Christopher's Medal

by S. A. Laybourn

  “That’s probably best.” Jane stubbed out her cigarette. “What is he going to do with himself while you’re working?”

  “He claims he’s going to paint the spare bedroom. Then he says he’s going to put bookshelves up because mine aren’t big enough and there’s two more boxes that he hasn’t unpacked because they’re full of books. But most of all, he’s going to rest. He needs to.”

  “I suppose you’re knackering each other out making up for lost time.” Jane winked.

  “Nope, none of that. Not yet, apart from the odd kiss on the cheek, or holding my hand, he hasn’t touched me.” Grace sighed and groped in her pocket for a cigarette. “It’s going to be hard. It took a huge effort just for him to go and get groceries with me the other day. He just wants to be left in peace for a while.”

  Grace glanced up as her father made his way out of his office and walked toward the yard. “Now, we’d better pull our fingers out before Dad catches us slacking.”

  * * * *

  Grace returned home to the smell of paint and fried bacon and to Christopher, his clothes splattered with blue paint, fast asleep on the settee. She crept into the hall and surveyed the results of his labors. One wall was partially painted, a bold splash of royal blue against the dismal, boring magnolia shade. A plastic sheet, liberally spotted with more paint, covered everything. She noted that he had, at least, cleaned the brushes and put the lid back on the paint tin before he’d succumbed to exhaustion. She returned to the kitchen and removed her boots. A bacon sandwich rested on a plate next to a note.

  Sorry, Gracey. I’m knackered, but I made your lunch.

  Love you.

  She wiped her eyes and wished she could kiss him awake, just to thank him. Instead, she took her sandwich and her mug of tea and sat at the table with the Racing Post. When she finished, she looked with longing at the settee and the man sprawled on it. A day’s worth of stubble clouded his pale cheeks and there were crescents, dark as bruises, beneath his eyes. In sleep, his face was closed to her. The early afternoon sunlight found flecks of blue paint scattered across his nose and cheekbones. He was too much to resist. Grace settled into the space beside him and fell asleep.

  * * * *

  Grace limped back to the cottage, longing for a hot bath to rid herself of the aches and pains of breaking in yearlings. The bay filly, sweet-natured in the stable, showed a bit more spirit when being ridden around the paddock. She’d sent Grace flying with an impatient, petulant buck when she’d asked her to trot. As falls went, it wasn’t bad. Nothing broken, but Grace was certain that by morning there would be a massive bruise on her thigh.

  “Chris?” The erratic pounding from the spare room shook the cottage. A glass trembled on the countertop and Grace paused in the kitchen at the sound of splintering wood.

  “Chris?” She crept into the hall while the banging continued uninterrupted and peered through the gap between the frame and the door. The room was a mess of shattered wood and chipboard as Christopher, sobbing, slammed pieces of board against the wall.

  Everything in Grace slid to her feet. She felt heavy and shook when she pushed the door open with a trembling hand. “Chris?” Her voice was a small, feeble whisper and she curled her hand around the doorknob, gripping it until her fingers cramped on the cold metal.

  He kept hammering, sending splinters flying around the room. Grace smelled sweat and the broken wood. Blood dripped from Christopher’s arm, where a piece of board had pierced his skin. His hands were scraped and bleeding. Grace ducked when a large splinter flew past her head. “Chris?” A little louder this time. She bit her knuckles as he continued. “Chris.”

  “Go away, leave me alone.”

  “I can’t do that.” She fought to keep the tremor out of her voice. For God’s sake, stay calm.

  “Please, just go.” He stopped, his chest heaved as he turned and glared at her.

  Grace stood her ground, terrified by the creature that stood, shaking with fury, in her house. “No, Chris. Please, put the board down. You’ve cut yourself. I need to take care of that.”

  “No. I’m fine. Go, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Please.”

  “I told you to leave me alone.”

  She forced herself to face the monster, trying to find Christopher beyond the blazing, bloodshot eyes. “No,” she whispered. “I won’t. Please, Chris, let me help you.” She took a deep breath. “Just let me look at your cut.”

  He glared at her. His breathing slowed. His blood trickled onto the carpet. The house fell into silence, apart from the somnolent ticking of the kitchen clock. Grace clung to that sound, longing for the normality it brought. She wanted Christopher back and wasn’t sure how to find him. She watched his face, looking at the muscle that twitched beneath his cheek, and suddenly, his eyes widened as he stared at her. His hands dropped to his side.

  “Oh, God.” His voice trembled. “Oh, Jesus.”

  Grace remained against the wall, afraid to move, afraid to rouse the monster.

  He dropped awkwardly to his knees, crumpled sideways onto the wreckage of wood and began to cry.

  She finally left the refuge of the wall and crept toward him. “Chris?” She knelt beside him and put her hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right,” she whispered.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and hid his face in her lap. Grace stroked his hair with trembling hands. “It’s all right, darling. It’s over now.” She wasn’t sure that he could hear her, but she kept talking until his tears subsided and he lay still. He clung to her, his fingers curled in the fabric of her jumper. She rubbed his back and waited among the wreckage.

  He fell asleep and Grace sat with him while morning disappeared and early afternoon brought rain. It whispered against the window and washed the room with a soft, gray light. Her legs ached from the weight of him, but she was afraid of what would happen when he awoke.

  She finally found her voice and she wept, quietly, torn between relief that it was all over and fear that, when he woke, the rage would still be there. The afternoon light was fading as the rain quickened, the last of the light fell across his face and his eyelids fluttered. She held her breath and watched him when he woke. For a moment, she did not think that he realized where he was, then he spoke in a voice that was little more than a tremulous whisper. “Grace?”

  “Yes.” She touched his hair.

  “What have I done?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, with more calm than she felt. “Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  He sat up and looked at her, his eyes dark and sad. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Grace surveyed the wreckage of the room in the gathering dusk. “It’s only furniture, nothing more.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the remnants of the boards and the scarred wall. His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed. “I did this?”

  She nodded.

  “Oh, God.” He drew his hands down his face. “Oh, God, Grace, forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  He looked at her, sharply. “Did I… Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. But you’re hurt.” She took his hands away from his face and held his arm out for him to see. “You cut yourself.”

  Christopher stared at it for a moment. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” She rose, stiffly, and helped him to his feet. “Let’s get these cuts cleaned up.”

  He followed her to the bathroom and waited while she filled the sink with warm water. Grace carefully wiped the dried blood from his arm and hands. The water turned pink, and all the time, he stood there, as compliant and bewildered as a small child. When she was finished, she ran the bath for him as if she could wash the monster within him away. She helped him with his clothes, unbuttoning his shirt with steady hands.

  “You take as long as you like,” Grace told him. “A good soak will do you good.” She wasn’t sure whether it would, but she just needed to buy some
time for herself. She left him in the bath and went to their bedroom. She changed her clothes and combed her hair—desperate to find a way to restore normality to what was left of the day. In the kitchen, she splashed cold water on her face. Only then did she begin to shake. Grace slid down onto the floor, wrapped her arms around her legs and hid her face against her knees. She held onto herself in an effort to stop shaking. Her leg throbbed with the promise of a deep bruise. Sitting on the cold, hard tiles of the kitchen floor wouldn’t help, but she didn’t care. She felt safe, wedged in the corner between the cabinets.

  * * * *

  Christopher sat in the bath and stared at his shattered leg. He hated the dents and the scars and, worst of all, the pain. The morning’s exertions had made it worse. He’d missed three doses of pain pills because the rage had overtaken him. Any fool should’ve been able to put those shelves together, but then, he wasn’t any fool. He was damaged and stupid with it, stymied by a handful of bolts and screws. He’d put a screw in at an angle and the chipboard had split and, suddenly, someone else had roared into him, someone who wasn’t happy at the damaged shelf. Christopher had been lost in a mist of pain and rage. It had felt great to slam the cheap boards against the wall, sending chips flying into the air. He hadn’t even realized that he’d cut himself until Grace showed him the wound.

  The realization that he could have so easily hurt Grace twisted in his gut. He didn’t know how he was going to make things right now. If she threw him out he couldn’t blame her—he could’ve killed her.

  Christopher slid down and covered his face with his hands. He had been fighting hard to get back to her, to try to find what they once had. It was enough that she was there in the night. He could go to sleep knowing that she was warm and curled up beside him, that she was there to protect him from the nightmares. Now he’d wrecked it all.

  Grace heard the splash and drip of water when Christopher climbed out of the bath. She sought comfort in that everyday sound and hoped that the man who emerged from the bathroom was more like the man she had fallen in love with. She hid within herself, seeking refuge in those moments while he repaired himself in their bedroom.

  “Grace.” His bare feet whispered on the tile floor.

  She couldn’t bring herself to move, or to look at him.

  “Darling.” The cabinet door creaked when he slid down beside her. “God, Grace, I’m so sorry.”

  Grace didn’t resist when he pulled her into his arms. She let him hold her. It was enough that he wanted to hold her.

  “I’m sorry I scared you.” His hand was in her hair, pushing it back from her face. “Please, Gracey, I don’t know what happened back there, that wasn’t me.”

  He smelled clean, of soap and shaving gel. His lips were warm on her forehead. “I love you. Please forgive me.”

  Grace put her arms around him. He gathered her onto his lap and rocked her back and forth. “I love you, too.” She hid her face against his neck and huddled against him, seeking his warmth while the rain spattered against the window. “You scared me.”

  “God, Gracey.” He stroked her face. “Oh, God. I don’t know what happened. I just lost it. Someone else took over.”

  She sighed. “That someone was part of you.” She took a deep breath. “I can’t let that happen again. Don’t do that again, Chris, or you can just pack up and leave.”

  “It won’t happen again, I promise. I won’t lose you, I won’t hurt you.”

  “See that you don’t. I mean it.” His closeness made it hard for Grace to hold onto her anger and her hurt. His pain overrode everything else.

  “I know… I know.” His arms tightened around her.

  She closed her eyes when he kissed her eyelids.

  “I promise. I will. I just don’t want to put too much on you.”

  “You won’t. It’s all right.” It just felt right to be there, taking shelter from the rain.

  “I’ll clean up tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine. It can wait, take your time.”

  “I think it might be a better idea if we bought a bookcase.” He tucked her hair behind her ears.

  “That might be wise.” Grace thought it amusing that they sat, still huddled together, on the kitchen floor, discussing domestic details. Her stomach rumbled mutinously and she realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since a hastily snatched piece of toast between mucking out and the first lot.

  “I heard that,” Christopher said. “If you help me back up, I can fix dinner.”

  Grace winced when she slid from his lap. “I’ll try. I’m not so fit myself. I think I’d better have a bath. I think that fall has stiffened me up a bit.” She climbed gingerly to her feet. Everything hurt.

  “What fall?”

  She held out her hand and helped him to stand up. “I was bucked off riding one of the yearlings.”

  “Jesus, Gracey.”

  “It’s all right, I’ve had worse. I’m going to have my bath now or I won’t be able to get out of bed in the morning.” She limped to the bathroom, stopping only to close the bedroom door on the mess and the memories.

  * * * *

  “Did the bath help?” Christopher asked when Grace walked stiffly back into the kitchen. The bruise was already beginning to blossom on her leg. She felt like an old woman as she leaned against the counter and watched him make dinner. He looked at her. His eyes were huge and sad.

  “Oh, Chris.” She put her arms around his waist and held him, resting her cheek against his back. She closed her eyes when his hand covered hers. “I hate seeing you in so much pain.”

  “It’s all right.” He turned in her arms. “If you’re here, it’s not so bad.” His voice was hoarse. “Does your leg hurt?”

  “A bit. I’ll be all right once I start moving around in the morning. It isn’t the first time I’ve taken a fall and it won’t be the last. I just don’t bounce as well as I used to.”

  “God, what a pair of old crocks we are.”

  “Oi! Less of the ‘old’ if you don’t mind.”

  “Sorry, darling, not old, just crocks.” He turned down the gas and put the lid on the pot. “This crock needs to sit down for a little while.”

  They sat in the living room, listening to the rain and the radio. Grace drew the curtains against the rainy evening.

  “It was horrible,” Christopher said when she sat down beside him.

  Grace looked at him and waited.

  “God alone knows why we bother with that God-forsaken place.” He put his arm around her shoulders.

  “Afghanistan?” She rested against him. “I don’t understand either. If any of the eejits in the Ministry of Defence had bothered to open a history book, they would’ve known better.”

  “We had it all drummed into us at Sandhurst…our illustrious record in Afghanistan. You’re right. You’d think someone would’ve got the message by now.” His long sigh ruffled her hair. “They just need to be left alone to fight it out between themselves. We were just stuck in the middle of a tribal war, with the insurgents using our FOB for target practice. Christ, what a shithole that place was.”

  Grace remembered that, somewhere in the pile of papers she had printed off then thrown into the fire, there was advice about letting them talk. The monster might have trashed the spare room, but it had also let something inside Christopher slip a little. She threaded her fingers through his and let him talk.

  “The locals were all right. They were nice to us because they knew that we kept them safe from the others. They brought us fresh food to supplement those God-awful MREs.”

  “MREs?”

  “Meals, Ready to Eat. Rip open the bag and there’s a nice tasty meal in there. Yum-yum.”

  Grace giggled.

  “It’s so nice to be able to cook and eat decent meals off a plate with proper cutlery.” He squeezed her hand. “Sharing it with a beautiful woman instead of a hairy-chinned squaddie with tattoos. Thank God for you, Gracey.” He kissed her hair. “Thank God I had you to come home
to.”

  “Thank God you came home.” The clean scent of him and his warmth was almost too much to bear. She gazed at the throat she had kissed so many times, at the tiny pulse that flickered in a shadowed hollow, and closed her eyes.

  It’s enough that he’s here and that he loves me.

  “Then there was that wretched beard. I can’t tell you how good it is to be able to shave.”

  “I liked the beard. It suited you. It made you look all rakish.”

  “Orders from on high…a little psychology. Have you ever noticed, on the news, how all the Afghan men have beards?”

  Grace thought about it for a moment. Robes and beards did seem to feature heavily. “Now that you mention it, yes.”

  “It’s all to do with respect and trust. We were encouraged to grow beards and it did help…if you could stop scratching long enough. I swear I had fleas. I hope you don’t want me to grow it again, Gracey. I love you and I’d do anything for you, but I might have to draw the line when it comes to beards. You’ll have to live with a five o’ clock shadow and be glad of it. I’m not indulging any kinky fantasies that involve beards.”

  She laughed. “It’s all right. I have photographs, they’ll do. I’ll keep the beard fantasies to myself. In the meantime, I’ll set the table,” she announced, slipping from his arm. “I daren’t get too comfortable or I’ll stiffen up and not be able to move.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Grace stood up and brushed the straw from her knees. “The leg’s a bit warm, Dad.”

  “Shit.”

  She looked at Allonby. His ears flopped sideways while he ate his evening feed. “But there’s no puffiness. I’ll put some bute in his breakfast.” Grace fought the queasy mess in her stomach. They’d been so patient with his exercise, taking care not to push him.