Bridge Beyond
The ferry groaned, its wake spreading in slow, deliberate ripples that dissolved into the grey expanse. The urn’s cold metal pressed against Bridie’s side, grounding her as she gripped the rain-slick railing. Through the shifting mist, the island emerged—muted greens and sharp cliffs softened by distance. It seemed smaller now, diminished by memory or time. She hadn’t wanted to return, but obligation had its own weight, as unyielding as grief.
The air carried the tang of peat smoke and damp earth, heavy and familiar, as though the island itself was drawing her in.
From the pier, two paths led inland. The longer road curved along the shoreline, bordered by stone walls sagging with time. Her father had always driven that way, humming tunelessly as their old Land Rover rattled over uneven ground. But today, on foot and in no hurry, Bridie turned toward the bridge.
It emerged from the mist, ropes hanging slack against posts weathered to soft silver. Dark planks gleamed with rain, gaps between them wide enough to make her hesitate. Her first step sent a creak through the wood. Halfway across, she stopped.
Below, the tide was low, revealing jagged rocks slick with algae, their surfaces glistening where the foam broke and receded. As a child, she had leaned over this railing, captivated by the rhythm of the water as it churned against the rocks below. Her father had stood beside her then, silent and steady, his hands resting on the rope, grounding her without a word.
“Still standing,” she murmured, her voice catching in the salt air as her fingers brushed the railing.
The croft crouched at the base of the hill, its slate roof sagging unevenly. From a distance, it looked smaller, pressed deeper into the earth. The garden walls had disappeared beneath brambles and nettles, her father’s neat rows swallowed by wilderness.
Inside, the air was heavy, carrying the damp chill of disuse. A woolen jumper hung over the chair by the fireplace, its sleeves stretched and misshapen. A ceramic mug rested beside a tin of tea, its ring of dried liquid a perfect circle on the wood. Bridie reached to lift it but stopped, her hand hovering for a moment. Some circles weren’t meant to be broken.
Near the door, her eyes caught on a wooden box tucked beneath the coat hooks. She knelt, lifting the lid. Beneath tangles of rope and rusted tools lay a notebook. Its leather cover was worn smooth, the corners softened by years of handling.
The pages held her father’s tight handwriting, each line pressed deep into the paper: “Replace top beams first. Use thicker planks.” In the margins, smaller notes gathered like tide marks: “Wind from northwest—check rope tension.” “Third plank splitting.” “Replace before winter.” The details were spare, deliberate—years of silence measured in ink and indentation.
Bridie ran her fingers over the grooves left by his pen. A faint scent of peat lingered on the edges of the pages, drawing her back to evenings by the fire. Her father’s silhouette would have been there, steady and quiet against the flame, while he scribbled in this same notebook.
Bridie knelt in the garden, her fingers deep in soil that had forgotten its rows. She tugged at a stubborn root, the act sending a sharp sting through her palm. The weight of neglect lingered in every patch of overgrowth, but beneath it, there was life—fragile and waiting.
The gate’s creak split the morning silence.
“You must be Bridie.”
The woman at the gate leaned against the post, a basket tucked into the crook of her arm. Wild mushrooms spilled over its edge, their earthy scent carried by the breeze. Her dark hair was cropped close, ruffled by the wind.
“And you are?”
“Jules,” the woman said, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. “Though you might remember me as Julia—Aggie McAllister’s niece. I used to visit from the mainland in summers.”
The image came back slowly—a little girl trailing behind Aggie at the market, hair tied in neat bows, her dress bright against the island’s muted tones.
“You’re a long way from those ribbons,” Bridie said.
Jules touched her cropped hair, a gesture so quick it might have been the wind. “I used to see your dad out here sometimes,” she said. “He didn’t say much, but he noticed things—like where mushrooms sprouted after the rain, or how the light shifted before a storm. It wasn’t just seeing—it was understanding.” Her smile softened. “But now I spend most of my time at the library, keeping it from falling apart. A little duct tape and a lot of stubbornness go a long way.”
Bridie raised an eyebrow. “You’re the librarian?”
Jules laughed, the sound light and easy against the morning breeze. “Caretaker, really. Someone has to keep it from falling apart.”
Bridie’s hands returned to the soil, brushing aside damp leaves to uncover a lone sprout, its pale green stem curling toward the light. She paused, her thumb brushing the delicate edge of its leaf.
“Looks like something’s still holding on,” Jules said, her voice quieter now. She stepped forward, setting the basket down near the gate.
“Maybe,” Bridie murmured. Her gaze lingered on the sprout a moment longer before she stood, brushing dirt from her hands.
Dust hung in the library air, and the shelves sagged slightly under their weight. Books stood in uneven rows, their spines cracked and faded from years of handling. Bridie ran her finger along the edge of a shelf, the wood worn smooth by countless touches.
Jules was on a stepladder, her basket of tools balanced on the top rung. She tapped a loose board into place, the soft rhythm of her hammer filling the quiet space.
“When I was a kid, this place was the only thing that felt like mine,” Jules said, testing the board’s strength. “Back home, Mum was too busy for books. After Aggie passed, I couldn’t let it fall apart.”
Jules set the basket down and picked up a volume from a nearby stack, brushing dust from its cover. “Your dad kept checking this one out,” she said, passing it to Bridie. Practical Bridge Engineering: A Field Guide was stamped in faded gold across the spine. “He wasn’t just about fixing things—he understood how they fit. Why they mattered.”
Bridie nodded, her fingers brushing over the worn spine of the book. She tucked it under her arm, the weight of it grounding her as she stepped outside. On the library steps, she paused, breathing in the damp air. In her hands, the book felt more than practical; it felt like a piece of him.
Evening found Bridie at the bridge’s edge, her father’s diagrams open against the railing. Below, the tide marked time, ebbing and flowing in steady rhythm. The measurements on the pages were precise, as deliberate as prayer.
The first nail bent under the weight of the hammer, the steel refusing the grain. Bridie pulled it free, her movements deliberate as she adjusted her grip. The next strike landed clean, driving the nail deep. Its echo rippled across the inlet, low and resonant, like the toll of a distant bell.
Jules arrived each morning after that, a flask of tea in one hand and a hammer in the other. They fell into an unspoken rhythm: Bridie consulting the notebook, Jules testing knots in the rope. Between the hammer strikes and the groan of wood, silence settled easily. It wasn’t like her father’s silence, which had often felt impenetrable. This silence left space, a quiet that invited rather than withheld.
“He used to watch you, you know,” Jules said one morning, securing a plank. Her voice was soft, almost lost in the wind. “When you’d walk this bridge to school. He’d stand at the end until you reached the other side.”
Bridie’s hammer stilled mid-strike. “I never saw him.”
“No,” Jules said, smiling faintly. “He made sure of that.”
Bridie stared at the railing, her fingers brushing the grooves left by years of crossings. The bridge creaked beneath their weight, but it held steady.
She chose high tide. The inlet stretched silver-grey, horizon and sky trading places in the mist. Bridie stood at the center of the bridge, the urn cradled against her chest.
The ropes groaned softly in the wind, and the bridge swayed beneath her feet, its movements steady but unyielding. Her fingers trembled as they twisted the urn’s lid. For a moment, she held it still, the cold metal pressing into her palms, heavier than she remembered.
The ashes fell unevenly, caught by the breeze. They scattered in pale streams, the wind carrying them beyond the railing, mingling with the rhythmic pull of the tide.
Bridie exhaled slowly, her breath clouding in the damp air. The sharp tang of salt seemed to cut deeper, filling her lungs. Her silence had always felt like a wall, but now it dissolved with the ashes—less a barrier than a quiet weight that had held things together in ways she hadn’t seen.
She gripped the railing, its rough wood worn smooth by years of crossings. Below, the water shimmered faintly, catching the morning light like a secret it wouldn’t share.
Between them, the bridge swayed.