The Finisher

7

The year had turned and the days were lengthening. You wouldn’t notice, but they were. Maeve was still training in darkness, thankful for the reflective patches on her leggings. She’d got over the feeling that if she hadn’t broken that sodding Toby jug she could be sitting at home with a glass of wine going through a favourite box set on TV. Running had become a mission. Not only was she helping heart patients, she was doing her own heart a power of good and her skin felt and looked positively peachy.

She was in danger of turning into Little Miss Perfect.

She’d given up the canal runs altogether. Bath’s streets had plenty of variety and were well lit. She’d mapped out routes that would stretch her ability as the weeks went by, for she’d found a pace that suited her and she could keep going for up to half an hour. Trevor’s advice about weighing herself regularly had been helpful. She was shedding pounds. Already it amounted to more than two kilos, hugely encouraging when she thought how liberating it was not to be carrying the equivalent of two bags of sugar around all day.

This wasn’t to say that the runs were easy. Her body still told her many times over she wasn’t meant for this and reminded her of her mother’s advice about curvy girls. Then there were nights when it was really cold and gloves and a bobble hat made no difference. The temptation to take a break was overwhelming, but she wasn’t going to give Mother the chance to say, “I told you so, dear. You’ll never be an athlete.”

On the positive side, the friendship with Olga was a definite support. In her own way, her new Russian friend was as committed to self-improvement as she was.

Maeve joined her one Saturday in Henrietta Park, Olga’s favourite place, its two-kilometre footpath around the central lawn making it ideal for anyone doing laps. She was amused to see how the big woman stepped out purposefully with chin up like one of the Young Pioneers, her wobbly arms angled and swinging across her chest.

Olga had recovered from the mugging quite quickly and wasn’t deterred from going out. She was incapable of running, but she walked, and it was no-nonsense walking. She told Maeve she, too, was weighing herself regularly. She kept a diary and logged every outing. She still sported the rings and a new gold chain, but wisely did most of her walking by day.

She was clearly well-known in the park, greeted with waves and smiles by many people they passed. Some even knew her name. However, she wouldn’t stop to talk. This was serious training.

“You’re amazing,” Maeve told her. “I’m almost running to keep up with you.”

“You can run if you want,” Olga said. “No one to see. Trees say nothing.”

Maeve stepped out and swung her arms and hips in the same way as Olga — at the cost of some dignity.

“You’ve never explained why you’re doing all this walking.”

“Not true. First time we meet I tell you.”

“To lose weight?”

“Lose fat, get fit. Here is tree looking at us,” Olga said, pointing to their left. “Purple sycamore.”

“You know your trees, then?”

“Oak, birch, golden elm. They watch us.”

“You think so?”

“Next I like best of all, from Russia. Caucasian maple.”

As if in tribute to Olga, the ground around the tree was carpeted with red leaves.

“You’ve lost weight, that’s obvious. But is that the only incentive?”

“I do not understand.”

“What’s the reason behind it, Olga? Are you doing this to surprise your husband when he gets back from his travels?”

“Him?” she said and vibrated her lips.

“I’ve never seen anyone so serious about training as you are.”

“I am Russian.” That, apparently, said it all.

Maeve had a wild thought. “You haven’t secretly entered the Other Half like me?”

The now-familiar chesty laugh erupted. “First lady walker to win.”

“You could walk all the way at this pace and be ahead of some of the runners by the finish.”

“Of course.”

“But you’d tell me if you were in the race?”

“Don’t ask stupid question, Maeve.”

“If you’re not training to race, I’m starting to wonder if you have a secret lover.”

“You think?” More laughter.

The reaction encouraged her to tease Olga a little. “With Konstantin away from home so much, it wouldn’t surprise me. We have a saying: when the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

A frown. “You think I am mouse?”

She seemed to have taken it as an insult, so Maeve laughed to show she was joking. “Far from it. All woman, definitely.”

But the mood had changed. “I tell you something. I am Olga, right?”

“That’s what you told me.”

“My mother and father called me this name.”

“Same for me,” Maeve said. “That’s what happens.”

“My mother she is Russian, but I am born in Ukraine. They choose Olga after famous lady, Olga of Kiev. You know?”

“I can’t say I do.”

“She is princess and saint, more than thousand years ago.”

“Nice to be named after a saint.”

Meant as a compliment, this cracked Olga up so much that she had to stop walking and lean against a tree, shaking with laughter. “Saint Olga is killer. Many, many times killer.”

“How was that?”

“She is married to Prince Igor.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“No, no, no. Prince Igor of Kiev, very strong leader, he conquer tribe called Drevlians. When Igor go to collect tribute, Drevlians make revenge. Take two birch trees like this.” She pointed upwards with both hands. “Tie ropes high up and bend, bend, bend right over, fix to Igor’s feet. Trees spring back and Igor is two piece.”

“Torn apart? What a horrible way to die.”

“So Princess Olga hate Drevlian tribe.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

They started the striding again, and Olga continued the tale.

“Now she is widow, with three-year-old son who will be next ruler of Kievan Rus’, but, until boy is grown-up, Olga is ruler. You understand?”

“We’d call her the regent.”

“Okay. She is regent. But smart-ass Drevlians have plan. There is Drevlian prince called Mal. If Mal marry Olga, then Mal becomes ruler of tribe as he is man.”

“Same old same old.”

“What is this same old?”

“Never mind. Did she marry Mal?”

Olga’s dimples creased a little more. “Drevlians send twenty guys to sweet-talk her, twenty cute guys who are clever with words. What does Olga do? Drop them in ditch and fill with earth.”

“Buried them alive? Ouch!”

“There is more. Olga send message to Drevlians. She can marry Prince Mal if they send more cute guys to travel with her.”

“As escorts?”

“Yes. They send and she is charming. Tells cute guys they can use her bath house. In Russian, banya. They are dusty from long journey. They go in. Olga locks banya, burns it down with Drevlians inside.”

The strong story came over vividly in the pidgin English. The image of the trapped Drevlians was far more compelling than the scene they were passing, the stretch of lawn rising to Henrietta Mews and the high backs of Great Pulteney Street.

“How this woman ever got to be a saint I can’t imagine.”

“Ha. Is nothing yet. She travel to Drevlia with army for great funeral feast for husband Igor. Much drinking. When Drevlians are drunk, her men kill them. Five thousand die. Later, she burn down Drevlian capital city Iskorosten. Many more dead. End of Drevlian tribe. Kaput. Finish.”

“She ordered all this? She’s a mass murderer. How on earth did she get to be a saint?”

“Smart lady, she take Christian faith, baptise in Constantinople. This is big, big deal, new thing for Rus’. Olga tell all her peoples you better go Christian.”

“Or else...?”

More hearty laughter. “Many do. But her own son is not baptise. He is not Christian.”

“I sense more trouble,” Maeve said.

Olga shook her head. “Olga is Christian now. Commandment of God: no killing.”

“Thou shalt not kill. That must have reined her in a bit.”

“She is patient. She speak to grandson, Prince Vladimir. You better become Christian when you are ruler. And Vladimir has good sense and all of Kievan Rus’ goes Christian.”

“Thanks to Olga’s persuasive powers.”

“She is first saint of Russian church. All Russians know her.”

“And you’re Olga as well? I’d better not mess with you.”

Olga laughed again. “Don’t even think.” And she lifted her chin a fraction higher. “Don’t call me mouse again.”

Maeve decided against explaining the cat and mouse proverb. She didn’t want to cause more offence than she already had.

The Olga of Kiev story had to be a mix of folk history and myth, but Maeve had the strong impression that every gruesome detail of it mattered profoundly. Olga identified with her namesake, and not just her evangelism. She was not unwilling to be associated with the violence. Underlying it all was the message that anyone who took her for a softie, or, worse still, a laughing stock, would come to regret it.

Her own training progressed well. After Trevor the PE teacher had told her about the lactic threshold, she’d done some internet research of her own on the science of running and she could easily have talked back to him about oxygen debt, the same peril under another name. For a few days he didn’t pester her about the running because he didn’t spend much time in the staffroom and, when he did, he sat in a corner using his laptop. She heard he was flat-hunting with the aim of moving closer to the school.

She was happy progressing by trial and error, learning how to avoid the mistake of demanding too much and having your muscles scream that you should stop. The key was to find a pace she was comfortable with. Steadily she increased the length of her runs, always allowing for the extra effort of coping with Bath’s hilly terrain. She even mapped out a route that took her some of the way up the stiff climb of Lansdown on evenings when she was feeling especially good. Setting goals and achieving them gave her more than mere confidence. It was the antidote to long-held insecurities, those setbacks in her romantic life and her day job that could bring on depression.

Unsurprisingly there were runs that didn’t go to plan. More than once she tripped on uneven paving and fell. She was so bruised one time that she took two days off to get over it. She got lost a few times in streets that looked different from the way she’d pictured them. There was a night when a power failure put out all the streetlights. Another time a dog waited behind a certain fence for her to approach and then flung itself at the woodwork, ferociously barking, and gave her the fright of her life. There was a skateboarder who cut across and missed her by a whisker. And groups of small boys on street corners shouted comments about her boobs. Yes, even in genteel Bath.

More than once on a night run, she was sure she could hear the steps of another runner behind her. In a race you can’t object if others use you as a pacemaker. You’d do it yourself to keep going. A training run was altogether different. The mysterious follower didn’t try to overtake, but kept about twenty-five yards behind for ten to twenty minutes of the run. She tried glancing over her shoulder and couldn’t see anything. Was it an echo of her own footsteps? She didn’t think so, but she didn’t care to stop and find out. The experience was scary enough for her to change her route next time, only for it to happen again on different streets. Did runners have stalkers? She kept herself from panicking by rehearsing things she’d say if ever the stupid jerk got close enough to hear them.

Strangely, the calamities she most feared hadn’t happened. She hadn’t had an elastic failure while out training and she hadn’t yet had urgent need of a bathroom. Maybe those horrors were waiting to happen on the day she finally ran in the real thing. Thirteen-and-a-bit miles still seemed about as likely as shaking hands with the Venus de Milo. The most she had managed by the end of January was five.

But the training diary was testament to genuine progress. She recorded her daily mileage, the time taken and the route. She weighed herself every three days and saw the improvement there. And there was another, more pleasing measure. She found she could fit into favourite dresses she’d despaired of wearing again. They’d only survived being taken to the charity shop because she couldn’t bear to part with them.

In the staffroom at work, she was often asked how the training was going and she didn’t give much away, except to confirm that she hadn’t stopped altogether. As most of them were sponsors, she couldn’t clam up completely. Angie, who taught the year threes, said one lunch break, “You’re looking great on it. How much weight have you lost since you started?”

She knew precisely how much and didn’t want to boast. “The thing is,” she said in all truth, “I have no control over which parts of me are changing shape. I’ve always wanted slim legs, but they’re getting chunkier, if anything.”

“Don’t worry. That will be muscle.”

Trevor couldn’t resist chiming in. “You won’t change your body shape however hard you train. You’re a mesomorph on the cusp of being an endomorph. Heavy thighs, sturdy calves.”

Whereupon the entire staff of Longford Road Primary stopped what they were doing and stared at Maeve’s legs.

“Go on,” Angie said with a giggle. “Give us a twirl and we can get a proper look and make up our minds.”

“Get a life, the lot of you,” Maeve said with a smile. Before she’d grown confident from her running, she would have turned crimson and left the room.

Instead, it was Trevor who walked out as if he was upset. He didn’t even rinse his mug in the staff kitchen.

“What’s his problem?” Angie said.

Katie had the answer. “He didn’t like everyone goggling at Maeve. He thinks he owns her, poor sap.”

Maeve smiled, shook her head and said nothing.

“Is that why he moved to a new flat?” Angie said.

“What’s that got to do with it?” Katie said.

“Only that his new place is in Bella Vista Drive. Isn’t that where you live, Maeve? You’ve got a new neighbour now.”

One midweek run early in March brought an unexpected breakthrough. She was listening to the Take That album Odyssey, a compilation of their biggest hits, on a stretch of London Road she generally avoided because of traffic fumes, when she became aware that she’d covered the last mile and a half without any recollection of doing it. What a boost. She felt strong and was still going steadily and here she was almost at the big intersection with the A4. I need to be more ambitious, she told herself. I can be running seven or eight miles at a stretch. On the way back she took a detour and managed six for the first time.

She had to share the good news with someone who would understand, so she texted Olga. Back came a quick reply:

Maeve had forgotten Konstantin, the husband, existed, he’d been away so long. And it was unexpected to learn that Olga was a churchgoer. She had never mentioned religion before. It would be Eastern Orthodox. She checked online and much to her surprise there was a church called St. John of Kronstadt that had a foothold in the Anglo-Catholic church opposite the fire station near Cleveland Bridge. They celebrated Vespers there on Saturdays at 5 p.m. and the Liturgy at 11 a.m. on Sundays. She’d passed the building regularly on her runs. It turned out that they had their own convent and a chapel on Lyncombe Hill. Who would have thought it?

Olga had never said much about Konstantin and Maeve hadn’t pressed her. The impression she’d got was that he was more of a meal ticket than a soulmate, but she could be wrong.

This Sunday on a crisp, bright morning before the frost had disappeared, the big Russian was well into her laps in Henrietta Park, hot breath leaving a trail in the air like a steam engine and arms going like pistons, but she wasn’t panting. She looked to have lost at least ten pounds in recent weeks.

Maeve stepped in beside her with a word of greeting and tried to keep up.

“It’s no use,” she was forced to say. “You’ve speeded up since I last joined in. I can’t walk at this pace. I’ll have to run to keep up.”

“Okay with me,” Olga said. “Cycle if you want.”

Maeve started jogging beside her. “Was Konstantin pleased when he saw how much weight you’d lost?”

“He is not interest, selfish pig,” she said. “Work, work, work and himself running.”

“Is he a runner?”

“Long-time runner. Marathon two hours twenty-five minutes.”

“That’s awesome, Olga. It’s almost world class. When does he train?”

“After work. Even in Qatar, temperature thirty-five, forty, he run.”

“I’m impressed. You didn’t tell me. I feel very inferior talking to you about my modest efforts.”

“In marathon world, he is nothing. Rubbish.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I can say.” She returned a wave from one of her admirers. “All this training and he does not go faster. Two hours twenty-five I put on his gravestone.”

Maeve felt some sympathy for Konstantin.

Olga hadn’t finished putting him down. “Everyone else get better. You go more kilometre. Me, I burn much fat. Stupid prick Konstantin train and train and stay same.” Whatever deficiencies she had in English grammar, she was well equipped to badmouth her husband.

“So why does he do it?”

“Good question.”

“I expect it’s the joy of running. When I started, I didn’t want to go out at all, but now I’m beginning to get pleasure from it.”

Olga’s tone became friendlier. “This I like to know, how you start.”

“There’s no mystery to it. I’m doing it for charity.” The full story was too complicated to explain. Trying to describe the Toby jug and why it was such a loss would take the rest of the morning. “If I can run the half marathon it will help the British Heart Foundation.”

“Nice. I like Turner, Gainsborough, Constable.”

Maeve had to think about that. Then she laughed. “Heart, not art.” She pointed to her chest. “Medical research.”

Smiling, Olga said, “British Heart Foundation?”

“You’ve got it. I’ve been raising funds, so I can’t give up.”

“How much you raise?”

“So far? Almost a thousand pounds.”

“So, thousand. I tell Konstantin and we give five hundred.”

Maeve’s legs almost folded under her. “But Konstantin doesn’t even know me.”

“I tell him tonight. He can afford, capitalist pig. Run many marathons, never for charity. You take cheque?”

“That would be wonderful. If you’re serious I’ll bring a sponsorship form next time I see you.” Stunned by the amount, she continued jogging in silence for some distance. She couldn’t peel off and walk away directly after such a generous pledge, but what could she say next? A remark about the weather would seem ungrateful.

She thought of something. “Now that I’ve told you how I started, how about you, Olga? I know you’re in serious training to lose weight, but what’s behind this big change in your life?”

“You want me to tell?” Olga gave one of her chesty laughs.

“Is it funny?”

“I think so. Big joke. Is for Konstantin.”

“You’re doing it for him?”

Another burst of laughter. “He think so.”

“But you aren’t?”

“One time before he go to Qatar he say I am elephant woman, fat cow, good for nothing. Too much eating, not enough exercise.”

“That’s so unkind.”

“But he is right.”

“Not anymore, he isn’t.”

“So I tell Konstantin I need personal trainer and” — she snapped her fingers — “he find.”

“You have a personal trainer?”

“Sure. Don’t you have?”

Maeve thought of Trevor. She refused to call him a trainer. He was the self-appointed consultant she didn’t like to consult because it might encourage him to come calling. “No, I do my own thing. But good for you, getting organised. You go to a gym now?”

“Jim? Who is this Jim? My trainer, he is Tony.”

“Misunderstanding. Tony it is. I mean, where do you see him?”

“Come to house, Monday, Thursday, downstairs in exercise hall, make me fit.”

Exercise hall? Maeve was reminded that her new friend lived on another social plane.

“Is he any good?”

Olga’s shoulders started shaking, the beginning of another bout of laughter. “He is good, yes. Very, very good. Like film star. Dark hair, nice teeth, sexy eyes. Gorgeous. Touch me and I want to grab.”

“Oh, my.”

“Cute little bum I could bite.”

“Yikes.”

“Now I do everything Tony say. Everything. Take walks, eat no cake, chocolates, pasta, and he is big smile.”

“Pleased with you?”

“You bet.”

“Has it gone any further?”

“Has what?”

“Like kissing?”

“Sod bloody kissing. One day soon, please God, Tony get close, measure waist and we...” She raised both arms, puffed out her chest and shouted a word in Russian that Maeve had no difficulty understanding.

This time it was Maeve who was laughing.

“You tell no one, eh?” Olga said, turning to give her a sudden, ferocious look.