The Toll Bridge (21 page)

So I'm standing there for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, watching them, and watching myself watching them, and with a hard-on by then to be honest, making no effort by now to hide myself, when my bridge-keeper's third ear alerts me to the sound of a vehicle I know approaching along the road from the village. Bob Norris's van.

He's bound to stop, even if he's on his way to somewhere else. Bound to see his daughter
in flagrante delicto
with a footloose horny yob he doesn't trust enough to keep the bridge never mind screw his daughter, and me, who he counts responsible, standing outside doing a convincing impersonation of a dirty old man.

I suppose I could – ought to? – have rushed inside, yelling a warning, and hustled the coupled pair out of the back door before Bob arrived. But I doubt if there'd have been time, for at that moment the final act wasn't far from its climax, her on the floor under him, legs over his shoulders, locked together and going like the dappers, in such a state of pleasure that had I burst in they would probably have been beyond recall anyway.

No, that's just an excuse. The truth is more shaming. I was curious to know what would happen when Bob arrived.

Not that any of this was thought out. The second I heard Bob's van approaching, I slipped across the road and vaulted over the bridge onto the bank just where it dropped steeply down to the river. Hidden there I could squint between the urn-shaped balusters.

The van drew up. Bob got out. Tried the house door. Locked. Stepped, without knocking, to the lighted window of the living room, raising his hand to rap on the glass, but, seeing in, never did, his hand arrested in a clenched-fist salute.

I could only see his back silhouetted against the window. For a moment he was a statue spelled by what he saw. Then, as if punched in the stomach, he slumped forward and turned away. I heard a groan as he paused a brief moment then came stumbling across the road directly towards me, reached the parapet, the edge of which he grasped, arms spread for support, right above me, where he struggled to control what were not groans, after all, but angry grieving sobs.

I had not seen a grown man weep before. Not like this – so unrestrained, so racked. A second first in basic emotions within moments of each other: I had wanted life stripped to the essentials and I was getting it. And again I was observing myself as I observed the other. The sight of Bob Norris possessed by such naked tears came as a shock, entangling my embarrassment with a sense of double betrayal. I cowered in my inadequate hiding place, head down, terrified that Bob would see me – yet, oh, if only he would see me! – and torn as well by an impulse somehow – but how? – to comfort him. Besides, his sobbing made me want to weep too, for suddenly I saw the scene in the house not with my own eyes but with his, and felt a confusing mix of shame, regret, anger, and worst of all of loss.

Just as I had never seen a grown man weeping, I do not think I had ever really known till that moment what compassion felt like. A third first.

Eventually Bob gained control of himself Snuffled back his tears. Swore. Spat over the parapet, a gob that landed like a rebuke on my bowed head. Breathed in and out deeply a few times. Returned to his van. But did not start the engine. Instead, letting off the brake, allowed the slight incline to carry the vehicle backwards down the road until a safe enough distance away to drive off without causing alarm in the house.

As soon as his tail lights were out of sight I climbed from my hiding place and set off after him, dregs of guilt stifling an impulse to steal a last glimpse through the toll-house window.

Walking through the village fifteen minutes later I spotted Bob's van parked outside The Plough. Knowing he wasn't a pub man, and even at home not much of a boozer, ‘drowning his sorrows' came to mind.

He was sitting on a stool, slumped on his elbows against the bar nursing a large whisky, obviously not his first.

‘Saw your van,' I said, half-perching on a stool beside him.

He gave me a sideways look through reddened eyes. ‘Had enough of mouldering in bed?' And downed his whisky in one go.

‘Something like that.'

‘Want a drink?'

He ordered a glass of cider and another large Scotch.

When they had arrived he said, ‘The wife was telling me about
your mother.' He downed half his drink. ‘Sounds badly, poor woman.'

I said nothing, unwilling to talk about that subject.

He turned away, sat square to the bar, not looking at me, thinking, and after a moment said, ‘Hard job, being a parent.'

Attempting relief with a smile, I said, ‘Wouldn't know.'

‘No.' He downed the second half . ‘Just as well. If we knew the worst beforehand, maybe we'd never take it on.'

‘Is it that bad?'

He ordered another large Scotch.

‘If you ever have any –' his words were slurring a little, ‘don't have daughters.'

‘Didn't know you could choose.'

He huffed ruefully. ‘Too true.' Another half glass went down.

I said, chancing my arm, ‘Tess doesn't seem so bad.'

‘Tess!' he said, swivelling to me, ‘Tess! What d'you call her that for? Not her name. Katharine. Her name's Katharine. You know that. Katey, if you like. Not Kathy, though, don't like Kathy. But
Tess
! Dear God!'

‘Sorry. Private joke.'

‘Wonderful girl. Always was. Right from birth. Beautiful little thing. Nice-tempered. Lovely. Always loved her. Moment I saw her at the hospital.'

‘Well then?'

‘Another,' he said to the barman.

‘Are you sure, Bob?' the barman said. ‘Not like you.'

‘One more. That'll be it.'

‘One more. But leave your van. Walk home, OK?'

He waited till the replenished glass was in front of him before looking at me with that close, slightly unfocused watery gaze of the not-quite-drunk intent on making a point too difficult to get words around. ‘What you think then? Of our . . . Tess?'

‘What do I think of her?'

‘What do you think of her?'

‘I like her.'

‘Come on, you can do better than that. How much?'

‘Dunno. A lot.'

‘Fancy her?'

‘Well –'

‘Go on. Don't be shy. Man to man.'

‘Yes, but –'

‘But? Can't be buts about fancying.'

‘She's a friend, that's all.'

‘Never done it. That what you mean?'

‘With her? No!'

He slurped from his glass.

‘Listen. Tell you something. It hurts. Know that, do you? Hurts like hell. Know what I'm talking about? Children – daughters – specially daughters – most specially . . . Tess. Katey . . . Lovely beautiful Katharine. Daddy's girl. What her mother calls her. Daddy's girl.' He chuckled. ‘But they grow up, see? Love them. Want the best for them. Worry.' He shot a glance at me. ‘Get jealous. Know that? Know what I'm talking about? Bet never thought that, eh? Fathers get jealous. Eh? Thought that? . . . 
I
get jealous. Put it that way. Understand?'

Gripping the bar to steady himself, he slid uncertainly to his feet. Sweat glazed his face.

‘Let's go. Too bloody hot here.'

He staggered. I caught his arm and guided him to the door. Outside, the cold December night slapped us. He braced himself against me, took two deep breaths, pulled his arm from my grip, and set off uncertainly towards his van. I skipped ahead, placing myself between him and the door.

‘Mr Norris, I don't think you should drive. Let's walk home.'

He stood scowling at me, swaying slightly. ‘Tess! Thought about her name careful, wife and me. Important – names. Yes? Important. You know – mean things. Don't they? . . . Tell something else. Sometimes I feel – sometimes I want . . . Better not. Can't hurt then. Member that.'

‘I will, Mr Norris, I will, but I think we ought to walk home now.'

I didn't wake until after nine next morning. By the time I'd pacified Mrs Norris for going out the night before and returning with her husband drunk (a calamity she somehow seemed to blame on me) and argued her into letting me go back to the bridge it was ten thirty. When I arrived Adam was lolling by the blazing fire, supping coffee and looking smug, the room bright with fresh paint. Tess, it turned out, had been busy with Adam all day yesterday while I lay brooding between her mother's flannelette sheets. She had skipped school and she and Adam had finished off glossing the woodwork and then titivated the entire place – living room, bedroom, kitchen area, even the basement lavatorywoodstore.

No longer was the house like the tidy squat Adam first took it to be. Now it was a newly decorated home. Not an especially well-off home, but still, a place where people lived. On the mantelpiece and windowsills winter berries and sprigs of evergreen sprouted from make-shift vases – bottles, old jugs. Stoneware cider flagons had been converted into table lamps to match the one I'd made for a bedside light, only these were topped with wickerwork shades like Chinese hats instead of naked bulbs. Tess had even managed to find an old rust-red rug for the floor. My books had been divided into collections of similar kinds, each collection shelved on its own: poetry on a newly fitted shelf in the living-room alcove to one side of the fireplace, nonfiction books on a shelf on the other side, fiction on the mantelpiece in the bedroom. Posters Sellotaped to the walls (Hockney's ‘Bigger Splash', Tom Phillips's ‘Samuel Beckett', Jimmy Dean walking in the rain at night). The television set stood on a crudely cobbled table. Even the lumpy old armchair looked revived, a bright red cushion nestling in its seat.

‘Like it?' Adam asked.

‘You mean, Tess was here all day?'

‘Wanted to make the place nice for you. I made the table for the telly though.'

‘Where did all the stuff come from?'

‘Dunno. Very resourceful is Tess. Knows a lot.' He chuckled, double-meaning. ‘All finished. No more painting.'

‘Terrific,' I said flatly. Was the place mine any longer?

‘Aren't you pleased?'

‘Delirious. Had a good time, then?'

‘Great.'

‘I'm glad. Worked hard, eh?'

‘Want some coffee? There's some letters by the telly.'

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 . . . 
UNLESS YOU SAY
no I'll come on the Friday and leave on the Monday . . .

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