Such Visitors (9 page)

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.

But no sound came from his throat. He heard the cheering behind him, muttered some kind of prayer. Lola increased her lead with a leap of triumph. Behind her, Rose let out a terrible cry.

Then Lola fell. Her body flung out on the ground like a length of pale material let down by the wind. Rose, unable to stop, flashed past her and over the winning ribbon.

Gerald saw the crowd rush towards Lola before he was able to move. He was aware that Rose sat on the ground some yards behind him, shoulders heaving, moaning slightly, head bowed into crossed arms. Rose the winner.

Ignoring her, Gerald moved up the slope towards Lola. Someone was running towards a parked car, face serious.

The crowd made way for Gerald.

‘She fell over a bloody stone.'

‘Someone should have checked the slope was clear.'

Lola lay head down, face turned to one side. Eyes shut. Deadly pale. Mud streaking down the whiteness of her. Beautiful hair tangled with sweat. A small trickle of blood, to match the winning post ribbon, trickling from her temple.

‘Unconscious.'

‘Probably something broken.'

‘Someone's gone for an ambulance.'

‘Bloody good sports, both of them.'

Gerald, on the ground beside her, laid his hand over her warm temple. He listened to the voices, said nothing.

‘How is she?'

He looked up to see Rose on the ground beside him. Rose, warm and smelling of sweat and mud and life. Tears running silently from her eyes.

‘Who knows?' said Gerald, and turned his attention back to Lola.

The ambulance came. It had difficulty negotiating the steep slope. Two men with impenetrable faces and red blankets lifted Lola gently on to a stretcher. Gerald wanted to ask if she was alive – he had not dared put his hand on her heart. He said nothing.

One of Lola's arms trailed down the side of the stretcher, unconscious fingers feeling the ground whose frosty sparkle had melted. The ambulance left, its tyres cutting deeply into the mud.

‘Quick,' said Gerald.

He took Rose's hand, familiar and warm, in his, and hurried her to his car before the spectators could begin to question. They followed the ambulance to the hospital in silence. Passing The Bear, he could not help wondering what would now happen to the lunch he had ordered for the three of them. He recognised the weakness. Always, in a crisis, his mind flew unbidden to trivial matters as if for protection from the gravity of real circumstances.

In the Casualty waiting-room, beside Rose on a plastic chair, he noticed the pinkness of her skin had gone. She was pale. Trembling. He felt in his pocket for his flask of brandy. They both took large gulps, both managed small smiles.

‘Here's to the winner, then,' said Gerald, roughly patting her muddy knee. ‘It was a magnificent race … a lot of fun. As for Lola …'

‘She'll be all right,' said Rose. ‘Honestly. I know Lola. She's had plenty of falls in her time.'

Lola never regained consciousness. She died from an internal haemorrhage two days later. Some months after her death, Rose and Gerald were married: a very minor ceremony, little celebration. To begin with, events did not impair Rose's love for her husband, though after marriage he became in many ways a stranger. It was as if he was haunted constantly by the thought of Lola – which, of course, Rose understood. It was a feeling shared. But after a year or so, Rose's patience with her husband's melancholy broodings began to fade, and regret at having won the race consumed her life. She imagined what might have been: Lola the happy wife, herself the brave and –
eventually – contented friend. She stared at what was: life with a trophy she had thought she wanted – a balding, querulous man, old before his time, his charm quite flown. As she walked with him through the graveyard of stiff white stones Rose knew that he was empty of all thought of her, and only Lola, long bones in her grave, was alive in his mind.

T
he first day of the season, the donkeys were always hesitant. Ears pricked high, remembering the way, they walked close to the pavement, re-accustoming themselves to the sound of the traffic. Their nervousness would be gone within the week. For the moment, Jo, at the back of the line with his ash stick, encouraged them.

‘Along there, Pat! Lulu, Oliver, Fancy, Skip. As for
you,
young Hasty!'

He brought the stick lightly down on Hasty's grey haunches. She was a good-tempered beast, but slow. Nothing could hurry her, or excite her. A bit like Jo's mother, in many ways, and Jo, who was a patient man, was fond of them both.

The only one to whom Jo gave no commands was Storm. A small, brown donkey, Storm was a natural leader: an animal of exceptional intelligence. As Jo often said, Storm could
think.
His instincts were always right. There was that time a silly woman insisted her screaming infant should have a ride. She put him on Storm's saddle. The child sobbed. Storm refused to budge. He listened unmoving to the noise for a while, then lay down on the sand. The child was able to dismount, and ran away gratefully. Jo would never forget that occasion. It was one of the many times Storm had shown wisdom and kindness.

He led the way, now, down the concrete slope to the sands. There, hooves sinking into the soft stuff for the first time in six months, he gave a small bray of pleasure, and broke into a trot. The others followed, eagerly. Jo ran behind them, the wind keen about his ears. When they reached the hard sand, washed by an early tide, the donkeys' hooves made a gentle puttering sound that Jo often remembered, but could never quite recapture, during the long winter months that he spent in the stables polishing the tack.

At an invisible point on the sand, precisely the right place, Storm came to a halt, turned his body parallel to the sea, and looked towards the far-off cliffs that edged the bay. The other donkeys copied. Unused to the spurt of exercise, their breath came bulbous from their grey muzzles, and they sniffed the raw smells of salt and seaweed in the air. They were all pleased to be back, Jo reckoned. Like him, they felt this was the life, down here on the beach.