Page 43 of Bridge of Clay

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Thank you, Birthday Girl.

A smile would struggle through her.

* * *


In between, all there was was the waiting, and recollections of her father. Sometimes it felt like she was getting by in spite of him, but that was in her darker moments, when the rain slew in from the mountains.

On those days especially, she worked longer, and worked hard.

She cooked and cleaned.

She washed dishes and changed the sheets.

In the end it was nine months of regretful hope and no piano, when finally a country agreed. She sat at the side of her bunk bed, the envelope in her hand. She looked out the window at nothing; the glass was white and smoky.

Even now, I can’t help seeing her back there, in those alps I often imagine. I see her as she was, or as Clay had once described her:

The future Penny Dunbar, joining one more line, to fly far and south, and somewhat straight, to the sun.

Penelope crossed worlds, and Clay crossed the fence:

He walked the small laneway between The Surrounds and home, where the palings were ghostly grey. There was a wooden gate there these days, for Achilles—for Tommy to walk him out, and in. In the backyard, he was grateful he hadn’t had to climb over; morning-afters were obviously pretty awful, and the next few seconds would be telling:

First, he took on the slalom course of mule apples.

Then the labyrinth of dog shit.

Both culprits were still asleep; one was upright on the grass, the other sprawled out, on a porch-lit couch.

Inside, the kitchen smelt like coffee—I’d beaten him to it, and clearly in more ways than one.

Now it was Clay’s turn to face my music.

* * *


As I did every now and again, I was eating breakfast out the front.

I stood at the wooden railing with cooked sky and cold cornflakes. The streetlights were still on. Rory’s letterbox lay on the lawn.

When Clay opened the front door and stood a few steps behind me, I went on finishing my cereal. “Another letterbox, for Christ’s sake.”

Clay smiled, a nervous one, I felt it, but that was the extent of my niceties. After all, the address was in his pocket; I’d taped it my very best.

Initially, I didn’t move.

“So, you got it?”

Again, I felt him nod.

“I thought I’d save you the trouble of fishing it out yourself.” My spoon clanked in the bowl. A few drops of milk jumped the rail. “It’s in your pocket?”

Another nod.

“You’re thinking of going?”


Tags: Markus Zusak Young Adult