put his hand on his hip and looked around. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘It’s easier than cutting them off, and I’ll tell you about Enid.’
‘Another lucky woman?’
Barry nodded proudly. ‘A dog stylist.’
‘I thought you didn’t like dogs.’
‘I like cats better, but she looks great in her photo.’
Mitchell moved the conversation on by describing Yvette’s lock to Barry. He tried to remember roughly where she’d fastened it.
‘At least it’s a different shape to the norm,’ Barry said as the two men crouched down on the pavement. They worked methodically, examining locks on a stretch of railing, one by one.
‘Are you sure we’ve got the right place?’ he asked after a while when they failed to find it.
Mitchell was beginning to doubt himself, too. ‘Let’s try further along.’
As he picked up another padlock, he became aware of someone standing behind him.
‘Are you him?’ a voice said. ‘The Hero on the Bridge? You look like him.’
Mitchell and Barry looked up to see a young woman clutching a fake Mulberry mustard-coloured satchel. She had an ice-blonde straight bob and wore a white blouse with a large bow at the neck. Plasters were stuck to the back of her heels, where her half-size-too-small designer court shoes had chafed.
Barry stood up and smoothed his hair. ‘Barry Waters,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
She gave him a withering look. ‘I meant him.’ She held her hand out towards Mitchell. ‘I’m Susan Smythe.’
Mitchell recognized her name from the online article. He straightened himself up and tentatively returned her handshake.
‘I’m a journalist,’ she said. ‘Well, in training.’
He retracted his hand. ‘We don’t know anything about Word Up,’ he said dismissively. ‘We get asked about them all the time.’
‘That’s not why I’m here.’ Susan’s eyes glistened as she took a tissue out of her satchel, giving her nose a blow.
‘Hay fever?’ Mitchell asked warily.
‘I’m gathering myself. I’m a bit, um… I’m rather upset.’
Barry took a step to the side. ‘Time for my break,’ he said and sidled away. ‘Catch you later.’
Mitchell waited for Susan’s sniffling to stop. She stuffed her tissue back into her satchel and moved the strap higher on her shoulder. ‘I wrote a piece about you for the Upchester News channel. Your name is Mitchell Fisher, right?’
He nodded reluctantly.
‘I recognized your, um…’ She eyed his face.
‘My courageous and dashing nature?’ he quoted from her article.
‘I was about to say your eyes. I came to give you something.’ She opened her satchel again and took out a batch of ten or so letters fastened together with a purple rubber band. ‘These. They arrived this morning. I, um…’ Her tissue reappeared, and she spoke to herself through clenched teeth. ‘All I want to do is come up with a great story, and I messed up. Again.’
Mitchell was surprised to feel a touch of paternal-like concern towards her. There was something about her determined demeanour that reminded him of Poppy. ‘I’m sure you’ve done nothing of the sort.’
She gave him a self-depreciating smile. ‘My first week on the job, I spilled coffee on a politician. During the second week I got stuck in a traffic jam and missed an interview with Brad Beatty.’
‘Brad who?’
‘The lead singer of Word Up. For my triple whammy I wrote an article about you jumping from the bridge and didn’t include your name. I asked the general public to submit their stories and didn’t publish an email address. The news channel address was printed online, so people sent letters instead. And, here they are.’ She proffered them to him.
Mitchell thought of all the envelopes stuffed in his nightstand drawer and he raised a palm. ‘Thank you, but I have plenty of my own.’
Susan kept her hand outstretched. ‘My boss warned me not to mess up again. I thought you could help me out.’
‘Um, how?’
‘Perhaps by reading these letters and selecting a winner for the competition? They’re all addressed to you, anyway.’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, I want to move on from what happened.’
She gave a defeated sigh. ‘I suppose I’ll just throw them away, then. Or leave them on my boss’s desk, where he’ll use them as coasters. He’s more interested in the sport and crime stories.’
Mitchell glanced at the letters in her hand. He’d so enjoyed receiving the ones Anita sent him in the past. He wished he’d kept them to remind himself that she did love him, once. With some reluctance, he took the letters from Susan and hoped there weren’t any featuring red hearts among them.
The top envelope was textured and white, already opened, so he slid out the letter and read it.
Dear Sir/Madam,
My neighbour read your story about the heroic man on the redbrick bridge, and I felt compelled to write and tell you mine.
I was nineteen when I met Douglas and he was twenty-two. We met on the same red bridge, many years ago. The Second World War had just ended and the streets rang with cheering and laughter, as the entire city celebrated. Strangers kissed strangers and didn’t care who watched.
I first saw him standing in the middle of the bridge in his army uniform. He looked so handsome and tall, like a matinee idol. Our eyes met. He said hello and I smiled back. For a while we were like small birds, a little shy of each other. But then he took off his hat and scooped me into his arms. I’d never kissed a man before and my first time was definitely the most memorable.
Afterwards, Douglas apologized. ‘I got caught up in the moment,’ he said. ‘I usually treat ladies with respect.’ But I really didn’t mind. He insisted on walking me home and shook my father’s hand. ‘May I request your permission to take your daughter out one afternoon for tea, sir?’ he asked, and I tried not to smile, for we were already acquainted well.
My father was a kind man and he liked Douglas straightaway. When we eventually got engaged and married, he was delighted to have a new gentleman addition to the family. I wonder if he’d have felt the same if he had seen us kissing on the bridge!
My father died many years ago and Douglas passed on six months ago, God rest his soul. Today, I hung a padlock on the bridge in his memory. I’m
