.

Not very propitious for such a significant crossing, he thought. And no-one about, even at this time? Of course, there wasn’t likely to be anyone about given that the Bar by the Bridge – yes, it had actually called itself that – had not seen any customers for nigh on 50 years now. But that wasn’t obvious when approaching it from a distance. From a hundred yards down the road, it looked like it would be quite a respectable, if not substantial, establishment. From that far back you could see the terrace with its black cast-iron surround and the grandiose benches backing up to the panoramic windows. They were the kind that opened full width no doubt, looking out over the river, and the whole frontage was covered with an old style glazed canopy with cast-iron frame and supported at each corner by pillars, also cast-iron, surmounted by their ornate capitals.
 

As he came closer, though, it became evident there was something amiss. No lights inside. The yawning look that uncleaned windows give a place. The terrace scattered randomly with a few tables and the odd bench, but no order, no obvious expectation of visitors. A little nearer still and he could see an upstairs window left open, no, there was no window in the frame, and at another, a limply waving curtain. And he had wondered about spending a night here! – he had thought it would be an atmospheric resting-place.
 

He stepped up onto the terrace, pulled a table across to one of the grand benches, took off his backpack and sat down. Clearly not much point in waiting for service, so he pulled a drink can out of his pack and set out his pie on the table beside him.
 

The Bar’s verandah, on which he was sitting, was slightly higher than the river bank and at this state of the tide he could see the water-lines on both banks at their highest levels. He judged the river’s width, as he saw it, to be around half a mile, though from the lie of the land along the shoreline he could see that it must be relatively shallow and guessed that this width would be very much diminished at low tide. So this will feel quite a different place tomorrow morning with the tide out, he thought. For some reason he became conscious of the building behind him, like he wasn’t looking at the view on his own, and he turned his head and craned his neck as if to catch a glimpse of who was watching – no, that’s stupid, the place is clearly deserted – and he even jumped off the bench and went to the front of the terrace so that he could look back at the whole facade. It was certainly all dark, despite the brightness of the day. The rooms only have windows on the front, he decided, so obviously they would look dark. But this dark? he wondered. He could not make out anything at all inside, even the bar itself. He looked up. There were in fact two levels above the ground floor, the first with six river-facing windows, guest rooms he presumed, and he now saw that two of them did not even have windows in their frames. It was the roof detail, which he could now make out, that revealed the second level: what had looked like part of the eves from a distance now showed itself to be the wall at the front of what must be a substantial verandah on the second level, the rooms opening onto it not visible from where he was standing on account of its size.
 

Picking up the sense of verandah, perhaps, he turned and looked out at the river. That’s what you do in this place, he decided, you look at the river… which never stops moving. How many people have done that from these windows? It is quite an atmospheric view. How many memories, he wondered, still recall it, with fondness, with regret, with longing, who knows? How many spirits are still floating within the living, traces of changes that arose from it, smidgeons of a heritage passed on through the currency of human contact?
 

He went back to his pork pie, wondering whether he might  not stay the night after all. Then, replete and rather wearied from the morning’s walk – he had come cross-country for most of the way rather than by road –  he left his pack on the grand bench, wandered a little way down the bank and stretched out on the grass for a nap.
 

~~~
 

“The tide’s goin’ to get you, if ye don’t watch out. Does funny things ‘ere when it turns.”

He woke up suddenly and found a woman of 40 or so standing over him. He sat up, with some difficulty, stiff from lying for a while on the uneven ground, and saw that the water was indeed threatening to engulf his feet.
“We could go o’er there ’n’ sit on th’end of the bridge.”

He scrambled to his feet and followed her to the bridge-end where a stone seat was built into the stonework. They sat down together.

“Bridget,” the woman said offering her hand.

“Oh, er… I’m, um, Mar-tin.” He had said his name disjointedly, as if unsure. Then, “Martin Devenish”, in order to recover himself. He did feel a little disorientated, which he put down to having just been dragged from sleep, so he allowed his head to drop back against the wall for some steadiness. The sky was dark with heavy clouds. He had been a bit rash to lie out for a sleep, he mused, though, before, the forecast was dry and bright and there had been a clear blue sky when he had lain down. Oh well, wrong again… but quite a lot wrong.
 

“Lots of folks get caught like that,” said his new companion. He looked at her now. She was dressed in what he took to be country style, weathered and shapeless trousers, not jeans, light blue thick cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a kind of jerkin over it. Working girl, certainly. Tanned face, quite blond with wavy hair. Land-girl, he thought, as vintage WW2 films came to mind.

“Me Dad says it’s the bridge. Shouldn’t ever ‘ave been a bridge ‘ere. It’s estuary really ’n’ the water’s got a mind of itself. You don’t argue, ‘e says.”

“I suppose not,” Martin said vaguely. Something was niggling in his mind. “When was it built?” Then he realised he really meant why was it built?

“Ooh, ‘not far off 200 years ago, they say. “When they built the mine over there, see it, ‘alfway up the hill. Needed to get the tin out. The war s’pposedly, but it were long time ‘fore that. But when the war came, this was best way to railway.”

Both questions answered, better be getting back, he thought. But Bridget had started again…

“‘Course, this weren’t ‘zactly like it were built originally. When it were built it were like this, like we’re sitting on, right across, but it got unsafe, swell from the tides, them’s very strong here. Three pillars in middle collapsed mostly. But ‘twere needed when war came to get th’ore to railway, so they were building ‘spension bit in middle, only first try were blown up by stray bomber, all four riggers killed, bits blown into water, they drowned likely. Got the bridge in th’end, tho’.  That’s what ye sees now.”
 

“C’mon, I’ll show ye something.” She was hustling him to his feet and he found himself being shepherded towards the middle of the bridge. It took two or three minutes to get to where, what he now saw was the approach, became a suspension bridge of about 30 yards to the approach on the other side, which was identical in style and seemed about the same length as the side they were standing. He looked across the channel, the river swirling furiously about 10 feet underneath the roadway. He imagined how the remains of the original supporting pillars would be adding to the watery maelstrom below.
 

Bridget started up again: “I likes these places that’ve been altered and things. You imagine all th’old gets lost, but there’s always bits ye can find.” She said this looking towards where the suspension portion met the original roadway, and, as she was talking, she walked across to the wall and picked up something metal wedged into a corner of the buttress. She brought it back and showed it to Martin.

“This must’ve been an anchor, like, off their safety ‘quipment, them four that drowned,” and she showed him her find, a rusted bolt integral with an eye of about 2 inches diameter. “You can ‘ave it, if you want. There ain’t no souv’nir shops ‘round here. That’s the best you’ll do.”

Martin wasn’t sure it was what he would have chosen, and was wondering how he might politely demur when something glinting on the wall facing him caught his eye and he started across to discover what it was, absentmindedly putting the bolt in his pocket at the same time. It was a weathered steel plaque bolted to the stone with a simple description:
 

IN MEMORY AND WITH GRATITUDE

3RD MARCH 1940

and below the message four names:

Robert Lees

Harry Foreman

Mark Rutter

Martin Devenish
 

His brain seemed to take a timeout and only slowly came back, like someone turning up a volume control. Of course it wasn’t him. But why did he need to even say that line? No, he didn’t say it, he thought it. But how could it even have appeared? How can it appear on that plaque, his name? Alright, hold on, it’s not a common name, but there have been a few other Devenishes, and likely even a Martin Devenish, over the years. No, drop it. He was wandering around now, notionally inspecting construction points of the suspension bridge, but really, trying to divert his jittering mind. It was getting dark, nearly sunset perhaps, though the leaden sky made it seem much later. He turned back the way they had come and looked towards the Bar, probably for the first time since he had been awoken by his new companion. Sombre now, with its unrelieved grey stonework and sightless Stygian windows, but from here he could see the verandah on the second floor and, surely, there was light shining out from one of the windows. He screwed up his eyes to be sure and then he could see the light was coming from glass doors opening onto the verandah, not just steady light, moving light and shadow and colours, he thought.
 

He called to Bridget: “I thought there was no-one in the Bar now.”

“There’s been no-one ther for 50 years, like I said.”

“Then why is there a light on the verandah.”

“It’s been locked up all that time. There ain’t no-one ther nor ‘ereabouts at all.”

“But I can see it. I’m looking at it. Surely you can see it too.”

“No-one ther these last 50 year,” she muttered.

But why hasn’t she even looked? he thought.

“C’mon, best be going. Certain ’tis ther’s a storm brewing.”

And she set off back down the roadway. He hesitated. Then he shook his head and followed. She was walking a little in front of him now, head down, perhaps preoccupied. He noticed she was gaining on him. At the end of the roadway she headed off towards the approach road that he had used to get to the bar. Without further word she had left him, more or less where she had found him.
 

~~~
 

He was looking up at the Bar by the Bridge – full frontal, you might say. He was thinking that, despite the dark windows and general air of unkemptness, in this light, with a clear sunset painting its facade a warm reddish-orange, it created a homely, even romantic picture. He checked he had enough food and drink, and made a decision – he would stay here tonight. If necessary, he could make himself comfortable enough up there in front of the windows by the benches. But… if he could find a way up to the second-floor verandah, that would the ideal, he would have an open-air ‘room with a view’. He presumed it would mean breaking and entering, but if the place had not been occupied for 50 years – funny, how did he know it had been that long? – no matter, surely there can't be anyone around who’s likely to object.
 

He set about a survey of possible entry points. It was too far up to the verandah to consider drainpipes, so ground-floor entry was the only possibility. His loathing of vandalism, or was it his lack of nerve?, made him reluctant to break windows, so he was limited to trying to find a window that could be eased open, or a door with an insecure lock or bolt. The back of the building would be a better bet, he decided.
 

The Bar by the Bridge must have been conceived as somewhere that would only need a comely front aspect, it being from that direction that its clientèle would approach. Accordingly the rear was unembellished and utilitarian. The ground-floor windows were small and all were small-paned and so offered no easy route inside. It did, however, have several doors, the first two of which he tried, only opened into store-rooms. The next was a robust-looking affair, as indeed it proved to be. The last one looked more hopeful from the outset. With a little pressure it gave way enough to allow him to insert a strip of wood into the opening and with a fair bit of exertion force the lock. He examined the result of his efforts and decided that he could restore it to give an appearance of soundness. A few yards ahead of him was a staircase the width of the passage he had almost fallen into. The stairs went straight up to a corridor from which on the front side were six doors, presumably to the rooms which had the first floor windows on the front. On the other side in the centre was a staircase that must go down to the bar, and another, which he now climbed and which came up to a door that had the style of a slightly ornate exterior entrance. Overhead was a largish skylight, which he realised had been the only source of light after his forced entry. His heart fell when he saw this door, because there would be no means of exerting pressure from the staircase, which had no landing. But to his amazement the door was not locked and opened without effort. Mission accomplished: it opened onto one enormous room, and, facing him as he entered, was a combination of full length windows and glass doors that revealed the verandah. Surveying the space, he wondered whether the double glass doors in the centre, which were swinging freely, had been open for the duration of the Bar’s vacancy, for, if so, the lack of weathering and accumulation of natural detritus in the room were remarkable. He walked out onto the verandah and spent some time taking in the view and anticipating the continuation of his hike tomorrow across the bridge, which he could now see clearly to its far side, with what he guessed might be a mine a little higher up the hill beyond.
 

He closed the doors as he went back into the room, thinking that discretion might prove the better part of valour and that he might sleep inside after all, since he would still have the benefit of the moon and stars for company. Or he would if he found a means of bringing up some water to clean the windows.
 

He made his way back downstairs, this time two floors and into the bar. “Wonderful”, was his immediate reaction as he stood at the door and surveyed the space. The bar itself took up almost one whole side and had a chunky arm rail and brass foot rail along its whole length. In front were six bar stools and he counted six old-fashioned black draught-pump handles standing tall. The glass holders behind the bar were complete with glasses, but to his dismay the optics were empty and their inverted bottles removed. The bottle shelves likewise were empty except for two lone whisky bottles, which he suspected he would also find were empty. Unlike the terrace, the drinking area did not look neglected and uninviting, in fact tables and chairs were arranged as if prepared for opening that very evening. Great, he thought, but where’s the booze? There was only one other possibility. The door to the cellar was a trap to lift up behind the counter, and below it was a workshop staircase leading to a space which must have extended to the whole of the underfloor area of the bar. Of course it was pitch black and he fumbled for his pocket torch to scan around under an uncomfortably low ceiling. In a far corner he found a crate of McEwans Champion 7.3% blanketed with a very thick layer of dust. It seemed like it was the only stock overlooked in the final clear-out. With a struggle he recovered it and hauled it back up the steps.
 

Along the far wall of the room was a deep upholstered bar seat, dusty of course, but by now he was unconcerned. Having discovered a bottle opener in a drawer and taken down a handsome pint tankard from a rack which seemed to be reserved for the regulars’ personal mugs, he settled himself in a lounging pose on the once-handsome seat and poured his first pint. The sunset still afforded the room a shadowy reddish glow and after a couple or three refills he decided that, since this was the only upholstered furniture he had come across, it would be a good place for the night. He never finished the last pint.
 

~~~
 

“I haven’t seen you around here for a while. Are you staying long?”

“We’re not sure yet. It depends how long it takes.”

“Ooh, we is it? You’ve got a friend. That’s even better. You didn’t tell me your name?”

“uh… Martin.”

“I like Martin. That would be Marty round here. But I like ‘Martin’, it’s got class.”

“What are you drinking,” she was turning the bottle to look at the label, “Champion, is it? That’s lethal, that stuff, you want to watch out, you’ll be under the table before you know it.” Then, “Mine’s a Babycham. Look there’s no-one at the bar at the moment. I’ll keep your seat warm for you.”
 

Martin wondered if this was how it felt when you were in a small boat on the edge of a whirlpool and you were starting to move faster than you were rowing and the tiller wasn’t working any more. He found himself at the bar. He thought the barman was smirking a little, but perhaps he had better ignore that, not knowing local customs.
 

“What can I get you, my friend? If it’s for Suzie, that’ll be Babycham. And for yourself? Another champion?”

He poured both.

“You’ll be wanting a room, of course. The verandah room’s free tonight. Suzie likes that one. We’ve put some really funky lighting up there. I’ll put it all on the slate, but you’ve got to clear the slate before you go up, mind.”
 

The whirlpool seemed to be gathering speed.
 

Turning to take the drinks back, he saw that Suzie had assumed an alluring, almost horizontal, pose along the banquette on the other side of the room.

This time he felt the smirk.
 

As he was sitting down opposite her, Suzie began, “Like I was saying… no, I wasn’t, was I? Anyway, I’ve got a friend too. She’ll be along in a bit.”

“I’m not sure my friend was coming here tonight, though.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” oozed Suzie, “two’s fine, more intimate in a way,” he thought he caught a twinkle in her eye, “but if it ends up a threesome, well, who knows?” She was more or less vertical at the table now.

“Cheers,” as she interlocked their arms for the toast.

“Come on, Martin,” she had put her drink down and was nestling her chin on her hands, her arms splayed out over the table on each side, “tell me something about you.”

“Well…” he began, knowing that nothing was going to follow. It was not so much the visual image before him of a Jane Fonda-like figure barely 20 draping herself within touching distance – a scene from Klute flashed up in his mind – it was that sense of no control – was it already too late? – once you started going round, once the pulling began… “There’s nothing to tell really.”
 

She might slide her arms closer, and her lips, and her eyes which seemed to fasten themselves to his, “I’m sure there is,” she said.
 

Does a drowning man give in when he knows there is no way out? No way to stop the pulling and the spinning? Her eyes aren’t letting go.
 

“What is it like? All that water.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“You’re very brave. Out there in the middle of it. The river scares me. But you’re one of them.”

Somewhere in his semi-seeing, below the pools of her eyes, her finger was slowly tracing the initials engraved on the tankard he was drinking from. Instinctively he glanced down, and read:

MD.

Now she was clasping her arms around his neck,
“Has it happened already? Or have we still got time?”

She was pulling him to her, lying full-length now, arms draped upwards,
and he was spinning down, and down, and, he could only…
 

~~~
 

An astounding sunrise. He was on the terrace basking – well, not exactly basking, it was still cold – but yes, basking, in the wonderful break of day. Not exactly as he had foreseen it, the evening before, and he was amazed he had actually spent the night on that banquette, but he was grateful that he had woken early enough not to miss this. He stood for a while watching the river fill back under the bridge as the tide came in, though it would be a good while before high tide again. He thought he would set out well before, which meant that he would be crossing the suspension span when he might be able to look over and see the remains of the pillars still showing.
 

Just a last look around, he thought, in case he’s left anything in the bar from the evening. He went back in through the window-door and took care to fasten it securely behind him. He would go out through the back door which had first allowed him access. Just his summer jacket draped carelessly over a table. He snatched it up without looking and heard the clatter of something solid falling against the metal. Turning round, he saw lying on the table a rusted bolt with an eye of about 2 inches diameter.
 

He could feel a shiver starting to spread through his body.

© Simon Cole 2025