Morning froze the rivers surface, a thin crust of ice clinging to the old stone footbridge as the boards beneath it sighed beneath each step. In the hamlet of Littlebrook life moved at its own pace: schoolboys with satchels slung over their shoulders hurried across the bridge to the bus stop, waiting for the number12 to the grammar school; Mrs. Margaret Bennett, the villages eldest resident, shuffled delicately over the gaps between the planks, a canvas bag of fresh milk in one hand and a wooden cane in the other. Behind her trundled a threewheeled cycle, its rider the fiveyearold Tommy, eyes narrowed as he made sure the wheels never slipped into a hollow.
Evening found a handful of folk gathered on the wooden bench outside the corner shop, trading gossip about egg prices, the latest thaw, and how each household had survived the winter. The bridge linked two halves of Littlebrook: beyond it lay the vegetable gardens and the graveyard, while the road beyond led to the market town of Ashford. Sometimes someone lingered by the water, staring at a patch of ice stubbornly refusing to melt from the middle of the river. The bridge itself was rarely mentioned; it had always been there, a quiet part of the landscape.
But this spring the boards began to creak louder. Old Albert Parker was the first to spot a fresh crack near the railing. He ran a calloused finger along it, shaking his head. On his way home he heard two women arguing:
Everythings getting worse God forbid someone falls.
Oh, quit your bellyaching! Its stood for ages
Their words hung in the air with the March wind.
The next morning arrived damp and grey. A notice slipped under a clear plastic sheet on the post at the bend read: Footbridge closed by council order due to unsafe condition. No passage permitted. The signature of the parish council chair was unmistakable. A few hands tried to lift the corner of the notice, as if to test its authenticity.
At first no one took it seriously. Children rushed toward the river on their usual path, then turned back when a red ribbon and a sign reading No entry blocked the entrance. Margaret stared at the ribbon over her glasses, then turned slowly and walked along the bank, searching for another crossing.
Around ten villagers sat in silence on the shop bench, reading the notice in a circle. The first to speak was George Hughes:
What now? The bus is a mile away Who will bring in the groceries?
And if someone needs to get to town urgently? This is the only way across!
Their voices trembled with anxiety. Someone suggested walking over the ice, but the ice was already pulling away from the shore.
By noon the news spread through the whole village. Young people phoned the district council, asking about a temporary ferry or a makeshift raft:
They said we must wait for an inspection
What if its an emergency?
The reply was a parade of bureaucratic phrases: inspection completed, decision made for the safety of residents.
That evening the village hall held a meeting. Almost every adult turned up, coats pulled tight against the damp wind blowing off the river. The room smelled of tea from insulated flasks; a few men dabbed fogged glasses with the cuffs of their jackets.
Talk began softly:
How will the children get to school? The road is a long walk.
Supplies come in from the town
Debate erupted over whether they could repair the bridge themselves or build a temporary walkway beside it. Someone recalled the days after the last flood when the whole community patched the gaps together.
John Whitaker stepped forward:
We can write formally to the council! We must ask for at least a temporary deck!
Helen Carter backed him:
If we all sign up, theyll grant permission faster! Otherwise well be waiting months
They agreed to draft a collective petition, listing names of those ready to work with their hands or provide tools.
For two days a trio rode to the district centre to meet the council officer. He received them briskly:
By law any work over a river must be approved, otherwise the municipality is liable. But if you submit a minutesofmeeting document
John handed over a sheet thick with signatures:
This is our community resolution. Grant us a temporary deck!
After a brief discussion the officer gave verbal approval, on condition that safety standards be observed, and promised to supply nails and a few boards from the council store.
By the next morning the whole village knew the green light had been given; waiting was over. Fresh signs were nailed to the old bridge, and beside the water lay the first batch of boards and a sack of fresh nails the spoils of the councils concession. Before dawn the men assembled at the bank: John, grim in his faded quilted jacket, was the first to pick up a spade and start clearing a path to the water. Behind him came the others, some with axes, others with bundles of wire. The women did not stand idly by; they brought steaming tea in flasks and a pair of woolen gloves for anyone who had forgotten theirs.
Ice still littered parts of the river, but the ground near the bank was already soggy. Boots sank into the mud as the boards were laid directly on the thawed earth and dragged to the edge. Everyone knew his task: some measured distances to keep the deck from sliding into the water, others held nails between their teeth and drove them home with hammers. Children lingered at the periphery, gathering twigs for a fire, pleading to stay close even as they were told to keep clear of the work.
From the opposite bench, the elders watched. Margaret, bundled tighter against the chill, clutched her cane with both hands. Tommy waddled over, eyes wide, asking how much longer theyd have to wait. She smiled through her spectacles:
Hold on, Tommy soon youll be able to run across again.
A shout rose from the riverbank:
Careful! That board is slick!
As the drizzle intensified, the women spread an old canvas over the work area, creating a drier spot beneath. There they set up an improvised table with flasks of tea, a bag of bread, and a few tins of condensed milk. People sipped and hurried back to hammers or shovels. Time flew; no one pushed anyone, yet everyone kept up. Several times a board had to be repositioned or a pile of stakes had to be reset in the mud. John muttered curses under his breath while George suggested:
Let me brace it from below Itll hold better.
Thus they toiledsome advising, some lending muscle.
Midday a young council maintenance officer arrived, folder in hand. He inspected the temporary deck:
Dont forget the handrails! Especially for the children
The villagers nodded; a few fresh boards were fetched for the side rail. Papers were signed right there on the wet grass, ink smearing on fingers as they pledged to finish the job.
By sunset the structure was almost complete: a long strip of new boards stretched along the old bridge, supported by temporary piles and wooden braces. Nails protruded here and there, and the tool bag lay halfempty. The first children dared onto the new walkway; Tommy stepped cautiously, hand in an adults, while Margaret watched every movement.
Then the crowd fell silent, watching the first villagers cross the deck. At first they shuffled, listening to the creak of each board, then grew steadier. From the opposite bank a voice called:
We did it!
In that instant the tension released, like a spring uncoiling.
That night, around a fire by the river, those who had stayed until the end gathered. Smoke rose low over the water, the scent of damp wood and charred branches warming hands better than any tea. Conversation slowed:
Would be nice to have a proper bridge someday.
For now this will do at least the kids can get to school.
John stared thoughtfully at the water:
If we pull together, well manage anything else that comes.
Beside him, Margaret whispered a quiet thanks:
Without you all Id never have dared to cross alone.
A thin mist rolled over the river as night deepened; the water still ran high from the recent flood, but the grass on the banks grew greener each day. Villagers drifted home slowly, planning a weekend cleanup at the hall or a fence repair at the school.
The next morning life slipped back into its familiar rhythm: children trotted across the deck to the bus stop, adults carted groceries over the river without fear of being cut off from the town. By weeks end council inspectors returned, praised the villagers workmanship, and promised to speed up plans for a permanent bridge.
Spring days lengthened, birds sang along the riverbank, and the splash of water against the new deck became a comforting backdrop. Neighbours greeted one another a little warmer, each aware of the value of a shared effort and the strength of community.
Beyond the bridge lay new projectsroad repairs, a playground by the schoolbut those would be conversations for another time. Now everyone knew one thing: when they banded together, there was hardly any obstacle they couldnt overcome.
