The Toll Bridge by Aidan Chambers Page A

kind.’
    â€˜Kind!
Très drôle!
It’s not kindness she wants. If you can’t see that . . .’
    Exasperated, Tess slapped the letter down between us.
    Two Sundays after Adam disappeared for the second time, and again sitting either side of the table, but a cold, windy, grey, leaf-swirling day, this one, the river rippling with irritated gun-metal waves, and the fire blazing for the bright comfort of it as much as for warmth.
    â€˜It’s better than the last one, but honestly!’
    â€˜I’m not wasting any more time on it.’
    â€˜Suit yourself.’
    â€˜All the time I was writing, my hand kept cramping like someone was gripping it hard to try and stop me.’
    She laughed. ‘The toll-bridge ghost.’
    â€˜Superstitious crap.’
    â€˜There’s supposed to be one. Dad says he’s seen her. He says she kind of floats about between this room and the bridge. She was murdered by her lover in a fit of jealous rage. He chucked her body into the river. He was never caught, but she came back to haunt him and did such a good job he went mad and drowned himself. Serve him right too.’
    â€˜You’re making this up.’
    â€˜No I’m not. Dad says only men see her, and only those she likes. Perhaps she’s taken a fancy to you and will turn up one night all of a quiver, wanting a bit of spooky nooky.’
    â€˜It’s the only hope of getting laid around here, that’s for sure.’
    â€˜Whose fault is that? You could have Gill any time. You still haven’t said whether you want her or not.’
    â€˜I’ve told you, I don’t know.’
    â€˜Janus.’
    â€˜Shut it with that, will you!’
    â€˜So you’ll send this one?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Tess stood up. ‘Got to go. Sorry. We’ve company. Mum wants some help.’
    Another spoilt Sunday.
    â€˜Look at me and smile.’
    I said nothing.
    â€˜Please yourself. I’ll come back after tea, if they go early. They probably will. OK?’
    I stood up, went to the fire, stirred a log with my foot. ‘Sure.’
    At the door Tess turned back. ‘Nearly forgot. Dad said to tell you he’ll be here tomorrow about ten thirty with Major Finn and an estate agent.’
    Major Finn was the landowner and therefore my employer. I’d never seen him.
    â€˜What’s this, then, a regimental inspection?’
    â€˜There’s talk of selling bits of the estate. Now he’s not getting a lot in tolls the major needs the money.’
    â€˜But he’d never sell the house or the bridge, would he? He can’t.’
    â€˜Dunno. Dad said will you make sure to tidy up and mind your manners while they’re here.’
    I knuckled my forelock. ‘Yes, mum,’ and bowing, ‘know me place, mum.’
    When she’d gone I kicked the grotty armchair, then tore up my letter to Gill and chucked the pieces into the fire.
    2
    They turned up next morning three-quarters of an hour late, the major, once he had struggled out of the estate agent’s red BMW, refusing help from Bob Norris with a growl, and supporting a geriatric hip with a swarthy stick. An aged hangover from the Second World War, like a museum exhibit on a day out. His beetroot face with hawk nose and bristly grey moustache was topped off with a fraying panama hat. A crumpled tweed shooting jacket hung from his body as if he had shrunk inside it, which in a way, I suppose,he had. His baggy heavy-duty light brown corduroy trousers were stained an unappetizing yellow at the crotch. His feet clumped in robust ox-blood brogues. A mobile fossil he might be but he still talked in words clipped sharp enough to slice across a parade ground. There was about him an assumption of authority you just knew he’d been born with. Somehow I couldn’t help liking him, even though I didn’t want to.
    Which is more than I can say for the estate agent, a thirtyish,