The Weeping

Marianne crossed Willow Bridge twice a month to shop in Willowton, and each time,
without fail, she made sure to call on me. I had grown accustomed to her visits, to the way we made love.  Today, she painted me in glowing eternal embers and joyous sparks while we explored our boundless passion; her breathing softly embraced the fine hairs on my chest.

'I wish we could do this forever,' she said, drawing circles around my bellybutton.

I scoffed at her suggestion. 'Well then, what's to stop us?'

'My parents. You're a struggling artist and they can't get over that. They want someone who will give me financial stability, besides, they think you're too old for me.'

'You're seventeen.  I'm twenty-five for crying out loud. Eight years. Not a huge
difference'

'They say having you in the family will bring embarrassment to our own name.'

'There's nothing wrong with Potts. Besides, I'm not in love with your family.  It's you I
love.'

She kissed me gently on the nose. 'Potts and pans,' she joked.  I looked away from her and found myself staring at the roses outside.

'I can't imagine life without you, Peter.  I want to marry you.'

My heart skipped a beat.  My gaze fell on her bright hazel eyes and delicate skin. Her nose was set between rosy cheekbones and her thin lips invited me into her mouth.  I kissed her gently.  

'If only you knew how much I love you. I cannot eat, sleep or do a simple thing like walk without thinking of you.  When you're not with me I weep constantly.'

'I cannot hide my love any longer.' She said.

'We'll need to plan this.' I suggested.

'No planning. Meg, my sister, is willing to be a witness.  Tomorrow, on Willow Bridge. Twelve- thirty on the dot.'

Willow Bridge was a well known masonry arch bridge with a parapet on either end. It had been an aqueduct, a main road, a railway line, and now served as a walkway between the towns of Chartwell and Willowton.  Behind the Bridge stands Willowton Monastery.  During the reign of Henry VIII  it was closed down in revolt against the papacy. Legend  tells that Lady Elizabeth Chartwell was struck by lightening as she crossed the bridge to meet her lover.  The romance writer, Lucinda Westworth, was found drowned beneath the first arch.

I employed the services of the erudite pastor, Thomas Dingle, a deacon in the Willowton Methodist church. He gladly accepted.  'I married two couples on that bridge, can't remember their names now.  Old age, y'know.'

It was a fine morning. The afternoon brought grey clouds.  The pastor sat beside me on the brick wall, our feet dangling over the side.  A large willow tree had lost her leaves. 

'A penny .' The pastor asked.

'Do you think she'll get here early?'

No sooner had I said those words when Marianne appeared at the other end of the
bridge.  I could have sworn on my mother's grave it was her.  I rushed to meet her,
tripped over a silly stone and fell, scraping my elbows and tearing my trousers at the
kneecaps.  I expected her to rush forward, help me up, dust me down. But when I looked,
she wasn't there.

The pastor leaned over me and said, 'What on earth got into you, son?'

I pointed at the other end of the bridge, 'Marianne was there, only a moment ago. I'm
sure it was her.'

The pastor sadly shook his head, 'We've been alone for the last hour.'

The bells in the towers clanged again and again.  Pastor Dingle looked at his watch. 'It's clear she won't be coming and I have another appointment in fifteen minutes.  I'm sure there is a logical explanation for her behaviour. Well then, I must be on my way. Cheerio.'

I watched the pastor walk away with my dreams in his Bible. I waited for three hours.  Marianne did not come.  My soul had never known such pain. Willow Bridge had cast a shadow over all I held dear. Perhaps her parents had found out that we had planned to marry.  Perhaps a member of the family was ill and she'd been nominated to care for him or her.

At home, my thoughts wagered a million reasons, and, as I wept alone, cuddling my
chest with folded arms, a knock on the door reverberated throughout the house.
Marianne's knock.  Two taps, a pause, two taps.

Marianne, at last! I opened the door. To my utter surprise a young woman stood staring at me through huge, red eyes in a swollen, freckled face.

'I'm Meg.  Marianne's sister.'

'It's Marianne, isn't it?'

I took her hand and gently squeezed. I invited her in.  Poured her a glass of wine.  Her hands trembled as she took the glass. I was calm.  'Where's Marianne?'

'She's dead.'

I didn't understand.  I heard the faraway sound of bagpipes in the monastery playing
Amazing Grace.   A tear fell, then several more and finally my entire face was awash with tears.

Meg continued in a singularly unaffected voice.  'She had everything packed. Including Gran's wedding dress.  She couldn't use the front door.  I suggested she use her bedroom window on the second floor.  She was halfway out of the window when Mum knocked and entered.  Marianne had lost the door key some time ago.  Mum says she fell.  No-one heard a sound. Mum says she must have lost her grip. She can't say for sure what happened except that Marianne looked surprised to see Mum enter the room.  She broke her neck.'

'I'm so sorry, Peter.'

I come to Willow Bridge each year on the same day at precisely 12h30 to meet my love. I know she won't come. She never does. I weep.

Louis J Harris

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Name	Comment	Date
Mandy	Louis, your stories get better and better. This one sets an expectant scene.... one can feel the tension of something about to happen / something bthat didn't happen. I loved the phrase. "I watched the pastor walk away with my dreams in his Bible"..... It is so sad.	2007-10-11
Barbara	Good plot, Louis Harris has the gift of telling a rattling good tale, but I feel his dialogue could be more realistic and less "artificial" as it sounds slightly "stagey" and not the way people actually speak. Also, I think a bit of careful editing would not come amiss - but this should be done carefully, as it would be a pity to destroy the tension of the story and the sense of expectation which Louis has cleverly embodied into the action. The ending though is a it thin and seems very unlikely - pity he couldn't find something more ture to real life. points 2 - This writing needs a bit of editing and/or re-writing	2007-12-13
James Tobias	Great use of emotion. A tendency in places to become too wordy. "A tear fell, then several more and finally my entire face was awash with tears." Perhaps the sentence above doesn’t need the last two words "with tears"? Points 3 - Very promising piece of writing	2007-12-28