Christopher's Medal

by S. A. Laybourn

  “I miss him, Al.” Her eyes stung. She hid her face and sought the comfort of darkness while she cried.

  The straw whispered and a warm, flubbering sigh ruffled her hair. Grace remained still while Allonby lipped gently at her shoulders. She reached up and stroked his muzzle. “Thanks. I knew you would understand.”

  He snorted and yawned.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you. If it wasn’t for your bloody owner and his family friends, I wouldn’t be in this mess.” She sighed and looked at him. “But then, I wouldn’t have known Chris the way he used to be when things were good. Now it’s all he can do to kiss me goodnight.” Grace swallowed at the lump in her throat. She wrapped her arms around her legs and nursed her ache. Allonby fell asleep, standing over her.

  “Thanks.” Grace closed her eyes and wished she could do the same.

  Uneven footsteps, the soft thunk of a walking stick on the concrete. “Grace?”

  She sat still.

  Now you want to drag the agony out into the yard? Leave me the fuck alone.

  “Grace?”

  Christopher sounded like a lost child.

  God, she was worn out. Tired of carrying them both, tired of wondering when he’d come back to her and be the sweet man she fell in love with. Grace hid her face in her hands again when the bolt eased back.

  “Grace.” Christopher groaned when he sank down beside her. “I’m sorry.”

  It was almost too much effort to deal with his apology.

  “Please.” His hand was warm on her shoulder. It reminded her of those better days, a soft echo of all that had been good between them.

  Grace lifted her head and looked at him. “What do you want, Chris? More physio? Do you want me to make you lunch and we can just pretend that everything’s all right again? Is that what you want?”

  Grace felt a twist of guilt when he flinched.

  “No. I just want you.” His lips brushed her forehead. “Please come back. I’m sorry I was such an arsehole.”

  “Yes you were.” She wanted to ask when the arsehole would return but thought better of it.

  “Will you come back to the house?”

  She rose and held out her hand. “Yes.” Grace helped him struggle to his feet, glad that there were still moments when she glimpsed a kinder Christopher.

  “Thank you.” He wrapped his arms around her.

  She let him hold her in silence. She ached to kiss him, to feel him respond to her kiss, to take her to bed. Grace stroked his hair. “It’s all right.”

  And, for a little while, it was.

  * * * *

  “Chris, you really need to talk to me.” Grace sat down on the edge of the bed and took his hand. “Please, darling, we can’t go on like this. It’s doing neither of us any good. You’ve not said a word all week.” She watched him. He gazed past her, his eyes shadowed and lost. She wondered if he even heard her.

  “I want to help you. I know you’re hurting. God, Chris, please let me help you.”

  He rolled over and faced the far wall.

  Grace bit her lip and stared up at the ceiling. “Forget I said anything.” She stood up and curled her hands into fists. “Just forget I’m here. I’ve had enough of this crap.”

  He didn’t move.

  “You came back here begging for me to help you and you won’t bloody let me. How the hell am I supposed to help you when you won’t even talk to me?” She grabbed her pillow. “I tell you what. I’ll sleep on the settee and let you decide if you want to keep this up or not. I’ve had a long day. Don’t forget, I work for a living. It’s not as dangerous as being a soldier, but I sure as hell need my wits about me when I’m riding one of those idiot yearlings. Think on that while you’re lying there wallowing. Goodnight, Chris.” She spun on her heel and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her. She didn’t care whether the loud noise upset him.

  “Sod you,” she said. “I’m done.”

  He couldn’t talk to her, something inside wouldn’t let him reach out to her. He was underwater, surrounded by a thick, green glass. He really tried to talk to her, but the words were lost inside him, all jumbled up and he couldn’t make sense of them anyway. He ached to touch her, wanted to beg her to hold him, to make the darkness go away. He knew that if she held him, he’d be safe, because she loved him. But the water wouldn’t let him, it held him in place, swallowed his words, paralyzed his hands. Part of him knew that he hurt her with his silence, but the other part wouldn’t let him near her. It was easier to dwell in silence, to let the darkness win because fighting it was hard. It brought the rage. It brought the burning desire to drink himself stupid.

  Christopher heard the pain in Grace’s voice and wanted to cry, but the water wouldn’t let him do that either. The water wanted the darkness to win. It was easier to give in, because he was too bloody tired to fight anymore. It would be easier to go away, to spare Grace any more pain. Every sorrowful look she gave him was another bloody wound for them both.

  * * * *

  Grace,

  I’m sorry, darling, that I’ve taken the coward’s way out and left you this note. I didn’t want an argument. I didn’t want to see you cry or worse, see you angry. I need time alone. Commonsense tells me it’s not a good idea, but I can’t bear to see the pain in your eyes and hear the hurt in your voice. I know what I’m doing to you, but I just can’t seem to pull out of this state I’m in. You probably think that I haven’t paid you a blind bit of notice these past few days but, believe me, I have. It’s like there’s something huge and dark blocking my way. It won’t let me reach you. It won’t let me touch you. It’s killing me, it’s killing you and it’s killing us.

  I love you so much. I only wish I knew how to show you. I’m empty inside. I can’t even remember what it felt like to make love to you. Those days and nights belong to someone else, some lucky bastard who didn’t know what was going to hit him. You deserve so much better, Grace. Perhaps, after time, you’ll be glad that I’m out of the way for a while. I will come back, I promise.

  I’m leaving my phone. I’ve written to my parents and to Sally. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything stupid. Just let me try and sort myself out without getting in your way or causing you any more pain.

  Please forgive me. I will never stop loving you.

  Chris.

  It took Grace a few read-throughs for her to realize that Christopher had left her. She wandered into their bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Some of his clothes had gone, the small, leather carry-all that had sat on the shelf was gone. She took very little comfort in the fact that he had left plenty of clothes behind. She sank down on the bed and stared into the wardrobe for a long time. Her eyes stung and she couldn’t see all that well.

  What do I do now? What the fuck do I do now?

  “Some bloody way of showing how much you love me, Chris, some bloody way.” Grace wiped her eyes. “You selfish, stupid bastard.” She closed the wardrobe and rose. The letter went into the bin, torn into shreds. Instead of an afternoon nap, she retrieved the empty boxes from the loft and packed Christopher away once more.

  * * * *

  “Tell me you’re kidding.” Billy stood in the tack room doorway.

  “I wish I was.” Grace wiped soap off the bridle. “He’s gone. He left me a note saying that he didn’t want to cause me any more pain and he buggered off.”

  “Fuckwit,” Billy spat. “What the fuck is he thinking?”

  Grace looked at him. “In his own, upside-down way, he honestly believes he’s doing the right thing. He seems to think he can beat this on his own. If that’s what he wants to do, then let him.” She threw the sponge into the sink. “I’m done. I can’t take the pain anymore. I can’t deal with him. I love him so much, Billy, but part of me is so glad that he’s gone.”

  “Gracey, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right. It’s good timing on his part. We’ve got to get Allonby just right for the Jubilee, none of us can afford any distracti
ons. I’m glad I don’t have Chris to worry about right now. I don’t need that.”

  He lit a cigarette. “I know you don’t mean that. Don’t do the whole ‘brave little trooper’ act with me. I know you too well.”

  “Of course I bloody don’t, Billy. I’m just tired of crying and wallowing in self-pity. I’m scared shitless of what Chris might do to himself. Even though the last week sucked, I would still rather have him anyway, angry or silent, than not know where he is or what he’s doing.” She sank down on the traveling trunk and leaned against Billy. He smelled of horses and cigarette smoke. “I’m sorry. I can’t bear that he left me. What’s worse is that I feel kind of relieved.”

  “I know.” His voice was gentle. “He’ll come back, you’ll see. He won’t be able to stand being away from you. He’ll soon realize what an idiot he is for leaving you like this.”

  “I hope so because I hate not knowing where he is or what he’s doing. I hate thinking that he might do something stupid and selfish.”

  “He won’t, don’t worry.”

  “Easier said than done.” She stood up. “Anyway, that’s it. I’m not shedding any more tears over him. Not in public, anyway.”

  “You know where to find me if you need me.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She hung the clean bridle back on its hook and picked out another one.

  * * * *

  Grace eased Seal onto the racecourse and glanced back. The string fell into a tidy line behind her while she led them toward the five-furlong pole. She had never ridden work on the course before, but her father had asked the Jockey Club if he could work Allonby on the track in preparation for Ascot. It seemed strange to be on the track once more. The last time she had ridden there was in the Newmarket Town Plate three years before. Now, Allonby was having his final test, a five-furlong work-out.

  She could see her father leaning on the rail, up on the terrace. The lenses of his binoculars glinted into the watery May sunlight and he picked up his stopwatch. The colt had enjoyed one outing where he’d finished fourth because Billy had orders not to push him too hard. His finishing out of the frame didn’t fool the pundits. One or two racing correspondents were already whispering that Allonby was one to watch in the big sprint at Royal Ascot. When Grace glanced back at the stands, she noticed one or two observers and wondered if they were writers. She slowed the hack to a trot as they approached the marker. The others pulled up around her, walking their horses in a circle while they waited for Grace to take the lead.

  “Are we ready?” she asked, tightening her hands around the reins. Seal hadn’t raced for three years, but he was already on his toes. He snorted and his ears pricked as Grace turned him around. The gelding bounced and jigged until she sat down hard and drove her heels down in the irons. Slightly behind and to the side, Billy sat on Allonby. The colt was a picture of calm while he surveyed the long sweep of grass that stretched ahead of them. A crow swooped across the course and rose over the white rail, calling out as it flew toward the green thicket of Offa’s Dyke.

  “Ready, Boss.” Billy grinned.

  “Right then.” Grace braced herself when she lowered the reins. Seal sprang forward with a squeal and Grace gathered him back and rose in the stirrups. She heard the pounding of hooves all around her. Billy had Allonby alongside while Pavel and Jane followed on behind. Pavel jabbered away in furious Russian to his filly, who fought the bit. Her mouth was white with foam, flecks of it scattered across her chest.

  Grace leaned forward and asked Seal for more speed. He lowered his head and stretched out. Allonby quickened alongside and Billy hadn’t even eased the reins and asked him for anything. The jockey grinned at her and she nodded. He lowered his hands a fraction and the colt began to pull away from her. She asked Seal for a bit more and he obliged and plunged forward to catch up. He could only pull level with Allonby’s hindquarters and Grace could tell that there was no way that the hack was going to keep pace with the colt.

  She called back to Pavel and Jane and they brought their horses forward. Pavel’s filly swept past Seal with a contemptuous flick of her tail and Jane pulled her colt alongside, leaving Grace following on behind where she could watch. It was all up to Billy now. He leaned low over Allonby’s neck and began to push with his hands and legs. Again, the colt found another gear and flew away from his pursuers as the final furlong pole rose before them. It was clear to Grace that Allonby wasn’t even trying all that hard. There was no need for him to push himself, not in such poor company. He edged away, three lengths, four, five until he reached the finishing post. Billy rose in the stirrups and pulled him up slowly, followed by Pavel and Jane. Grace, winded from working the hack, trotted up last. She could see her father’s huge grin when he ducked under the rail and walked toward them.

  “Bloody hell.” He patted Allonby’s neck. “How did he feel, Billy?”

  “Like he was only going at half speed. He’s ready, Boss.”

  “He certainly looks like he is.” He looked at Grace. “What do you reckon, Gracey?”

  “He’s ready, Dad. He made it look easy.”

  “Let’s just hope he holds it together.”

  “Well, I never felt anything wrong, Boss.” Billy wound strands of Allonby’s mane through his fingers.

  “Good. Maybe we’ve beaten this thing. Take them home. Make sure he gets a mash tonight. We’ll keep him ticking over until the race.” He pocketed his binoculars. “I suppose I’d best phone the General and give him the good news.”

  Grace felt a small twinge. A month had passed and the pain hadn’t become any easier to live with. She was glad that she didn’t have to go to Ascot because she wasn’t sure she could handle the memories or the General’s kindness. She dropped the stirrup leathers and lit a cigarette as her father walked away, already digging in his pocket for his cell phone.

  * * * *

  “Gracey, you’re going to have to go to Ascot tomorrow.” Her father, propped up against a bank of pillows, took the thermometer out of his mouth as it beeped. “Bloody hell, thirty-nine sodding degrees. Sodding, bloody flu.”

  “Me? Dad, are you sure this isn’t a twenty-four hour thing?” Grace was already thinking about what was in her wardrobe that would be suitable. She wasn’t sure she had anything and she certainly didn’t have a hat, which was expected. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “You’d better go and get something to wear.” He coughed. “It had better be pretty bloody smart, too, because if that horse wins, Gracey, you’re going to have microphones and cameras and all sorts in your face.”

  “Dad, can’t the General do the talking?”

  “God, no, he’ll be too busy hugging everyone in the paddock. Just remind him not to hug the Queen.” He handed her his wallet. “There’s a hundred couple of hundred quid in there. Take it, go into town and get yourself something nice. None of your dreadful trouser suits either. It’s all bells and whistles, so a skirt and nice jacket at the very least. In fact, thinking about it, take your mother with you. She’ll make sure you get something nice. Take my car tomorrow, you’ll be taking Billy…and you might as well arrive in something a bit less like a mobile rubbish heap. I don’t want my jockey breaking his neck by tripping over something in your car.”

  “Yes, Dad.” She took the hundred pounds and handed the wallet back. “I’ll buy something nice and I’ll take your car, but are you sure you won’t be better by tomorrow?”

  “Grace, I won’t be better by tomorrow. Come on, lass, you can do it. It’s only a few hours. The General is a good man, be nice to him. Don’t…well, you know.”

  She bit her lip. “I’ve been trying really hard, Dad, I really have, but sometimes it just hurts, you know?”

  He squeezed her hand. “I know. You’ll have Billy with you. He’ll give you grief if you start grizzling. Try and enjoy the day, darling. Go out, get yourself a nice outfit and knock ’em dead. If that eejit would-be son-in-law sees you on telly, perhaps he’ll come to his senses. I wish I had given him
the muck heap talk now.”

  “I guess he can’t help being so messed up.” Grace wiped her eyes. “I tried, I really did.”

  “We know that, love.” Her father leaned back against the pillows. “Where is he now, anyway?”

  Grace had tracked Chris’ progress through his bank statements. She didn’t care that she was opening his private mail—it was the only way she could be sure that he was still alive. In the three months Christopher had been gone, he had taken out modest amounts of money in Great Yarmouth, Cromer, Scunthorpe, Whitby and numerous other coastal towns. She found some comfort in knowing that he appeared to be spending sensibly but found no comfort in the fact that he had never tried to get in touch with her.

  “Wales, I think.” He might as well have been on the moon or in a parallel universe. Grace felt the connection between them was finally fading, leaving her with a lingering sadness and regret she could not shake. Hope that he would return diminished to a weak flicker that she had no energy or inclination to revive.

  She stood up. “I suppose I’d better go. Mum will make sure I don’t end up looking like mutton dressed as lamb.”

  “Don’t be silly. You would never be that.”

  “I’ll take Chris’ car tomorrow. It needs a good run and in spite of the fact that he’s being a complete arse, I’ll look after it.”

  * * * *

  In spite of her parents’ protests to the contrary, Grace felt like mutton dressed as lamb when she stood in the saddling box and watched Harry put the finishing touches on Allonby’s gleaming coat. The colt had never looked better and he knew that something was up. He kept looking toward the door, his head held high. Grace looked at him and felt a chill. She glanced at her watch.

  “I suppose we’d better make our way down to the course,” she told Harry as she straightened her dress. Her mother had dragged her to Bury St Edmunds and into Laura Ashley. She had ended up with a black dress with white polka dots that looked like something from an old World War Two film. In another shop, she’d found a simple, broad-brimmed white hat with a black silk rose. It was more comfortable than a suit and Grace was grateful for the capped sleeves in the warmth of the afternoon. She picked up her purse and followed Harry and Allonby out into the pre-parade ring.