The Toll Bridge (29 page)

1

ADAM WAS STILL
dead to the world. But he couldn't stay where he was much longer. He needed what the house offered: fresh water, food, clothes, warmth. How to get him there? Carry him? Too far. Float him in the boat? Current against us. Nothing else for it: tow.

Hauling a boat the size of a four-berth cabin cruiser upriver on your own isn't easy at the best of times. This was not the best of times. Doing it without anyone to steer is murder. The bow keeps nudging into the bank and sticking. After a couple of bodged goes that got me all of ten metres nearer destination in as many minutes, I managed to secure the tiller with just the right amount of turn to edge the boat out and counter the tendency of the tow rope to drag it into the bank. After that things went well if you allow for a few minor impediments along the way, like slipping every few paces on the muddy path and twice being dragged backwards by the pull of the current when my stamina ran out, requiring me to dig in and hold everything at a stop while I caught my breath and untwisted my muscles.

Tug-of-war donkey work for the four hundred metres to the bridge. The world a collision of contraries: The boat wanting to glide away from the bank and slip downstream, me pulling it into the bank and forcing it upriver against the current. The morning air biting from overnight frost, me sweating from the effort but feeling frozen. Dawn of a new day, me unslept from the old, a refugee from the night. Adam flat out and sleeping in the boat, unaware of anything, me puffing and panting and struggling and aware of every straining cell in my body and of the impelling world around.

Gerard Manley Hopkins lifted my spirits, helping me find in the tug and swing, dig of heels, cut of rope, pain of breath, stretch of muscle, the Force of dotty Dylan T.'s breath

Helping me know again that

Poetry is useless, it never changes anything? Tugging the boat upstream, four hundred metres metered by metre. By life lines changed. It changes me. Useful to have something that enables you to be useful.

2

Inside, the house was a tidy mess. My guts said, Go now, never come back. My mind said, There is only one thing for it, knuckle down.

Leaving Adam in the boat, tethered where I could keep an eye from the living-room back window, I set to work.

First, blankets and pillows and a drink of water into the boat for Adam. Still out. Fixed him up as comfortably as I could, left the glass of water on the table where he'd see it if he woke, and went back to the house. I wanted everything ready before taking him inside.

Next, the fire resurrected.

Then, every scrap left from the party stuffed into rubbish bags:

(That's all I can remember.)

From among these icons of a fun-filled evening, I rescued my books, radio, own clothes (those still in a state worth rescuing), bedclothes, kitchen and toilet gear, etc. After that, sweeping, washing, mopping, dusting, polishing, reorganizing. Returning the place to myself.

Then returning myself to myself. Wash, shave, change of clothes, breakfast.

By nine o'clock tolls were interrupting progress as the Saturday early shoppers went through.

Checks on Adam every fifteen minutes monitored no change. Deep heavy-duty sleep.

All this achieved by keeping my mind in neutral.

Nine thirty, at the table, breakfast just finished, coffee mug in hand as I took five minutes off before making an attempt at getting Adam inside, Tess walked in.

[– Let's tell the next bit together, then we can get in everything we both knew.

– You just want an excuse not to have to write anything!

– Hard
fromage!
He's guessed! But it would be better that way, admit it.

– Wouldn't work.

– Yes it will, you just want to give up all that I-ing all the time. You're such a bloody narcissist!

– Rubbish.

– Yes you are. You like nothing better than staring at your navel all the time. And you're possessive.

– Stop bossing. Just for you, I'll give it a go.

– Good. But we keep it simple, none of your male-order stuff like those titles and numbered sections and everything all very ordered and in charge, and literary crossword puzzles and quoting from poets nobody reads and stuff like that. You're not writing a novel, for God's sake. This is going to be right to the point, OK?

– Conditions already! Keep it simple! Dear God, it'll be only words of one syllable next. Afraid of the dictionary, are we? Afraid we might come across a word we don't know? Afraid we might have to think a bit?

– Go!]

Tess and Gill walked to the bridge together. The two girls had arranged beforehand how they would behave. While Gill waited outside, Tess would discover whether Jan and Adam were there.

When Tess came into the living room Jan was facing her across the table, his hands wrapped round a mug of coffee. Image of so many Saturday mornings. Except this morning he looked desperately exhausted.

But as soon as he saw Tess, all Jan's weariness and the anger he felt for what she had done during the last three days evaporated. The very sight of her was enough to revive his spirits.

Stopped in her tracks by the sight of Jan, Tess suddenly felt confused, all her determination draining away, surprised by the strength of her feelings at seeing him again, as if they had been parted for years.

They gazed at each other for a long moment, neither saying anything, both aware of the moment's significance, knowing beyond a doubt for the first time that each was irreplaceable to the other no matter what, each satisfying in the other some essential need, and each unable therefore to do anything but pay the eternal toll of friendship: forgiveness of the other's failings. It was a sweet moment that could have lasted for ever, neither would have minded, a sublime kind of knowledge that was a strange new pleasure.

But the spell was broken by a car approaching the bridge.

‘I'll get it,' Tess said and went.

When she returned a mug of coffee was waiting. Tess sat and avoided Jan's eyes by looking round the room.

‘Quite a clean-up.'

‘Needed it.' Intending to be genial, Jan heard himself sounding accusatory. Tiredness talking. He cleared his throat and braced himself in his seat. ‘Back to normal.'

Tess smiled warily. ‘Your normal.'

Jan returned her smile. ‘My normal.'

Both were baffled. Having thought so much during the night about this meeting – how it would be, what would be said – it was not as either had imagined. Both also felt an intrusive urgency, Jan for Adam, Tess for Gill. But that intense moment of mutual recognition had come between what had been and what was, changing everything, and leaving each at a loss for words, tongue-tied, waiting on the other to bridge the gulf.

Jan spoke first.

‘I need some help.'

‘Is it – can it wait a minute?'

‘What for?'

‘Gill. She's outside.'

‘Gill! She's still here? What's she want?'

‘To talk to you of course.'

‘Not now. I need some help with Adam.'

‘Adam!'

‘He's in a boat, it's a long story, I'll explain later, he's had some kind of accident, his head was bleeding, it's a cut, he was unconscious but he's sleeping now. I'm not sure what to do, he seems OK, but would you have a look at him and see if you think we ought to fetch a doctor?'

‘Christ!'

‘I also need some help to get him into the house, it's cold out there and there's nothing in the boat – no heating or water or anything.'

‘God! But what about Gill?'

‘Can't she wait?'

‘You don't understand. She was attacked last night, during the party, under the bridge. It might have been Adam.'

‘Adam! Is she sure? I mean, she didn't know him.'

‘He said his name.'

‘Jesus!'

‘Exactly!'

‘Can't have been! What did he do? Was she hurt?'

‘Not physically. She doesn't know what he was up to. She's not sure. She was confused. It was dark and she was so upset already.'

They stared at each other, appalled.

‘What now?' Jan said.

‘I'd better get Gill. We can't leave her hanging about out there. Anyway, she's involved. She has a right to know what's happened.'

While Tess went for Gill, Jan visited Adam again, who was still flat out, hardly having moved for the last two hours.