James stopped speaking.
I gave him time to start again
and as I waited
I idly picked the moss
which grew between the bridge's stones
and flicked it from the edge.
The way one does.
Has anyone ever stood
upon a bridge for long
and not thrown something over?
When he spoke the words
were rushed and hesitant;
as though he thought
I would stop and question what he said.
-I don't know what to say.
Every word I want to choose
Seems tired, trite, overused
or near cliche.
Imagine someone that you know
Someone very close to you
Is ill. Will die. What do you do?
You don't let any feelinsg show.
You just get on with the game.
In fact almost from our first breath
we live with the knowledge of our death.
Isn't that the same?
Anyway, that's how it was with me.
The man I met was dead.
A neighbour, whom I'd known
in childhood.
There was no doubting it.
No coincidental likeness:
it was the man.
I’d known him well.
when I was young
he'd lived next door
and talked and laughed
with my Father
across the garden fence.
While I, with my toys
spread out on the grass,
would play and listen .
Only understanding
half the conversation
and the joke.
Pretending to myself
That I was part of this;
that I was grown up too.
Then he got cancer
and the laughing stopped.
I saw the hollow cheeks,
The sunken frightened eyes,
and went and played elsewhere
until he'd faded from my memory,
That is 'til now.
They crowded round me then.
Those people.
Those others.
Until I was surrounded
by my forgotten dead.
The ragged woman who
I'd seen each morning
as I went to work.
Standing on the corner of the street.
Then one day she wasn't there.
A teacher from my first school
Who crashed her car
and bled to death.
before they cut her out.
Or so the rumour went.
A distant cousin I'd me once
met at my Uncle John's.
He'd gone out in his boat
and not returned.
The man who sold me papers
at the station, when I went to college;
whose heart gave up on him
one day, as he stood
his hand stretched out
for change.
They pleaded and they
pulled at me
like anxious children.
With that familiarity
that closeness brings;
though in my life they'd
all been distant:
not one that I'd consider close.
But somehow death
had changed all this.
Or perhaps they'd been
within me all the time.
Tucked away in some
dark corner of my mind.
Something like that.
'Come on! Come on!
You've kept us waiting
for too long.
It's getting late.
We haven't time.'
Whispered voices.
Almost apologetic
but determined all the same.
And strong.
So compelling
I would have gone with them
I know.
But suddenly a figure
forced forward through the group;
pulled them away;
roughly pushed them back.
'Let him be! He's not for you.
Leave him alone!
What's it to you
if he sinks, or he survives?
If he wants to go back among
those stupid ugly people
and their stupid empty lives?'
This was someone else I knew.
-Tracey, Thank God.
At least you're not....
She glanced sharply up
And looking straight at me,
‘I am' she said,
I jumped off Ludford Bridge.’
She took my arm,
pulled me away
and led me off
until we left the
huddled group behind.
Confused I stopped.
Am I living?
Am I dying?
Am I lying buried
beneath the snow somewhere?
‘You're alive, and
I'll get you home alright;
but I see you've lost a glove.
Put your hand beneath your coat
before you lose your fingers too.
You’ll need them soon,
there's a short climb down,
and when the blood
comes back to the hand again
maybe, you'll find the pain convincing
if nothing else.
Come on, don't stand around.’
She started off.
I ran a step or two .
to catch her up.
‘We only met once or twice' she said.
but you're a friend of Martin
Jo and Jane, I think.’
I nodded.
‘How are they?
Are the married? Are they well?’
Yes to both. I said,
and carried on
as if it were
the most natural thing of all
to have a conversation
With a ghost.
After a time she seemed
to loose interest in
my talk of friends we'd shared
and places that we'd known.
‘You must be wondering why I jumped?’
She asked. 'Yes' I replied,
Though the question was nowhere in my mind.
‘I used to paint. You knew that?'
'Yes'. Well, it was all I wanted.
It was a dream. I thought that I was good.
No, I thought I could be great.
and that was all that mattered.
You understand?'
I think I do.'
‘Well, one day I found
I was not so special after all.
That the dream was just a dream,
but I still wanted nothing less.
So I decided to end things then
I don't regret it. I was right
I think. don't you?'
Yes, most people end
with bitter disappointed lives.
It was a brave and honest
Thing you did.
I lied.
And as I did, I knew
that she was lying too.
And the warmth
I'd felt towards her faded.
It was depressing
that the dead
still carried all the baggage
of the living.
All the self delusion and the doubt.
All the deception and the lies.
Her grand romantic gesture
was just an empty case.
In her small way she
rewrote the history book
making a hero
of the killer and the cheat.
I felt awkward.
And to hide this awkwardness
I asked
‘How does it feel to be...'
‘Dead?' she laughed,
You have trouble saying it.'
A ghost.
It seemed a kinder word.
‘I can't explain.
There are so many, many things.
But no words exist
to hang the meaning on.
Could you explain a poem to fish?’
Ah, I've heard that before.
something I once read.
You're not real.
This is all inside my head.
‘Not real? is this real?'
She placed an open palm upon my chest
And pushed.
I fell backwards in a drift.
and as I lay there helpless
she pelted me with snow.
‘Is this real? Or this? Or this?'
Alright. Stop! You Win,
You're real. Now help me up.
‘OK, come on, we're wasting time.
There's just an hour or so
before the light starts fading.
Look, I said I'd help you down
but this is no free lunch.
There's a favour that I want from you.
There's something you can do for me.
As we walked on she told me what it was.
A simple, almost trivial thing,
So I agreed.
At last we came up to the valley's lip,
where suddenly it dropped away
in a broken wall of rock
to level ground below.
Ice gleamed where it
crusted on the blackened stone.
and a cold wind
swept up across the rim.
She lowered herself
over the edge .
then pointed out the holds.
We went down together.
With numb hands, heavy boots
and the wind blowing
powdered snow into my eyes
each move was slow
and painful,
as patiently she told me
where to place my feet
and what cracks there were
to jam my
stubborn fingers in.
Her voice was harsh.
Almost grating
and she seemed so pale now
against the black rock.
I would have guessed that
she was scared.
But what was left
to frighten her?
‘Soon I will go back, she said,
But only when it's safe for you.
So take your time.
You'll be alright.’
Again the harshness of the voice,
as though the words
were sharp and jagged things
tearing the soft tissue of her throat.
We went on down,
almost side by side.
I glanced across and saw her hand
as she pointed out a hold;
saw the fine blue tracery of veins,
and clearly delineated,
every bone beneath the skin.
I looked away.
And climbed on in silence.
She tried to speak,
but all I heard
was a harsh, dry
scraping sound
and nothing else.
Until a sudden rattle
made me look up
and I saw above me
scuttling upwards,
like a grotesque insect
outlined against the black rock,
a skeleton.
I don't remember how
I scrambled down the rest
and stumbled back to Troutbeck
Exhausted but unharmed.
James stopped talking and I knew that
he wanted me to speak
To question him.
So I kept quiet
And just
Waited.
I leaned out over the bridge and looked
down into the water;
much darker now
as the daylight
slowly
faded.
She asked me to give you this.
He said at last
and took something
from his pocket
and handed it to me.
I looked at it.
turned it over in my hands,
and said,
It's getting cold and dark
and the pub is open now,
but before we leave
let's send this thing
back where it belongs.
And I threw the ring
out over the parapet,
where it curved up
In a high arc,
glinted briefly
as it caught
the last late
evening sun
before it dropped
down into the shadows
and the black water
That flowed beneath the bridge.
I gave him time to start again
and as I waited
I idly picked the moss
which grew between the bridge's stones
and flicked it from the edge.
The way one does.
Has anyone ever stood
upon a bridge for long
and not thrown something over?
When he spoke the words
were rushed and hesitant;
as though he thought
I would stop and question what he said.
-I don't know what to say.
Every word I want to choose
Seems tired, trite, overused
or near cliche.
Imagine someone that you know
Someone very close to you
Is ill. Will die. What do you do?
You don't let any feelinsg show.
You just get on with the game.
In fact almost from our first breath
we live with the knowledge of our death.
Isn't that the same?
Anyway, that's how it was with me.
The man I met was dead.
A neighbour, whom I'd known
in childhood.
There was no doubting it.
No coincidental likeness:
it was the man.
I’d known him well.
when I was young
he'd lived next door
and talked and laughed
with my Father
across the garden fence.
While I, with my toys
spread out on the grass,
would play and listen .
Only understanding
half the conversation
and the joke.
Pretending to myself
That I was part of this;
that I was grown up too.
Then he got cancer
and the laughing stopped.
I saw the hollow cheeks,
The sunken frightened eyes,
and went and played elsewhere
until he'd faded from my memory,
That is 'til now.
They crowded round me then.
Those people.
Those others.
Until I was surrounded
by my forgotten dead.
The ragged woman who
I'd seen each morning
as I went to work.
Standing on the corner of the street.
Then one day she wasn't there.
A teacher from my first school
Who crashed her car
and bled to death.
before they cut her out.
Or so the rumour went.
A distant cousin I'd me once
met at my Uncle John's.
He'd gone out in his boat
and not returned.
The man who sold me papers
at the station, when I went to college;
whose heart gave up on him
one day, as he stood
his hand stretched out
for change.
They pleaded and they
pulled at me
like anxious children.
With that familiarity
that closeness brings;
though in my life they'd
all been distant:
not one that I'd consider close.
But somehow death
had changed all this.
Or perhaps they'd been
within me all the time.
Tucked away in some
dark corner of my mind.
Something like that.
'Come on! Come on!
You've kept us waiting
for too long.
It's getting late.
We haven't time.'
Whispered voices.
Almost apologetic
but determined all the same.
And strong.
So compelling
I would have gone with them
I know.
But suddenly a figure
forced forward through the group;
pulled them away;
roughly pushed them back.
'Let him be! He's not for you.
Leave him alone!
What's it to you
if he sinks, or he survives?
If he wants to go back among
those stupid ugly people
and their stupid empty lives?'
This was someone else I knew.
-Tracey, Thank God.
At least you're not....
She glanced sharply up
And looking straight at me,
‘I am' she said,
I jumped off Ludford Bridge.’
She took my arm,
pulled me away
and led me off
until we left the
huddled group behind.
Confused I stopped.
Am I living?
Am I dying?
Am I lying buried
beneath the snow somewhere?
‘You're alive, and
I'll get you home alright;
but I see you've lost a glove.
Put your hand beneath your coat
before you lose your fingers too.
You’ll need them soon,
there's a short climb down,
and when the blood
comes back to the hand again
maybe, you'll find the pain convincing
if nothing else.
Come on, don't stand around.’
She started off.
I ran a step or two .
to catch her up.
‘We only met once or twice' she said.
but you're a friend of Martin
Jo and Jane, I think.’
I nodded.
‘How are they?
Are the married? Are they well?’
Yes to both. I said,
and carried on
as if it were
the most natural thing of all
to have a conversation
With a ghost.
After a time she seemed
to loose interest in
my talk of friends we'd shared
and places that we'd known.
‘You must be wondering why I jumped?’
She asked. 'Yes' I replied,
Though the question was nowhere in my mind.
‘I used to paint. You knew that?'
'Yes'. Well, it was all I wanted.
It was a dream. I thought that I was good.
No, I thought I could be great.
and that was all that mattered.
You understand?'
I think I do.'
‘Well, one day I found
I was not so special after all.
That the dream was just a dream,
but I still wanted nothing less.
So I decided to end things then
I don't regret it. I was right
I think. don't you?'
Yes, most people end
with bitter disappointed lives.
It was a brave and honest
Thing you did.
I lied.
And as I did, I knew
that she was lying too.
And the warmth
I'd felt towards her faded.
It was depressing
that the dead
still carried all the baggage
of the living.
All the self delusion and the doubt.
All the deception and the lies.
Her grand romantic gesture
was just an empty case.
In her small way she
rewrote the history book
making a hero
of the killer and the cheat.
I felt awkward.
And to hide this awkwardness
I asked
‘How does it feel to be...'
‘Dead?' she laughed,
You have trouble saying it.'
A ghost.
It seemed a kinder word.
‘I can't explain.
There are so many, many things.
But no words exist
to hang the meaning on.
Could you explain a poem to fish?’
Ah, I've heard that before.
something I once read.
You're not real.
This is all inside my head.
‘Not real? is this real?'
She placed an open palm upon my chest
And pushed.
I fell backwards in a drift.
and as I lay there helpless
she pelted me with snow.
‘Is this real? Or this? Or this?'
Alright. Stop! You Win,
You're real. Now help me up.
‘OK, come on, we're wasting time.
There's just an hour or so
before the light starts fading.
Look, I said I'd help you down
but this is no free lunch.
There's a favour that I want from you.
There's something you can do for me.
As we walked on she told me what it was.
A simple, almost trivial thing,
So I agreed.
At last we came up to the valley's lip,
where suddenly it dropped away
in a broken wall of rock
to level ground below.
Ice gleamed where it
crusted on the blackened stone.
and a cold wind
swept up across the rim.
She lowered herself
over the edge .
then pointed out the holds.
We went down together.
With numb hands, heavy boots
and the wind blowing
powdered snow into my eyes
each move was slow
and painful,
as patiently she told me
where to place my feet
and what cracks there were
to jam my
stubborn fingers in.
Her voice was harsh.
Almost grating
and she seemed so pale now
against the black rock.
I would have guessed that
she was scared.
But what was left
to frighten her?
‘Soon I will go back, she said,
But only when it's safe for you.
So take your time.
You'll be alright.’
Again the harshness of the voice,
as though the words
were sharp and jagged things
tearing the soft tissue of her throat.
We went on down,
almost side by side.
I glanced across and saw her hand
as she pointed out a hold;
saw the fine blue tracery of veins,
and clearly delineated,
every bone beneath the skin.
I looked away.
And climbed on in silence.
She tried to speak,
but all I heard
was a harsh, dry
scraping sound
and nothing else.
Until a sudden rattle
made me look up
and I saw above me
scuttling upwards,
like a grotesque insect
outlined against the black rock,
a skeleton.
I don't remember how
I scrambled down the rest
and stumbled back to Troutbeck
Exhausted but unharmed.
James stopped talking and I knew that
he wanted me to speak
To question him.
So I kept quiet
And just
Waited.
I leaned out over the bridge and looked
down into the water;
much darker now
as the daylight
slowly
faded.
She asked me to give you this.
He said at last
and took something
from his pocket
and handed it to me.
I looked at it.
turned it over in my hands,
and said,
It's getting cold and dark
and the pub is open now,
but before we leave
let's send this thing
back where it belongs.
And I threw the ring
out over the parapet,
where it curved up
In a high arc,
glinted briefly
as it caught
the last late
evening sun
before it dropped
down into the shadows
and the black water
That flowed beneath the bridge.