Crossing Bridges – a historical short story

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1817, Waterloo Bridge.

Fred and John stood on the south bank of the river, watching as the excited crowd paid their tolls and stepped onto the new bridge. It stretched across the Thames in nine elegant arches, north and south banks meeting somewhere above the darkly flowing waters.

“Grand, isn’t it?” John said. “Like looking at the future.”

“It’ll be handy,” Fred agreed. “Much easier to get to those apprenticeships Master Brown offered.”

“Easier for me to see Sally, too.” A distant smile suffused John’s face.

“You know there are other girls in London, right?”

“Not for me.”

Fred rolled his eyes, but he smiled. At least they could cross the river together each day.

“If we’re going to train as masons, we might get to build things like this. We should go across, see what it’s like.”

“Well then.” John patted his jacket, and there was a clink of small coins. “Let’s try the future of bridges together.”

*

1831, New London Bridge.

“That’s good work,” John said, eyeing the new bridge. “You must feel proud.”

Like Waterloo Bridge before it, this was a series of granite arches, an elegant stretch of grey stone connecting the south bank to the north, the world of home to the world of work.

“It’s grand to think I helped make it.” Fred grinned. “But now I’ve got to look for other work. It’s not like building houses.”

John shrugged. “It won’t make me rich, but I need the reliability.”

“Come on, I haven’t tried my own handiwork yet.”

They joined the swell of people making their way across the bridge, some hurrying about their business, others taking time to watch the demolition of the old London Bridge.

“How’s family life?” Fred asked.

“Wonderful but tiring.” John smiled. “I haven’t had a night to myself in years.”

“I know.” Fred looked away, scowling at the demolition crew. “I’m proud of what we did here, but I don’t like the way the city keeps changing. It was good enough when we were young.”

“World’s got to change. You can’t keep crossing the same bridge every day, because the river changes underneath it.”

“I liked the old bridge,” Fred snapped. “I still like Waterloo Bridge too. Why do we have to leave them all behind?”

“To build a better future.”

“That’s just an excuse to abandon what you had.”

They reached the end of bridge and stood staring back across, unable to meet each other’s eyes.

“I should get to work,” John said.

“Good for you,” Fred replied, and strode away.

*

1862, Westminster Bridge.

Fred saw a familiar face, framed by hair that had mostly gone grey. He hesitated, caught between fond memories and bitter ones, then walked up to John and held out his hand.

“Hoped I might see you here,” he said.

John smiled back, a little awkwardly.

“New bridge replacing an old one, I thought you’d come and see, even if it’s not stone this time.”

“Got to see what the competition are doing.” Fred gazed at the sweeping structure of cast-iron beams, and nodded approvingly. “There’s a few years left in stone, and that’s all I need.”

“Want to give this one a go?”

Fred swallowed, then smiled. “Of course.”

They set out across the crowded bridge, working their way around riders, carriages, pedestrians, and the occasional hand cart.

“How have you been?” John asked.

“Not bad. I kept thinking about something you said, about the river not being the same. Realised I needed to change, so I set up my own business, working on those grand houses in Kensington and Chelsea.”

“No wonder you’re dressed so smart.”

Fred looked down at his tailored suit, then at John’s patched jacket. Doing well usually made him feel good, but not today.

“How’s the family?”

“My Alf worked on this,” John said proudly, tapping a foot on the bridge. “Iron work keeps growing, so that’s him and the grandkids sorted. Did you ever…?”

“No.” Fred shook his head. “That was one thing that didn’t change.”

They reached the end of the bridge and stood in awkward silence while the crowd jabbered around them.

“I missed something out,” John said. “Back when I talked about the bridges always changing.”

“Oh?” Fred looked at him, catching the weight of emotion in his voice.

“All that change is easier to accept with the right person to talk to as you cross.”

Fred smiled. “Let me buy you a pint or three. We’ve got years to catch up on.”

*

1873, Albert Bridge.

Fred stood by the end of the bridge, an elegantly simple looking construction whose cables reminded him of the rigging of ships on the river. He used his walking stick to keep him steady as the crowd battered at him. It was harder to spot anyone these days. His sight wasn’t as good and he couldn’t look over heads any more. But at last, a familiar face emerged.

Except that it wasn’t. This face was younger, the eyes brighter, and for a moment Fred felt the decades fall away, before they came crashing in.

“Mister Jones?” The younger man asked, moving in to shelter Fred from the worst of the traffic.

Fred nodded and fought back a tear. He knew what was coming.

“I’m Alf, John’s youngest. He passed away two days ago. We weren’t sure how best to tell you, and…”

The words drifted off as Alf fought to control his own grief.

Fred gestured across the bridge with his stick.

“We were going to walk this new bridge together,” he said, a lump in his throat. “I think I’ll still go. Will you lend me an arm to lean on? I can tell you about your dad when he was young.”

Alf smiled and brushed dust from his eye.

“That would be grand. I always love to hear about the past.”

***

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What if someone had conquered the Vikings, someone claiming to be their gods?

What if King Arthur’s knights met a very different metal-clad warrior?

What if you were ordered to execute a statue, and hanging just didn’t seem to work?

These short stories explore different aspects of history, some of them grounded in reality, some alternative takes on the past as we know it. Stories of daring and defiance; of love and of loss; of noble lords and exasperated peasants.

From a Foreign Shore is available now in all ebook formats.

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