Best Australian Yarn: An Unlit Bridge by Gaby Brown

Why do you want to build a bridge like the Sydney Harbour Bridge? Why not, I guess. Ant was expecting the question, but every time someone asked, her mind went tight. Sometimes we do things, and we figure out why later on. The plumber nodded, and knelt to look along the creek where rabbits had honeycombed the bank. A plastic pipe bobbed in the flow, connected to nothing, just for show. The last time the property needed a water supply was before the fires, when there was still a farmhouse. So what’s Ant short for? Antoinette. Your parents French? Pretentious. Ant had bought the farm with the dribble of funds she had left after leaving the city. Walking away had felt exhilarating and deeply disturbing. A deliberate act of destruction, holding a foot against the neck of her own life. The flight out west was not far or fast enough. Now, here, was nowhere. An echoic depression of bare hillsides and damp paddocks. Remnant eucalypts lined the valley floor, snatching at tufts of mist. Cows, horses, more cows. This was dairy country. That night, Ant ate alone at the town’s one pub, under a curling photograph of someone’s debutante daughter. She lined up the salt and pepper shakers and touched her knife against her fork to form an arch. Around eight, the plumber walked in with a date. A glorious roar sounded from behind the bar. Johhhnnny boy! What are you doing, hitting the town with Fiona’s girl? John ducked as a cork flew across the room. His date was older, no-one’s girl, and outshone him ten to one. She was beautiful in a stark manner, and the whole pub knew she wouldn’t waste long with a man who’d had his hands up half the s-bends in the district. But still, John looked happy that his social excursion had been loudly acclaimed. He clocked Ant at the corner table and steered his date over for a show. So, I’ve been thinking about your bridge. You’ll need some labour. And we’ll need steel – arches – pylons. The works. The big question is - why? Ant stared at her plate. You asked that already. John’s date hauled him away with a half-smile. Next morning, past the lone brick chimney of the old farmhouse, down the hill at the creek, two cars were parked beside John’s ute, one with a large trailer. Ant! This is Barney, and this is Dale and Karen. They’re going to help you build the bridge. And get over it! Barney’s laugh was wet as a westerly. Karen peeled the tarpaulin off the trailer. The tray was packed with ancient steel trusses. Had these lying around forever. Make a good harbour bridge, you reckon? Over the next week they camped on the hill above the creek. A ragged tent city grew daily as people in town heard about the project. That new woman, from Sydney – she’s building a replica harbour bridge out at Anna’s old place! But, why? Dale was thin, with a ciggie stuck to his lip. He made the tea, ashing in the cups by accident more than once. Karen tripped a circle around the fire, her waist-length hair dragging in the coals when she bent to blow the smoke. She tucked it under an alpaca wool beanie, but the edges had grown loose under the weight and spilled like a dam. She produced a hessian bag full of mushrooms, foraged from the old pine plantation, tipped them into a pot and sat back on her heels to watch. Some for lunch, others for personal purposes. In the city, Ant hadn’t embraced the wonders of friendship. The rules were too hard to follow. She unwittingly transgressed every undrawn line, boxing against boundaries that sprang up as she approached. School mates grew dull. Work acquaintances stuck together, going out on weekends. From her balcony, she often saw them trawling home like rudderless ships in the secret hours. Did you hear about the bridge? Yep. But has anyone told her about Allerton? They helped build the real Sydney harbour bridge with their river sand or something. There’s a sign beside the river. It’s been done. Yeah, but it’s just a sign. The Allerton bridge looks nothing like the harbour bridge. Missed a trick there, I think. Curiosity drew more onlookers to the campsite, and the mood grew jollier by the day. Dave from the men’s shed built a slip and slide down the hillside. Everything went down it – men, dogs, a beer keg, a man riding a beer keg like a bull. The water was rigged from the creek with a hose, and was so cold it stung like shards. The real work was ahead, but people milled around for hours, drinking opinions and instant coffee. The first pylon was created on day two, out of timber, nails and concrete poured by hand. It wasn’t beautiful, but it didn’t immediately collapse into the creek either. On day three, pylon number two was erected on the opposite bank. Logs were hauled and hand-cut, and balanced from bank to bank. The bridge was simple, and vastly unattractive, but it made progress. Then came the ridiculous process of strapping the trusses together to form the arches. Three people a side, tilting and staggering, inching steel along the deck to the correct position. Two trusses tipped and slid down the bank, to be lassoed back into play with an effort that would have won ribbons at the annual show. By day five, they’d run out of butter and bacon. Two months after leaving the city, it was the minor details Ant remembered the most clearly. The sound of buses, rambunctious and insultingly loud. The smell of her barista’s aftershave. The way endless blue reflected in the geometric tower windows, like sky piled on sky. On the farm, she lost her sound sense. City and country crowded for space in her ear’s understanding. A rooster crowed like a drill. Spring thunder shook like a building site. On day six, Gunter the electrician was called to scope out the possibility of lighting the deck. Everyone had an idea about how it should look. Up-lights, downlights, beams into the sky. They all knew it was futile – there was no power source – but Gunter also had the best micro-brewery within 50 kilometres and a generous pour, so his involvement was guaranteed. On day eight, the bridge was finished. It was a marvel of modern underachievement and a beacon of community spirit. One by one, the group of campers and add-ons traipsed across it, trying it out. It wobbled more than it was supposed to, and the CWA women who had brought scones and cut a ceremonial ribbon now crossed with arms out like capital Ts. Someone’s children appeared with a bucket of salmon-coloured paint, and began splashing the railings. Ant stood, wondering if she was supposed to make a speech. She hasn’t thought about it at all. She hadn’t had a plan of any kind. It all happened in a vacuum, and the imbalance was redressed with a brilliant kind of insanity. A goat was brought in to mow the long grass around the pylons. It quickly broke its rope and was found asleep in one of the tents, muzzle deep in a bag of chilli corn chips. That evening, Karen disappeared into the bush, evaporating as night dropped. But when the sun threw the first spear over the hill next morning, every tent was reassuringly occupied. Dale crouched outside his door, stoking the fire into acquiescence. Barney purged the humidity from his chest. The others did very little, murmuring and stretching. What was there to do now anyway, except cook, and pack down the camp site. Many had already left, with amusement to dine out on for decades. As the hours passed, no-one moved to drop a rope, or sweep the ubiquitous grey dust from their tent floor. By the time shadows crawled over the paddock, the ring of camp chairs was still plump with bottom-heavy occupants. The stupor was universal - this was too good to leave. Come. I did something. It was after dusk. Karen rose from her seat, but maybe it was just a whorl of smoke. Come. Now it was a real sound, insistent. Karen waited as the group picked up torches and followed. No-one asked why. The gully grasses were already dripping with early dew. Black bushes threw focus onto the rearing angles of the bridge frame. Torches off. Pupils raced outwards in quick adjustment. The group crossed the bridge deck, trepidatious, stepping like ponies. A soft green light washed around their feet. From pylon to pylon, scalloped fans glowed brightly along the logs. Tiny beetles crawled along the rubbery plates, and moths batted against delicate gills, before dropping into darkness. I seeded the bridge with Omphalotus nidiformis. Ghost fungi. The fungus was all through the timbers. In the days it took for a community to build a bridge, spores were settling and taking shape. No-one noticed the fungus appearing until it began to signal for company. Its presence heralded the eventual ruin of a structure that had only just been created. But there on the bridge, lit quietly by fungi and stars, it no longer mattered why. It mattered who. Sometimes we do things together, and we figure it out.

Best Australian Yarn: An Unlit Bridge by Gaby Brown

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