Bron-26

Continued from Chapter 25: Bron-25 | ABCtales

It was thirty-five years ago, maybe to the very day. They’d all been at Menai Bridge Fair, him, Gwynfor, Rhodri, Evan-Evans, Steffan, the guy they called Y Tarw – couldn’t remember his name - Dai-Wynn, the whole gang from Llanfair. The old fair, before they’d got sick of all the hoodlums and louts – from Liverpool, Manchester, all over North Wales - descending on the small town and causing mayhem.

There’d even been a TV documentary about the old Menai Bridge Fair, when it was in its dying days, the boxing booth proprietor mopping up the blood from the ring on the morning after, for the benefit of the cameras.

The fair had survived, but now it was a quieter, family-friendly affair.

A couple of them had had a go that evening, thirty-five years ago. Dai-Wynn hadn’t lasted the first round against Knockout Ned, ending up crumpled on the canvas like last Christmas’s decorations. Y Tarw hadn’t fared much better, Crusher Collins had seen him off with a sharp left uppercut right at the beginning of round two, thudding onto the canvas like a felled log. Well, they’d all been beered up; staying upright was a hard enough job without some Neanderthal punching seven bells out of you.

But Steffan, he’d done better. Lasted three rounds, won his pound, even though, at the end, every one of Lashing Larry’s punches had thrown him spinning around the ring like a pinball. He could still hear the crowd’s yells, smell the sweat, the canvas shaking and shuddering underfoot.

Some said that, if they reckoned the guy was a no-hoper, they’d sometimes ease off, let someone last the three rounds, carry them. Good publicity; encourage a few of the other local lads to have a go. It was the contenders who showed signs of being a real danger, have some idea what they were about, that the professional would move in and finish them off quickly, like a slaughterman. A quick knockout was a compliment, of sorts.

Still, Steffan stood to become a local legend. Couldn’t have him upstaging him. Not that lisping, blonded headed little seventeen year old. Already, some of the local girls, Megan in the post office, Sian who collected the club subscriptions, they’d all been asking where he was working these days. Too pretty by half.

Steffan’s ‘exploit’ would get exaggerated in the telling; the local ladies would be impressed (none of them would have witnessed the bout, of course. Women weren’t encouraged to linger at Menai Bridge Fair after nightfall.)

The fair had finished. Hours to go before the first bus to Llanfair. They could walk home, of course. Or hang around in Menai Bridge. Find something to do.

Then the idea hit him, like one of Crusher Collins’ jabs to the solar plexus.

“Rwyn betio chi … I bet you, you wouldn’t walk up the Bridge, on the cables, all the way from one end to the other. Ben pob twr - twice, yn ol ac i lawr … down the other side…”

“You bet bloody right,” Rhodri had said. “Chi’n MENTAL!”

And so, he, Dafydd Jones had become the first man – as far as anyone knew – to walk over the Menai Bridge on the grey painted metal of Telford’s hundred and fifty year old suspension cables. Certainly the first man to live to tell the tale.

There’d been a couple of hairy moments. His feet slipped as he was descending from the second tower, but he’d managed to grab hold of one of the huge rivets and steady himself, panting with the exertion, and fear. Getting between the joins between the cables was tricky, the gap much bigger than it appeared from the ground. When he’d made it to the top of each tower, he’d meant to stand tall, arms and hands outspread. Instead, he’d crouched and clung to the cold grey stonework, the wind tugging at his shoulders. Even on a still night down below, there was a lot more wind up there.

Strange to get up so close to the bridge, that familiar thing that nobody gave a thought to as the bus trundled across. From the ground, the cables looked like metal strands, delicate almost - not cold, hard, metallic, and slippery.

Finally, he’d made it down, slithering onto the deck, to the cheers of his mates. They’d been joined by a local bobby, who’d given him a real wigging. Bit ridiculous, really. Constable John Jones was from the village, had gone to school with them, only a couple of years older. You could tell the outrage was an act, his pink face quivering, more with embarassment than rage. Perhaps they had coaching in this sort of thing – being angry with someone when they’d done something stupid. Why should the Police care? It was all anyone could do to stop laughing. Anyway, they didn’t press charges. With what?

And so Dafydd Jones became the stuff  of Llanfairymochnant legend, Steffan comprehensively upstaged.

He’d married Myfanwy six months later. Not that she’d ever mentioned any of it to him.

Slumped alone in his corner seat, he’d come up with his plan in the Liverpool Arms, half an hour before chucking out time. Of necessity, he’d taken to drinking further and further afield; he was now, pretty much, barred from every pub in Holyhead, and most in Llangefini.

Six months ago, he finally been banished from the Farmers after trying to take a swing at a couple of motor-homers from Altrincham. They’d been getting a bit up themselves, going on and on about their self-trimming onboard microwave oven and solar powered security lights.

Huw Evans had been upset. They were the better sort of customer he was anxious to attract, with his chilled dry white wine on tap and soup in a basket…chicken in basket, whatever.

Anyway, he’d send them scurrying back to Manchester with tales of the Anglesey peasantry and he’d been barred from the Farmers. For ever apparently. That’s what Huw Evans had said. Certainly for the foreseeable future.

He’d had to admit it to John-John last week, when he’d suggested a quick pint. “You got barred from the FARMERS? What you do – KILL someone?”

“Tried to,” he’d said.

He hadn’t had that much to drink in the ‘Pool. Not by his recent standards, anyway. A few pints. Whisky chasers. A couple of gin and tonics.

Anyway, his plan. He’d repeat his exploit of thirty-five years ago. Climb up the cables of the bridge, up to the top of each tower, down the other side. Turn back the clock. A reset. A new man.

He’d give up the booze, go to those Alcoholism Anonymously sessions that everyone told him about. He’d sober up, sort out Tan Y Bryn. Mend the barn, and the chicken coop. They’d put the herd up for the County Show.

Then he’d go to Bron, find out where she lived – bloody Myfanwy wouldn’t tell him, but he’d find out, hitchhike down to London if he had to – and apologise, from the bottom of his heart. Promise he’d never lay a finger on her again, unless she asked him. Then (in his imagination) she’d say, ‘Tad, it’s OK, it’s OK. It’s alright.’ They’d smile through their tears, embrace.

Such a pretty girl, such a very pretty girl. She deserved the best.

Adrenaline shot through him. The second tower. This time, he’d paused when he’d got to the top of the second tower of the bridge, stood up, arms akimbo, the wind buffeting, tugging him, trying to spin him around.

“Bron, dwyn’n cariad chi!” he screamed at the traffic thrumming oblivious across the Britannia Bridge to his right, trucks rushing for Holyhead and the ferry to Dublin. That’s what he’d tell her. Only, of course, ‘I love you’, it could mean … it could mean lots of things.

Lights gleamed across the Menai Straits. Below, the water frothed, boiled and churned under the arched piers of Telford’s old suspension bridge. Narrow it may be, but it was still the sea.

Gingerly pacing his feet, one after another on the grey metal, he started his descent. At the first rivet, he paused, gripping it, firmly. Then down again, to the next rivet, the soles of his boots sliding and squeaking. Then, slithering, sliding to the next one.

He’d got this. The only man to cross the Menai Bridge, on the cables. The only man to do it twice.

Just two rivets to go. He could see the grain of the tarmac, reflected in the orange neon of the streetlights. Slide down, catch the rivet, hold it in both hands for an instant, then lever himself over and carry on down …

Twenty feet from the bottom of the curved cable, he felt his arse start to slide. He grabbed at the metal, trying to hug it in his arms. He careened into the final rivet, the pain of it gouging into his thighs barely noticed as he tried, vainly to grab it. Flailing, he threw his feet over the right-hand side of the cable, towards the road. Two broken legs, so what? Then, he felt the rush of the cold night air as he plunged downwards, towards the water below.

This – wasn’t - supposed to happen. He was supposed – to climb the bridge – be a hero - make everything alright with Bron- again. This wasn’t – supposed – to happen…it couldn’t – be happening …

To be continued in Chapter 27: https://www.abctales.com/story/ivan-ok-ish/bron-27