The Spring Crossing
In the early mornings, frost clung to the riverbank, and the old wooden bridge creaked underfoot as villagers went about their days. Schoolboys with satchels slung over their shoulders dashed across to catch the bus, while elderly Beatrice Wilkins stepped carefully over the gaps between the planksher cane in one hand, a string bag of milk bottles in the other. Behind her, young Tommy Wheeler, no older than five, pedalled his tricycle with solemn focus, steering clear of the cracks.
By evening, the villagers gathered on the bench outside the shop, chatting about the price of eggs, the latest thaw, and how theyd fared through winter. The bridge linked the two halves of the village: one side held the allotments and churchyard, while the road beyond led to the market town. Occasionally, someone paused by the water, watching the lingering ice at the rivers heart. The bridge was seldom spoken ofit had always been there, as much a part of life as the sky overhead.
But that spring, the wood groaned louder than before. Old Samuel Griffiths was the first to spot a fresh crack near the railing. He ran a hand over it and shook his head. On his way home, he overheard two women talking:
“Its getting worse Heaven forbid someone falls through.”
“Oh, dont fret! Its stood for years.”
Their words hung in the air, carried by the March wind.
The morning was damp and overcast. A notice appeared on the post by the turnsealed in plastic against the drizzle: *”Bridge closed by order of the parish council due to structural hazard. No entry or passage permitted.”* The signature of the council chairman was clear. Someone had already peeled back a corner, as if doubting it was real.
At first, no one took it seriously. The children set off for school as usual, only to turn back when they saw the red tape and *”No Trespassing”* sign. Beatrice Wilkins stared at it over her spectacles before shuffling along the bank to find another way.
By the shop bench, a dozen villagers passed the notice between them in silence. Finally, William Edwards spoke:
“What now? The bus stops unreachable Wholl fetch the groceries?”
“And if someone needs the doctor? This is the only crossing!”
Voices rose in unease. Someone suggested walking over the icebut it was already pulling away from the edges.
By noon, word had spread. The younger folk rang the district council, asking for a temporary footbridge or ferry:
“They said to wait for an inspection”
“And if its urgent?”
The replies were all bureaucracy: surveys had been done, decisions made for public safety.
That evening, a meeting was called at the village hall. Nearly every adult came, wrapped thickly against the rivers damp chill. The air smelled of tea from thermoses; spectacles fogged and were wiped on coat sleeves.
At first, talk was hushed:
“How will the children get to school? Its miles to the main road.”
“The deliveries come from town”
Debate flickeredcould they fix the bridge themselves, or build a walkway alongside? Someone recalled years past, when theyd patched the gaps after floods.
Then Alfred Harrison stood:
“We ought to petition the council properly! At least ask permission for a temporary walkway.”
Margaret Hayes nodded:
“If we all sign, theyll listen faster. Otherwise, well wait till harvest!”
They agreed to draft a letter, listing those willing to lend tools or labour.
For two days, three villagers journeyed to the council offices. The official was brusque:
“By law, any riverwork requires approvalliability falls on the parish otherwise. But if youve minutes from a public meeting”
Alfred handed over the paper, bristling with signatures:
“Heres our resolution. Grant us leave for a footbridge!”
After a brief huddle, the official gave verbal consent, provided they followed safety measures. He promised nails and planks from the maintenance depot.
By dawn, the village knewno more waiting. Fresh signs adorned the old bridge, while stacked timber and a box of nails waited by the bank, scrounged from the council. The men gathered before light: Alfred, grim in his worn coat, first shoveled a path to the water. Others followedaxes, wire, hammers in hand. The women didnt lingerthermoses of tea circled, and someone brought spare gloves for those without.
Ice still fringed the river, but the banks were sodden. Boots sank in mud; planks were laid on frozen earth and dragged forward. Each had a taskmeasuring strides so the walkway wouldnt slope, holding nails between teeth as they hammered. Children hovered at the edges, gathering kindling for a braziertold to keep clear, but eager to be near.
The elders watched from the bench. Beatrice, swathed in shawls, gripped her cane. Tommy sidled up, peering at the work:
“How much longer, Miss Wilkins?”
She smiled through her spectacles:
“Patience, lad. Soon youll ride across again.”
Then a shout from the river:
“Mind that plankits slick!”
When the drizzle thickened, the women stretched a tarpaulin overheada makeshift shelter where bread and tinned milk were shared. They ate in turns, gulping tea before returning to hammers and shovels. Mistakes were remadeboards askew, posts sinking. Alfred muttered; William offered another way:
“Let me brace it from belowbetter leverage.”
So they workedadvising, lending hands.
At midday, the council inspector arriveda young man with a clipboard. He eyed the walkway:
“Dont forget handrails. For the little ones.”
Nods all around; timber was promptly set aside for railings. The paperwork was signed against a kneedamp pages sticking to fingers.
By dusk, the walkway was nearly donefresh planks ran parallel to the old bridge, propped on makeshift stilts. Nails jutted here and there; tools lay half-depleted. The children tested it firstTommy stepping carefully, guided by an adult, while Beatrice watched every move.
Then the villagers pausedto see the first crossings. Tentative at first, then surer. From the far bank, a wave:
“It holds!”
The tension unspooled like a loosened spring.
That night, by the braziers glow, the workers lingered. Smoke curled low over the water; the scent of wet wood and embers warmed them better than tea. Talk was quiet:
“Now if only wed a proper bridge.”
“But thisll do. The children can reach school.”
Alfred gazed at the river:
“If we stand together, well manage whats next.”
Beatrice murmured her thanks:
“Id not have dared cross alone.”
A mist rose late that evening; the river, swollen from thaw, carried the first green whispers of spring along its banks. The villagers dispersed slowly, already planning the next taskperhaps mending the school fence or clearing the church path.
Come morning, life resumedchildren trooped over the walkway to catch the bus; adults carried shopping without fear of being cut off. By weeks end, council inspectors returned, praising the work and vowing to fast-track the old bridges repair.
The days lengthened. Birdsong mingled with the rivers lap against the new wood. Greetings were warmer noweach knowing the value of shared effort.
And ahead loomed the next challengeperhaps road repairs or a playground by the school. But that talk was for another day. Now, no one doubted: when the village pulled together, much could be done.
