The Spring Crossing
Mornings brought frost over the river, and the old wooden bridge creaked underfoot with every step. Life in the village carried on as usual: children with satchels slung over their shoulders dashed across to the bus stop for school; elderly Margaret Wilkins carefully stepped over the gaps between the planksone hand clutching a string bag with milk, the other leaning on her walking stick. Behind her, five-year-old Tommy from next door pedalled his tricycle with solemn focus, making sure not to steer a wheel into the cracks.
In the evenings, neighbours gathered on the bench outside the shop, chatting about egg prices, the latest thaw, and how theyd weathered the winter. The bridge linked the two halves of the villagebeyond it lay the allotments and the churchyard, while the road led to the nearest market town. Occasionally, someone lingered by the water, watching the stubborn ice still clinging to the rivers centre. The bridge itself was rarely given much thoughtit had always been there, just part of the scenery.
But this spring, the creaking grew louder. Old Simon Parker was the first to spot a fresh crack near the railing. He ran his fingers over it and shook his head. On his way home, he overheard two women talking:
“Getting worse God forbid someone falls through.”
“Oh, dont fuss! Its stood this long.”
Their words hung in the air, carried by the March wind.
The morning was damp and grey. A laminated notice appeared on the post by the turn: “Bridge closed by council order due to unsafe condition. No crossing permitted.” The parish chairmans signature was clear. Someone had already tried peeling back a cornerjust to be sure it wasnt a prank.
At first, no one believed it fully. Children still headed for their usual route but turned back at the red tape and “No Entry” sign. Margaret Wilkins stared at the barrier over her spectacles, then slowly turned to follow the bank, searching for another way.
By the shop bench, a dozen villagers passed the notice around in silence. William Harris was the first to speak:
“What now? Cant even get to the bus Howll we fetch groceries?”
“And what if someone needs to get to town? This is the only crossing!”
Voices grew tense. Someone suggested walking across the icebut it was already pulling away from the banks.
By noon, word had spread. The younger ones rang the council, asking about a temporary footbridge or a ferry:
“They said wait for an inspection”
“And if its urgent?”
The replies were the same: procedures must be followed, safety came first.
That evening, a meeting was called at the village hall. Nearly every adult turned up, bundled against the damp river wind. The room smelled of tea from flasks; sleeves wiped fogged-up glasses. At first, talk was quiet:
“Howll the children get to school? Its miles to the main road.”
“Deliveries come from town anyway”
Debate circledcould they patch the bridge themselves, or build a detour? Someone remembered years past, when theyd mended flood damage together.
Then Nicholas Stewart stood:
“We can petition the council properly! At least ask permission for a temporary walkway.”
Lydia Bennett agreed: “If we all sign, theyll listen faster. Otherwise, well wait months!”
They drafted a letter, listing names of those willing to work or lend tools.
For two days, a small group travelled to the council offices. The official was curt:
“Any river work needs approval, or liability falls on us. But if youve a signed petition”
Nicholas slid forward the villagers letter. “Here. Just let us build something temporary.”
After a brief huddle, the officer gave verbal consentprovided they followed safety rules. He promised nails and spare planks from the depot.
By dawn, the village knew: permission was granted, no more waiting. Fresh signs hung on the old bridge, while timber and nails lay stacked by the bankscrounged from the council. Men gathered before sunrise. Nicholas, grim-faced in an old quilted jacket, started digging a path to the water. Others followedaxes, wire, hammers in hand. Women werent idle either, bringing tea or spare gloves.
The thaw had left the ground sodden. Boots sank in mud; planks were laid on half-frozen earth, then hauled to the edge. Each had a rolemeasuring gaps, hammering nails clenched between teeth. Children hovered, gathering kindling for a bonfire, told to keep clear but eager to help.
The elders watched from a bench. Margaret, wrapped tight, held her stick with both hands. Tommy perched beside her, solemnly asking how much longer. She smiled over her glasses:
“Patience, lad. Soon youll ride across again.”
A shout came from the river: “Mind that plankits slick!”
When drizzle thickened, someone unfurled a tarpaulin for cover. Beneath it, a makeshift table held flasks, bread, and tins of condensed milk. They ate in turnsa swig of tea, then back to work. Mistakes were remade: planks shifted, posts wobbled in mud. Nicholas muttered; William offered another approach: “Let me brace it. Steadier that way.”
By midday, a council inspector arriveda young man with a clipboard. He eyed the structure. “Dont forget handrails. For the children.”
Nods all round. More timber was found for railings. Documents were signed on a knee, damp paper sticking to fingers.
By dusk, the walkway took shapefresh planks bolted to makeshift stilts, nails jutting at odd angles. Tommy was first to test it, gripping an adults hand. Margaret watched every step.
Then, silence as others crossedfirst cautiously, then with confidence. A wave from the far bank: “It holds!”
Tension melted like ice in the sun.
That night, by the bonfires glow, the workers lingered. Smoke curled low; the scent of wet wood and embers warmed them better than tea. Talk drifted:
“Just need a proper bridge now.”
“But thisll do. Children can get to school.”
Nicholas gazed at the water. “If we stick together, well manage the rest.”
Margaret spoke softly: “Id not have dared cross alone. Thank you.”
Fog rose late, the river still high from spring rains. But grass greened thicker each day. Villagers lingered, already planning the next taskmending the school fence, perhaps.
By morning, routine returned. Children skipped across the walkway; adults carried shopping without fear. Days later, council inspectors returned, nodding at the villagers handiwork. A proper bridge, they promised, would be prioritised.
As spring lengthened, birdsong mingled with the rivers lap against the new timbers. Greetings between neighbours held more warmtheveryone knew the value of shared effort now.
And ahead? Perhaps fixing the road, or a playground by the school. But that was another days work. One thing was certain: when they stood together, little was beyond reach.
