**Spring Crossing**
In the crisp morning air, frost clung to the riverbank, and the old wooden bridge groaned underfoot. Life in the village carried on as usualboys with backpacks slung over their shoulders dashed across to the bus stop, while elderly Margaret Wilkins carefully navigated the gaps between the planks, a string bag of milk in one hand and her walking stick in the other. Behind her, little Tommy, no older than five, pedalled his tricycle with solemn focus, avoiding the cracks.
By evening, a small crowd gathered outside the shop, perched on the bench as they chatted about rising egg prices, the latest thaw, and how they’d weathered the winter. The bridge linked the two halves of the village: beyond it lay the allotments and the churchyard, while the road led to the nearest town. Occasionally, someone lingered by the waters edge, watching the last stubborn ice clinging to the rivers centre. No one paid the bridge much mindit had always been there, as much a part of the landscape as the fields and the sky.
But this spring, the wood creaked louder. Old Simon Parker was the first to notice the fresh crack near the railing. He ran a hand over the splintered plank and shook his head. On his way back, he overheard two women talking:
“Getting worse by the day God forbid someone falls through.”
“Dont be daft! Its stood this long.”
Their words hung in the chilly March air.
The morning dawned damp and grey. A laminated notice appeared on the post by the turn*”Bridge closed by council order due to unsafe condition. No entry or crossing permitted.”* The village chairmans signature was clear at the bottom. Someone had already peeled back the corner, as if testing whether it was real.
At first, no one took it seriouslythe children still made for the bridge, only to turn back at the sight of red tape and a *”No Entry”* sign. Margaret Wilkins stared at it over her spectacles, then slowly turned and trudged along the bank to find another way.
By the shop bench, a dozen villagers passed the notice between them in silence. Finally, William Harrison spoke:
“What now? Cant reach the bus Wholl fetch the shopping?”
“And what if someone needs to get to town? This is the only crossing!”
Voices rose in unease. Someone suggested walking over the icebut it was already pulling away from the banks.
By midday, the 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: procedure, safety, official decisions.
That evening, a meeting was called at the village hall. Nearly every adult turned up, bundled against the damp wind rolling off the river. The room smelled of thermos tea; someone wiped fogged glasses on their sleeve.
At first, the talk was quiet:
“How will the children get to school? Its miles to the main road.”
“Supplies come from the town side”
Debate flickeredcould they patch the bridge themselves? Build a walkway alongside? Someone recalled years past, when theyd all mended flood damage together.
Then Nicholas Stewart stood:
“We can petition the council properly! Demand permission for a temporary crossing!”
Lydia Bennett nodded. “If we all push together, theyll listen. Or well be waiting till summer.”
They agreed to draft a lettercollecting names of those willing to work or lend tools.
For two days, a delegation travelled to the council offices. The official reception was cool:
“Any river works must be authorised, or liability falls on the council. But if you submit a formal proposal”
Nicholas slid forward a sheet thick with signatures. “Our villages decision. Let us build a walkway.”
After a brief huddle, the councilman gave a grudging nodprovided they followed safety rules. He promised nails and spare planks from the depot.
By dawn, the village knewpermission granted, no more waiting. Fresh signs adorned the old bridge, while timber and nails lay stacked by the bank. The men gathered before lightNicholas, grim-faced in his old coat, was first with a shovel, clearing the approach. Others followedaxes, wire, hammers in hand. The women brought tea and gloves for those whod forgotten theirs.
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 forward. Each had a taskmeasuring strides, hammering nails clenched between teeth. Children hovered at the edges, gathering kindling for a firetold to stay clear, but eager to be near.
The elders watched from the benchMargaret wrapped tight in her shawl. Tommy perched beside her, wide-eyed, asking how much longer. She smiled through her spectacles:
“Patience, lad Soon youll ride across again.”
Then a shout from the river”Careful! That boards slick!”
When the drizzle thickened, someone stretched a tarp overheada makeshift shelter with a table of thermoses, bread, and tinned milk. They ate in shifts, gulping tea before returning to hammers and shovels. Time blurredno one hurried, but no one lagged. Mistakes were remadeboards askew, posts sinkinguntil William offered, “Let me brace it below. Better grip.”
By noon, a councilman arriveda young clerk with a folder. He eyed the structure. “Mind the handrailsespecially for the little ones.”
Nods all around; spare planks became guardrails. Documents were signed on kneesdamp paper clinging to fingers.
By dusk, the walkway took shapefresh planks running parallel to the old bridge, propped on makeshift stilts. Nails jutted; tools lay half-spent. The children tested it firstTommy gripping an adults hand, Margaret watching every step. Then, a pauseall eyes on the first crossing. Tentative steps, then firmer. A wave from the far bank”It holds!”
Tension uncoiled like a sprung trap.
By the fire that night, the workers lingered. Smoke curled low over the water; damp wood and embers warmed better than tea. Talk was slow:
“Now for a proper bridge.”
“But thisll do At least the kids can reach school.”
Nicholas gazed at the river. “If we stick together, well manage the rest.”
Margaret murmured thanks to her neighbours: “Id never have dared alone.”
Late that night, mist ghosted over the waterstill high from the rains, but the banks greened daily. Villagers drifted home, already planning the next taskthe community hall roof, perhaps, or the school fence.
By morning, life resumedchildren clattered over the walkway to the bus, adults crossed with shopping bags unafraid. When the council returned to inspect, they noted the villagers careful work and promised to fast-track the old bridges repair.
Spring stretched the days longer; birdsong and lapping water filled the air. Greetings grew warmereach knowing now the strength of shared effort.
And ahead? The road repairs, maybe, or the playground by the school. But that was another matter. One thing was certainif they stood together, they could do it.
