Janice and Jason,’ Adam said, ‘because they can’t go on two legs.’

  ‘They can sometimes.’

  ‘But not today,’ Adam said.

  ‘Not that far.’

  ‘There you are, Timmy,’ Adam said, pulling coins out of his pocket. ‘That’s your fare for crossing the bridge. And are you Rachel? OK, that’s for you. And Janice. And Jason.’

  There was an alarming cheer from the pedestrians.

  ‘I needn’t have legs if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘We’d better be getting on,’ called one of the minders.

  ‘We have to be getting on,’ several voices ordered.

  ‘What are you painting?’

  ‘How much did he give you, Rachel?’

  ‘We could come back this way and get some more.’

  ‘What’ll you spend it on?’

  ‘I’ll save it.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘You smell lovely. You could come with me if you like.’

  ‘Come on, Sarah. The man’s busy.’

  ‘Kissy kissy.’

  ‘Dong, dong, dong.’

  Back inside, Adam grabbed his brush and slashed and slashed at the wall. Paint flew.

  ‘Hey, steady, man, steady!’ I shouted, guarding my eyes with an arm. ‘What’s up, what’s the matter?’

  He waved his brush towards the bridge and the dying sound of the Down’s party. ‘That’s the matter! That!’ A different Adam. The other Adam: the one only in the eyes before, now in this angry, violent moment all of him. ‘The sodding rotten unfairness of it.’

  ‘Being born like that?’

  ‘Not their frigging fault. Didn’t ask to be born. Life! Bloody life!’ He hurled the brush down and left the room. There was brittle silence for a few minutes before I heard him filling a glass at the sink. I got on with the painting. When he came back he was Adam again and calm.

  I said, ‘At least they seemed happy.’

  ‘Happy? Yes, sure, really happy. A laugh a minute.’

  ‘Life is unfair. You knew that already.’

  ‘Just let’s get on, OK?’

  2

  Like the early morning, when we were on our own together the evenings were a problem for a while. Reading: I liked
it, Adam didn’t. He could settle to nothing for very long, except TV. Obsessed with old movies. Watched them tranced, sitting square to the screen only an arm’s length away. Nothing distracted him, not moving about, not singing, not asking a question, not fetching logs, not washing up with a clatter, nothing except standing in front of the set, which I once did and never did again because his reaction was ugly. I thought for a second he’d flatten me.

  So he was happy enough when there was an old film to watch. He’d be there sometimes well into the early hours, long after I’d gone to bed; and next morning he’d be fresh as a spring lamb. Sleep, for him, was like food – he didn’t need much, would snack when he felt like it. Often we’d stop work for a drink and he’d fall asleep for ten minutes and wake up ready for work as soon as I made a move. Though I always felt that he was still aware while he was asleep of what was going on, as if he were watching through closed eyes. Like a snoozing cat.

  I’m not like that at all. Seven hours a night, and I hate cat-napping during the day. Don’t like old movies either, and am easily distracted no matter what I’m doing, reading especially. Reading is an essential part of my life, basic as breathing, eating, sleeping, crapping. Without it for more than a couple of days I feel my mind dying. More than just my mind. My soul dying. If soul means what my dictionary says: the essential part or fundamental nature of everything, the seat of human personality, intellect, will and emotions.