Free Such Visitors by Angela Huth Page A

prancing up and down, now, bending their knees and sniffing.
    â€˜Right,’ said Gerald. ‘I understand you’ve decided Lola shouldn’t have a start after all.’
    â€˜Right,’ said Rose. ‘She’ll gain up the hills.’
    â€˜There’s absolutely nothing between us,’ said Lola.
    â€˜Quite sure about that?’ Gerald was determined to be absolutely fair.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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