Fenwick Doyle: A Procession to Nowhere in Sensible Shoes

Right. Gorm, is it? Lovely. Running order: grandmother first, handcart second, carter third, me last. We're behind schedule. What's the hold-up?

Gorm scans you, not quite impressed. "Schedule? This bridge's arches have stood longer than your planning fuss. The drover's sheep gone walkabout since last week, and that's my headscratcher today. No sheep, no leniency. "He taps the chain with a grunt, eyeing the receipt limply wet. "Your order's noted, but tethered to more than plans, I’m afraid."

Missing sheep. Fine, a guest-list problem. How many, whose drover, and which bank did they wander from? Numbers, Gorm. I can't plan around vague.

Gorm scratches at his unkempt beard and says, "Drover Jaspin, runs the livestock from the east bank. Said he'd bring me a sheep for last week's flock, but the beast vanished. Numbers? Just one missing sheep, but that's trouble enough for my toll. The chain stays till that account's settled." His eyes narrow at your face, gauging your patience or lack thereof.

One sheep, Jaspin, east bank. He's not at this table. You're seating his debt with my guests. The carter's going east: he carries your note to Jaspin.

Gorm's eyes narrow. "You want me to trust a carter with my toll note as a promise for Jaspin's sheep? That's a whimsy dressed as a plan." He rubs the chain thoughtfully. "If that carter can get the sheep or proof it’s on its way before sundown, maybe I consider opening. But I’m not counting goats just on words."

The carter can't fetch proof from a bank he can't reach. I chase unpaid suppliers for a living. Put Jaspin's debt on my receipt; I collect it myself.

Gorm snorts, unfazed by your self-assigned debt collector role. "Your receipt's marked for one copper, not sheep debts or supplier chases. This isn’t your ledger." He steps back from the chain, arms still crossed. "I hold the bridge, not your collection agency. If you're after transit, I want something that fits my books — sheep or silver, no receipts for IOUs."

Timings, Gorm. You've not looked at the water once. It's a hand under the second arch. In an hour there is no toll to collect from anyone. Look at it.

Gorm's glare shifts briefly to the river, then quickly back to you, his patience thinning as noticeably as the daylight. "I’ve built this bridge to last floods and fools alike. Not compelled to worry what the water’s doing now." He taps the chain, firm as ever. "An hour or a minute, my toll holds till Jaspin’s sheep or silver shows up. No more theatrics. No crossing without it."

Fits your books? Here's your own paper: one copper, your stamp, a crossing. An entry you already made. Honour it, and the grandmother is my plus-one.

Gorm squints at the sodden receipt you flap like a flag of surrender and then snorts. "Paper's thin as the truth it promises. Your grandmother’s presence doesn’t add weight to my scales." He meanders to the chain and taps the arch, recounting his handiwork with a grunt. "If your ‘plus-one’ can fetch Jaspin's sheep or silver, the bridge swings wide. Until then, even your receipt’s a soggy promise."

Places, everyone. I take the grandmother's arm, line up handcart and carter behind, and walk the procession to the chain, receipt out as the ticket.

Gorm clicks his tongue, watching the parade shuffle up with soaked receipt in hand. "Bringing the crowd and the soggy promise doesn’t clear Jaspin’s debt, you see. I built and guard this bridge; I don’t trade nostalgia for passersby." He chains the barrier tighter and fixes you with a withering look. "Without the sheep or coin, this stroll’s for nothing but you. Night comes; my toll holds firm."