Such Visitors Page 6

  ‘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 ab
out 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.

  Upright again, her feet felt squelchy, soggy, heavy. It had been a foolish thing to do. It had lost her precious seconds.

  Lola was ten yards ahead.

  Lola had dry feet.

  Lola would be Gerald’s wife.

  They were only halfway through the race, and already it was the end for Rose. Sad and angry tears blew from her eyes. She let them prickle down her burning cheeks. Spurred herself on, on. Maybe there was still a chance. Just in case, she could not give up trying.

  Gerald’s next position was the corner of a ploughed field. Two-thirds of the race over. Both girls tiring. Pace much slowed by the heavy black mud. Clothes and bodies darkly splattered, feet badly clogged. As they passed close to Gerald – Rose by now only just behind Lola, having made a remarkable recovery since her setback at the stream – Gerald could hear the duet of their breathing, and smell their sweat in the clear air. Irreverently, he was reminded of their different smells in other conditions. Poor girls, poor girls. In the warmth of his fleece-lined jacket, Gerald felt his heart expand with a strength of compassion that was strange to him. Well, he would make it up to them. One his wife, the other his friend. It would be all right. It was only light-hearted fun, after all, wasn’t it?

  Gerald turned to hurry along a short cut to the five-barred gates. These, he had stipulated, must be jumped or vaulted. If Lola cleared hers as easily as she had cleared the stream, the winner was in no doubt. Poor Rose. Dearly beloved Lola. Gerald felt for the flask of brandy in his pocket. He took a swig as he hurried towards his vantage point. A toast to them both, really. A toast of love.

  * * *

  Lola was less happy in the open. The winter shadows of the woods had been protective. Now, the expanse of opalescent sky pressed intimidatingly upon her head. Two worries concerned her: she had been constantly in the lead. That, surely, was a bad omen. And a quarter of a mile ahead was the five-barred gate. Years ago no gate could have daunted her. She had always been a good vaulter. Now, she felt the energy required to heave herself over seeping from her body. It seemed a terrible obstacle.

  The sun, much stronger, was in her eyes. Her feet were heavy with mud from the plough. That had been a stupid idea of Gerald’s, the plough – guaranteed to slow them both up. Just behind her she could hear Rose’s heavy breath. They were running downhill, an easy field of cropped grass. At the bottom, the two gates were set side by side in the hedge. Lola was to take the right, Rose the left. They had decided that without telling Gerald. No doubt he was expecting to enjoy their confusion. Well, he would be disappointed.

  Lola saw a large crowd at the gates, heard the braying laughter and cheering from well-scarfed throats. Damn them. They were waiting for a fall, disaster. She hoped neither she nor Rose would reward them.

  After the gate, there was the short last lap up the steep hillside to the gibbet; and the final hundred yards down the sheer incline to the other side, to the winning post. So the race was nearly over. Lola was tired, but had reserves of energy. She increased her speed, enjoying the gentle downward slope of the field.

  All too soon, the gate was before her. Jump or vault? Having made her decision, definitely to vault, it suddenly left her. The silly shouts of the spectators confused her. She sprang on to the top bar, swung her legs over her head – a perfect vault. But, regaining her feet, she saw that Rose was now ahead. The cheering had been for her: even as she concentrated on leaping the gate herself, Lola had been conscious of a perfect high jump by Rose over the other gate. Oh God, now there was fear. The sharp pull of the hill began almost at once, cruel to tired calf muscles. Lola felt a fresh shower of sweat spray from her pores, soaking her clothes. She heard herself panting, saw Rose’s muddy bottom pumping easily up the hill.

  She, Lola, then, was to be the friend.

  Rose the wife.

  Rose the winner
.

  Not possible, really. The sky was crumbling, the steep earth a blur. Glancing briefly at the summit of the Down, Lola saw the deathly arms of the black gibbet, the only unmoving things before her desperate eyes. With a strangled cry, she called upon the last of the energy coiling in her blood. Maybe there was still a chance. Just in case, she could not give up trying.

  Dazed, Gerald watched the two small, dirty white back views struggling up the hill. Lola was catching up, but only slightly. From this distance, Rose seemed to have more bounce in her stride. Although Lola’s long loping gait was suddenly consuming the hillside amazingly fast.

  Gerald allowed himself a quick look at the gibbet, its rigor mortis arms embracing the sky. Then he hurried back to his car to drive round the foot of the hill to the winning post. He wished he had chosen another part of the Downs to end the race. There was something macabre, perhaps … But then he had always been puzzled by his own black humour. At this very moment, it brought tears to his eyes.

  He stood at one end of his shabby old red silk tie which lay on the grass. The large crowd of spectators kept a respectful distance behind him. This side of the hill, the gibbet was no less menacing.

  Moments. Eternal moments. Brief seconds – Gerald had no idea which they were. Then they appeared on the summit, his girls – two small dots, neck and neck. Lola had made a remarkable recovery. As if by some private agreement, the two of them ran simultaneously beneath the gibbet’s high arms – Rose tiny on the left, Lola very tall on the right. They glanced at each other. Gerald could have sworn they smiled.

  Through his binoculars he recognised the automatic movements of four tired legs out of control. As they sped down the slope Rose seemed entirely pink, only her mouth a deeper pink hole. Lola resembled a runaway Arab horse – great mane of hair free from its ribbon now, flying loose behind her – beautiful nostrils widely flared. Both made their final effort, and Lola of the longer legs was just ahead again.

  His heart blasting his chest, Gerald concentrated on the last moments of this race, the magnificent way in which Lola was to win him. In his excitement his binoculars slipped. It was with his naked eye he saw the large stone embedded in the ground ahead of her. He tried to shout, to warn.