Morag Joss - Among the Missing aka Across the Bridge

But why then, Mr. Sturrock’s listeners sometimes asked, were steel and concrete to be the main materials used in the new bridge? Why was the new bridge also to be of deck truss design, a precast, post-tensioned concrete box girder bridge (as the information pack had it), to be exact?

“Your concrete technology nowadays,” Mr. Sturrock told them, as patiently as he could, “is a far cry from what it was sixty years ago. Your concrete nowadays contains chemical additives that retard the corrosion of the steel rods. Plus,” he went on, “in this region, grit is now favored over salt for treating icy roads, so salt residues are a thing of the past. Plus, modern span bridge design nowadays incorporates what are known as redundancies, which means if there is a failure, the entire bridge doesn’t go down, and single spans can be repaired.”

Invariably Rhona led the groups away, reassured, to the service station for their complimentary refreshments, and invariably Mr. Sturrock complained all the way back over the river.

To Ron it was quite marvelous, this collaborative amassing and expending of expertise and ingenuity, and all for the future sake of perfect strangers crossing a bridge that was still to be built. He took it as evidence of something miraculous, this practical goodwill from one set of human beings-the surveyors, designers, engineers, builders-toward countless other, unknown human beings, many of them yet unborn. It was more than professional responsibility; it was more even than an assumption of good intent between people. Even while Mr. Sturrock was ranting about fucking busybodies and amateur know-it-alls, Ron felt there was no word for it but love. Then he would give himself a shake for getting soft, because whether these guys were filled with tenderness toward others or were just doing their jobs, bridges got built and they got built to stay up. Filtering out his feelings, Ron presented an information pack and all the technical bridge-building facts he could remember as unsentimentally as possible to Silva and Annabel, who weren’t in the least interested. They wanted to know about the cars still in the river.

“The poor people inside. I am so sorry for them,” said Silva, while Annabel nodded but said nothing.

But Ron had nothing to report about that, though he, too, was sorry. He was also sorry for some of the people who showed up for the bridge walks. He didn’t tell Silva and Annabel that many of them came and left white-faced in wretched silence, and that every time at least one person broke down and wept. Some were so stricken they had to be physically supported, and once a woman had fainted. He didn’t mention the regulars, either: those who turned up time and again, tense for new explanations, and those who were already weighed down by what they knew but who could not keep away. There was the ghoulish evangelical who, until Rhona barred him from coming anymore, enjoined the others in prayers of contrition because the disaster was the act of a displeased God. There was the big, solitary, tongue-tied man who drove up from Huddersfield every other weekend because, he said, he’d been in the area when it happened and, for reasons he wouldn’t bother the others with, couldn’t get it out of his mind.

After we had been here for about three months there came, in late May, a week of rain. The river ran high for two days and a night, and when it subsided it left a tide of stinking, sticky mud along the bank. Right in front of the cabin a swarm of flies spewed out of a dead fish stranded in a mesh of washed-up reeds and sticks. I had to take a shovel and push it back into the water. Inside, the cabin walls swelled, and mold bloomed on the ceilings. On the third night of rain, I found silvery slime trails and a snail on my bedding and couldn’t sleep. I lay wide awake, deciding I had to talk to Silva about buying camp beds and some other bits of furniture. There was no need to sleep on the floor and keep everything in boxes, as if we lived in a tent. Even after spending over five hundred pounds on the generator we could surely afford it, and Ron could pick up what we wanted from Inverness in his Land Rover and bring it up to the cabin by boat.

We had electric light now, a fluorescent strip in the kitchen and single bulbs hanging from the ceilings. The friendly buzz of the little fridge and fresh milk were still novelties. There were also two or three electrical outlets so, for just a bit more expense, we could have a lamp or two, maybe even music, and with the rainwater fast collecting in the roof tank, we might soon be able to use the shower, although, like Silva, I had grown to enjoy the ritual of our outdoor baths in heated-up river water. The prospect of such luxuries was thrilling. There would be no harm in spending a little money on a few more comforts. I began to think about a cot for the baby, a small chest of drawers, pretty curtains.

Then on the following day, for the first time, I was bored. The weather was depressing, and there was little I could do around the place. I was desperate for company and had too much time on my hands. I began to have doubts. Why, if I really wanted to get away and start my life again, was I holed up in a water-soaked shack within sight of the scene of my “death”? What was wrong with me that I couldn’t tear myself away from the ruined bridge or from Silva, the only connections I had between my old life and this one? Why was I willing to use money to establish an invisible existence at the cabin, when I could just as easily use that money to travel away from it?

I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter how far from that old life I had managed to go, as long as I had gone. I told myself it was not merely natural but necessary to stay. I had to stand by Silva, and besides, it would be wiser for the baby’s sake to remain here for the time being rather than find a place elsewhere, and alone. This was a period of rehearsal; I needed practice at living in Annabel’s skin. But was I nursing the same delusion-that she preferred to stay at home for the time being , until she felt a bit more like going out-that had kept my mother captive for thirteen years? The fact was I had chosen confinement and concealment. I remained in a hideaway rather than risk venturing into the open. I had struck out for the freedom to go anywhere in the whole world, and was afraid of freedom.

So that evening I was agitated and upset with myself long before Silva came back from work. As usual her spirits dipped on finding there had been neither sight of nor word from Stefan all day, but this time she didn’t recover her optimism. She didn’t sigh patiently and wonder if a sign of him might come tomorrow. Ron’s quiet saintliness I found for once a little irksome. Although I had longed all day for their company, I discovered I didn’t have much to say to them after all.

A wet haze of mist lay over the river and blotted out the far bank. It was too humid to eat outside, so we had brought in picnic chairs and set them around the trestle table, and we sat with the door and windows open to catch the slightest breeze. But the air was chill and heavy with water; nothing stirred except an unpleasant cloud of midges in the doorway and the rainwater that had collected in the chimney and was dripping down the flue, hissing on the logs in the stove. Ron had managed to light it, but the flames were sallow and weak, and curls of bitter smoke leaked through the glass.

He had brought a tinfoil parcel of leftover baked potatoes. After hours wrapped in their own heat, their skins were wrinkled and soft like warm glove leather and they smelled like moist leather, too, salty and dank. I had fried some onions and heated up a tin of beans, and those smells mingled with the woodsmoke and wet rust smell of the stove and the wormy aroma of rain. I was irritated by the glances Ron and Silva cast me as we ate.