Christopher's Medal (17 page)

Grace.

p.s. photo attached. Jane is getting very good at being my official photographer. We may have to hire her for the wedding.

Grace looked at the picture. Janey had snapped her walking Allonby. He was half-asleep, his head low while he strolled behind her across the frosted grass. The late autumn sun gleamed on his coat. In spite of his knock-back, the colt looked happy enough with his morning walk.

You’ll need to get better, Al. We’re screwed without you.

The vet was pleased enough with Allonby’s progress to suggest that he could be ridden out after Christmas, for ten or fifteen minutes a day. Anything had to be better than walking him like a dog.

* * * *

Grace parked Christopher’s car, grateful that it was small enough to squeeze into spaces that others could not. She rolled down the window and lit a cigarette as she studied the address once more. After sorting through her wardrobe, she’d decided on new jeans, Christopher’s blue and white striped shirt and she’d borrowed her mother’s pearls. She drew the line at a velvet hair-band. She hoped that her occupation would excuse her from wearing anything more…well…Belgravia. It would have to do. She stubbed out the cigarette, scrabbled in her pocket for a mint and climbed out of the car. It didn’t look out of place among the Mercedes and BMWs parked along the curb. The late-morning sun was bright in her eyes when she walked along the street.

The Edwards’ flat was on the top two floors of a white regency house. Grace shivered on the doorstep and gazed at the glossy black door.

“Ah, you must be Grace.” Emily Edwards was a slender, tall woman, elegant in corduroys and a Pringle jumper. She offered Grace a warm smile and kissed her cold cheek. “You must be freezing and starving. Come in. We’ve been waiting for you. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.”

She ushered Grace into a large, sunlit sitting room where another three women sat clustered around a coffee table, balancing drinks on their laps.

Oh, wonderful, I must be the youngest here by about ten years.

“Ladies, this is Grace, Chris Beaumont’s fiancée. Luckily, she was able to join us today.”

Grace, feeling awkward, tried to remember everyone’s names. They all knew Christopher and she suspected that they had been dying to find out who the long-unattached captain had finally set his cap on. She perched on the edge of her chair and wondered what to say. She wasn’t used to sitting room conversations with strangers. She was used to meeting strangers on her territory, the yard or a racecourse, comfortable in her knowledge of racing.

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” Emily said.

“None of it too horrible, I hope,” Grace replied, sipping her gin and tonic. She nearly choked. It appeared that Emily’s hand had slipped when she was pouring the gin.

“Not at all, dear. I was overjoyed to hear that he’d finally found someone. He’s such a lovely chap.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “He is.” She fought a sudden, fierce twist of longing.

“Is that your ring?” one of the others asked. “It’s beautiful.”

Grace set her drink down and held her left hand out for inspection. The ring met with universal approval.

“He picked it out himself?”

“He did. It was all a complete surprise to me.” She remembered the beach, the blanket, the warmth of him.

“You really had no idea?”

“None at all.” She retrieved her drink and braced herself for another onslaught of neat gin.

Emily smiled. “I can tell you, my dear, he was like a dog with two tails when he came back and told my Howie that you’d said ‘yes’.”

“I felt a bit like that myself.” Grace looked at the ring. The sapphire gleamed softly in the cold light.

“It must be so hard for you.”

“It is.”

“We’re more used to it, although none of us are happy that they were sent back for another tour of Afghanistan. I’d rather hoped that oh-seven would be the last trip they’d take out there. Just remember, dear. We’re here if you need us. I know it’s harder for you, because you live out of town, but we’re always on the other end of a phone.” Emily rose. “Now, let’s dispense with the gloom and have some lunch.”

* * * *

“So you met with the officers’ wives, eh?” Mark sank into a chair and propped his crutches against the wall.

“Yes.” Grace stirred her tea. “It wasn’t as awful as I thought it would be. I expected a room full of Pippas and Emmas. They were very nice.”

“Emily isn’t a bad sort. She was very kind to me after…well, everything.” His voice tailed away.

“I can imagine she’d be the sort to rally round and help.” Grace glanced around the tiny living room. The only light came from the television. The volume was turned down and she wanted to turn it off, because the flickering picture was a distraction. Even after three solitary visits, it was strange being there without Christopher.

“Have you heard from Chris?”

“We trade emails when the internet’s working and he can get hold of the communal laptop.” She looked at the mantelpiece, crowded with trophies, a stack of letters and bills, a couple of photographs of Mark in his pre-Afghanistan days. Grace wondered how he could bear to live with the reminder of how things used to be.

“Yeah, the internet’s not very reliable, especially out in the wilds.” Mark picked up his cup and saucer. “Hang in there, there’s only four and a bit months left. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“I hope so.”

“Anyway, that’s enough gloom and doom.” He grinned and gulped his tea. “Do you have any good tips for me?”

“Never leave your contact lenses in an empty crisp packet overnight.”

“Now you know that’s not the kind of tip I meant, Miss Webb.”

Grace laughed. “I wrote some down for you.” She fumbled in her pocket for the list.

“I hope they’re better than the last lot you gave me.”

“I’m a trainer not a tipster.” She handed Mark the paper. “One of the first things I learned was that horses make terrible liars out of a person.”

“Not to mention terrible paupers. Here I am, a poor army veteran, trying to supplement my crap income and you give me crappy tips.”

“I may have something better for you in the New Year. I’m not going to say anything now because I don’t want to jinx things.” Grace picked up her cup and saucer once more.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just nice that you take the time to pay me a visit.”

“I like escaping Newmarket.” She looked at the photographs on the mantelpiece once more. There was one she hadn’t seen before. Two men in camouflage sat cross-legged outside a tent. Mark was instantly recognizable with his brown curls and huge grin. Next to him, Christopher, his face creased with laughter.

Grace stood up, crossed the room and picked it up. “It’s Chris.”

“Yea, I was sorting through some things the other day and I found it. That was when we were in Afghanistan back in oh-seven. I thought you’d like it.”

“I do.” She looked at Christopher. He held a scrawny, moth-eaten chicken. Its beak gaped open and its eyes were wide with avian indignation. “What’s with the chicken?”

“Poor bugger. It was given to us by a local, as a thank you. I wanted to have it for dinner, but Chris wouldn’t let me. He said we’d be better off keeping it for the eggs. He won that argument.”

Grace set the photo down. “Did it lay eggs?”

“Did it fuck. The bugger never produced a single egg, but Chris wouldn’t let me kill it. It slept in our tent, under his cot. It became our mascot. He’s a big girl’s blouse, is Chris.”

“I know you don’t mean that.” Grace tried to fight the fierce, sudden ache.

Four and a half months to go. Jesus.

“No. He’s a good bloke and he’s got himself a good woman at last.” Mark sat back. “I can’t thank you enough for coming to visit. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. I enjoy coming here. I know it sounds silly but I feel closer to Chris when I come here.”

“It doesn’t sound silly.” He patted her hand. “I could tell you some good stories. He may not thank me for it, but if it keeps you entertained?”

“I’d like that.” Grace reached for a biscuit and was glad she’d made the effort.

* * * *

Captain Chris: Hello, gorgeous girl.

GraceyW: Hi, handsome. This is a nice surprise.

Captain Chris: Bloody internet’s working again. Must be an early Christmas present.

GraceyW: Good, I’ve missed you.

Captain Chris: Ah, Gracey. How are you?

GraceyW: All the better for hearing from you.

Captain Chris: Are you all right? I’ve been thinking about you a lot.

GraceyW: I’m all right. I’ve been thinking about you too. I can’t bear to watch the news anymore.

Captain Chris: It’s all right, baby. I’m surviving. I’m getting by. I’m just marking off the days. We’re nearly halfway there, Gracey, and I got your parcel today. Thank you. I promise I’ll wait till Christmas.

GraceyW: See that you do. Perhaps I should’ve drawn a couple of googly eyes on it.

Captain Chris: Cheeky minx. I bet you’ve been going in there and rattling the box.

GraceyW: Nope, I’ve been a good girl.

Christmas seemed a bit pointless this year. She felt guilty for even thinking about it. She’d be safe and warm in her parents’ dining room, tucking into turkey with her grandparents. He’d be on patrol because the enemy didn’t give a stuff about holidays. There’d be no Christmas truce there.

Captain Chris: Have you put a tree up?

GraceyW: A little one, on top of the TV, that’s all. We can have a proper tree next year and I promise not to burn the Christmas dinner.

Captain Chris: I wouldn’t care if you did. I just want to wake up on Christmas morning and find you there.

Her throat hurt. Grace wanted to hold him. She wanted to soothe his worries away, stroke his hair, kiss his eyelids, anything to make him better.

GraceyW: That’s all I want too.

Captain Chris: I love you so much.

GraceyW: I love you too.

She thought she might cry.

Captain Chris: I’m sorry, Gracey, I can’t do this. It hurts too much. I can’t pretend to be cheerful anymore. I just can’t.

GraceyW: I know.

She ached to touch him.

GraceyW: I understand.

Captain Chris: I think we’re about to lose the connection. If you can still see this, please pray for me, Grace.

She typed quickly, before the connection went altogether.

GraceyW: I always do. I always will. Be careful, my love. Come back to me.

Captain Chris is offline.

Grace hid her face in her hands and prayed.

* * * *

Christopher stared at the blank monitor, at the yellow smiley face that told him that Yahoo was still on, even though it had stopped working. Grace had gone. He wondered if she was sitting there still looking at her screen, willing him to reappear. He turned off the laptop and retrieved her T-shirt from under his pillow. He held it to his face and closed his eyes, trying to summon her into being. The scent of her was fading from the soft, cotton fabric, but enough remained that his memory could provide the rest. He lay back on the cot and turned out the light, glad he had a tent to himself. He wanted to be alone with the memories. They didn’t just hurt. They made him hard but he couldn’t bring himself to do the obvious to relieve the longing.

Chapter Ten

Grace pulled up in front of the small, semi-detached bungalow. She knew the way to Mark’s house now, after a handful of visits. This time she’d brought his Christmas present and an invitation to spend Christmas in Newmarket. She hated the thought of him spending the holiday alone and Christopher thought it was a good idea. She unlocked the door and picked up the parcel from the passenger seat.

In spite of the brilliant sunlight, frost still lingered on the tiny front lawn. A piece of yellow plastic tape fluttered from the handrail beside the front door. Grace wondered if that was Mark’s attempt at Christmas decorations. He claimed to hate Christmas and declared he was going to carry on as normal. Grace hoped he’d change his mind. She rang the bell and leaned against the icy rail. The street was quiet in the late morning. Most of the houses were decorated for Christmas and the frost added to the festive feel.

She rang the bell once more and tried to peer through the net curtains. The living room was in shadow and the television wasn’t turned on. Mark’s car, white with frost, sat in the driveway.

“Mark?” Grace knocked and waited. She glanced at her watch. Eleven-thirty seemed a bit late to still be in bed.

She looked around the corner and wondered about trying the side gate. It was almost certainly locked because Mark was always complaining about the local chavs.

“Are you looking for Mark?”

Grace wheeled around. Mark’s neighbor stood on his doorstep, leaning on his cane.

“Yes, he was expecting me. I was going to take him out to lunch.”

“You’re Grace?”

“Yes.”