The Spring Crossing
Each morning, frost clung to the river, and the old wooden bridge creaked beneath footsteps. Life in the village carried on as usual: boys with satchels slung over their shoulders dashed across to the bus stop for school; elderly Margaret Whitaker stepped carefully over the gaps between the planksa string bag of milk in one hand, her walking stick in the other. Behind her, young Tommy, no older than five, pedalled his tricycle with solemn focus, careful to avoid the cracks.
By evening, the shop bench became a gathering place. They spoke of egg prices, the latest thaw, and how each had weathered the winter. The bridge linked the two halves of the village: one side held gardens and the churchyard, while the road beyond led to the market town. Occasionally, someone lingered by the water, watching the stubborn ice still clinging to the rivers centre. The bridge itself was seldom remarked uponit had always been there, as much a part of the landscape as the hills.
But that spring, the planks groaned louder than before. Old Samuel Wilson was the first to spot a fresh crack near the railinghe ran his fingers over it and shook his head. On his way home, he overheard two women talking:
“Getting worse by the day God forbid someone falls through.”
“Oh, dont fuss! Its stood this long.”
Their words hung in the air, carried off by the March wind.
The morning dawned damp and grey. A notice appeared on the post by the turn, sealed under plastic: “Bridge closed by council order due to hazardous condition. No entry or passage permitted.” The village chairmans signature was clear. Someone had already lifted the corner, as if to check it was real.
At first, no one quite believed it. The children set off for the bus stop as usual but turned backa red ribbon and a “No Entry” sign barred the way. Margaret Whitaker stared at it over her spectacles, then slowly turned to follow the bank in search of another path.
By the shop bench, a dozen villagers gathered, passing the notice between them in silence. William Edwards spoke first:
“What now? Cant reach the bus Wholl fetch the groceries?”
“What if someone needs to get to town? This is the only crossing!”
Their voices were edged with worry. Someone suggested walking over the ice, but it had already begun to pull away from the banks.
By midday, news had spread. The younger ones rang the councilasking about a temporary footbridge or a ferry:
“They said to wait for an inspection”
“And if its urgent?”
The replies were all the same: safety first, rules must be followed.
That evening, a meeting was called at the village hall. Nearly every adult came, bundled against the damp wind off the river. The air smelled of tea from flasks; spectacles fogged and were wiped on coat sleeves.
At first, the talk was quiet:
“How will the children get to school? Its miles to the main road.”
“Supplies come from town”
They debated whether to repair the bridge themselves or build a makeshift walkway. Someone recalled years past, when theyd patched the holes together after floods.
Thomas Harper stood to speak:
“We can petition the council properly! At least ask for permission to lay a temporary path.”
Eleanor Davies nodded:
“If we all sign, theyll listen faster. Otherwise, well be waiting months.”
They agreed to draft a letter, listing names of those willing to work or lend tools.
For two days, a trio went back and forth to the council offices. The official reception was cool:
“Any river work must be approved, or the liability falls on us. But if youve a signed petition”
Thomas Harper produced the paper at once:
“Hereevery name on it. Just let us build a temporary crossing.”
After a brief discussion, the council relented, offering nails and a few spare planks from the depot.
By dawn, the village knew: no more waiting. Fresh signs adorned the old bridge, while timber and tools lay stacked by the bankwhat little the council had spared. The men gathered before light, Thomas in his old quilted jacket, shovel in hand, clearing a path to the water. Others followedaxes, coils of wire in tow. The women brought flasks of tea, spare gloves for those without.
Ice still clung to parts of the river, but the bank was soft with mud. Boots sank; planks were laid on frozen earth and dragged to the edge. Each had a taskmeasuring strides, hammering nails, steadying supports. Children hovered at a distance, gathering kindling for a fire, eager to be part of it all.
The elders watched from the bench opposite. Margaret wrapped her shawl tighter, clutching her stick. Tommy perched beside her, eyes wide, asking when it would be done. She smiled down at him:
“Patience, lad Soon youll ride across again.”
Just then, a shout rose from the river:
“Mind that plankits slick!”
As drizzle thickened, a tarpaulin was stretched overheada dry spot for flasks, bread, tins of condensed milk. They ate in turns, returning to hammers and spades. Mistakes were remadeboards askew, posts sinking into muck. Thomas muttered under his breath; William offered another way:
“Let me brace it from below. Steadier that way.”
So they workedsome advising, some labouring.
At noon, a council clerk arriveda young man with a folder under his arm. He eyed the structure:
“Dont forget railings. Especially for the little ones.”
Nods all around; timber was set aside for handrails. Papers were signed on a knee, damp sheets clinging to fingers.
By dusk, the walkway was nearly donefresh planks ran parallel to the old bridge, propped on makeshift stakes. Nails jutted here and there; tools lay half-spent. Tommy was the first to test it, gripping an adults hand, Margaret watching closely.
Then came the pauseall eyes on those first cautious steps. A wave from the far bank:
“It holds!”
The tension broke like a snapped thread.
By the fire that night, the last workers gathered. Smoke curled low over the water; the scent of wet wood and embers warmed them better than tea. Talk was quiet:
“Now for a proper bridge, eh?”
“At least thisll do. The children can reach school.”
Thomas gazed at the river:
“If we stand together, well manage the rest.”
Margaret thanked them softly:
“Id not have dared cross alone.”
Late that night, mist crept over the water, high still from the thaw, though the banks grew greener by the day. Villagers drifted home, already speaking of mending the school fence or clearing the church path.
By morning, life resumedchildren dashed across the walkway to the bus, baskets of shopping carried without fear. Days later, councilmen returned, noting the villagers handiwork, promising to hasten plans for a proper bridge.
Spring stretched its light. Birds sang over the rivers murmur against the new timbers. Greetings were warmer noweach knowing the weight of shared effort.
And ahead lay other tasksthe road to mend, the schoolyard to tend. But that was another matter. No one doubted now: together, they could manage most anything.
