Christopher's Medal

by S. A. Laybourn

  “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 i
n 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.”

  He shuffled forward and held out his hand. “I’m Wayne.”

  Grace shook his hand. “Is Mark home?”

  Wayne looked at his feet for a moment. When he raised his head, his pale blue eyes were a bit too bright. “No.” He turned back toward his open door. “You’d better come inside and sit down.”

  A chill much deeper than frost crept into Grace’s bones. She followed Wayne into his living room, her face flushed by the blast of warmth from the central heating. Wayne sank into a chair with a groan and Grace perched on the edge of the settee, clutching Mark’s Christmas present. It seemed the best way to stop trembling. She watched Wayne fumble in his pocket for a handkerchief.

  “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

  He blew his nose. “Were you friends with Mark?”

  “He and my fiancé served in the army together. They were very good friends…are very good friends.” Her hands were clammy and cold in spite of the stifling heat in the tiny living room.

  “I really hate to be the one to break the news.” Wayne inhaled then exhaled slowly, puffing out his cheeks. “Mark’s gone.”

  “Gone? As in gone away?” Grace wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.

  “No, I mean gone as in dead.” His bottom lip quivered and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Two days ago, I got a bit worried. Usually I can hear him moving about, I can hear his television. Not that I mind, it’s comforting, knowing someone’s there. We always looked out for each other, you know?”

  “Dead?” Grace wondered when she’d become a parrot. She couldn’t absorb the word ‘dead’. It didn’t fit with Mark. It didn’t fit with someone she knew and liked.

  “I tried ringing the doorbell, knocking…everything. He didn’t answer.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I have a spare set of keys for his place. He had mine. So, I went in.”

  Grace tightened her hold on the box. Her fingertips squeaked across the wrapping paper.

  Wayne stared up at the ceiling. “He was in bed. There was an empty bottle of pills on the floor, prescription stuff. Painkillers…I dunno…something strong. He was just lying there, flat on his back, a little smile on his face.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and when he spoke once more, his voice shook. “He had his good days and his bad days, you know?”

  Grace’s eyes burnt. She nodded and tried to speak. It was too easy to see what Wayne saw.

  “He never left a note or anything. He lost touch with his family years ago. The police turned themselves inside out trying to find someone. I don’t know that they did. It doesn’t matter. The army will take care of him. That’s one good thing, they may send us to hell and let us get blown to bits, but they look after us in the end.”

  “Jesus.” He was only a year or two older than Christopher. Funny, kind, good-looking. It wasn’t right. It didn’t fit. “I had no idea he got that low. He never let on. I don’t think even Chris knew.”

  “Mark was very good at hiding it. I only knew because I’ve been where he was.”

  Grace groped in her pocket, hoping there was a bit of tissue, a napkin, anything. Her face was sticky with tears. “I wish I’d bloody known.” She found a scrap of tissue and wiped her eyes.

  “He wouldn’t want you to know. He wouldn’t want you to worry.”

  It was the ‘little smile’ that killed her, that little detail. Grace’s throat constricted. She wanted to howl. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to say.” She looked down at the parcel on her lap—a gift box with a bottle of Irish whiskey and a couple of crystal glasses. She’d take it back home, save it for when Christopher returned and they would drink it in Mark’s memory. It seemed right.

  “It’s all right. I’m sorry I was a bit blunt. There’s just no easy way to break that kind of news.”

  “It’s all right. I understand.” She stood up, wanting to be out of there, wanting to be home. “I’m sorry, I think I need to go.”

  Wayne struggled to his feet. “Look, you’ve had a shock. At least have a cup of tea.”

  Grace looked at him, the day’s worth of gray stubble on his cheeks, red-rimmed eyes asking her to stay a little while longer. “Yes, all right. A cup of tea would be nice. Thank you.” She sank onto the settee.

  “I’ll fetch us both a cup. I could use one myself.” He shuffled out of the room.

  Grace stared numbly at the gas fire and listened to the sounds of tea being made—the clunk of mugs onto the kitchen counter, the hiss and whistle of the kettle and the rippling sound of water poured into a pot. It was all comforting and familiar, but she should’ve been next door listening to Mark while he thumped about his kitchen, whistling while he made the tea and rooted through the cupboard in search of biscuits.

  “Here we are.” Wayne returned with a tray. He set it down on the coffee table. Steam swirled lazily from the spout of the tea pot, bringing with it the comforting scent of strong tea. He spooned sugar into both mugs, before Grace could protest. “You need sugar,” he told her. “You’ve had a shock.”

  “Thank you.” Grace watched him pour the tea into the mugs then add milk. Suddenly, a cup of tea seemed like a very good idea.

  Wayne handed her a mug. She cupped both hands around it and waited for it to cool a little. She glanced around the room, a mirror image of Mark’s with different bits and pieces. There were family photographs on the mantelpiece and bookshelf. A medal, in a presentation case, rested beneath a photograph of a younger Wayne and an important-looking officer. Grace wanted to ask but couldn’t summon up the energy to talk. She sought refuge in the tea instead.

  They sat in silence. The only sounds were the somnolent tick of the wall clock and the hiss and soft thump of the gas fire. The tea was sweet and strong and just what Grace needed. She tried not to think of how she was going to tell Christopher. There wasn’t a good way to break the news.

  * * * *

  The crematorium’s Christmas decorations, in spite of being muted and tasteful, were all wrong. Grace shivered on the porch with Emily Edwards, Wayne and a small handful of other mourners, waiting for the arrival of the coffin.

  “It’s a pity there’s no one from Mark’s family here.” Grace put her hands in her pockets and watched the hearse’s slow progress down the long drive. The sunlight glittered on the grass, turning the December morning to a golden illusion and mocking the mourners.

  “I did try.” Emily pulled her coat collar up. “As soon as you told me, I had someone check his files. I phoned his parents and they tried to tell me they didn’t have a son called Mark.”

  “It makes you wonder what on earth happened between them that they couldn’t even come to say goodbye one last time.” Grace sorted through her pocket for a tissue. The arrival of the hearse always hurt.

  “I don’t know.” Emily sighed. “It’s done now. It’s over.”

  The hearse halted under the portico. Six Guardsmen in full dress uniform stepped forward in unison and lined up behind the hearse and waited for the driver, solemn in a long black coat, to open the back. The coffin, draped in a Union Jack, was eased out and shouldered by the Guardsmen. Grace choked back tears. The coffin should have been covered in flowers, instead there was a simple wreath from the Regiment and her spray of white lilies.

  They followed the coffin into the chapel. Grace didn’t think it was much warmer in the vast
, echoing room than it was outside. She slid into a pew beside Emily and stared numbly at the coffin. Muted, silvery light fell through the chapel windows and glinted on the simple cross behind the altar. The organ music faded away when the chaplain reached the front. Grace watched him place his Bible carefully on the podium. When he started to speak, Grace let his voice fade away to a dull hum. She thought back to the wedding. Apart from Christopher, Mark had been the only good thing about the whole wretched weekend. She thought of the easy friendship he and Christopher shared and wished she hadn’t been the one to break the news to him.

  Somehow, a brief little email had made it through the tangled, erratic ether.

  Jesus, Grace,

  I don’t know what to think, or what to say. I know Mark had his bad days, but I had no idea it would ever come to this. I’m so sorry you had to find out like that. I’m so sorry you had to be the one to tell me.

  I love you. I miss you.

  Wayne sniffed in the pew behind her. When they rose to sing, a ragged rendition of Abide with Me, he burst into tears. Grace slipped back and put her arm around his shoulder. She wasn’t going to cry, not there. She owed to Christopher and Mark to be strong. She knew neither would want her to cry. Grace bit back her tears and comforted Wayne while he mourned his friend.

  The service was brief and horribly impersonal. It sounded to Grace like the chaplain had a set speech dotted with blanks that he filled with Mark’s name—that was all. It was almost a relief when the conveyer belt shifted the coffin smoothly forward until it slid behind heavy beige curtains.

  Grace was grateful to get out into the cold. The Guardsmen disappeared as did the half a dozen mourners, leaving Grace standing with Emily and Wayne.

  Wayne fastened his coat. His eyes were red-rimmed while he stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket. “I wonder if you’d come back to the house with me. They’ll be coming to clear Mark’s things away tomorrow. I thought it would be nice if you took something, you know…a memento.”

  Grace wondered if she’d be able to face the empty little house. She remembered the photograph on the mantelpiece. “Yes, thank you.”