Life by the bridge

There has been a Grimpenpound working this bridge ever since it was built, but I’m the last. Slubby Grimpenpound, that’s me. I used to enjoy my job. Making sure the ropes were sound and the boards solid. Never got to see any of the clients properly though, even though we heard them plenty, trip-trapping across the top.
It’s not been the same since my Treegirth went though. She left our filthy little house under the bridge to go out for an evening with ‘the girls’ and never came back. She was lovely. Uneven teeth, fat as a fresh-baked bun. Even had the same curranty little eyes. And her hair … I loved those straggly green strands. Great for dragging her around by. Do you know, the council put up one of those new modern art statues and it looks just like her? Appeared overnight it did.
Since she went I can’t be bothered with the maintenance, so a few of the planks are missing and the ropes have been better. I even heard one cheeky little toad call it ‘the rickety rackety bridge’ the other day. If it hadn’t been daylight, I’d have flipped his warty brown face over the side there and then. And believe me, it’s long way down into that gorge. I know. I’ve been down.
How?
Well, I manage to make a living. See, over there’s the town, and on that side there’s some pretty lush Grass. Don’t fancy it myself much, but there are those who do like to roll in their own. They pay me a toll to get over there. You know, throw the odd loaf of mouldy bread or half a dozen rotten eggs down the chimney. It isn’t much, but I get by. Then, last year, I had a run in with the local bully boys. “The Gruff Gang” they call themselves. Ugly-looking bunch they are. Four legs each. Curly horns and eyes like the devil himself. Father and his two sons. And all called by the same name – Billy.
Then one night I heard it. Little feet on my bridge right in the middle of “East Neighbours in the Street.” So out I leaped and faced him. They’re not supposed to go there at night, see.
‘Who’s that walking on MY bridge?’ I said. I’ve got to say that. It’s in my contract of employment.
‘It’s me. Little Billy Gruff,’ came this voice. ‘I need some Grass.’
‘Not on my watch, you don’t,’ I said, and I glared at him. Not to frighten him, you understand, just a warning. And off he trotted into the night. In I went, and I was just sitting down with a cup of tea when I heard middle–sized feet on my bridge. So out I leaped again.
Who’s that walking on MY bridge?’
‘It’s me. Middle-sized Billy Gruff. I need some Grass.’ I had to glare a bit harder to get rid of this one – make my eye glow just a bit brighter, but off he went without a word, and I was just going on in when I heard thundering footsteps coming in my direction. Mind, there were one or two choice words as he missed his footing on the broken planks, but suddenly, there he was, Big Billy Gruff, the daddy of them all.
‘Who’s that …’
‘You been stopping my boys from having a bit of recreational Grass,’ he says in that deep voice, eyeballing me with those yellow slits of his. And before I knew it, he had me up on those horns and over the side. I thought I was a goner then. Next thing I knew, I was pulling myself out of the river at the bottom of the gorge. Luckily, it had been raining a lot and the river was high. Took hours to get back to the top, but the mud was lovely. House hasn’t been so filthy since my Treegirth was here.

Posted by S. Grimpenpound