The bridge in the rain

An original fiction passage set in the nineteenth century.

For three years, Edmund's bridge had existed as ink: measurements, ruled lines and figures crowded into narrow margins. On the morning the barrier was removed, he arrived early, prepared to witness astonishment. Instead, the first villagers crossed while discussing the price of flour. A boy drew a stick along the railings and did not even turn at the noise it made. By noon, Edmund felt that three years of labour had produced only a shortcut that nobody troubled to admire. He walked home without looking back.

Two evenings later, rain filled the lanes and lifted the river towards the top of its stone banks. Edmund ran from his house, picturing the new beams twisting loose in the brown water. Yet the bridge stood. Across it came an old woman wrapped in a blanket, a baker carrying two sacks above the flood and a line of mill workers with lamps held high. They called warnings, passed bundles and made room for one another; no one paused to inspect the joints beneath their feet. Muddy footprints multiplied over the pale boards. On the opening morning, Edmund had winced at a single scratch. Now he remained beside the bridge until the last lamp reached the opposite bank.