Such Visitors (8 page)

Lola came first. Huddled in her fur coat, wool cap pulled low over her face, it was hard to tell the state of her fitness. Gerald welcomed her with all his old warmth.

Lola did not respond. ‘Let's get on with it,' was all she said. Obligingly Gerald opened a gate.

‘Won't be opening it on the day,' he grinned. ‘You can get over it any way you like – jump, vault, climb –'

‘Quite,' snapped Lola.

From time to time Gerald attempted to make a joke, to assume light-heartedness. But meeting with total silence he eventually gave up, and was reduced merely to explaining the way. Back at the winning post at last, the afternoon sky low with threatened rain, he gave Lola a map with the route thoughtfully marked in red pencil. So she could learn it off by heart, he explained. But now, how about some tea at The Bear?

Lola declined at once, and moved towards her car which was parked in a nearby lane. Gerald opened the door for her, brushed her cold hard cheek with his lips. She softened for the merest second.

‘Oh God,' she said. ‘You know this is insanity, Gerald, don't you?'

‘Don't worry,' said Gerald. ‘Thing is, don't take it too seriously. It'll be a lot of fun.'

When Lola had driven away, three prospective betting men, gumbooted and heavily clad in mackintoshes, appeared in much good humour from behind a hedge. They had been studying the form, they explained: nice little runner, this one. Lovely flanks, strong legs. Much laughter over subsequent drinks. They, at any rate, had entered into the spirit of the thing. It was only later, as he drove back to London, that Gerald recalled Lola's parting face, and wondered if, secretly, she was afraid.

Rose came two days later. Fur-coated too, but hollow-cheeked.

‘Taken your training seriously, have you?' Gerald enquired.

But Rose responded with no more warmth than Lola. On their walk round the course – and Rose bounded along at an impressive pace so that Gerald found himself quite puffed, trying to keep up with her – she only broke her silence once, to enquire about the crossing of a stream.

‘Are we meant to jump it or run through it?'

Gerald had given no thought as to which he required, but felt it best to be instantly decisive.

‘Jump,' he said, noting the slippery banks. That would make for a little more fun. Rose screwed up her enormous eyes: Gerald had forgotten their intense green.

‘Jump?' she repeated, in a small voice.

‘Or you could …' he wavered.

‘No, no. It's all right. Jump, you say.' She seemed a million miles away.

Back at the winning post Rose, too, was offered tea and declined. She wished instead to be driven straight back to the station.

In the car she said, ‘I'm terrified I'll never remember the way.'

‘You study that map,' advised Gerald, ‘and you'll know it by heart. Besides, there'll be signs. White flags, pointing. Also, a few people, I dare say, to cheer you on –'

‘People?'

‘Well. You know how it is. Things get around. It'll add to the excitement.'

‘God Almighty,' said Rose, weakly. ‘I thought it was going to be an entirely private matter.'

On the empty platform, she looked peculiarly small.

‘Don't wait,' she said. Gerald turned to go, understanding he was genuinely not wanted. ‘But do say goodbye.' He turned back to kiss her, confused. ‘I'll love you for ever, anyway,' she said. ‘Don't forget that.'

Hurrying off to meet his new friends in the pub, Gerald felt a distinct and alarming hunch: he knew who was going to win, and tears hurt his eyes. Of course, he could be wrong. He needed to know what the others reckoned. They had studied Rose, too, from their position behind a hawthorn hedge. Having done so, what were the odds on her? Gerald drove recklessly fast through the town to the pub, keen to know.

The morning of the race, Gerald arrived first, an hour before it was scheduled to begin. He had made sure not to ask either competitor how they were transporting themselves to this remote area of the Downs – it was none of his business – and he had no idea what to expect. He felt briefly guilty about Rose. She did not have a car. But no doubt a taxi could be found at Hungerford station.

It was a cold, bright morning. Sharp sun, pale sky; earth hard from overnight frost, bare branches still glittering where the rime had not melted. Perfect conditions. Gerald, clumsy in his old army greatcoat, banged his sides with his arms, stamped his feet and blew on his hands. He watched the globes of breath launch forth bold as Atlantic balloonists, only to disintegrate without trace seconds later. He smiled to himself, well pleased.

He collected things from the car – stopwatch, ordnance survey map with the route meticulously marked in red, flasks of coffee and brandy. These would keep him going till lunch. He had ordered Black Velvets and steak-and-kidney pudding to be waiting for himself, Rose and Lola in The Bear. God knows what sort of a lunch that would be, but there was no use in speculating. With any luck, the joke over, they would all go their own ways. Gerald had refrained from thinking about the future – uneasy subject in the circumstances – but in
the back of his mind was a plan to visit his mother in Ireland. Time would be needed for reflection. On his return he would get in touch with the winner, being an honourable man, and see how things went from there.

A Land Rover arrived. It contained four men in tweed jackets and sturdy boots. They had placed considerable bets on the race. Two of them carried binoculars, the others prodded their shooting sticks into the earth, testing its state. They banged Gerald on the back, offered him brandy from their flasks, and made jokes in loud voices. They were out for a good morning's sport and Gerald, responsible for their pleasure, felt himself something of a hero. Cheered by the sudden companionship, he entered into the spirit of the thing, and presumed himself temporarily to be among friends.

Others arrived. The news, it seemed, had travelled. They stood about, thumping themselves to keep warm, asking permission to study Gerald's map spread on the bonnet of his car. Gerald heard only one dissident voice among them. A fierce lean girl in leather went from group to group haranguing them about being male chauvinist pigs: but she was powerless to spoil their fun. ‘Ah, it's a bit of sport, girl,' explained one of the tweedies, gently punching the breastless leather jacket. Alone in her opinion, she eventually went away.

At five to eleven, no sign of the competitors, Gerald felt the first stirrings of anxiety. There were jokes about sudden withdrawal. New bets were placed about whether the runners would turn up at all.

But at eleven o'clock precisely, Lola's red Mini drove through the gate. Amazed, Gerald watched both her and Rose get out of the car. As far as he knew, they hadn't communicated since the night of the decision. The implications of their drive down from London together was suddenly moving. He gave himself a moment to recover before striding over to greet them. Both girls wore their fur coats, bright wool socks and expensive running shoes, very new. Both had their hair scraped back, and large, unmade-up eyes. They looked about at the gathered spectators, registered horror. Then, unsmiling, turned simultaneously to Gerald.

‘We thought this was to be a private event,' said Lola.

Gerald shrugged. ‘Well, I'm sorry. You know how things get about.'

‘It's appalling,' said Rose.

‘You'll be quite unaware of them,' explained Gerald, ‘once you get going. Anyway, it's rather encouraging, isn't it, to have an audience cheering you on?'

Neither girl replied. Gerald offered them coffee, brandy, biscuits. They refused everything. They stood closely together, arms just touching, a little sullen. Noting their faces, regret, sudden and consuming, chilled Gerald more deeply than the raw air. He would have given anything to have withdrawn from the whole silly idea … But then Lola gave him an unexpected smile, and he detected Rose's look as almost compassionate.

‘Come on, then, let's get it over,' said Lola.

Gerald's spirits returned. He should have had no worries. They, too, saw it as no more than a lark: something that would make a good story for years to come.

‘I've ordered a stupendous lunch for us all at The Bear,' he said gratefully, and was puzzled they conveyed no gratitude in return.

Brusquely, they flung their coats into Lola's car. Their clothes beneath were almost identical: shorts and tee-shirts. Lola's had
I'm no hero
stamped across her large bosom. Rose's tee-shirt bore the message
Like me.
Gerald wondered if these messages were part of some private plan between them. He noted the paleness of their limbs, and the way their skin shrivelled into gooseflesh. Rose hugged herself, shivering. Lola left her arms at her side, characteristically defying the sharp air. Both looked remarkably fit. Rose was much thinner. Muscles rippled up Lola's long thighs.

Gerald took off his tie, which was to be the starting line – an amateur detail symbolising the
fun
of the whole thing, he thought. He walked a few paces up the slope, placed it on the ground. Standing again, he took in the sweep of misty country-side beneath them, shafts of sun stabbing into plough and trees.

‘Now, you know where you have to go?' Both girls nodded. ‘No problems about the course? Don't think you can go wrong.
There are signs all along the route. Put them up myself yesterday.'

He bent over to tweak the tie, make certain it was straight. The girls were prancing up and down, now, bending their knees and sniffing.

‘Right,' said Gerald. ‘I understand you've decided Lola shouldn't have a start after all.'

‘Right,' said Rose. ‘She'll gain up the hills.'

‘There's absolutely nothing between us,' said Lola.

‘Quite sure about that?' Gerald was determined to be absolutely fair.

‘Very well, then. Are you ready? Good luck to you both.'

Simultaneously, Rose and Lola both crouched low over the tie, fingers just touching it. Gerald let his eyes travel up and down their spines, knobbly through the thin stuff of their tee-shirts. He remembered the feel of both their backs.

Standing at attention to one side of the tie, he saw Rose's bent knee wobble, and a drip on Lola's nose. Never had either girl looked more desirable. But nothing in his voice – his old Sandhurst shout suddenly called to aid – gave any hint of such sentiments.

‘On your marks,' he bellowed, ‘get set.
Go!
'

Both girls leapt up, matching flames, Gerald thought. Breasts thrust forward, heads back, nostrils wide. They ran slowly away from him, side by side through the silver grass. A cheer went up from the crowd. Laughter. Melting frost still sparkled. Gerald kept his eyes on the competitors, almost out of sight now, buttocks twisting in their identical white shorts.

When they had rounded the first bend, Gerald returned to his car. He drove to a wood half a mile away. He knew he would be able to see their approach from a long way off. Other spectators had reached the wood before him. They cheered as his car passed, waved with menacing glee. Sensing a small flicker of shame, Gerald ignored them. Did not wave back.

His parking place was deserted. Relieved, he sat on the bonnet and focused his binoculars on the distant path. Sunbeams knifed the fading mists about him, jabbing through branches and tree trunks, so that for a moment he suffered the illusion he was trapped in a cage of slanting golden bars.

The distant crackle of undergrowth: through his glasses,
Gerald could just see them, now, in focus. Lola a little ahead, mud-splattered legs in spite of the hard ground – strands of escaped hair across her brow. Rose's thighs were alarmingly pink, mottled with purple discs. Gerald felt himself smiling. They made a fine pair, and one of them would make a fine wife. Unbelievable, really, to think
they were racing to win him.
He was to be the trophy, the husband! Did he care which one became his? At this moment he did not. They both looked equally touching, running so eagerly. Either would do.

As they approached, neither Rose nor Lola glanced his way. Good girls: that was the way to win races. Concentration. And conservation of energy. For the moment, both seemed to have plenty of that in reserve. They were admirably calm, controlled.

They were past him in a flash: such a pretty sight – breasts bobbing, eyes sparkling, the pair of long legs and the pair of short legs matched in rhythm as they snapped at the frosty ground. This was a story the children would want endlessly repeated – the story of how two beautiful girls ran a race for their father. And how the fittest, or luckiest, became their mother … The foolish smile remained on Gerald's lips. He was glad to be alone.

Just past Gerald, Rose slipped in a muddy patch of woodland track. She lost her footing for a moment. Recovering it, she saw Lola had increased her lead. For the first time, fear bristled through her, weakening her churning legs which, in wonderful response to all the training, had seemed till now prepared to pump on for ever. She knew that within half a mile they would be at the stream. Leap it, Gerald had said. Suddenly she quailed at the thought of leaping. She would slip, fall – something would go wrong. Better to run through it and risk being disqualified. The decision made, Rose put in a burst of speed. In a moment she was just behind Lola again: could hear her breathing and see dark shadows of sweat on the back of her tee-shirt.

At the stream quite a crowd had gathered. Rose heard cheering and more laughter. They were hollow, echoing noises. Mocking. Sharp with relish for an unusual sight. Rose hated their beaming, blurred faces.

Oh God, and now the stream. It looked so wide this
morning. Black water furred with melting ice and cracked sun. And suddenly, in an effortless leap, Lola was over it.
Racing up the bank the other side.
Increased cheers. Sickness in Rose's chest. She splashed into the water, felt the ice burn her calves, the mud slip beneath her feet. But somehow, then, she regained
terra firma,
clutching at clumps of prickly grass as she scrambled after Lola up the bank. Another cheer.