The Bridge

In the early hours, a solitary fox scampered across Birdcage Walk to the sanctuary of St. James’s Park, her paws scuffling through the first fallen leaves of autumn. The night had brought a thunderous display of torrential rain and high winds, leaving in its wake a grey Monday morning of drizzle.

A thin veil of pale light peeped over the rooftops at dawn, revealing a cluster of puddles which glistened as the sun rose to break the fog.

But Londoners are nothing if not resilient, and despite the weather, awaken they would from their lost dreams of a well departed summer to sip their coffee, grab their breakfasts-to-go and turn out in their hoards for their daily commute. Among the very first of them would be Steve, the postman, who cycled on his rounds through the early-morning mist, all the while whistling (usually The Pet Shop Boys, but today he fancied Duran Duran). He had carried many an important letter over the years - unbeknownst to him of course – and on that day, the first day of October, Steve’s mailbag contained a very important letter indeed. Sure, in moments of self-doubt, his wife would dutifully remind him of how essential his job was, to ensure the smooth running of things, but as he worked, he thought nothing of it. He delivered the post, hopped back on his bike, whistled about a girl dancing on the sands (albeit very far away from London) and cycled off, splattering the pavements with rainwater as he went.

Steve had handed over a package of post to a man at the door, who would for the rest of the week be humming about a dusty land for reasons he could not remember, and this man gave it to a housekeeper, who trotted up the steps to a small office in which she handed the package to a clerk. She, in turn, opened the package and passed the letters on to a colleague for inspection only for them all to be handed back to her, so that she could sort them into piles for distribution.

After identifying the stamp on one of the letters, the clerk cradled it against her hip and walked with as much speed as the code of conduct would allow until she reached the door of her superior, where she stood to attention and tapped the dark wood with the back of her knuckles.

A small red light to the left of door handle lit up with permission. The clerk pushed it open and walked through the cloud of cigarette smoke to face her superior, who was sat behind the desk, holding a cold cup of coffee in one hand and a fresh newspaper in the other, at which he frowned, an aging cigarette limp between his thin lips.

After the clerk entered, he did not look up but instead dropped the newspaper and extended his long fingers to accept the delivery which it seemed he was expecting.

His eyes flickered up to the envelope and widened at the insignia on the seal, and he snatched it from her hand in a frenzied desire to see its contents.

The clerk stood with her hands behind her back and watched as the deputy head of staff read, his eyes glistening with tears.

Exactly one floor above the office, a woman was sat on a rather large contemporary curved sofa, her hands grasped around the body of a brandy glass and her gaze fixed on a television set. On the screen was a vision of devastation for an unsuspecting family; the younger sister squeezed the hand of her mother, who lay flat on a bed with various tubes shooting from her face and hands, before throwing her head down on the pale blue blanket, on which she sobbed.

The scene zapped from existence and Miranda dropped the remote onto a glass coffee table. ‘How depressing,’ she muttered, and indulged herself in a sip of brandy.

Relaxing back into her plush grey cushions, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This is it.

Weeks of consultations, test runs, deep thought and preparation had led to this day, this moment. Within ten minutes it would all be over, and she would finally be free.

When her eyes opened, she noticed a neat arrangement of roses in a crystal vase beside the television. They were blushing pink, the colour of the very first bouquet that James had bought for her some forty years ago. Her cheeks warmed with pleasure as she remembered the moment that Deborah from the fourth floor, or ‘Desperate Debs’ as many liked to refer to her – never mind the reason – sat them down in front of Miranda’s typewriter, an expression of pure jealousy etched on her tall face. Miranda giggled at the thought of Debs’ brown mini skirt as it stomped over to the tearoom for a much-needed gossip with the other skirts. How easy it had all been, back in the early days of her working life – the frivolity of living at home was just so delightful, and with only a small keep to pay her mother, she remembered the delight in collecting her wages on a Friday afternoon, and the subsequent dash to the shops to buy a new dress or pair of shoes to add to her collection.

During her senior years, Miranda had been taught many things (and gained a substantial pay rise to boot). Having not had the chance to attend university, she had relied upon self-motivation and upper social circles to learn about the intricacies of fine art, the sophistication of English literature and the brutality of British politics. And despite this wealth of knowledge, her unequivocal love for James had always been incomprehensible to her. His devotion was admirable given her choice of career, and throughout the peaks and troughs, James ensured delivery of a bunch of pink flowers to his wife once a week.

A familiar sound jingled at her feet and awakened an excitement that for some time had settled deep within her heart. Miranda smiled and looked down at her Jack Russell of eight years, Toby, wagging his tail (and his body along with it) with glee, his big brown eyes darting between her face and her hands, full of adoration and anticipation. Miranda moved her hand to hover over a cushion to her left and Toby hopped up onto it before she’d had the chance to tap it with permission. He pawed at the cushion – to find the best spot of course – and curled round in circles until he settled, facing his owner, his paws placed in front of his nose with glorious precision. Miranda patted the top of his crown with her fingertips; she had always been gentle when stroking him, for Toby had a very kind soul, despite his angry bark, although she had always thought it to be quite a sweet sound. As she reached the back of his head, she found the familiar tuft of jet-black hair between his shoulder blades and twirled the smooth fur between her forefinger and thumb. Toby was all white with patches of brown, but there was one little random smudge on the base of his neck that refused to stop growing, and Miranda’s children had always demanded that the groomer never trim that funny little tuft. A real character, Toby was notorious for his mischievous antics around the house, and was loved dearly, especially for the staff who had loved to fuss over him once upon a time.

Toby’s eyes closed as Miranda caressed his neck and back. It had been an unfortunate while since she had been able to spend time with him.

‘I love you,’ she whispered.

When his eyes slowly began to open again and his mouth widened into his own cute little smile, there was an eruption of affection that beamed from her, enveloping them both in a small cloud of contentment. It was their own little bubble of love and safety.

Neither had to say a word, but Miranda knew at once that as Toby was with her, it did not matter what happened next. Everything would be okay.

A footstep in the front hallway burst their bubble. Toby’s tail stiffened as the door opened and Max peeped in through the gap. Miranda gestured with her hand, and he stepped into the room holding a small black phone to his ear. ‘Okay. Expected in five,’ he mumbled, and brought his hands into a clasp behind his waist.

Miranda smiled and stood from the couch. ‘You do know that you can talk to me, Max,’ she said.

He did not reply, but instead stared through her with empty, dark eyes.

‘Well, if you’re not going to talk, then please leave,’ she ordered, turning towards the drinks globe by the sideboard.

‘I must stay, ma’am,’ he said.

Miranda huffed. She poured herself another drink, taking care to make as much noise as she could. That was the thing that made them so unbearable; no conversation, no fun. It was unconscionable, sitting in silence with another. She tipped the tot of brandy down her throat and slammed the glass down on the sideboard. The room was growing colder, and the alcohol warmed her with a short shiver.

Her tonsils burned in protest

Her throat had been bothering her over the past couple of weeks. She remembered hearing someone say that it was probably due the lack of fresh air.

Turning on her heel, she stomped into the dining room, shut the door behind her and turned the key in the lock. Relaxing her back, she slid down the door and swung her legs around to rest on the fluffy red carpet.

Miranda often came to the dining room for some thinking time. The seventies chic décor was something her guests would admire as they dined, and there was something about the burnt orange and red colours that reassured her during times of hardship. There were no windows or overhead lighting (just lamplight), no clocks, or screens. The dining room was for people to eat, drink, and be merry. She glanced over at the scarlet Steepletone record player in the corner and remembered the many times that she and James had barricaded themselves in, dancing for hours in the warm glow.

Of there were the other things they did in that room that would make even your aunt Mary raise an eyebrow.

On the mantlepiece, amid many memory-filled frames of family and friends, was a photo of Miranda and James on their wedding day, which provoked a nostalgic warmth in her heart. How she longed for him now. The thought of him stirred some excitement within her, and closing her eyes, she took a delicate breath. Even in his absence, she could still smell the scent that lingered in his wake, as if his ghost had just strolled past her.

Their wedding day, exactly six months after they had first met, was indeed an exciting affair. Her eyes still closed, Miranda tilted her head back to rest gently against the door, and there she and James were, dancing in the centre of the community hall in South Cambridgeshire where she had enjoyed many childhood years, her bouffant princess dress swishing at her ankles and her false eyelashes sticking to her face. James’ moustache was a thing of brilliance in those days, and she could almost feel it tickling her forehead now, as it did on that day when they danced. The smell of fish and chips wafted in the air, and she had looking up at that glitterball and watched it turn as the seconds passed.

Her sister Winona had delighted in describing the chaos of that evening which Miranda had of course been oblivious to; her youngest twin nieces and their triplet cousins (if you could believe such a misfortune - but a miracle of course, if you were talking to their mother) throwing balls of tin foil and toilet paper across the room and screaming like a gaggle of confused geese, her best friend Maggie throwing up several glasses of vodka and coke on the stage steps, her teenage brothers clashing in what had seemed like an age-long feud that had started over a girl and had ended in a brawl at the bar, where Anthony had decided to throw a glass at Michael, and her dear grandmother asleep in her wheelchair while her youngest brother Sebastian drew on her face with permanent marker pen.

Yet, despite the eruption of hatred and inconvenience – that only the presence of family could create – Miranda and James had remained entwined on the dancefloor in their own soundproof bubble, permeable only by the mellow tones of The Main Ingredient.

She had always let her dear sister tell the story of her failed wedding day. After all, she really did have nothing else, the poor girl. Miranda had always been the ambitious sibling, and the unfortunate path of her brothers and the very ‘normal’ (as her mother described it) path of her sister left her feeling somewhat inadequate at family events, where the conversation if not centred on her would usually fall into the lap of Winona, who could only try to tear down the castle walls of Miranda’s success.

But it was not uncommon in her line of profession to endure miscalculations, humiliation and hardship, which was one thing she would not miss.

There was a tap at the door.

‘Three minutes ma’am,’ Max shouted.

This is it.

Miranda held her breath in her aging lungs.

She had learned the art of breathing not from her dutiful attendance of yoga classes or by listening to a mindfulness podcast - which were all the rage her younger colleagues would have her know - but from her very first doula. She had been expecting her first child Monica in the early eighties, and after a problematic pregnancy, she had turned to a friend of a friend for help to ease the anxieties of the impending birth. Her name was Prudence, and although her coaching had had no effect on the sheer agony and terror of labour, the breathing techniques she had learned from their sessions had come in handy in her later years, most notably before important briefings or conferences. The idea was to breath in deeply over three seconds, hold it for three, and then release it over three final seconds. Of course, as a woman pushes another human being from her body there is little time to manage one’s breathing, especially when all remaining energy must be used to berate her useless partner.

Still, she had regarded her children as the most valuable and important achievement of her lifetime, and often thought of them as her legacy to the world. Monica, her eldest, was a journalist and news broadcaster. Nancy and Tristan, the middle twins, were both barristers, and her youngest, little Liam, was an artist. Her favourite painting of his, a seascape entitled ‘The Last Day,’ sat with pride above the mantlepiece in the study. Most of the family thought it to be quite a scary piece, as the protagonist of the painting, a captain of a ship, can be seen struggling, seemingly caught in the eye of a storm, within touching distance of the shore but in such desperately dire circumstances from which to reach it. Miranda however was drawn to the incandescent glow from the heavens above the dark clouds, at which she could see now held the captain entranced.

She opened her eyes and brought her empty hand to her mouth. ‘There never is enough Brandy,’ she muttered.

Using the umbrella stand as a leaning post, her knees screamed as she clambered up from the floor. Should have taken Pilates instead, she thought. From the collection of smaller, handbag-sized umbrellas in the bottom pocket of the stand, she took her favourite black one and gripped its sturdy handle.

In her teenage years, Miranda’s mother had told her to always leave the house with an umbrella as ‘you really never know’.

This she had scoffed at, until one evening, when she realised her mother had prepared her for more than the unpredictable British weather.

This memory, whenever it reared its ugly head, would transport her back to the chill of North London in late October 1969, just after ten o’clock. The breeze had kissed her freshly powdered cheeks, and the tangy aroma of the sticky hairspray in her backcombed hair had caused her eyes to smart.

Walking to Maggie’s house, her legs had been bare, her heels high, and her mind entangled with thoughts of anticipation.

In the depths of her wardrobe somewhere, that black and white chequered mini skirt was resting in peace.

Her counsellor later told her that she might start remembering that night in fragments, as her mind would try to protect her from the trauma, but Miranda still remembered every second of that journey, and in the farthest corner of her brain in a locked box there was a tiny women enduring that night over and over again, as if lost in a Bermuda triangle of painful memories.

Back in her dining room, her thumb rubbed the plastic umbrella handle. On occasion, if she were alone for too long, Pandora’s Box would reopen and the evil images of that night would flash behind her eyelids; the flicker of the street lamp by the convenience store on the corner of Porter’s Road, the speed of the blue Ford Cortina as it screeched by and the subsequent pang of fear wrapped in relief as she jumped back from the kerbside, and the loud silence that enveloped her as she continued across the park. The turn of her head and the shadow of a man who grabbed her by the shoulder, his hand forced over her mouth, her muffled screams, and the tug on her hair pulling her backwards onto the pavement. The image of her umbrella - as she held it now - and how she flipped it around to wield the softer end. The painful stretch behind her shoulder blade as she smacked him in the face with the handle. The cold air piercing her lungs as she inhaled panicked gasps of oxygen, and the heavy footsteps that thumped in chase.

A spectator with aged hands held over her mouth, she watched her younger self in a desperate scurry to escape, as she turned behind the park swings and shot down the alleyway, taking a quick left and a sharp right until she emerged onto a small housing estate. To her right, at the far end of the street, she saw a group of houses where the windows were lit, and then her shaken arrival at number 51, within which were Doreen and Norman Stacey, the elderly couple who had rescued her with their welcoming kindness and quick-thinking. Her face was pale with terror as she sat behind the safety of Doreen and Norman’s net curtains. In silence, they watched a tall man in a red jumper and blue jeans run up and down the street, shouting with aggression and venom that she had slipped through his fingers. She saw the final glimpses of comfort in a cup of cocoa and a chunky-knit blanket where she and Doreen had sat on the sofa, playing cards and putting the world to rights until the early hours, when Miranda had finally been overwhelmed with exhaustion.

Despite a hardy exterior, the fear from that evening had lingered in the foggier parts of her mind and had prevented her from doing many things over the course of her lifetime. Any instance where she had been alone, whether she was walking from a taxi to her front door or down a hotel corridor to her room, she would be frightened.

Even when guarded, and technically the safest woman in the country, Miranda had felt vulnerable.

Her anxiety was like a hard spiky ball that had been inserted into her ribcage. When inflamed, it would be difficult to speak or breathe. Over the years, she had overcome the grief of the loss of her independence and free spirit. It was a tough pill to swallow, but a necessary truth, that she had to hand her rights over on a silver platter to wealthy and powerful men for consumption. To fatten their own privileges.

Miranda carried the umbrella over to the dining table, dropped it on the floor and sat at the head chair. When entertaining, she would indulge James and sit beside him on the second chair, but on occasions where she would retire to this room alone, she would instead regain some control and sit herself at the chief spot.

She placed her palms flat on the tabletop and smoothed them over the dark, glossy surface. Her wrinkled fingers and pink manicured nails differed enormously to the fresh, varnish-less hands of her youth. A flicker of light ahead caught her eye, and she looked up to see several versions of herself, sat at the other eleven chairs, chatting, drinking, crying, laughing. Images of herself over the years, some even at different tables; flashes of nineties trends, scarlet lips, late pregnancies, early mornings, night feeds, diamond earrings, her hands in the air as she talked to the camera. The ghosts of her past sat around the dining table enjoying their time in silence – until she swallowed, one big gulp – and they all turned to look at her.

The imposter who came to dinner.

Miranda’s back hardened. At the opposite end of the table a much thinner version of herself beckoned with a small hand. Wearing a pastel striped shirt tucked into a brown corduroy skirt, and with straight brunette locks tucked behind her ears (revealing her favourite golden hooped earrings), the girl smiled.

1st January 1974, 15:55.

It was her twenty-third birthday, and her grandmother Reena had visited that afternoon for tea and biscuits. The Carpenters revolved on the turntable. Reena handed Miranda a small box tied with a yellow ribbon, and she had been quick to rip open the present, the ribbon drifting to her feet. She held up from the box a long, silver necklace with a heart-shaped pendant.

In the dining room, Miranda stroked it as it lay under her blouse. She had worn it every day since.

‘Come, my sweetheart,’ Reena had said, gesturing to the cream carpeted floor.

In slow motion, the young Miranda floated to her grandmother’s side crouched at her knees. Reena looped the necklace around her collar and fastened the clasp. With a gentle hand, she stroked her granddaughter’s smooth hair and kissed her forehead. Miranda rushed over to the mantlepiece to admire her gift in the mirror and winked at her grandmother’s graceful reflection.

‘Nanny, it’s beautiful. I love it, thank you!’ she exclaimed, and danced back to Reena for a brief embrace, before she stood for her mother, Nancy, who had been watching from the hallway.

‘You look lovely, sweetheart,’ Nancy cooed. She flicked the tea towel over her shoulder and smiled at Reena, who’s cheeks warmed in return.

‘My dear,’ her grandmother said.

Miranda folded her arms and shifted her weight over to her right knee. Sensing a sudden caution in her grandmother’s voice, she knew all too well what was coming: the burning question every woman in their early twenties was subjected to as part of the routine ‘marry and have children’ initiative in which it seemed every parent and elder relative had been assigned to in the seventies.

‘What is your plan?’ her grandmother asked.

Sat at the dining table, Miranda could feel the ball of anxiety bubbling in her chest, just as it had done in that moment. Watching that afternoon in her parent’s living room, as she had remembered it several times over the years, the silence had never been quite this loud.

‘Well…I don’t really have one,’ the young Miranda had mumbled. She fidgeted with her left hoop earring and looked over to her mother for help.

‘You can’t stay her forever, darling,’ Nancy said, and dipped her head forward, as if she were a mother wren nudging her chick to the edge of the nest in hopes that it will fledge.

Miranda’s young eyes darted from one woman to the other.

After a moment, Reena leaned over and picked up her mug of tea from the coffee table. As she brought it to her lips, she averted her eyes from her granddaughter. ‘You must think about finding a man and settling down, Miranda,’ she said, ‘before it is too late.’

Miranda looked up at the door where her mother had stood moments before and could hear her now clattering pots and pans in the kitchen. Her ears had burned at the realisation of this abandonment. Her grandmother said nothing else, but instead held her hands together on her lap. The memory dissolved as it always had done, with the record player starting to skip on the ‘Please’ of ‘Please Mr. Postman’, and Reena looking over at it in confusion.

In the present, there was only silence, and a single teardrop drying on her left cheek.

There was a loud, sobering tap on the door. ‘One minute, ma’am,’ Max shouted.

Forced to stand from her chair, she felt a sudden pang of fear in her chest. ‘Toby?’ she called. ‘Tobes?’

The room was quiet. On the carpet by the chair, there was a strip of white light that sliced through the rug like a laser beam. She turned and saw that the door was now ajar.

For a moment she stood with her right hand across her middle, unsure of whether she could continue, but fearful with the certainty that she must.

‘Ma’am,’ Max called.

‘I’m not ready. I’m not ready,’ she whispered to the room.

A familiar wet snout poked through the bottom of the gap and edged the door open another inch, illuminating more of the carpet with a white glow.

Placing one heel in front of another, she stepped towards him and pulled the door open with a tentative hand; she had grasped the handle many times in the past few years, but as she released it for what would be the final time, she felt a heaviness in her head and a strange longing in her heart attempting to pull her body back to safety.

From the haven of her beloved dining room into the brightness of the living room, a patent pink toe emerged over the threshold. When Miranda crossed from one room to the other, the heavy weight in her head pushed down through her shoulder blades and into her chest, then down through her abdomen and hips, until it rested at her knees, which wobbled with an anxious tremor. She stepped over to the back of the room and stood in front of the wall adorned with more family photos - memories of her children picnicking on Hampstead Heath, Toby as a puppy with his tongue lopped over the side of his mouth, and one of her and James in Prague, embracing on the bridge of the Vltava river.

A small tongue licked her ankle. Toby’s collar jingled as he trotted to the front door and sat on the doormat. The handle started to turn, and his head cocked to the right in curiosity.

Max pushed the front door open, and a tsunami of light poured into the flat. He stood in the hallway, which was lined with white lilies and pink roses, his back straight and his gaze fixed on Miranda.

‘It’s time, ma’am,’ he said.

She approached the mirror to the side of the door, under which sat her briefcase. The catches snapped open with ease and she retrieved her favourite shade of lipstick, ‘Prime Rose’, from the inside pocket and applied it to her pale lips. With one last glance in the mirror, she smiled at the beautiful colour of her jacket, the same blushing pink as the very first bunch of flowers she had received from James at the tender age of twenty-four. ‘What a glorious suit,’ she said to her reflection.

Max cleared his throat.

The briefcase clipped shut and she turned to leave her flat for the last time. Toby barked at her feet, and she kneeled to comfort him. ‘Okay, darling,’ she said, ‘I’m coming now.’

They stared into one another’s trusting eyes, and a colourful burst of joy erupted within her heart. He turned and bolted out through the front door with excitement, his sweet bark echoing in the distance.

A sudden pressure compressed the sides of her head, causing a pop and a beeping sound to ring in her eardrums.

In her final moment, the faces of her children appeared before her, all of them radiating with their individual smiles. Then, the face of her beloved James, who had helped her to find her own happiness.

One floor below, and in a hospital room in central London, a group of colleagues and a broken family huddled in mourning.

The doormat where Toby had sat was embellished with the colours of the rainbow, and as Miranda crossed the bridge, a peaceful wave washed over her. Max closed the door, taking the light with it, and leaving the memories of Miranda Preston in the stillness behind.

Steve walked his bicycle into the conservatory and leaned it against the wall, next to three pairs of wellington boots; two large and one much smaller, adorned with unicorns. Humming to himself, he smiled as the hearty waft of beef stew opened his nostrils. The joyous scent of home.

He turned to the kitchen door with his arms wide, but Mona did not come running through as usual.

He found her in the living room, sitting on the rug with her legs crossed, watching television.

A small hand stroked his right shoulder. ‘Have you heard?’ asked Jasmine.

‘Heard what?’ Steve said, turning to her voice.

Mona’s red curls danced on her shoulders as her head whipped round. A mixed expression of fear and sadness was caked on her tiny face. ‘She’s gone daddy,’ she cried.

‘She has been inconsolable this afternoon. You know how she idolised her,’ Jasmine whispered. Her fingers rubbed his shoulder once more before she made her way back into the kitchen.

Steve's gaze remained locked on his uncharacteristically quiet daughter who was staring up at the television, on which the image of Prime Minister Miranda Preston graced the screen.