The Bridge

For as long as Callum could remember, the only way across Loch Carran had been the little ferry. It was run by Mr. Munro, who had been doing the job for thirty-five years, and it was canceled every time the wind was too strong. When Callum was eleven, the village was told that a bridge would be built at last.

The first sign appeared in March. A large board was put up beside the road: "New crossing to be completed by December." Callum's father read it twice and shook his head. "They've been promising us a bridge since I was your age," he said. "I'll believe it's finished when I see it with my own eyes."

But by April, things were definitely being done. A temporary road was cut through the trees on both sides of the loch, and huge machines were brought in on lorries. Callum cycled down after school every day. From the top of the hill he could see the site office, a row of white cabins, and men in orange jackets who always seemed to be shouting into radios.

In May, the foundations were laid. Callum learned the word "pier" from an engineer called Fiona, who caught him watching through the fence and, instead of sending him away, showed him the plans. She explained that steel tubes were being driven deep into the bed of the loch, and that concrete would be poured into them. "Everything you'll see later depends on what's being done now," she said. "Nobody will ever notice it, but if it isn't done properly, nothing else will stand up."

Over the summer, the piers were raised one by one. Callum kept a notebook, as Fiona had suggested, and every week he wrote down what had been done. "Pier 3 has been finished. Pier 4 is being poured. The big crane has been moved to the north side." His teacher was so impressed that she asked him to read it to the whole class.

Not everybody in the village was happy. Some people complained that the view had been spoiled, and others worried that the shop would lose customers once drivers could go straight past. Mr. Munro said very little. When Callum asked him what he would do when the ferry was no longer needed, the old man looked out at the water for a long time. "I expect I'll be asked to retire," he said. "I've been asked before, mind you."

In September, the most exciting part began. The steel sections of the deck, which had been made in a factory near Glasgow, were brought down the loch on barges and lifted into place by an enormous floating crane. Half the village came to watch. Each section was lowered so slowly that you could hardly see it move, and when the last one of the day had been bolted in, everyone on the shore cheered.

Then the weather changed. October storms stopped the work for almost two weeks, and Callum heard his father telling the neighbors that the bridge would never be finished before winter. Fiona was less worried. "Storms are always planned for," she told Callum. "The deck has been fixed and the hardest work has already been done. By the time the snow comes, the road will have been surfaced and the lights will have been put in."

She was right. On the first Saturday of December, the bridge was officially opened. The ribbon was cut by the oldest person in the village, a woman of ninety-eight who said she had been waiting for a bridge since 1950. Then Mr. Munro was invited to drive the first car across, and he did, very slowly, with Callum in the passenger seat and the whole village waving from the shore.

The ferry was not sold in the end. It has been repainted, and it is now used for summer trips around the loch, which are run, of course, by Mr. Munro. Callum's notebook was shown to the engineers, who asked if they could copy it for their records. The original is kept in a glass case in the village hall, next to a photo of the day the last section was lifted into place. Even Callum's father admits that it is a very good bridge.