Christopher's Medal

by S. A. Laybourn

  “Except that I haven’t made love to you since that summer.”

  “You will one day.”

  “You sound very sure.”

  “I am.” She shivered as a draft crept under the kitchen door.

  He kissed her cheek. “We should go to bed, you’re cold and I’m tired.”

  “It has turned cold.” Grace wanted to curl up next to him beneath the weight of the duvet.

  “I promise I won’t scare you like that again. I won’t be that stupid or selfish. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

  Grace took his hand and led him to the bedroom, turning the lights out behind her. He curled up around her under the warmth of the duvet, sheltered from the storm outside. For the moment, it was enough.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “God, they’re like bloody flies,” Jane spat when she stomped into the tack room and shook off her coat.

  “Who is?” Grace glanced up from her daily list, checking off what had been done.

  “Bloody journalists, they’re thick as flies around shit.”

  “Where?” Grace felt mildly annoyed. The race was only two days away and she’d thought that they’d all buggered off to California.

  “On the gallops, second lot, though God knows why. It’s not like Allonby’s here, or your dad.”

  “Perhaps they’re just bored, because all the action’s happening in California.” She stood up and lit a cigarette.

  The colder weather made Christopher’s leg hurt. He could only stand an hour or two in the yard before pain sent him seeking warmth and painkillers. Grace just wanted to be with him. Since that night, he was slowly beginning to crawl out of his darkness. The silences were now rare. She just hated to be away from him, even if he was only a hundred feet away.

  Grace turned back to the list. “I guess that’s it for riding out. Let’s get everything tidied up, the horses fed and call it a morning.” At least with no horses racing, there was little to be done until her father returned, when the jumpers started their winter campaign. Allonby’s success also meant that there were half a dozen yearlings due before the end of the year, including his half-sister. The General had already decided that, no matter how the colt ran in the big race, he was being sent to stand at stud a few miles from the yard. There was already a waiting list and Allonby’s owner was going to make out like a bandit. Grace reckoned the colt had earned his rest. A handful of well-chosen races had proved that.

  She rose and headed for the feed room to prepare the mid-day feeds. Pavel and Harry had already started on the hay and water rounds. Jane turned up the radio and sang along while she swept the yard. A cold wind, fresh from the Wash, whistled through the yard, sending a flurry of yellow and brown leaves along the pavement. A few mice scattered when Grace picked up the feed buckets. She made a mental note to contact the Cambridge Blue Cross about adopting a couple of cats. She hummed while she set out the buckets and started measuring out the feed.

  “How’s it going, beautiful?”

  Grace glanced up to find Christopher leaning in the doorway.

  “We’re nearly done.” She tried to keep the surprise from her voice. “What brings you here?”

  “I was bored so I thought I’d come out and watch you work.” He grinned. “You know, make sure you’re doing your job properly since Boss Man is away.”

  “Cheeky.” She smiled. He was returning to her, slowly. “You’re not in the army now, mate, and being a captain doesn’t cut much ice around here in any event.”

  “Ah, that reminds me.” He fished an envelope from his coat pocket and waved it in the air. “My first pension payment went in today.”

  “God, I’m married to an old man.” Grace tossed a handful of carrots into each bucket.

  “Now who’s being cheeky?” He put the envelope back in his pocket and kissed her.

  Grace put her hand on his face and returned the kiss. His lips were cool and firm against hers. It had been a long time since he had kissed her with such enthusiasm.

  “Get a room, you two,” Jane said. “This is a family business, we’ll have none of that here.”

  * * * *

  “What a bloody stupid time to have a race.” Grace smothered a yawn and shifted to get comfortable on the settee. “Stupid bloody time difference.”

  “What is it, eight hours?” Christopher handed her a glass of wine.

  “Yes. Thank God the race is in the middle of the card. If he’d been running in the Classic we’d still be up in the small hours.”

  “What’s this ‘we’ business? I’d be in bed.” He settled against her, his arm around her shoulder.

  “Well, that’s because you’re a pensioner.” She patted his knee. “You don’t have to stay up if you don’t want to.”

  “No, I want to see this. There are so many reasons why I want Allonby to win, not least because if it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t know you.”

  Grace sipped her wine. “That’s true.” She glanced at the television. She had the sound turned down for the earlier races. It seemed strange to be sitting in front of the fire on a rainy November night watching races run in brilliant sunshine eight hours to the west. The Santa Anita Racecourse was a mosaic of green, with palm trees and violet mountains set against a backdrop of cloudless blue sky. On the television, they were showing a profile of one of the frontrunners, an American horse from a Kentucky barn complete with a rags-to-riches story that the Americans seemed to relish. She wondered if there would be a profile of Allonby.

  “I’m unplugging the phone if he wins,” Grace said. “Otherwise we’ll not get a moment’s sleep. It’ll be a circus here in the morning as it is. Thank God it’s Sunday.”

  “Send Pavel out to deal with the press.” He grinned. “They’ll all give up after trying to work out what he’s saying.”

  “Go away. Boss not khere, horse not khere. Go. That should do it.” She picked up the remote and turned up the volume. “Bloody hell, it’s the yard. I guess we do get a profile after all.”

  The piece started with a very artsy shot of the string walking across the grass beyond the horse walk in the amber light and mist of an October morning. Grace’s father was standing in the grass giving them instructions. Grace remembered the moment. He’d already given everyone their instructions in the yard—the producer thought it would look better if he did it again out by the walk which was much more photogenic than breezeblock buildings and the vast expanse of gravel. The next shot showed the string cantering on the round gallop, focusing on Allonby while he breezed along behind Seal as if he was out for a Sunday morning hack. Her father was explaining his training philosophy off-camera. It was all very impressive.

  “Oh, God, no.” Grace hid her face in Christopher’s neck. “I can’t believe they kept that in.”

  “Webb’s daughter, Grace Beaumont, is his Assistant Trainer.” The smooth voiceover continued. “She’s involved in all aspects of running the yard.”

  Grace peeped between her fingers at the footage, scowling while she mucked out a stable and grimly fielded questions. Her hair was concealed by a battered baseball cap, and everything else covered by a weather-worn Barbour jacket. The clip was mercifully brief because the presenter had taken her ill-concealed hints and asked her father the questions instead.

  She felt her husband shaking with laughter. “Good God, Gracey, what a grumpy old mare you are.”

  “It was six in the morning. I don’t do nice at that time of day.”

  “You’re telling me.” He kissed her hair. “But you still manage to look beautiful.”

  “Now you’re just fibbing.” She sat up when the profile finished and they switched back to live coverage and to her father grinning hugely in the warm California sunshine. The presenter asked how Allonby had taken to Santa Anita and all the fuss.

  “He’s settled in as if he’s been here all his life,” her father replied. “He slept on the plane and he fell asleep as soon as he got in his stable. He’s been eating well and working well. H
e’s acting no different than he would if he was at home.” There was a brief clip showing Allonby gazing out of the stable door, absently chewing a mouthful of hay.

  “Do you think he’ll hold up?”

  “I have no doubts that he’ll do the best that he can. He really doesn’t seem to think anything’s different. He’s just that type of horse. Nothing bothers him.”

  The presenter wished her father luck then cut away to a commercial break.

  Grace took another sip of wine. Post time was fifteen minutes away and the yard was seventeen minutes away from an impossible dream.

  “Are you all right, Gracey?” Christopher tucked her hair behind her ear.

  “No, I’m so nervous I want to vomit. It’s just hit me how big this is.” She held out her hand. “See, I’m shaking.”

  “Gracey.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Drink your wine. It’s enough that he got there, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it is, but it would be wonderful if he won. This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing for a yard like this.”

  The commercial break was over, and the camera shot showed the horses walking around the paddock. Grace looked for Allonby and found him. It was just another race day for him as he calmly surveyed the crowd—he didn’t even twitch when Billy sprang into the saddle. She watched her father give him last-minute instructions while her mother, the General and his wife looked on. The paddock was ringed with onlookers and filled with the finest sprinters in the world. She still could not believe that Allonby was in such exalted company when she looked at familiar and famous racing colors, the blue of the Godolphin operation and the green, white and pink of Khalid Abdullah. The paddock was a who’s who of famous racing operations and the General’s subdued claret and silver silks seemed out of place, especially alongside some of the gaudier American ones.

  One by one, the horses were led out of the paddock and past the massive stands toward the track. The American runners were all escorted onto the track by lead ponies while the European runners were led by their lads. As usual, the Ballydoyle runner had a ring bit and needed two lads to lead it while it bucked and tugged beneath its jockey. When Allonby strolled past the camera, he swished his tail with annoyance and snorted. Billy patted his neck and stood in the irons when Dave let the horse go. He cantered with casual disregard for the occasion, toward the stalls.

  Grace’s stomach rolled when she looked at the other runners. The race made the Jubilee Stakes look like a Sunday afternoon race on a flapping track. She held Christopher’s hand when the runners went behind the stalls. The commentators were talking about the latest odds. Allonby was well down the field, with odds of twenty-five to one. She was glad that she’d placed a modest bet because, if he did win, she’d be two hundred and fifty pounds up with her ten-pound bet.

  “I don’t know if I can bear to watch.”

  “It’ll be all right.” Christopher put his arm around her shoulders.

  Grace huddled against him when the horses were led in. The commentator handed over to the track announcer as the gates opened and fifteen horses sprang into action. It was hard to find Allonby among the crowd while they shuffled for position before the track rose slightly. The track looked more like a smooth green carpet and the horses’ hooves threw up clumps of turf when they pounded around a long, sweeping curve, now stretched out in a line two or three deep. Grace leaned forward and spotted Allonby about halfway down the field. Billy had him tucked in behind one of the favorites and the colt had settled into an easy rhythm. There was some barging and bumping at the front of the field and the frontrunner began to drop back.

  Grace watched Billy, still using hands and heels while he tracked the favorite when he pulled out to run toward the front. The leading group was falling apart and Allonby was trailing the favorite stride for stride. Grace could see what Billy was up to. He was waiting for a gap, as the favorite would move out to overtake the failing frontrunners. On cue, it did, a gap appeared and Billy moved Allonby into it and picked up his stick when the field crossed the dirt track before entering the final two hundred yard straight. He showed the whip to the colt once. Allonby lowered his head and quickened, finding space between the flagging leaders. The favorite began to inch in from its outside position and fell into stride alongside Allonby. They galloped like mirror images of each other. Billy was bent low over Allonby’s neck as he pushed him on. The colt’s ears were pinned back against his head while he eyed his challenger.

  Grace was dimly aware that Christopher was rubbing her shoulders. In her mind she was pushing Allonby on, hands and heels when they passed the final furlong pole. The rest of the field was stretched out behind them when the two colts pulled ahead and hurtled toward the finishing line. Billy finally picked up the whip and gave the colt one decisive slap on his hindquarters. Allonby surged forward, ahead by a nose, but the other horse began to battle back, and another runner, finding a second wind, began to come up on the wide outside when the finishing line loomed into view. The announcer couldn’t make up his mind, he kept alternating names, for every inch the outside horse took Allonby stole another and when they crossed the finishing line it was virtually impossible to tell them apart.

  Grace hid her face in her hands, her heart pounding when the photo finish was announced. The commentators were discussing who might have won, looking at a freeze frame of the finish. Grace knew that freeze frames meant nothing because of the camera angle. The only picture that would count would be the one that the track stewards were studying at that moment.

  “Jesus Christ,” Christopher said. “That was close. Are you all right, Gracey?”

  She sat up and looked at him. “I’m okay. Whatever the result, I’m okay. He was wonderful, he’s a brilliant horse, no matter what.”

  “That’s my girl.” He held her close. “I hope Richard’s ticker is holding up.”

  The two horses walked around on the track, outside the entrance to the winner’s enclosure. Billy patted Allonby’s neck while he spoke to her father. She knew, from his gestures, that he was talking him through the race, explaining every move, every stride. Suddenly, everything stopped as the track announcer said that the results of the photo were in. Grace felt Christopher’s hand tighten around her shoulder. She watched and waited and felt as if her heart would burst.

  Dave was there checking his leg, checking the bandage. Allonby lifted his foot and pinned his ears back. “Bugger, his leg. He’s hopping lame.” Grace watched the screen carefully. “It doesn’t matter now. If he’s won, it makes his win all the sweeter. He can rest as long as he likes now.”

  At first she couldn’t take it in. It didn’t look like any of them could take it in. She watched the huge, incredulous grin spread across Billy’s face. Her father hid his face in Allonby’s mane while the General hugged Dave. The commentators sounded stunned and Grace trembled. Allonby was oblivious to it all. He allowed Dave to lead him into the pandemonium of the Winner’s enclosure, which had been set up on the track, and regarded the crowd as if he was entitled to the adulation and fuss. The General was hugging everyone in sight and her father just kept patting Allonby’s neck when Billy slid from the saddle and Dave threw the winner’s cooler across Allonby’s back. Grace watched her father while he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his phone. On cue, her phone rang.

  “Gracey?”

  She bit her lip “Dad? He really did it? We’re not dreaming?”

  “He really did it, love. I don’t know how, but he pulled it off. Bloody hell, Gracey, we were lucky.”

  She felt a tightness in her throat when she heard the tears in his voice. “I’m so proud of you, Dad, it was amazing. I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

  “You’d better brace yourself. It’s going to get crazy.”

  “I know, but when you ring off, I’m unplugging the phone until the morning and I’m telling everyone to come back when you get home. I’m even thinking of sending Pavel out to deal with the reporters.”

  “Don’t you b
loody dare.” He laughed. “I’d better go, love. I think we’re about to get our prize. Billy wants a word. I’ll see you both on Monday.” There was a rustling noise and Grace found it bizarre to be watching her father when he handed the phone to a beaming Billy.

  “Yay! Gracey!” Billy shouted and waved at the camera. “We did it. We bloody did it!”

  “You gave him a brilliant ride, Billy.” Grace wiped her eyes and leaned against her husband. “You’ve earned every bloody penny today.”

  “I still can’t believe it, I still can’t bloody believe it.”

  “Believe it, just don’t spend it all at once, Billy-boy.”

  “Don’t worry, Gracey. I won’t. Look, I’d better go. We’ll see you Monday. Look after yourselves.”

  The line went dead and, on the screen, Billy handed the phone back to her father while they stood on the podium waiting for the presentation. Grace unplugged the phone and returned to her husband.

  “Well done, Grace,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “I haven’t done anything, not really.”

  “Nonsense, I know how much you’ve put into this place. You know your father wouldn’t have managed if you weren’t here to keep things going. He knows it too. You nursed that horse back to health. You saved me. I love you, Gracey Beaumont.”

  “Thank you.” Grace turned and brushed her lips against his. “I love you too.”

  “We should sleep. It’s going to be insane here tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” The prospect of curling up next to Christopher in their nice, warm bed was too tempting to resist. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t make love to her, it only mattered that he loved her, that he was there, that he understood. She stood up and held out her hand. “Let’s grab what rest we can.”

  * * * *

  Grace finally dispensed with the last of the reporters by ten. She was able to read them a statement that her father had emailed to her, giving them an update on Allonby, whose leg had ballooned overnight. In spite of that, he had eaten up and slept, as he normally did, lying down. She referred them to her father for word on his future plans. She wished that she had carried out her threat to send Pavel out to deal with them. She was glad to return to the cottage, wanting nothing more than another coffee and to enjoy the rest of the Sunday in peace and quiet.