The Bridge Builder Of Arta Read online

THE BRIDGE BUILDER OF ARTA

  By

  Neil Coghlan

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  The Bridge Builder Of Arta

  Copyright © 2010 by Neil Coghlan

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  THE BRIDGE BUILDER OF ARTA

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  Benjamin McAuley was a slim man who tended to wear suits a size too big for him. In the spring of 1924 when he was twenty-four, he began what he hoped would be a prosperous career as an architect. He was taken on by Garner & Sons, the most prestigious firm of architects in Yorkshire, at an apprentice's wage of three pounds a week. The bracing coastal town of Scarborough, facing the North Sea breezes on the North Yorkshire coast, was, he hoped, a fine community for bringing up a young family. In a squat terraced house crammed into the harbour end of Devon Street, his small family lived comfortably, if not in any degree of luxury. His wife Marie, a timid nineteen-year old from down the coast in Bridlington, stayed at home with the young twins.

  Benjamin's tasks in those initial months with the company, under the watchful eye of one Matthias Biltcliffe, were mainly site inspections and the resulting burden of paperwork that he completed in the company offices. It was a dull existence, but Marie kept his spirits up and his head straight with talk of what prospects lay in their future were he to finish his three-year apprenticeship. They came to consider Scarborough their home and soon learnt to tolerate its dour demeanour and fearsome gales.

  The Garner & Sons offices occupied the lower two floors of a Georgian house on Parnell Road. This road rose gently towards the rocky promontory that divided the resort's coastline into two curving bays. North Bay contained the fine spas that had attracted the wealthy when Victoria was still on the throne and where better off families lived in a cluster of large houses and still employed servants and not merely a "day woman". The day women worked in the scruffier part of town that fronted onto South Bay. It was here that thousands of holidaymakers, temporary migrants from the smoky towns of Yorkshire, would gather in tight rows of identical guest houses or, if they were blessed with healthier finances, possibly stay a week at the new Grand Hotel. The Grand dominated South Bay with its four floors of ornate brickwork and a towering black turret on each corner, giving the whole a gothic feel.

  In the warmer months, the beaches of Scarborough heaved with an insect-like mass as thousands searched for their square of sand, their handkerchief of territory. Donkeys would wilt as an endless line of fun-seeking children paid thruppence for ten minutes on their backs. In the early days of the family's residence in Scarborough, Benjamin watched as the urban visitors were organized into games on the beach, peculiar activities that kept everyone amused for a little while. Long lines of competing teams were asked to pass a ball from person to person, racing to be the fastest. Pairs of women ran along the lines holding a rope or bar which everyone had to leap over.

  At other times, the entire beach seemed to have been donated to the military for everyone leapt and stretched in unison, enjoying the simple joy of being outdoors, of being fit and active and laughing. And free of everyday concerns and far from dispiriting jobs in dispiriting towns.

  On the outcrop between the two bays of Scarborough lay the town's castle, perched fifty yards or more above the rooftops. Benjamin and his wife had walked the road up to the castle on the Sunday before beginning his apprenticeship. From there, they'd looked over both North Bay and South Bay, where their own simple abode lay. For miles both north and south of the town, they'd watched tiny waves roll slowly towards the green Yorkshire coastline and held hands tightly, feeling themselves at the beginning of something special.

  The slow rise up to the castle began at the end of Parnell Road, where Benjamin worked. One July afternoon, a few weeks after his apprenticeship had started, he came across a winding weed-strewn staircase that led up the slopes of the castle promontory. By Benjamin's calculation, the steps would lead to a part of the promontory that he hadn't been able to access when he'd visited the castle. He was curious to see what lay at the top.

  What he found was a flat grassy area surrounded on three sides by thick gorse bushes that the wind barely stirred. The light up there had the oddest quality. It was as if this part of the headland was open to all the sky in the world and a light of such clarity bathed the area, the likes of which Benjamin hadn't seen anywhere else in Scarborough. If he'd been an artist of any description, he would have bolted home for his easel and paints that very instant.

  Checking an Ordnance Survey map at home later that evening would tell Benjamin this was Headley View, named for the breathtaking panorama it gave over South Bay. Though at the same height as the castle, there was a feeling of isolation here and the bushes and a hundred yards of nettles and thickets hid the castle completely. It had clearly been a place of some attraction in a time of simpler pleasures. As he looked down on South Bay's beach and saw the laden donkeys walking along the sands, as he saw to the right the giant amusement park, just by the Grand Hotel's dark towers, heard the whistles and clangs of the great steam rides and watched the throng of tiny figures that flowed in amongst the stalls and waited patiently in line for the thrill of a lifetime, he came to understand why this enchanting place had been abandoned to the winds and the weeds.

  On the sea side of the open space, near some low railings, were two statues. To the left, as one looked out over the waves, there was a statue of a man and on a simple rusty plaque halfway up the plain brick plinth, the words The Bridge Builder of Arta were engraved. Over to the right was the statue that interested Benjamin more. This statue was called The Bridge Builder's Wife and showed a woman with a long stony mane of hair that covered her naked breasts. At around thigh-height, her legs disappeared into a pile of roughly cut stones, which reminded Benjamin of the dry stone walls that were such a common sight in the countryside inland from Scarborough. The wife was looking across to her husband with a peculiar expression, showing no emotion or at least none that Benjamin could put a name to.

  For his part, the bridge builder looked out to sea with a determined glare, as tough as the limestone he was crafted from. In his right hand, there were plans for a bridge and held upon his outstretched left hand, a box full of food. He was dressed in long robes that covered his legs and feet completely. Both statues were standing on a plinth about two foot in height.

  There were also two benches present, a few yards apart, between the statues. They had broad wooden beams but were in poor condition with rusting legs and a chipped half-century blanket of Harrods green paint on them. On that first day, Benjamin sat down on one of the benches, being careful to avoid the raised round-headed bolts, and contemplated this little hideaway he'd found for himself, feeling quite proud.

  That night, he came home to Marie and the two-year olds with a smile.

  "I've found a place to take my lunch, Marie. A place that feels like the top of the world."

  From that day, Benjamin took the habit of taking a stroll up to Headley View during his lunchtime. Busy with a formidable workload that seemed never to diminish, the stiff sea breezes that whipped the headland cleared the cobwebs from his tired mind and gave him the impetus to reach the end of the day. It was the contemplative nature of the space that pulled him up those steps each day at around half past twelve. With the thick bushes almost surrounding him and the curious statues, he felt as if he were in some form of elevated Roman garden, an eyrie at the top of the town. And Benjamin knew instinctively that he would always be alone here.

  The panorama from Headley View was, as to be expected, something to behold. The North Sea presented itself, perhaps sixty yards below, in a myriad of fantastic greens and greys, depending on which cavalry of puffed up clouds were galloping across
the skies on that particular day. He could sit and watch the sea for the full hour at his disposal and often did. Grey columns of rain were near daily dragged across and thrown on the shiny slate roofs of Scarborough. When that happened, Benjamin would make use of a small shelter that lay in the centre of the unkempt lawns, a rusting relic of the last century.