Cinderfella went to see Old Tram on the third night of the third moon after Yule. He found the old troll under the new bridge. He was squatting on top of the concrete pillar on the south bank. “Brought you a gift,” said Cinderfella, holding out apparently empty hands.
Old Tram did not moderate his grumpy demeanour. “Nothin’ is it?”
“It’s a hammock,” said Cinderfella. “Brand new but incredibly ancient. It’s an invisibility hammock.”
“Nowt wrong with me old hammock,” said Old Tram.
“Look at it,” said the railway troll. “New bridge, tatty hammock, and a troll the colour of concrete. If you suspend yourself in that you’ll stand out like a crow in snow.”
“Not if I ties it tight enough.”
“If you hang that there, they’ll rip it down.”
Old Tram added a knot to the brown rag he was fastening to the underside of the bridge above the white pillar. “Already have,” grumbled Old Tram. “Three times. Ladders and knives.”
Cinderfella stretched his arms higher, reaching towards his fellow troll. “They’ll not spot this one,” he said. “They’re all the rage these days, and long ago.”
Old Tram glanced down, then carried on tying his Nordic double half hitch. “You’ll not see me in one of them,” he grunted.
“That’s the point,” said Cinderfella. “You’ll get a good kip in one of these.”
“Not had a good kip in three year,” said Old Tram. Clinging effortlessly to silky steel girders, he tried to hide the fact that his old hammock was no longer long enough to reach another fastening point.
“Two years, actually,” said Cinderfella. “Before that, you had five blissful ones.”
Old Tram grinned then grimaced. “Blissful, was it? That bridge could’ve crumbled on me ‘ead at any time.”
“That’s why they shut it,” said Cinderfella. “That’s why they demolished it. That’s why you’ve got a brand-new shiny steel one.”
“Jealous, are ya?”
Cinderfella glanced downstream towards the disused railway bridge. “I’m content with my stone, iron and cinder high-rise. Historic, I’ll have you know.”
“So’s everything once it’s up,” said Old Tram, still struggling to secure his tattered hammock.
“I’ve got the heritage now,” bragged Cinderfella.
Utterly frustrated, Old Tram tore his hammock away from its tethered end, bundled it under his chin and scrambled ape-like down to the riverbank. “Not true,” he grunted. “As well you know. This bridge took trucks afore yours did.”
Cinderfella sighed. “Nay, not this one. Not this precise one. Not been here even half a year. It’s a copy of a copy. Can’t call that history.”
“It may have just been put up, but it was ‘ere first,” Old Tram declared, wiping his claws on the cloth.
Cinderfella scuttled towards him with a smug glee. “But it ain’t – historic!” he said, his left eye reflecting the moon as if it were a badge of distinction. You can’t put up a replacement of a copy and call it historic.”
“You can shove your history under your architrave. There’s no future in it.”
“Future?” said Cinderfella. “Since when have you been interested in the future?”
Old Tram scrambled around his neighbour so that he could reflect the moon in both of his own eyes. “You might be smug under your old bridge, but you’ve forgotten the old ways. When a troll lives under a bridge he takes its toll. Respect is demanded, offerings collected, bad fortune deflected.”
“No troll does that anymore,” said Cinderfella, wrapping himself in the invisibility hammock and vanishing from view.
“This troll does,” said Old Tram, gripping the invisible cloth and tugging so strongly that Cinderfella twirled out and tumbled onto the path.
“Oh! So you want your gift now does you?” shouted the fallen fellow.
“I might do,” said Old Tram, tossing his old hammock so that Cinderfella instinctively caught it.
“I thought you would. I thought you wouldn’t want to be spotted under this modern excuse for monumentalism.”
“It’s a bridge,” said Old Tram. “It’s my bridge. And I expect to be respected by them that crosses it.”
“How? In these cashless times? Nobody tosses coins into water for luck no more.”
“I expects, a courteous greeting – out loud. And most of all: an absence.”
“An absence of what?”
Old Tram wrapped the invisibility cloth round his midriff so that he was an arse, a gap, and a bust. He scrambled up the concrete pillar with head and feet connected and yet disjointed, to hang in two halves beneath the gleaming girders. “An absence of litter. No detritus. No wrappers. No plastic. No cans. And no love-locks. Or I takes it back.”
“Takes what back?”
“The crossin’.” He reached under the polished grey steel into the gap where the cylindrical supports passed the weight from the span to the column. From the gap he produced a set of small but fearsome tools: a pick, a hammer. a drill brace and a claw of drill bits. “This is what me and the lightning made from their cans and their cast-offs. With these I can bring down anythin’ they build, no matter how old, no matter how new. All it takes is a bit of water, a lot of time, and these undermining tools.” He wrapped them in the invisibility cloth and slung them beneath the bridge. “They’d better respect me,” he said. “Or I pick and I tap and I drill and I lets the fester right in.”
Cinderfella brushed himself off and surveyed the magnificent steel structure. He shook his head. “You’ll never undermine this,” he said.
“If I remembers it right,” said Old Tram, smugly. “That’s what you said about the last one.”
This story first appeared in the Lancashire Post on Saturday 18th April 2026
You can find more Lancashire inspired stories in my Papercuts and Atheist's Prayer Book collections.
If you would like to develop your own story writing, my elder son is leading a number of creative writing workshops this summer. Some are on Earth and some in the ether.
Check out his website: David Hartley
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