She wore a wide-brimmed black hat, a grey shawl over her increasingly pronounced hunchback; heavy tweed skirt and white stockings with sensible, square-toed black shoes. He face looked like driftwood, and her beady black eyes peered out over her hooked nose with mild suspicion.

“Hello?”

No answer. She could hear the rushing creek echo beneath the bridge, and the wind shaking loose leaves – but no boys at play.

Maybe they were hiding. It was the kind of thing boys did, jumping out of bushes to scare old ladies. Adel welcomed it, and gripped the handle of her cane, ready to give a good thumping if the opportunity presented itself. That was one of the secret benefits of being aged – beneath regard, but outside accountability. In life, she was a school teacher – and old enough to remember when the rod was a corrective tool and not child abuse. Adel found the world increasingly hysterical these days, which was another reason why she liked to watch. Better than those damn afternoon stories, anyway.

She shuffled along, cane tip rat-tat-tatting on the smooth stones of the bridgeway. Where green bridge crossed Blackwood, the trees crowded in, deepening the path ahead with shadows. Adel squinted. Her eyesight was strong – even more so since she had her cataracts removed and got that fancy laser surgery a few years ago – and there had never been anything wrong with her hearing. If there really were boys in the bushes, she expected she would catch some sign of them the closer she got to the bikes – but there was nothing.

Adel looked out over the creek. She supposed it was just as well. The grey day was starting to make her feel tired, anyway. Not up for boy-thumping, much. She sighed as she reached the end of the bridge.

They hadn’t been left in a hurry – both bikes upright with their kickstands out. Adel looked down through the trees at the dark water. It was deep here, deep enough for careless lads to drown. She saw it clearly in her mind. Two young chaps horsing around, one falls in and the other follows in attempted heroics, and both get carried under by the current and panic.

“Oh dear,” she muttered. She looked down the path the way she had come, into the open park.

She should go tell someone. She was in no shape to go traipsing down rocky terrain after two boys who were very likely dead. James, as tolerant as he’d grown, would pitch a fit – if she survived. Never mind the ground - there was nothing more treacherous for her than her ratty old legs; they would likely throw her into the creek on spite alone, if she made it down. Which she probably wouldn’t – look at that root, hidden half buried in loose dirt just begging for an ankle to break! And this rock, ready to slice a poor old woman’s ear right off! And this muskrat hole, vile, dirty things, muskrats, she remembered the one her Jimmy had once found, sick with the rabies, what an ordeal that had been…

And in this way, Adel mumbled and complained her way down the slope to stand beside the creek. She brushed her hands on her skirt, adjusted her hat, and tapped her cane against a tree – tat-tat-tat.

“Yoohoo!” she said.

Her voice carried under the bridge and mocked her.

She scanned the swift creek. Nothing but murky water. If they had drown, they were lost to the current – and would likely turn up stuck in a grate miles and miles away. She shook her head and tutted. Such a shame.

But they could be here – and hurt, but alive. She didn’t think of what she could do for them, because really, there wasn’t much. Maybe a pat on the head and the promise of help. Provided she could make it back up to path, and saw some young chappie with a cell phone.

Adel Finch shuffled toward the underside of the bridge.




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