From the day on which she came to the town as a bride, she had hated that bridge. It was old and crumbling, its stonework wearing way under the strain of years, its roadway sagging into holes on which the local council's casual stone-filling had little effect. 

"Is it safe?” asked Margaret, stepping gingerly over it, too much aware of the deep, sluggish river below. The local inhabitants, to whom it had become a part of the landscape, merely shrugged and admitted:

 “It's getting old, but it will last our time.”

 It would have lasted their time, and their children's time too, had it borne but the traffic of slow country carts and the occasional carriage which had been all the burden demanded of it in its youth. But progress had brought speed, and the careering buses and lorries rocked the old bridge until it groaned protestingly, and humped itself  into new curves and ditches. 

At last, even the local authorities began to look at it with considering eyes, moved to action by the comment of visitors, and gradually it came to be admitted that a new bridges if not actually necessary, was at least desirable.

 Margaret, reeling of their deliberations, heaved a sigh of relief — Soon, perhaps, it would be possible to cross the town without that shuddering fear. Little she realised, how slowly action follows, deliberation in the country town and, as month followed month, the new bridge, pictured in her mind, seemed but a dream vision - the old bridge more and more real in its lurking peril. 

It was in the fanciful days of pregnancy that Margaret first felt a conviction of the bridge's secret enmity. Standing on it, feeling the ground quiver beneath the rush of heavy lorries, she say in a sudden flush the collapse that must come. One moment, gay red buses and carefree lorries, the next crashing, headlong disaster -- passengers fighting for their life in the weed-filled river below. It was so real, so vivid, that her hand leapt to her mouth to stifle the instinctive scream, and, with heart thumping painfully, she fled back to the safe road again. In the security of her home, she could laugh at her visions, talk calmly of the plans for rebuilding which were now  taking shape, but faced with the prospect of crossing to the other side, her terror returned unabated. Clutching her coat about her she would hurry over as if pursued, pausing to draw a breath of thankfulness on the other side. 

“It will happen one day," she whispered to herself. “I know it must happen some day.”

 Her imaginations always too vivid, drew pictures of the fight for life in the water below. 

“I can swim," she whispered to the picture-drawer, consolingly, "If the weeds are not too thick .." 

 As the weeks passed on, Margaret kept away from the bridge. It was comforting to think that there was no merit at such a time in forcing the unwilling flesh to deeds of bravery, that there was indeed more merit in the calm, uneventful country walk that took her out of the town. 

"For the baby's sake," she said, as she turned her back on the bridge and, knowing it but a clock for cowardice, assured herself that the dream would pass with the coming of the child. 

False hope! If it had been bad to cross alone, how much worse it was wheeling a helpless, sleeping child! The picture jumped at Margaret like a flash of lightning when, for the first time, she pushed her perambulator across the bridge, but this time there were added details so terrible that she gasped audibly in physical fear. Two forms in the water and one a baby strapped in!

No braced-up courage nor inward scorn, no curious looks of friends could prevent Margaret after this from stopping to undo the straps before she hurried over.  It had become an obsession, she knew, but what use is reason when the picture drawer has done his worst?

 When will they start on the new bridge?” she asked desperately of those who knew and they wondered at her urgency. The plans were being considered, they said, if the present plans were passed, then perhaps next year or the year after..

 Slowly, so slowly the authorities considered, amended, deferred that tho old year passed into the new and still the old bridge groaned beneath increasing weight, and crumbled a few more bits of stonework into the river below. 

Margaret tried now to keep to her own side of the town but, as the child grew, he clamoured for the sight of boats and cooed with delight at the river walk. Lest he should guess her fear and be infected by it, she gave in to his requests. With heart beating in sickening thumps, she would stand feeling the vibrations beneath her, smiling and talking of the “pretty boats” while the same vivid picture danced before her eyes. Nothing would dim it, rather, with each re-occurrence it grew more vivid till the day came when, overpowering all else, it caught her throat with one sickening pang of terror. 

“It’s real, It's real” she gasped “It is going to happen now”

Over the bridge she rushed, away from the treacherous stone, a whimper like that of a hurt animal coming from her mouth. Half blind with fear, she collided with a woman slowly mounting the steep incline. Ruffled, the other turned to protest, but Margaret caught her by the arm. 

“Come back, quick,” she gasped "don’t cross yet it isn't safe" 

Puzzled incredulous, the old woman retraced her steps in pursuit of the hurrying perambulator and, as it stopped, came to a halt, her face one indignant question. But Margaret was past questioning.  Her eyes were fixed on the middle of the slope up which a heavy lorry was pounding. Her hands were clenched in entreaty as if she would pull it back. Then, the old woman followed her eyes, there was a rending crashing noise as if the world had gone up in smoke, and they staggered bank gazing in sick horror at the place where the centre of the bridge had been.

"If I could have stopped him," whispered Margaret, still staring as the dust subsided and the crows ran to the bank below. 

She felt a pull on her arm and found the old woman clinging to it whispering tearful thanks.

“What an escape, my dear .. all due to you.. what an escape” 

The broken words came to her, but her eyes could not leave that awful gap. Her ears strained to catch the note in  the voice of the crowd. It was growing louder, the shrill note of curiosity rising above the low undercurrent of fear and apprehension - a deeper voice controlling and directing. Both women stood motionless as the voices died to a hush, through which the splash of cars came plainly audible... a hush broken suddenly by a roar that was half a sob.

“He's safe,” whispered the old woman, and again: "What an escape!”

Suddenly for Margaret the words took meaning, a meaning which swept in over her mind like a wave. Tho horror had materialised, the worst had happened, and it was not the worst. It was over and she was standing here alive – she and the child. Regardless of the curious crowds, Margaret clung to the friendly hand of the old woman while tears unrestrained, washed away for ever the horror that had haunted her, so long.