The Toll Bridge (9 page)

Gill is looking forward to seeing you then too. She was here on Sunday after you phoned as usual and told us funny but awful stories about the dreadful behaviour of customers at the bookshop. I must say I thank goodness your father and I never had to deal with members of the public in the service industries, there do seem to be some very strange people about and courtesy has gone out of the window, which I notice myself when shopping, as I said to Mrs Fletcher only last Friday after an embarrassing altercation at the cosmetics counter in Binns. Though it is bad enough for Gill it can't be any fun at all for you taking money in all weathers from people in cars, which, as I've said to your father many a time, seem to bring out the worst in people. They certainly do in him. He almost ran down a man in a Vauxhall the other day, you know how prejudiced he is against Vauxhalls. At least Gill is in the warm and dry, and working in a bookshop is quite respectable, if you have to work in a shop at all, besides being, as Mrs Fletcher remarked after we'd given Gill a wave on our way past, probably educational as well. She brought your father a very nice book on pruning roses which, as she admitted, she got cheap being an employee, but never mind, it was thoughtful of her.

Your father, being your father, said she was just trying to curry favour with him, but at least he went for his jab today. I told you he would if you had a word with him. You see how much we miss you and how much we need you. But as I say, my darling, Christmas soon, and we'll be together again . . .

2

. . . but I can't wait till then, can you? I'm desperate! Worse every day. Like thirst. I see Carole and Felicity with Daniel and Rod and can't stand it. I want you want you want you want you want you want you.

Besides, beloved, there's an important anniversary coming up. December 14th. One year. Twelve months. 365 days (and nights).

Remember the first time? I do, every second of it. Couldn't I come to you for our anniversary? I know it's near Christmas and you'll be home then. But we could celebrate all on our own, a whole
weekend together with no one to worry about, no one to interrupt or spoil things or to have to think about at all. Just you and me. Us.

I could come down on the Friday evening. There's a train would get me to you about 9.0. And I could stay till late Monday afternoon. I could skip school that day. There wouldn't be too much fuss. Worth it however much. Three whole blissful days together. Three whole even more blissful nights together. It would be like never before, wouldn't it. Say yes. On a postcard. Just the one word. Or phone. We won't talk if you don't want to. Just say yes. That's enough. All I want. We can talk when we're together. And make love. Oh how I want to make love. I want you. Now.
This second.

I love you love you love you

3

. . . but I've tried to, honest. None of them was right.

It's all so complicated. How I feel, I mean, what I'm thinking. The depression isn't as bad, which is one good thing. I feel better most of the time. But sometimes it all comes flooding back. Not so often though. Like a wound healing. Some days it hurts, some days it just aches, some days, more and more often, I feel OK. Maybe depression is a kind of wound. A psychic wound, a ghostly wound that haunts you till somehow it's laid. (And not the sort of laid you mean.) Still, though, I need more time to get things sorted out in my mind.

I like it here. It's good for me. I like being on my own. That's something I've learned about myself. Actually physically enjoy it. It gives me pleasure. I don't know, maybe I'm one of those people who are best left to themselves, the sort who prefer their own company.

Not that this place is anything to write home about. Hardly even basic, in fact. Which is another reason I like it. It's stripped down to the essentials. Maybe I like it like this because I'm trying to strip myself down to my own essentials. To get to know the real me. Who is the real me? I don't know. There's so much garbage inside me already, so much
clutter
. And most of it dumped there by other people – parents, teachers, friends, neighbours, the telly, I don't know. Everybody. But not a lot of it put there by me.

Anyhow, what I'm really trying to say is please don't come here. I don't mean to be nasty or anything. But it's hard to explain. It's just – I'm not ready yet. Mother wants me home for Christmas. I suppose I'll have to. We can talk about it then.
OK? What I mean is, you said letters get misunderstood. Which is true.

And the same is true about memories. I remember our first time, of course I do. But memories don't help. They can even get in the way. It seems to me that most of the time people use their memories to make their past life seem better than it was, or happier. Or just the opposite. They only remember the worst. Either way, memories aren't real. They're a kind of fiction, if you ask me. Anyhow, people make them into what they want them to be, and then believe their life was like that. But I want to know what my life really was, really
is
now not then.

And yes, I enjoyed screwing you. You know that. But that's another of the reasons why I don't want you to come here. We'd screw all the time and I'd like it but it would only confuse things again. Confuse me anyway, about me and about you, and about me-and-you. Just when I'm beginning to sort myself out.

OK, so I'm crazy and mixed up. That's what people are saying, I expect. Well, I don't care what they're saying. I don't have to listen to them. Not here. Which is another reason why I like this place, and being on my own, and out of range of home and everybody who knows me. Or think they do! Maybe the truth is I'm not like they think I am. Maybe I'm quite different. When I find out, you'll be the first to know.

So let's leave it like that for now, yes? Till Christmas anyway.

I think about you.

1

‘“
I THINK ABOUT
you”! Honestly!'

‘But I do!'

‘Not the way it means when you write it, though. You're being deceitful.'

‘I'm only trying to be kind.'

‘Kind!
Très drôle!
It's not kindness she wants. If you can't see that . . .'

Exasperated, Tess slapped the letter down between us.

Two Sundays after Adam disappeared for the second time, and again sitting either side of the table, but a cold, windy, grey, leaf-swirling day, this one, the river rippling with irritated gun-metal waves, and the fire blazing for the bright comfort of it as much as for warmth.

‘It's better than the last one, but honestly!'

‘I'm not wasting any more time on it.'

‘Suit yourself.'

‘All the time I was writing, my hand kept cramping like someone was gripping it hard to try and stop me.'

She laughed. ‘The toll-bridge ghost.'

‘Superstitious crap.'

‘There's supposed to be one. Dad says he's seen her. He says she kind of floats about between this room and the bridge. She was murdered by her lover in a fit of jealous rage. He chucked her body into the river. He was never caught, but she came back to haunt him and did such a good job he went mad and drowned himself. Serve him right too.'

‘You're making this up.'

‘No I'm not. Dad says only men see her, and only those she likes. Perhaps she's taken a fancy to you and will turn up one night all of a quiver, wanting a bit of spooky nooky.'

‘It's the only hope of getting laid around here, that's for sure.'

‘Whose fault is that? You could have Gill any time. You still haven't said whether you want her or not.'

‘I've told you, I don't know.'

‘Janus.'

‘Shut it with that, will you!'

‘So you'll send this one?'

‘Yes.'

Tess stood up. ‘Got to go. Sorry. We've company. Mum wants some help.'

Another spoilt Sunday.

‘Look at me and smile.'

I said nothing.

‘Please yourself. I'll come back after tea, if they go early. They probably will. OK?'

I stood up, went to the fire, stirred a log with my foot. ‘Sure.'