Christopher's Medal

by S. A. Laybourn

  It’s only one night. You’ll be fine.

  Christopher wound his fingers through hers when they walked up the flagstone path. Grace took another deep breath when he opened the front door.

  “Hello! We’re here. Is anyone home?”

  Grace took in the flagstone floor and the polished table. A huge bowl of carefully arranged roses filled the foyer with the scent of the garden. The aroma of garlic drifted from somewhere else in the silent house.

  “Chris, darling.” A small woman hurried along the shadowed hall. “It’s so lovely to see you.” She swept Christopher into an enthusiastic hug.

  “It’s great to see you too, Mum.” He stepped back. “You look well.”

  “So do you, darling.” She turned to look at Grace. “And you must be Grace.” She held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you at last. We’ve heard so much about you.”

  Grace fidgeted under the scrutiny of those brown eyes, Christopher’s eyes. “It’s nice to meet you too.” Mrs Beaumont’s hand was cool, her grip firm.

  “Well, you must both want to freshen up after your drive. I’ve got the spare room ready for you both. We’ll have lunch when you’re ready. We might as well enjoy the peace and quiet while we can because Sally’s coming for dinner and the children have been demons lately.”

  She led them up the staircase. The polished oak floorboards creaked with every footfall. The pale gold walls were covered with photographs. Grace wanted to stop and look at them, to get a feel for Christopher’s family. Instead, she followed his mother who rattled on about people she knew nothing about.

  “Here we are.” Mrs Beaumont opened the door onto a cool, shadowed room. The small windows were open to catch the air. The scent of honeysuckle rose from a vase where blossoms spilled across the dressing table. “I hope you like it.”

  Grace looked at the four-poster bed, piled high with silk cushions. The ceiling was dark with heavy beams and the floorboards were covered with an ancient Turkish rug. A lopsided door with an old-fashioned latch opened into a small bathroom where a jar of pinks scented the room with spice.

  She thought it was like something from Country Living magazine. “It’s lovely.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” Christopher kissed his mother’s cheek.

  “Lunch is in an hour. Come down when you’re both ready.” Mrs Beaumont closed the door behind her.

  Grace sank onto the bed and exhaled slowly. The silk rustled beneath her fingers, cool to the touch.

  “Are you all right?” Christopher’s lips brushed her temple. “You’re very quiet.”

  “I’ll be fine. I just need to get over my inferiority complex.” She managed a smile.

  He put his arm around her and drew her down onto the bed, among the cushions. “She’s as nervous as you are, Gracey. You’re the first girl I’ve ever brought home.”

  “Really?” Grace twisted in his arms to look at him.

  “Yes, really. That’s how much you mean to me, Miss Webb.” He kissed her, pinning her to the bed with his weight. “Unless you think it’s pathetic that a man my age hasn’t brought someone home to meet the parents. Just call me picky.”

  “No, you’re not pathetic. You’re just discerning.” She brushed the hair from his forehead and wished his parents weren’t waiting downstairs.

  * * * *

  “It’s such a lovely day, I thought we’d have lunch on the patio.” Mrs Beaumont handed Grace a large bowl of salad. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” Grace glanced around the kitchen. It was another room from a glossy magazine, complete with a Rayburn stove, which cast off waves of heat, and copper saucepans hanging from a rack over a wooden butcher’s block. Dinner simmered on the back burner, something redolent with herbs and garlic.

  “Will this do, dearest?” Christopher’s father stood in the doorway with a bottle of white wine. He grinned at Grace with an echo of his son’s smile. “Margaret is very picky about her wine.”

  “Oh, George, don’t tease. I’m sure that’ll be fine.”

  Grace carried the salad onto the patio and set the bowl on the table. The patio rested beneath a low retaining wall. Beyond the wall, a strip of lawn rose steeply toward the edge of a beech wood. The wood was a mosaic of shifting dappled light and shadow. A single mourning dove called out into the hazy afternoon stillness.

  “I used to play in those woods when I was a kid.” Christopher set the wine on the table.

  “Cowboys and Indians?”

  “Nah, Narnia. I was forever searching for fauns and lions.” He slid his arms around her waist. “I used to get no end of grief on rainy days.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Sally would find me sitting in her wardrobe waiting for the door to Narnia to open.”

  “You were a strange boy, Beaumont.”

  “Yes, yes, I was strange.” He kissed her forehead. “What about you? What did you play at? I can’t imagine you played much with dolls.”

  “No, no dolls. They give me the creeps. I spent my childhood roaming the countryside on fat little ponies.” Grace rested her hands on Christopher’s chest. It was easy to forget the reason she was there in the drowsy afternoon. The scent of rain hung in the air and the sun was lost behind a smoky amber haze.

  “Here we go.” Mrs Beaumont bustled onto the patio. “Lunch is served.” She set a platter of meat and cheese on the table. “Have a seat.”

  Grace sank into a chair, grateful when Christopher sat beside her. The silence filled with the bustle of plates being passed back and forth. Mr Beaumont poured the wine.

  The conversation around the table was harmless, local gossip, stories about people Grace didn’t know. She was thankful that Mrs Beaumont at least took the trouble to give her the background so she wasn’t all at sea. This type of conversation was better than the inquisition she expected.

  After lunch, Mr Beaumont leaned back in his chair. “Fancy a drink down at the pub, Chris?”

  Grace took a deep breath. Christopher looked at her, asking the question. “Yes, you go and have a pint or two.” She tried to smile. “It’ll do you good.”

  He kissed her forehead. “We won’t be long.”

  “I know.” She watched him leave and braced herself for the inevitable.

  “Would you be so kind as to help me clear these plates?” Mrs Beaumont stood up.

  Grace scooped up some dishes and carried them into the kitchen. “Shall I wash them?”

  Mrs Beaumont smiled. “Thank you, dear.”

  Well, that’s something I suppose.

  Grace let the water run into the sink and started washing while Mrs Beaumont dried the dishes and put them away. The task was undertaken in silence and Grace wondered when the questions would start.

  “Would you like a coffee?” Mrs Beaumont plugged the kettle in.

  “Thank you, yes.” Grace rinsed the remaining soap bubbles from the sink and leaned against the counter while Chris’ mother retrieved mugs from a cupboard and shook coffee into a French press.

  “Do you like your coffee strong?”

  “Very.”

  “No wonder you and Chris get along so well.” Her smile had warmth in it for the first time. “My son isn’t worth speaking to until he’s had that first cup of coffee in the morning.” She set a jug of cream and sugar bowl on a tray. “Are you the same?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The kettle boiled and Mrs Beaumont poured boiling water into the press. “Let’s go in the sitting room. It’s nice and comfortable there.”

  The sitting room was cool and dark. Mrs Beaumont opened the French doors onto the lawn then poured out the coffee. They drank in silence for a few moments while Grace glanced around at the photographs on the walls. There seemed to be quite a few of Christopher. She wanted to get up and look at them properly.

  “I like having lots of photographs.” Mrs Beaumont set her mug down and plumped up a scarlet cushion. “I suppose you’ve guessed that.”

  “I’m the same
.”

  “Lots of racing ones, Chris tells me.”

  “Yes. Every time we get a winner, their photograph goes on my wall.”

  “It seems an unusual job for a woman, training horses. Apart from one or two women, it seems the only trainers I see being interviewed on television are men.”

  “There’s not many women working as trainers. My Dad wants me to take over when he retires, so I’m doing my best to learn everything I can.”

  “Chris says it’s hard work.”

  “It is. So, if I fall asleep after dinner you’ll know why.”

  Mrs Beaumont picked up her mug again. She gazed out of the window, her brown eyes distant. Grace stared at her coffee. The mourning dove started calling again, a soft, plaintive call in the still of the afternoon.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Grace.” Mrs Beaumont’s voice was quiet. “When Chris told us about you, I didn’t know what to think.”

  Grace tightened her fingers around the mug.

  Here we go.

  “He’s never had much luck with girls before. I think a lot of it’s down to his job. Some of them like the idea of going out with an officer. I suppose it’s some sort of leftover Victorian thing. I don’t know.” She sighed and looked at Grace. “A lot of them didn’t like how much time his job takes. They don’t realize it’s not just a nine-to-five job. A few of them were terrible snobs.”

  Grace smiled. “Oh yes.”

  “Yes, Chris told me about Pippa. Appalling woman. I admire your restraint.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The most important thing to me, to my husband, is that Chris is happy. It’s clear to me that he’s never been happier.” She smiled. “I don’t blame you for being nervous, especially after that farce of a wedding.”

  “It was horrible.”

  “I’ve been nervous about meeting you too.”

  “You have? What on earth has Chris been telling you?”

  Mrs Beaumont laughed. “Nothing horrible. He adores you. Believe it or not, parents are always nervous when they meet girlfriends or boyfriends. Since you’re the first one Chris has brought home, it’s clear to me that you’re different.”

  Grace sank into the cushions. “I’d like to think so.”

  “You have a career of your own. That’s important. It means you won’t be sitting around moping when Chris is deployed. It means that it’s not about Chris being a captain in a fancy regiment. It means that you’re with him because you love him.”

  “That’s certainly true. I’m not sure about the moping though. I may be working, but it won’t stop me worrying.”

  “We all worry, my dear.” Mrs Beaumont leaned across the coffee table and patted Grace’s hand. “But now you won’t have to worry alone.”

  “Thank you.” Relief made Grace speechless.

  “And you must call me Margaret.”

  “Thank you.”

  Grace, is that all you can say?

  Margaret poured more coffee. “We may as well enjoy the peace and quiet while we can and you can tell me all about training horses.”

  * * * *

  Grace was glad to retreat to the kitchen with the dirty plates. Sally’s children ran up and down the uneven hallways, whooping and yelling like lunatics. They hadn’t been much better during dinner, getting up and wandering around the dining room or crawling under the table, until Margaret finally snapped and told her grandchildren to settle down. Their mother wore an air of resignation and her husband, John, only made a half-hearted attempt to keep his sons under control.

  “I’m so sorry about the horrors.” Sally carried another stack of plates in and set them on the counter. “John made the mistake of giving them some of those dreadful American jelly beans. All that sugar, it’s worse than speed.”

  “That’s all right.” Grace was thankful she didn’t have to live with them.

  “I hope it wears off soon.” Sally filled the kettle and spooned coffee into the coffee press. “I may have to tie them up somewhere.”

  Grace rinsed off the dishes. She wasn’t sure whether it would be polite to agree or just smile and nod. “Perhaps they’ll tire themselves out.”

  “I hope so. It’s not a terribly good first impression, is it?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “If it’s any consolation, Chris wasn’t like that when he was their age.”

  Grace laughed. “No, I can’t imagine him being like that. He did tell me about sitting in your wardrobe.”

  “Oh, heavens, I’d forgotten about that. He was a funny little thing, all knees and elbows.”

  Grace had seen the photographs hanging on the sitting room wall, marking the progress from a tall skinny boy with huge dark eyes and perpetually tousled hair to the grave guardsman, solemn and striking in his full dress uniform. Margaret had talked her through them all, from his cricketing days to the holiday in Mallorca when he fell and broke his nose. All the while, Christopher had groaned in the background, telling his mother to stop exaggerating things and making him look like an arse.

  “He was cute.” Grace finished rinsing off the plates.

  “You do love him, don’t you?” Sally was suddenly serious. “It’s just, he’s been…well, he’s been hurt before.”

  “Yes, I love him.”

  “Good, because I don’t want to see him hurt again.”

  “I won’t hurt him. I couldn’t.” Grace wanted to be back in the sitting room.

  A clatter and a child’s yelp brought a sudden end to the conversation. “Bugger.” Sally hurried out into the hall. Grace finished making the coffee and carried the tray into the sitting room, leaving Sally to tend to the wounded.

  Chapter Seven

  The rain began to fall almost as soon as Christopher turned off the North Circular onto the M11. It suited his mood and the fact that he had bad news to deliver. He pushed the car as far as he dared, keeping the speedometer hovering around eighty-five. The deployment date had been confirmed. He’d known it was coming and he’d avoided mentioning it, thinking if he didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t happen. Now it was only a matter of weeks away and he somehow had to find the words to tell her. There were other things that needed to be said, other matters that would hurt them both when he told her. He dreaded seeing the pain in her eyes.

  That was why he had been so afraid when he’d fallen for her so fast, because he’d known there would be a goodbye. Six months seemed like nothing, but he remembered how it was before, in 2007, how every day had dragged. This time it would be worse, because he had someone to miss. It had been hard enough only seeing Grace every other weekend when he wanted so much more of her. Christopher knew that she would be all right, she had her job, it would keep her occupied. She was strong and he thought that was one of the things he loved about her, that she didn’t let him define her. She didn’t seem the least bit fussed that he was an officer—only that his job would take him away from her.

  He tightened his hands around the steering wheel and pressed on, driving through the early autumn rain.

  * * * *

  “I have good news and really shitty news.” Christopher handed her another plate to dry.

  Grace looked at him. Rain splattered against the kitchen window. September had blown in, full of threats of autumn. She didn’t think it had stopped raining for days. The yard was scattered with puddles where bits of straw stubbornly lingered and the horses huddled miserably at the back end of their boxes.

  “I’ll take the really shitty news first,” she replied, knowing what it was likely to be. They had skirted around the reality of Christopher’s deployment for the entire summer.

  He set the washcloth down and leaned against the sink. “We’re off to Afghanistan at the end of the month.”

  She slipped into his arms and rested against him. His hand, still soapy, stroked her hair. “Ouch. That is really shitty news.” ‘Shitty’ didn’t cover it. Grace hated the sound of the words and hated the way they sat like a stone in her stomach.

/>   His lips brushed her forehead. “I’m sorry, Gracey. There’s no way to sugar that particular pill.”

  “I know.” She glanced up. “What’s the good news?”

  “A week’s embarkation leave before we go. I’ve been thinking. One of the chaps has a cottage that he lets out. Would you be able to come away with me for a week, Gracey?”

  “Yes. I can’t think of anything I’d like more. Where?”

  “Pembrokeshire, it’s an old mill in a village on the coast. I’ve seen pictures, it looks nice. There’s a beach and nice places to walk. There’s a couple of pubs. What do you reckon?”

  “It sounds lovely.” Somewhere where they didn’t know anyone, where they wouldn’t be interrupted by morning stables or well-meaning relatives. “I can think of nothing I’d love more.”

  “Good, I’ll sort it out with him.” He sighed again, his breath warm against her cheek. “I’d like to say that I can’t wait, but I know what comes afterwards.”

  Grace stepped back and touched his face. “I know. I’m going to try not to think about that. I’m going to try my best to make you forget about it for a week.”

  “That’s why I love you,” he whispered. “Because you are the only person who can help me forget.” His hands were in her hair.

  Grace smelled the dish soap and, beneath it, the scent of his cologne. “I don’t want to waste a minute.” She kissed the clean line of his jaw.

  “Neither do I.” His hand drifted down her arm and curled through her fingers. He leaned over and turned off the light, leaving the kitchen in a leaden, rainy gloom. “Come to bed with me, Gracey. Help me to forget.”

  She locked the door and followed him into the bedroom.

  * * * *

  “Do you ever use that laptop?” Christopher lifted a week’s worth of Racing Posts from the top of the computer and flipped it open.

  Grace handed him a glass of wine. “Yes, I usually look at form and races and things like that on there.”

  He took a sip of wine. “Do you have an email account?”

  “Yahoo and a BT one for the yard. Why?”