The Fishing Bridge

The bridge was nothing special. It spanned the narrowest part of the stream that fed the farm dam. The farmer had built it from local stone, with the help of two of his labourers. His wife came to inspect the little bridge when it was completed. She stood beside her husband and looked at it carefully. Critically.
It’s very narrow”, she commented.
“Big enough,” her husband grunted, helping the other two men to gather up their tools.
“Big enough for what?”
He straightened up and smiled at his wife from beneath the broad brim of his old hat.
“Big enough for a person to walk across. Big enough for a wheelbarrow, wide enough to ride a bike over .”
He patted her shoulder affectionately.

“Big enough for our children to play on. To sit and fish the stream. The water’s shallow. They won't come to any harm, even if they fall in. Which they will.”
They had been married for almost a year. His wife smiled back at him, and nodded. Together, in companionable silence, they walked slowly back to the farmhouse. The two labourers walked away to their own homes and lunch.

The children did play on the bridge. There were three of them, identical twin boys and, some years later, another son. Throughout their childhood, the little bridge featured prominently in most of their games, and many happy and contented hours were spent sitting on the fishing bridge, rods dangling hopefully over the shallow pebble bottomed stream. During term time, the three were away at school, but during the holidays, they were almost always to be found on the bridge or playing in the clear waters of the stream. Friends who visited or came to stay for a few days, were equally charmed by the pretty stretch of water and its rustic bridge.

The children’s mother was a well-known and talented artist. She painted a picture of her three children, sitting side by side on the little bridge in the hot sun, their bare feet dangling over the stone coping. The twins were fishing, floppy sun hats pulled low over their foreheads, looking, as their father said, like two halves of one whole. Their heads were bent over their fishing rods, concentrating on the fishing. Their younger brother was, as usual, engrossed in a book, holding his hat on with one hand and the book in the other. There was always a dog with them, sometimes two, panting in the nearby shade. Bees hummed at the water’s edge and birds swooped low over the dam and called from the trees beyond the banks of the dam.

When the oil painting was completed and suitably framed, it hung in the dining room of the farmhouse. The children wondered why their mother put the painting there instead of in the more formal living room. She smiled at them and answered that the dining-room was the right place for it. They accepted that but still wondered.

The children’s father stocked the dam with fish, for the family’s recreation and the table, and for his farm workers. None of the workers fished from the bridge, however, preferring the banks of the dam or the dam wall. The more intrepid amongst them built makeshift rafts and fished from the middle of the dam. Sometimes the children borrowed the rafts for their games, but serious fishing was done from the fishing bridge.

Time passed, the three children grew up and their parents grew older. A war in a far off country threatened to engulf the land they lived in. Inevitably, it did. The children’s father was too old to fight. But his two older sons were not, and together with many of their friends were called up for military service. Both boys were determined, to stay together, and when they proudly came home on a embarkation leave, they were wearing identical air force blue uniforms. Their mother fought back her fears and smiled bravely at them. She did the laundry that they brought home in their new duffel bags ensured that that their favourite foods were served at meal times. Their father also hid his trepidation, quietly smoking his old pipe and listening to his sons’ excited plans and chatter, but contributing little by way of conversation. The twins’ were too wrapped up in themselves to notice anything amiss. The youngest son was confused. He sensed his parents’ foreboding, but was swept away by his brothers’ enthusiasm and almost manic high spirits. He was still at school and had three more years before he was eligible for military service.

Once the boys had left, their family rarely heard from them. Inevitably, the twins were separated and sent to different theatres of the war. Their brother watched with sadness as his parents aged and grew silent, the incessant worry about their two sons an increasingly heavy burden. The time came when he too was called to serve his country, but a hitherto unsuspected heart problem exempted him from military service. Frustrated and reluctant, he stayed at home to work with his father on the farm. Crops had to be tended and food grown to feed the people. Labour was almost non-existent, most of the men having gone to war leaving their families to cope as best they could.

One night, the youngest son was awakened from a deep and exhausted sleep by the elder twin’s old dog, which slept in a basket in his bedroom. Half asleep, he sat up and looked towards the dog, who was sitting bolt upright in the basket, whining quietly. When the dog saw was the boy was awake, he left his basket and walked stiffly to the closed bedroom door. It was obvious that the animal wanted to go out. Groggily, the boy got up and let him out, and on impulse, followed the old dog down the moonlit stairs and into the darkened hall. The dog waited for him to open the heavy front door, which he did. Outside, the boy followed the dog across the lawn. The animal was heading for the fishing bridge but just before he reached the bridge, he stopped. The boy peered into the moonlight to see what the dog was staring at and saw someone sitting on the bridge, fishing. Uncertainly, the boy moved slowly closer, and recognized his younger twin brother sitting alone on the stone coping. His head was bent over his fishing rod, and he was wearing familiar old clothes, not his uniform. Puzzled but overjoyed, the younger boy started forward, his brother’s names on his lips. . He stopped when the figure on the bridge rose to his feet, carrying his rod, and walked across the bridge, to the shadowy trees beyond the fishing bridge. Just before he disappeared into the trees, the younger brother saw the elder twin walking towards his brother from the depths of the trees. When they met, they stopped turned around to face the younger son. Unable to even call their names, the boy stared at them from across the bridge. He thought he saw his brothers' smile at him and one lifted a hand in farewell. The dog whimpered once and shot forward, over the bridge and to his master’s side. Then the twins and the old dog turned away and walked side by side into the shadowy trees. After a long moment, the youngest son made his forlorn way back to the house.

* * * * *

Something stopped him from telling his parents of his experience. In the morning he wondered if it had been a dream. The old dog never reappeared, although a thorough search was made for him. Three days later, after supper and while they were listening to the old wireless for news of the war, the telephone rang. All three knew immediately that it was bad news. The boy and his mother watched helplessly as his father held the receiver to his ear, head bowed, as the impersonal voice at the other end of the telephone told him that his sons were dead.

They had been killed in action, two days apart, but in different places. There would be no bodies to bring home to be put to rest by their grieving family. No way of saying goodbye. A dry and unsatisfying memorial service in the tiny local chapel had to suffice. Many people attended, crowding into the chapel, some having to stand outside during the service. They too had lost beloved children, sons who had grown up with of the twins and their brother.

His father lost interest in everything with the death of his sons. Six months later, they were in the same chapel to bid him farewell. His mother joined her husband and sons within a year, leaving her son alone.

The farm was sold, together with most of its contents. Numbed with grief, there was very little he wanted to keep. He was left with a substantial sum of money, enabling him to live comfortably and independently. He moved to a far-off city where there were fewer memories to haunt him. Eventually, he was able to pick up the pieces of his shattered life and some years later, he graduated from university and began a successful career in his chosen field. He made few friends, but kept in touch with some people from his childhood. He never returned to the farm. There were too many memories, too many ghosts.

Several rather unsatisfactory and unfulfilling jobs later, he was offered an attractive position in the town where he had gone to school. After much deliberation, he accepted it and moved back to familiar surroundings. Time had eased the sorrow of his loss, and he found he was pleased to be back. He contacted some of his old school friends still living there and felt that he had at last come home.

His first day with the new firm arrived. The CEO introduced him to his new secretary, and instructed the girl to take her new boss to his office. It was luxurious and tastefully furnished, with a wonderful view of the river and bustling harbour. It was only after he had settled in, moved the furniture around to suit his taste and sent the secretary for coffee, that he noticed the painting. It hung above the glass-fronted bookcase on the far wall. Unbelievingly, he stared at it, then got up from his desk and walked across the room to stand in front of the familiar picture. It was his mother’s painting of the fishing bridge. He saw himself, sitting on the stone coping of the little bridge with his brothers. He was reading the inevitable book; the twins were seated side by side, fishing.

The young secretary bustled in, carrying a tray with coffee and biscuits. She put it down on the coffee table, and came to stand beside her new employer.
“Oh, the picture – do you like it? I think it’s lovely, and so beautifully painted.”
“Where did it come from?” He managed to ask.
“I’m not sure. When they were re-vamping this office for you, I think the CEO found it in an art gallery somewhere, and bought it. He thought the artist might be a relative of yours. The signature, you know. The children look so happy fishing from that quaint little bridge…”
She wondered why her new employer said nothing more and just stared at the painting. After a few minutes she left the office, quietly closing the door.

There was something odd about the painting. He moved closer. He remembered that his mother had painted her youngest son reading, and the twin had been portrayed with heads bent over their fishing rods, totally absorbed in what they were doing. But in the painting before him, the boys’ heads up and they were both smiling, looking directly into their brother’s eyes. Leaning affectionately against the elder twin, ears pricked and panting happily, was the old dog.