Such Visitors Page 5

  ‘There doesn’t seem to me much problem does there?’ he said, his voice unconvincing. ‘Surely there’s no need for any such severing choice? Surely we can carry on as we are, all good –’

  His final feeble word was lost in their hoots of derision, their scornful laughs.

  ‘How can you demean yourself with such a suggestion?’ shouted Lola.

  ‘Does it never occur to you,’ shrieked Rose, ‘what you are doing? Lola and I have been friends for years, you know. For God’s sake, you’ve made gestures to us both. You’ve turned to us both, relied on us both, indicated you love us both … Which one do you want?’

  They gave him a moment’s silence in which to reflect and reply. But when he made no response they started up again, interrupting each other, repeating themselves. The questions came so fast there was no hope of Gerald contributing a thought, had he had anything to say – which, for once in his life, when it came to sorting out a problem, he hadn’t. He was aware of a great desire to laugh. The situation, from his point of view, was highly comic: two beautiful women screaming at him to choose one of them, fired by their presumption that he loved both of them. Well, he did in a way. But love for anyone is an irregular graph, and while he would not deny that at moments his feelings for both of them had whizzed up the chart into astonishing peaks, for the moment they had caught him at a real low – tired, hungry, depressed, a little drunk. The warm adrenalin of certainty, which he presumed should accompany any major decision a man takes concerning the binding of his life to one woman, was far from him. All he desired was that they should leave him in peace, now. He would think about the matter for the rest of the night, and write to them both in the morning. He could book a ticket … They were glaring at him, silent at last.

  Gerald heard himself give a small, friendly laugh, and felt his dry lips crackle into a small matching smile.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘Why don’t you toss for me?’ His suggestion charged the silence with explosive fury.

  ‘We’re in no mood for jokes, Gerald,’ said Lola.

  ‘No, we’re not,’ said Rose.

  Gerald wished they could see their own faces, wizened and glowing with anger. God, they were beautiful, each one in her own way. He felt terrible desire for them both. Then, in the moment of fighting that desire, an inspiration came to him. There was no time to prepare its presentation. He would put it very simply, eyes shut to make it easier.

  ‘You could run a race for me,’ he said.

  When eventually he opened his eyes, two new expressions confronted him: indignation, yes; but indignation softened at the edges, as if possibility danced lightly in the background.

  ‘Run a race for you?’ Lola’s huge mothy eyes enlarged in a very good show of incredulity.

  ‘A race for you?’ echoed Rose. And then she surprised. ‘But we’re so unfit,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘We haven’t run for years,’ agreed Lola.

  Taking these observations for some kind of concession, Gerald saw his way ahead was no easier.

  ‘There could be time,’ he suggested generously. ‘Heavens, there’s no hurry, is there? You could train. A month, say. Two if you like. Meanwhile, I’ll work out a nice little cross-country course. Nothing too strenous. About five miles …’

  ‘Gerald.’ Lola’s voice was weak, her head bent so appealingly on one shoulder Gerald was much tempted to lean over and restore it to its rightful upright position, kissing her all the while.

  ‘Gerald, really,’ said Rose, who was always less sparing with words, and a single tear slid down her cheek.

  Filled with new strength, heartened by the attraction of his own idea, Gerald felt he should make some effort to console, comfort, convince.

  ‘It may seem an absurd plan on the face of it,’ he began, with all the sparkle of one who doesn’t believe a word he’s saying, ‘but if you think of it – it’s probably the only solution. I mean, the only fair solution. You see – and forgive me if this sounds lacking in courage, but I’m inexperienced when it comes to deciding about women – I wouldn’t like to hold myself responsible. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, choose. You must see that, don’t you? You must understand what a dilemma you’ve caused me.’ He took a deep, determined breath. ‘You must see what… affection I have for you both. How pleased I’d be to be married to either of you.’ Both girls gave small snorts of protest, but the fight seemed to have gone out of them. ‘In the circumstances, for my own part, I’d be quite pleased to carry on as we have been: all three of us friends. But I do see your point, of course I do. I understand the difficulties. So it seems to me my solution isn’t a bad one. It might even be rather fun.’ He looked from one to the other of them. ‘But then again you might have all sorts of objections. In that case … I suppose the only thing to do would be to say goodbye to you both. I’m very tempted by a job in Rio. With you both gone, there’d be nothing much to keep me here.’

  It was by now nearly five in the morning, the sky through the bare windows a grimy colour, the girls’ faces drawn and shadowy. Lola, in her usual position on her knees by the fire, let a small silence pass when Gerald had finished speaking, then swivelled a defiant head towards Rose.

  ‘What d’you think, Rosie? I’m game.’

  Rose gasped. ‘Lo. You can’t… I mean, you realise what it’d involve, the result? Whoever won – whoever got Gerald – it would be the end of us.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lola.

  Rose’s acceptance was barely audible. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But it’s the most terrible plan I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘It is,’ said Lola, with such bitterness that Gerald’s heart briefly contracted with fear, ‘but on the other hand, Gerald is right. Too feeble to make the decision himself, we have to make it for him. We might as well give him a little amusement on the way.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Rose was equally hard. She looked at Gerald. ‘But anything rather than Rio.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s decided then.’

  Gerald feared more discussion might undo the decision. But his fears were allayed by Lola’s tone of practicality as, standing, she said, ‘A month, then. Rosie was always faster than me cross-country. A minute’s start would be fair for me, wouldn’t it, Rosie?’

  ‘Quite fair.’

  ‘It’ll all be scrupulously fair,’ assured Gerald. ‘I’ll plan the course with incredible care. We’ll walk round it together the day before.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Lola.

  ‘Very considerate,’ said Rose.

  ‘Oh, you can rely on me,’ said Gerald.

  They left him then, with no kiss on the cheek, none of the old cheerful promises to meet soon. At his gate, they paused for a moment, both cold in the unfriendly drive, though Lola let her fur coat fall open when she saw Rose pulling hers tightly round her.

  ‘It would probably be better, Rosie, wouldn’t it, not to be in touch till the day?’

  ‘Probably it would.’ Their eyes met.

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Lo, all these years! It’s ridiculous.’ Rose, near to tears, shaking with cold, was shouting. ‘It’s the maddest plan I ever heard. Why don’t we just turn our backs, both of us … Leave him?’

  ‘We can’t do that.’

  ‘But he doesn’t deserve you, me, anyone.’

  ‘No.’

  Rose looked up at her tall, determined friend. She thought how precarious is friendship: how hopelessly threatened by things unworthy to destroy.

  ‘Till the race, then,’ she said, and turned away.

  From his window Gerald watched the girls part. He felt quite awake now, the clarity of his insane plan firing him with energy and glee. Only for a moment did the idea of abandoning the whole project, writing it off as a poor late-night joke, cross his mind. A man must go ahead in his decisions. There was much to be done. Funny, though, to think that his last few weeks of bachelorhood would be spent in poring over ordnance survey maps. And come to think of it, whe
re were those damn maps?

  Gerald went to his desk, began rummaging through drawers. Enthused by the whole project of planning an interesting route – a route which would tax, but not weary to excess -Gerald was able to spare no thought, that busy dawn, for his competitors. If they were returning, troubled, to their beds, he could not conceive of their unease. He himself had no experience of the severing of friendship: mere visitor to many, he had always been a friendless man.

  For Lola, training meant increasing her morning runs from three to seven days a week. Besides this, she gave up all alcohol and went to gym classes in the evening. Within a week, she felt the difference in herself: strong, alert, fit. There was no breathlessness in her runs round Hyde Park, now. In the bitter frosty mornings, unripe sun the single spot of colour in the grey air, she relished her calm, her vigour, the final reserve of energy that allowed her to sprint with astonishing speed over the last lap, from Knightsbridge Barracks to Hyde Park Corner. She had no doubt that she would win the race. As teenagers, it was true, Rose had both exceptional stamina and speed. But nowadays she took little exercise. She was plump and unfit. In fact, to be fair, when the time came Lola would refuse any start. They would begin as equals and the best one would win the trophy of Gerald.

  Now her training was in full swing, the absurdity of its reason had curiously evaporated from Lola’s mind. She thought much of Rose, but with little guilt. After all, she had met Gerald first, had introduced them. When Rose had seduced Gerald, Lola had honourably disappeared to give them a chance. It was not her fault Gerald had not made something of his opportunity. It was to promote Rose she had accepted lunch that Sunday and found herself in an unlikely position on the Downs: an event which made clear to her the extent of the feelings she had been at such pains to conceal. Rose would make Gerald happier, of course: she was much better equipped with all the conventional aids to marital contentment. But Lola doubted if Rose could love him more. God knows why, but the idea of the rest of Lola’s life without him was inconceivable. Perhaps she should have indicated this some time ago, and she would have won him without having to go through all the madness of this race. But Lola was cautious of proclamations. The uncertainty that silence causes lovers is often a more lasting bond than declared certainty. On the other hand, it, too, can be misinterpreted. Lola hoped Gerald had not misunderstood her – well, if he had, there would be a lifetime in which to make amends. For the moment she missed him intolerably. They spoke occasionally on the telephone, about matters pertaining to the race: no suggestion was ever made that the whole thing should be cancelled. And so the bleak wintry days went by, the increasing strength of her limbs Lola’s only consolation. In her weaker moments she thought of Rose with regret. She missed her. One day, perhaps, there could be forgiveness all round, and they could be friends again. Meantime, the object was to beat her.

  Jobless for the present, Rose decided to leave London. If the race was to be cross-country, she decided there could be no better place to train than her native moors. So she returned to Yorkshire, to the cold cheerless house that awaited a new owner, and set about her task with a sad determination. The old housekeeper was still in residence. She welcomed Rose with all the warmth of someone starved of human company. The old-fashioned kitchen flared into life again as Mrs Nichols steamed and baked to satisfy Rose’s customary hunger. But Rose had no appetite. She was aware that to lose many pounds of flesh was the first necessity if she was to have any hope of winning Gerald. Besides, an icy desolation acted on her stomach like poison, so that food sickened and the long nights were sleepless. She rose early every morning, shivered into the bitter drizzly air in a thin tracksuit, and began her long jog over the dewy moors. She increased her time and distance every day, and within a week was able to rejoice in the result: all her old speed and stamina were returning. Sprinting up a steep slope, she could arrive at the top without panting for breath. On rocky, stony ground she found herself to be surprisingly sure-footed. And her speed on the flat, at the end of a long run, increased both her confidence and pride.

  Her hours on the moors were free from pain except when she passed close to the place where she and Gerald had sheltered from the rain. Then, longing for him returned acutely, but could be subdued by the physical act of running. It was the hours between that caused the real torment: the dreary afternoons in the deserted house, the silence, the missing of Gerald and Lola. Rose forced herself to do exercises recommended in a Keep Fit manual, and went almost hourly to her dim mirror in search of some change in her appearance. Here she was soon rewarded. Hollow cheeks and a flat stomach indicated new fitness. The scales showed she had lost nearly a stone in two weeks. Her speed over the moors secretly surprised and amazed. Pessimism changed to optimism. One morning she woke with no doubts left: she was going to win after all. Lola was an ungainly runner with a huge stride. She had no chance against Rose in her prime, and Rose was making sure the physique of her prime was returning. She confided in Mrs Nichols, who encouraged her in the long kitchen evenings.

  ‘You’ll win, Miss Rose. There’s no one with determination the like of yours. You’ve always won.’

  Gerald rang her sometimes. She took her chance to express her unaltered love for him, in the belief that the most sensitive man is incapable of guessing accurately the measure of love he is receiving. His response was not encouraging, in that he seemed more eager to discuss matters pertaining to the race. But Rose understood: having initiated such an event, it must preoccupy his mind. Once it was over there would be a lifetime in which to regale him with declarations. She tried hard not to think of Lola, and the sadness of the future without her. But given the simple choice, who would give up a lover for a friend? Still, Rose missed Lola. Really, the whole thing was very regrettable. But of course she could not be the one to suggest they went back on the decision. One day, perhaps, there could be forgiveness all round, and they could be friends again. Meantime, the object was to beat her.

  In a pub near Hungerford, Gerald was unable quite to refrain from revealing his plans, and he became something of a local hero. He found himself describing the contestants of the race and bets began to be placed. Several people who lived locally suggested to him routes – routes which would include the kind of tests that meant real excitement: high slopes, knotty woodlands, stony ground, heavy plough … But the last stretch of the race was Gerald’s own inspiration. The girls would end at Coombe Gibbet, the old gallows. Dwarfed by its outstretched arms, they would for a moment be etched against the winter sky. All that would be left then would be the gentle downward slope to the winning post. (Gerald had already bought a red-and-white chequered flag.) Yes, it would be a dramatic end. There would be champagne, of course, and a marvellous lunch for all three of them. After that … Gerald’s imagination clouded. The joke over, what would happen? He would have to rely on the sportsmanship of the loser: hope she would go quietly on her way, no fuss, no tears. God knows what he would do with the winner: see her a good deal, he presumed. Get used to her. Hope that eventually she and the loser would resume their friendship. Because, in truth, the idea of losing completely either Rose or Lola was too terrible to contemplate. Not that Gerald spent very much time contemplating at the moment. He was wholly occupied by the planning of the route. Evenings in London were spent in the meticulous study of ordnance survey maps. Every weekend he walked the proposed route, rejecting various stretches and replacing them with others. Finally, he was satisfied. The five-mile run was full of interest, slight hazards calculated to intimidate but not to hurt. Gerald’s acquaintances in the pub chuckled and agreed. They would be out in force to cheer the girls on. It would be a novel sport for a Saturday.

  His plans finalised, Gerald rang Rose and Lola to break the news. He detected a certain coolness in both their voices, but put this down to nerves. Neither would consider it dignified, of course, to show enthusiasm for such an unusual venture. And both insisted on walking alone round the route with Gerald. This, he felt, was a little unreasonab
le: to make a man walk ten miles when he need only walk five – and heaven knows in his careful research he must have walked fifty miles by now – showed some meanness of spirit. However, bracing himself, Gerald complied with good grace. Dates were arranged.

  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.