Rob reflected on the past month as he watched more rain falling. It had been a bad time overall. Gloomy weather always affected him, but his mood of sadness and depression today was not solely due to climatic conditions.
Months earlier, a beautiful springtime had teased the garden into a riot of colour. The path was edged in brilliant shades of yellow primulas and golden pansies with smiley faces, bulbs added pinks and blues, tree blossoms opened, Rob and Jane were living in bliss, and all was well in the Harrison household.
Then the rot started.
It was sometime in June when matters took a downhill slide. A chill crept in, much like the cold front on the weather pictures. Cool around the edges at first, it gradually seemed there was no sunshine, no laughter. The novelty had worn off, as it does, but in its place nothing remained. Was this the time to move on?
Jane left. He hadn’t reckoned on missing her so much. With an acceptance of his despair, he’d tried to contact her, leaving messages of repentance and regret, but had received no response.
He stared through the window into a wet world, his eyes focussing on rivulets as they ran down the window panes in squiggly, contorted routes, running quickly towards each other, joining up then parting again. He thought, in a deep sort of way, that it reflected their lives, his and Jane‘s, meeting up, being as one, then parting.
The sky hadn’t brightened all morning, much like his spirit really. He couldn’t get much done, so wallowed now in self–pity, watching the progress of devastation in the garden and surrounding fields from a distance. There had been only three decent days in as many weeks.
He detected a pause in the rattling on the conservatory roof. It was letting up. Time to survey his plot and get some air. Sick of being cooped up, Rob went to the back porch, put on his coat and Wellington boots and stepped out. What a mess met his eyes. The adjoining field full of corn, so recently standing erect with golden heads nodding in the breeze was laid low, a sodden sorry sight. Water in the garden stood in hollows, with nowhere to soak in. In parts, puddles joined up to form complete pools. Tall flower heads bent over, dripping, their beauty gone for this season. Through the gate he crossed to the adjoining waterway, a land drain, but wide like a small river. It was currently higher than he’d seen it since he’d moved in, and was flowing strongly. A creaking sound puzzled him. What was that? He stood and listened. Louder now, it was almost a painful groan, and then another. Round a bend was the bridge which had once led to cottages and was still an access crossing. Water in the drain had pushed upwards within the high banks, covering the heavyboards which formed the deck, these being the source of the noise.
As Rob observed, he saw the water, like a monster, push the stout planks from their framework. Robust connections were tested to their limits. They gave in, came adrift, and the huge structure became unstable.
Piece by piece, the solid safe way which had stood for almost a century, and had been trustedby so many travelling that way, loosened from its bounds.
‘Goodness,’ Rob muttered to no-one but himself, ‘it’s coming apart!’
He watched in dismay as the massive timbers began to float on the heaving water; such was the strength and force of the continuous surge. The thought came to him that there would be no crossing the bridge now, although the supports were there, and one day it could be repaired.
Dark clouds overhead were a portent of what was to come. Rob brooded again on dark clouds above and darkness in his present life. The broken bridge carried a degree of significance of its own.
Returning up the sloping field, head down, he was unaware of a distant figure
