Christopher's Medal

by S. A. Laybourn

  “Are you doing anything next weekend? I’d like to see you again.”

  Grace wondered if she was still dreaming. She decided to play along with the dream. She would wake up soon enough. “I’d like that too, but next weekend could be difficult, unless you want to spend a day at the races. I’ve got to go to Wolverhampton.” Bloody racing. “It’s not a pretty course like Newmarket and I have to drive the horsebox. Plus, there’ll be a lot of hanging around, you won’t be allowed in the stable yard and…the horse is owned by a syndicate of estate agents.” She didn’t want to put him off, but she needed him to know that the all-weather track wasn’t a glamorous venue for a day out. “But I’d love for you to come, if you want.” She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, sending a shower of ash onto her shirt, and waited for the inevitable excuses.

  “I’d like that.”

  “It’ll be a long day. I have to leave here by nine.” She rose and went to the table, rooting through the pile of papers for the calendar, the one she always kept forgetting to hang on the wall. “He runs in the second race. We’d probably get back here for five or six.”

  Stop making it sound so bad. What is your problem?

  “So we’d be back just in time for me to take you out to dinner.”

  She could hear his smile and she looked at the phone for a few seconds. “That sounds lovely.”

  “I’ll let you choose where. I haven’t a clue. Pick somewhere nice.”

  “Thanks, I will. It’s really very kind of you.” A day at Wolverhampton had never sounded so good before. She wanted to run around the yard screaming and whooping. She wanted it to be next Saturday.

  “What time do you want me to be there?”

  Now, right now. “If you want to come early, I can make you some breakfast, say, about seven. I should warn you, mind, my breakfasts aren’t as good as Mum’s, but I can just about manage scrambled eggs on toast.”

  “It sounds perfect. Would you like me to bring anything?”

  “Just yourself will be fine.”

  Outside, the gates opened with a clang. Grace glanced out of the window and spied Dave’s car. She searched for her shoes, found them then put them on.

  “Great. It gives me something to look forward to. Life down here can be a bit tedious.”

  “I can’t even begin to imagine. I don’t know that I’ve ever met someone from the army before, apart from the General.”

  “It’s not all that exciting, not at the moment. Anyway, now you can say you know a captain in the Grenadier Guards. If anyone gives you any trouble, just tell them that.” He chuckled. “I’ll be there to sort them out in no time.”

  Somebody pinch me. I’m still sleeping, I must be.

  “Then it’s just as well you’re coming with me next week. The estate agents are dreadful.”

  “They usually are. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.” His voice was warm.

  Grace clutched the phone. She wished that it wasn’t time for evening stables. She hadn’t the heart to tell him.

  “I’d better let you go,” he sighed. “I should tell you, I hate talking on the phone, but I’ll phone you later, if that’s all right.”

  “That’s fine.” She would prop her eyelids open with toothpicks if she had to, sleep with the phone under her pillow, anything. She closed the phone and stared at its blank, dark face for a few stunned moments until Dave knocked loudly on the window.

  * * * *

  Grace didn’t think the cottage had ever been cleaner. She leaned against the kitchen counter and admired the gleaming cooker top. The sink glinted as the early morning sunlight slipped through the window, past the newly washed curtains. She sipped her coffee in a daze and looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly seven, she had done her yard work, the horse was ready and the racing gear and colors already stowed in the small horse box. In spite of the fact that she had spoken with Christopher every night for a week, she was still nervous. For someone who claimed not to enjoy talking on the phone, she reflected, it didn’t stop him from talking for at least an hour every night. She knew that he wasn’t keen on being in the army, that he would be going to Afghanistan, that his favorite meal was steak and chips and that he’d started reading the Racing Post every day.

  “So I don’t sound like a complete idiot,” he’d told her.

  Grace didn’t think that he could ever sound like a complete idiot. She set her coffee down when the gates swung open and a small, black car whizzed through, the gravel crackling beneath the tires. She opened the top half of the door. Her heart hammered against her ribs and she felt like she was fifteen once more and waiting for her first boyfriend to pick her up for her first date. She enjoyed the luxury of watching Christopher as he walked toward the house. He carried a bunch of sunflowers and a bottle of wine.

  He’s still beautiful. I wasn’t imagining it. I get to spend the whole day with this glorious creature. She tried to look relaxed and leaned on the door. “Hullo.”

  “Good morning.” He smiled and kissed her cheek before handing her the flowers and the wine. “I brought that for later, if that’s all right.”

  Later? There’ll be a later? Something inside her gave way. “Yes, later will be lovely.” She put the bottle in the fridge and looked under the sink for a vase. The only thing she found was an old blue milk jug, which suited the flowers just fine. She still couldn’t believe that he was there, leaning against the counter while she cooked. She dished up the breakfast and carried it into the other room.

  “It’s a nice little place you have here,” Christopher said, as he poured the coffee.

  “It’s free and it’s handy for work.”

  “It’s peaceful.” He sounded wistful.

  “Not at six o’ clock in the morning when there’s a mad yearling or two on the walker. Then it can be a bit noisy. But, yes, it’s peaceful and it’s a nice bolt hole at the end of a long day.” It was too easy for her to imagine him living there. He fit into the room as if he had always been there, at ease with the place as he polished off his breakfast. Grace couldn’t remember the last time she’d made breakfast for a man.

  If this works out, I will love the General forever.

  She looked at her watch. “I think we’d better get a move on.”

  It seemed a shame to leave the sunlit haven of peace and venture to the concrete monstrosity that was Wolverhampton Racecourse.

  * * * *

  “I told you it wasn’t like the July Course.” Grace parked the horse box while her companion stared up at the massive stands. The usually tedious journey had flown past, the miles eaten away by conversation. “It’s all right. If you want to say something nasty about it, you won’t offend me. I can’t stand the place, especially when it rains.” She glanced up at the sky. “Which it might do before the afternoon is done. I hope we’re away from here before then.”

  Once Grace had the colt settled in the stable yard, she found Christopher waiting for her by the gate. She loved the way he smiled when he saw her. She had changed in the stable, into her Assistant Trainer’s clothes.

  “You look nice,” he told her while she knocked an imaginary crease out of the trousers.

  “Thanks. If the owners weren’t coming, I’d have stayed in my jeans. This isn’t really a dressy-up course.” She checked her watch. “We’ve got some time to kill. I’ll show you around. The stable lads’ canteen serves a decent cup of tea, or there’s a bar. It’s your choice.”

  “Tea sounds fine.”

  “Tea it is.” She was surprised when he curled his fingers through hers as she led him through the crowd to the canteen. She looked at him, almost afraid of the speed at which things were moving. He grinned back and Grace realized that she was done for, that she wanted Christopher for more than just a day at the races.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Erm…yes, I’m fine.” She led him up the steps to the canteen. She saw a few people she knew tucking into fried breakfasts and plates of chips. The room reeked of bacon and g
rease. The news that Grace Webb had fetched up in the stable lads’ canteen holding hands with a tall, handsome man would be all over Newmarket by Monday morning and she decided that she couldn’t give a stuff. “Why do you ask?”

  “You look a bit pale, that’s all.”

  “I need my caffeine fix,” she lied. She searched his face for clues, finding nothing but warmth in those brown eyes.

  “Here you go, then.” He paid for the tea and they found a table beside the window. He took her hand once more.

  She shivered when he traced the lines on her palm with his forefinger and brushed her calluses.

  “Working hands,” he said. He trailed his fingers to her upturned wrist.

  Grace stared at him, mesmerized. His touch was as light as a moth’s wing. “Yes,” she whispered and wondered how she was going to concentrate on her job. There were owners to talk to and a restive chestnut colt spoiling for a race. Wolverhampton Racecourse was no longer a charmless, concrete monolith to her and the cheerless canteen felt more like a Paris café. God help me, what do I do now?

  She was almost grateful for the interruption when one of the traveling head lads from a neighboring yard came to their table with a tip for the two-forty-five race. They exchanged idle small talk until Grace noticed the time and realized that she had to get the colt ready.

  When she reached the shelter of the stable, she leaned against the wall and took a deep breath.

  “We’ve only known each other a week, that’s all.” She picked up the body brush to give the colt one last go-over. “How the hell did this happen?” She loved the balm of talking to horses. They kept their secrets and never gave advice, good or bad. She lost herself in the race preparation, thankful for the distraction. She hummed along to the music from the loudspeakers and concentrated on perfect quarter-marks. The owners of the colt might have been prats, but she was grateful that he was so well behaved and that he listened, twitching his ears toward the sound of her voice while she talked.

  “This won’t do.” She brushed his tail. “I’m the wrong class, for starters. Why do I always fall for the posh ones?”

  The horse nibbled at the rope and sighed.

  “You’re no bloody good. I don’t need this, big fella. I do not need to go falling for someone who’s out of my league…again.” She fitted the saddlecloth and hugged the colt. “Thanks for listening.” She splashed her face with water from the bucket. “Let’s go and meet those idiot owners of yours, eh?”

  * * * *

  Christopher leaned against the wall and waited. He tried to make sense of the rush he seemed to be in. It had been too easy to take Grace’s hand. It felt right, the way her fingers fit through his, the way her shoulder brushed his when they walked through the crowds. In the canteen, she’d blushed when he’d played with her hand and he loved that. He loved how she took nothing about him for granted. He thought of her, the few memories he’d managed to collect and the conversations they’d had every night. He hated talking on the phone, but every night at seven, he’d found his hand twitching toward his phone. He loved the smoky purr of her voice when she answered, the rustle of cellophane when she groped for her cigarettes, the click of the lighter and that first, long inhale. He could see her in his head—legs tucked beneath her as she rested against the arm of the settee, smoked her cigarette and listened to him. He took comfort that he could hear the smile in her voice and in the fact that she didn’t mind him complaining about his job.

  He had looked forward to the weekend, not wanting to lose the momentum he thought had gathered when they’d met. He hadn’t slept a wink Friday night, trying to decide whether a day in her company would be enough, whether he’d pluck up the courage to make it last longer, whether he’d want to. He’d known as soon as he saw her leaning over the door with the morning sun in her hair, he wanted more than a day, more than a weekend.

  * * * *

  The owners waited in the paddock, half a dozen over-dressed, partially drunk estate agents from Essex. Grace was grateful for Christopher. He stood close to her while she saddled the colt and fended off careless, off-color remarks with humor and tact. She was grateful that Billy did his part too, diverting them before she gave him a leg up into the saddle and led them toward the track.

  “Well, that’s an interesting choice of companion,” the jockey observed when they walked around the paddock. “Did I miss something last week?”

  “Not much. Not that I noticed.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Really, Billy, there was nothing last week. This is all this week. This is him phoning me every night. This is him sweeping me off my feet.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “No, but I’m not sure I believe what’s happening.”

  “Why? He seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “He’s lovely. It just seems unreal. People like Christopher don’t happen to people like me.”

  “Bollocks.” He picked up the reins when she led the colt out onto the track and unclipped the lead rein. “Just enjoy the ride, Gracey.” With that final piece of advice, he rose in the stirrups and Grace watched him canter the horse down the track toward the gates.

  Christopher took her hand when she returned to the paddock. “Is everything all right?” he asked as they made their way to the rail.

  “Everything is just fine.” She smiled and leaned against him when he slid his arm around her waist. Sometimes, Billy came up with good advice.

  “Good.” His voice was a whisper when he kissed the top of her head.

  The colt finished mid-field, which came as no surprise to Grace. The owners, by the time she led their horse out of the paddock, were on their way back to the bar, assured that he would progress for the race. She was glad to get him loaded back into the box and the box back onto the M42 as clouds moving from the north swallowed the sun. She hoped she could beat the rain back to Newmarket.

  * * * *

  The first spots didn’t touch the windscreen until the box rolled into the yard.

  “Can I help with anything?” Christopher asked when Grace backed the colt out of the box.

  She nodded toward the traveling trunk. “Could you take that to the tack room?”

  “No problem.” He picked it up and followed her into the yard. Grace led the horse into the stable and tied him up. She was aware that Christopher watched her while she removed the traveling rug and bandages and as she ran her hands down the colt’s legs.

  “Why are you doing that?” Christopher leaned over the stable door.

  “I’m just checking for hot spots. All-weather tracks can put a bit of a strain on a horse’s legs. I just like to make sure there are no little injuries. If there’s heat in the leg that can mean trouble.”

  “Is there any?”

  “No, not that I can feel. Why don’t you give it a go?” She smiled at him.

  “Me?”

  “Yes…you.”

  The straw rustled and he squatted beside her. “What do I do now?”

  “Wrap your hand gently around the back of his leg, like this.” Grace curled her hand around the colt’s foreleg, just below the knee. “Just a light touch. It should feel cool. Cooler than you’d think for a warm-blooded animal.” The scent of his cologne drifted between them, his breath soft on her face.

  “Like this?” Christopher’s hand covered hers.

  Grace took a deep breath. “Yes, just like that.” His hand was warm, his touch gentle.

  “You’re trembling.” His voice was low, close to her ear.

  She was glad for the darkness of the stable. Her face was on fire.

  Bloody hell.

  “Gracey?” Her father’s voice echoed along the stable block. “Are you there?”

  Bugger.

  “We’re here, Dad.” Grace rose and Christopher scrambled to his feet, knocking straw from his jeans.

  Her father appeared in the doorway, grinning. He looked at Christopher and held out his hand. “Hello, you must be Christop
her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grace watched her father while he took the measure of her companion, looking him up and down with the same appraising stare he used when looking at a new horse. “Well, son, it’s nice to meet you. The General has said good things about you.”

  “Thank you, Mr Webb.”

  “It’s Ed, just call me Ed.” He glanced at Grace. “How is he?”

  “There’s no heat in his legs. I think he’s all right.”

  “Good.” He patted the colt’s rump. “He’ll come on for the race.”

  Grace nodded. “The owners seemed happy enough.”

  “I expect they were half-cut as usual?”

  “More or less.”

  Her father glanced at his watch. “I expect you two will want to go off and get something to eat.”

  “That was the idea, Dad. I booked a table at the Rosery.”

  “Well, off you go then. I’ll take care of things here. Don’t keep the poor lad hanging around the stables when you could be off having fun.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Grace kissed his cheek and slid out of the stable with Christopher following. He took her hand when they walked back to the house.

  “Do you think I passed the test?” he asked.

  Grace unlocked the door and led him into the kitchen. Rain whispered against the windows. “Oh, I should think so. Otherwise he wouldn’t have let us go. He would’ve had you talking and he would’ve been giving you the third degree. I think the General has probably talked the good talk.”

  “He’s not terribly subtle.”

  “Perhaps not, but I’m glad he brought you here.”

  Did I just say that? Jesus, Grace.

  Christopher smiled. “So am I.” He caught her hand and raised it to his lips.

  Grace shivered at his touch and wished they could skip dinner.

  * * * *

  The maître d’ showed them to a table beside the garden room window. Christopher held Grace’s chair out for her, then after the maître d’ left them, shifted his chair closer to hers, so that they both faced the garden. His leg brushed hers and Grace bit her lip. She let her leg remain next to his, feeling the warmth of him.