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:
How much kilometre?
About ten, I think.
Wow. Next thing is marathon.
Hold on. I’m only doing a half. Can we meet Saturday?
Sunday is better. After church, Olga go walk in park,
12:30. Konstantin he is doing business stuff.
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?”