Stephen Booth - The Corpse Bridge

Ben noticed a large sign propped against the wall near where Matt was working. It was probably ready to go in the window display when the stock began to arrive.

‘What does that sign say?’ he asked.

‘Totally Locally,’ said Matt.

‘And that is?’

‘It’s the Totally Locally campaign. You must have heard of it.’

‘No, Matt.’

‘Look, it says here. If every adult in the area spends five pounds a week in their local independent shops instead of online or in the big supermarkets, it would mean an extra one million pounds a year going into the local economy. More jobs, better facilities, a nicer place to live.’

Matt nodded vigorously at the sign. Claire had certainly found an enthusiastic supporter for that one.

‘Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it?’ said Matt.

‘Yes, it does. Will it work?’

‘Have faith.’

They both worked in silence for a while, apart from the occasional curse from Matt. After a few minutes he seemed to remember his brother was there.

‘Are you okay with that, Ben?’

‘Of course. I’ve got the easy job.’

‘Yes, you have.’

‘It makes a change, though.’

‘Oh, yeah. Right.’

There was another pause. Ben finished one panel and shifted position to start the next.

‘So how’s it going, then?’ said Matt. ‘Have you been assigned your own police tractor yet?’

Matt laughed uproariously at his own joke. It wasn’t one of his most appealing characteristics. It had been a regular jest of Matt’s ever since June, when a tractor liveried in police colours had been used to encourage members of the public to sign up for the Farm Watch scheme. Matt had come across the tractor on display at the cattle market in Bakewell, where it had been loaned by the manufacturer, New Holland. Of course, the tractor had then continued to turn up at markets and shows right through the summer, prompting another burst of hilarity from Matt every time he saw it.

It was a bit frustrating. Thieves had been targeting farms across the county and making off with a huge range of items, from livestock to fuel. They’d taken numerous quad bikes, muck spreaders and generators, and six incidents of sheep rustling had been recorded. Many farmers had signed up for Farm Watch, including Matt. But it didn’t stop him making jokes about the police tractor. Well, at least it kept the scheme in his mind.

Ben didn’t bother to answer. It hardly seemed worth it. But Matt tried again.

‘So where have you been today? Anywhere interesting?’

‘I’ve been over at Knowle Abbey and Bowden village.’

‘Oh,’ said Matt, immediately losing interest. ‘Staffordshire people.’

‘No, actually.’

It was odd how Matt’s interest in the affairs of his neighbours ended at the border. No one who lived west of the River Dove was of any concern to him.

‘Not Staffordshire?’ he said.

‘Don’t you know where your own county ends?’

‘Not really. Why would it matter to me? As long as my ewes don’t wander that far.’

‘Talk about parochialism,’ said Ben. ‘You’re the living, breathing embodiment of it.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Well, it’s true. If it doesn’t happen on your patch, it doesn’t exist.’

Matt was right, though. Why should it matter to him? He hardly needed a passport to get in and out of Derbyshire, so he would never notice where the border was. The dry stone walls around his farm were the only boundaries he cared about.

Ben watched his brother line up the shelves on one of the walls. He was frowning in concentration, with a couple of screws sticking out of his mouth. He would do a good job of it. His unrelenting practicality made Ben feel almost useless.

Sensing his brother watching him, Matt looked round.

‘I suppose it’s this woman who was killed at the bridge,’ he said, speaking indistinctly round his mouthful of screws.

‘That’s right.’

‘They call it the Corpse Bridge, don’t they?’

‘You’ve heard of it, then? And the coffin roads?’

‘Yes, I remember all that stuff vaguely. Old stories.’

‘I had the Reverend Latham out there this morning,’ said Ben.

‘Old Bill Latham? Is he still alive?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Good for him. He must be as old as I feel.’

Matt used a spirit level to check that his shelf was exactly at the right angle. Nothing would be falling off this display.

‘And there’s a connection to Knowle Abbey, is there?’ he said.

‘There may be.’

‘That’s another old story.’

‘What is?’

‘You don’t remember the tale?’

‘Which one, Matt?’

‘The Revenge of the Poacher’s Widow.’

Ben laughed. ‘Oh, that story. Yes, Granddad Cooper told it to us when we were children. In fact, I think he probably told it several times over the years.’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘And he got all his folk tales from some book he was given by his parents. Though he embellished the details a bit more every time he told them, of course.’

‘We loved them as kids,’ said Matt. ‘The more gruesome the better, too.’

‘Right.’ Ben shook his head. ‘I don’t quite remember, though.’

‘You don’t?’ Matt stopped working for a moment and crinkled his forehead in an effort of memory. ‘There was some old duke at Knowle Abbey…’

‘An earl,’ said Ben.

‘Whatever. Well, he caught a poacher on his land, nicking his deer or something. And instead of just handing him over to the cops, he turned the poacher loose in the woods and let his aristocratic mates hunt him down like an animal. He reckoned he could get away with doing things like that, because he was so rich and important.’

‘When was this exactly?’

‘Oh, a couple of months ago.’

‘Right.’

Matt laughed again. Ben found it a bit unsettling to hear his brother being so jolly.

‘Anyway,’ said Matt, ‘the poacher got shot and killed. And nobody did anything about it, of course. So the poacher’s widow vowed revenge and put a curse on the duke.’

‘The earl.’

This time Matt ignored his interruption. He finished driving a screw in with his electric screwdriver and brushed some wood shavings off the finished shelf. Then he stood back to admire his handiwork with a smile of satisfaction. Ben found himself beginning to get impatient.

‘So what happened to the duke?’ he said. ‘I mean, the earl.’

‘Oh, he died,’ said Matt airily.

‘Everyone dies eventually.’

‘Ah, but he died a horrible death. I can’t remember exactly how. But I know it was horrible.’

Ben sighed. ‘You’re not a born storyteller, are you?’

‘Not like Granddad Cooper,’ admitted Matt.

Outside, the centre of town was getting noisy again as the pubs filled up.

‘It’s time to knock off here, I think,’ said Matt, ‘before they let the animals loose from the zoo.’

They put out the lights and Matt set the alarm and locked the door. He turned to Ben.

‘Do you want to come back to the farm for a bit?’ he said. ‘Have you had something to eat? I dare say Kate can-’

Ben shook his head. ‘No, I’m okay. Thanks anyway.’

‘Suit yourself.’

Matt couldn’t resist casting another sideways glance at him from the corner of his eye as they turned towards the market square.

‘I’m fine, Matt, really.’

‘Good. But if ever…’

‘I know.’

‘Well. Think on, then.’

When Matt had gone, Ben felt oddly reassured by the conversation they’d just had, standing here on the corner of Edendale market square. There had hardly been any words involved, but what had been said meant a lot. That was exactly the way he and his brother had always communicated with one another when they were boys at Bridge End Farm. Their mother would have said they just grunted at each other. But they’d been so close that they had an understanding beyond words.