WHITE ROBED ANGEL & OTHER STORIES

BOY ON A BRIDGE
When the River Colne reaches Huddersfield, it snakes its way through Longroyd Bridge to Folly
Hall at the foot of Chapel Hill, from where it widens and slithers along Damside at Newsome
before heading out of town via Aspley and Colnebridge. The main road is carried across the cast
iron bridge on Newsome Road as it was then. Opposite Zetland Street was an old wooden
footbridge that owed much to practical considerations and more to functionality.

This old wooden footbridge crossed from Colne Road at the town side over to the foot of the steps
leading to Pip Hill, as Primrose Hill was known. To stand on this bridge was to enter a different
world. Damside, Newsome, and Primrose Hill were outlands that had characters different from
the parts of town with which I was most familiar. It was a passage of escape from the world and
its hostility to places that did not know me and, therefore, had no hold on me.

My Auntie Nora lived at 3 Riley Street, Damside, with Uncle Will Stead and their four children,
Brian, Shirley, Audrey, and Keith. This had been my stepfather, Tommy Scott’s, house before he
married my mother. A visit to their house, though infrequent, was also a release. Their home had
different rules, a family configuration that was not confusing, and was a place of lightness and
cheeriness that elevated my spirit. My sister Rene and I loved to visit them.

We walked down the ancient grassed roadway, Carriage Drive, from Water Street near Spring
Grove school, or skipped down Springwood Street and East Parade as far as Queen Street South,
down Zetland Street and across the wooden bridge, never crossing the bridge all at once. We
always stopped in the middle to stare down into the murky waters. When crossing by myself, I
always did the same. As much as an hour could be lost gazing into the stream while considering
the meaning of life, the universe, and everything.

In time, the old bridge died and was laid to rest. Were I to cross the ugly new iron and concrete
footbridge, I still could not make it across in a single journey. Even now, I would be compelled to
take my customary pause and see if ancient questions and their solutions were revived in my
memory.

On neither one bank nor the other, it offered new perspectives on old problems. Invariably, my
most pressing enigma was “What am I doing here, and how do I get out of it?” Life held few
agreeable things for me – an awkward, shy, and uncertain young boy who felt that he did not
belong.

Being in the middle of the bridge seemed to remove me from the arena of conflict and life’s
unending pain. My folded arms and my chest, plonked on the flimsy handrail, would take the
weight off my body and my legs would be freed from the earth. I did not reach up as far as
heaven but I was suspended from the earth and its sullen concerns, at least for a time.

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

All Rights Reserved

1
 WHITE ROBED ANGEL & OTHER STORIES

The gloomy waters swirled below. With a little application, it could seem as if I was moving
backwards, and the river standing still. Had I invented time travel? The coloration of the water
was remarkable; several mills along that stretch poured out their effluent openly, untrammelled by
environmental concerns.

Dye works, plentiful then in the West Riding, transformed common cloth pieces into bright hues
of exotic imagination, and unconsciously lent otherworldly shades to the foul water. It was
beautiful to dream above such brilliance and splendour, but bad news for the fish that occasionally
tried to establish themselves where their ancestors had splashed and played in the clear waters of
pre-industrial times.

What had life been like? This had always been one of my common musings. Who had lived in
those houses years ago? What were they like and, were they happy? Imagining that everyone
else’s life was a perfect heaven of happiness and pleasure, I transported myself into their lives,
escaping the unacceptable reality of my own life. It worked for as long as the sun shone, the rain
stayed away, or my arms and chest began to hurt from holding me up. One needs fair weather and
rigour to dream well. To escape, one needs miracles.

Wandering across the other half of the bridge, the dreaming over, and the pedestrian hurting world
back on top, I pondered how I could escape. With no sense of dying and no thoughts of running
away entering my mind, I looked for an answer that never came. At least, not during my
childhood.

There are other bridges. During my passage over the bridge from childhood to manhood, I
discovered God and religion. Two young ministers taught me such things that made me marvel,
and my spirit was deeply touched. Then began the transformation of my life, the secret of a
happy life was not to escape, but to walk a different road.

The answer to my predicament was not to be found by gazing aimlessly into polluted waters,
however attractive they are made to appear. Truth and release are obtained in the clear light of
heaven and the goodness of God and his Son.

Humanity stands suspended between truth and error, between imprisonment and freedom,
between light and darkness, heaven and earth, life and death: looking in the wrong direction,
expecting magic from impotence, and miracles from empty hands, whilst the greatest liberating
power in the universe waits to bless us if we will but turn our eyes to him. Still stands the bridge
from God to man. Still stands the ancient promise:

Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

All Rights Reserved