Christopher's Medal

by S. A. Laybourn

  “Chris?” She closed the door behind her. “Do you want another coffee? I’m making another pot.”

  When he didn’t answer, she peered into the living room and found him. The television was on and the Remembrance Sunday Ceremony at the Cenotaph in London was on. Christopher sat, motionless, on the settee, tears rolling down his face.

  She sat down beside him and drew him into her arms. “Oh, Chris, I’m so sorry.”

  He rested heavily against her. “I can’t stop thinking about Roberts.” He sobbed. “What a bloody waste of a life.”

  Grace held him. “He saved your life. It wasn’t a waste at all. He only did what you would’ve done.”

  “It doesn’t make it feel any better.”

  She rubbed his back and held onto him. “Perhaps it will get better with time. I don’t know what to say, Chris. I don’t have smart words to make the pain go away. But, if it helps, I’ll buy a poppy and I’ll think of him, but I’ll be wearing it for you.”

  He sat up, his eyes red. “God, Grace, I hate to think where I’d be without you.” He took her hand. “Will you watch this with me?”

  “Every year,” she told him.

  “Thank you.” His fingers curled through hers as they played the Last Post and the Archbishop intoned, “At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Grace watched her husband while he stood by the living room window and stared at the paper in his hand. The November sunlight fell across the room, touching Christopher’s hair with gold.

  “Is everything all right?” She bit her lip and wondered how a piece of white paper could stun him into silence.

  “They won’t let me fucking forget,” he replied, his voice dark.

  She put her hand in the small of his back. “What’s wrong, Chris?”

  He handed her the paper and sank down onto the settee.

  Grace sat beside him and looked at the letter. It took her a moment to recognize the Grenadier Guards emblem at the top of the page and her hands shook when she read the letter to herself.

  Dear Captain Beaumont,

  This is to inform you that, on your commanding officer’s recommendation, the Ministry of Defence is honored to award you the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross.

  The department’s citation reads as follows:

  On January 10th, Captain Christopher Beaumont of Third Battalion, Grenadier Guards, was injured in an enemy attack. Although he was bleeding profusely from leg wounds following the detonation of an improvised explosive device and was left in an exposed position, Captain Beaumont continued to return fire. As a result of his selfless actions, a further explosion was prevented and lives were saved…

  Grace set the letter down and looked at Christopher. He had turned away from her and was staring out of the window. “Chris?”

  “I don’t want their fucking medal.” His voice was tight. “I just want to put it behind me.”

  Grace put her arm around his shoulders. His muscles were bunched and tight and she was afraid of what would happen. “I know.” She rubbed his back, hoping to ease the anger away. In the silence, she heard him count slowly under his breath. His hands were coiled into tight fists, his knuckles white. She slipped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his back. “I wish I knew what to say to make you feel better.”

  “It’s all right.” His hand covered hers. “I’ll be okay,” he sighed. “I just wonder if I’ll ever be free of it all. This place is about as far away as I can get from that fucking hellhole and yet, it still won’t let me go.”

  She could hear the tears in his voice and pulled him closer.

  “It nearly destroyed us, Grace. It nearly took away everything that was good in my life, in our lives. I still can’t find the person I was. I look at you and I see you searching for that man and I wish to God I could give him back to you.”

  “It’s all right, Chris.” She kissed the back of his neck and breathed in the scent of him. There were memories that no amount of pain would ever take away. “You’re still Chris, you’re still my husband and I love you. In spite of all the crap we’ve been through, I still love you.”

  “You’re more than I deserve.”

  “Bollocks. I’m the lucky one.”

  “How do you reckon that?” His voice was bitter.

  “Chris, look at me. Just turn around and look at me so you can see that I’m telling you the truth.” She sat, silent and still, and waited. She felt the tension ease away and he turned in her arms.

  “All right, I’m looking at you.” His mouth curved into a half-smile.

  Grace smiled back, relieved that the warmth had returned to his eyes. Tears clung to his lashes. She took his hands. “I never imagined in a million years that someone like you would ever fall in love with someone like me. I’m nothing but a glorified shit-flicker. I look after horses for a living. You know how it is, it’s not glamorous, it’s not easy, the hours are shitty, the job is shitty. I’m not a Belgravia girl like Emily. I’d be bored witless at a Regimental Ball. I don’t talk posh, I know I talk like I’ve just crawled out from under a hedge in the deepest, darkest part of Suffolk with a bit of Gloucestershire thrown in for good measure.”

  She took a deep breath and continued, “When I met you that night I couldn’t get over how gorgeous you were, how kind, attentive and sexy. I wanted you, I really did, but I knew that you wouldn’t be interested in me. Hell, Chris, you were an officer in a posh regiment, not the sort who’d kick around with someone like me. I really thought that you were an impossibility.”

  Grace put her fingers to his lips when he opened his mouth to speak. “That you wanted to see me again seemed like some kind of insane dream, but that first weekend you were here was magical. No one has ever made me feel as weak, precious and wanted as you did. I was so frightened by how easily I fell in love with you.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “It frightens me how much I still love you, in spite of all the crap and the baggage. I can’t believe it when I wake up in the middle of the night and you’re there. In spite of everything, you’re still there. So don’t ever let me hear you say that I deserve better. You’re more than I ever wanted or expected.” She sat back and looked at him, at the thoughts racing across his face.

  “Grace.” His voice was hoarse. “Don’t do yourself down, baby. You’re beautiful.”

  “I’m just Grace.” She touched his cheek. “And I love you.”

  “That’s enough for me.” He smiled. “When Richard was driving us up here that night, he was singing your praises so much that I thought he was playing matchmaker. I’m ashamed to admit that I was expecting one of those dreadful horsey girls with weather-beaten skin and a booming voice. You really have no idea how sexy you are. I stood there watching you saddling that horse and I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I’ve had terrible luck with women, they’ve always expected too much. They’ve always thought that because I was an officer in a fancy regiment, I would be something special. I’m not. I’m sure Emily told you that I was a good soldier and a good officer and, yeah, maybe I was, but that isn’t who Christopher Beaumont is. I’m just mortal, I like a quiet life, I like to read, I like to cook your tea and listen to you talk about your day.”

  He pushed a strand of hair from her face. “You’re different. You’ve got a career of your own, even if you think you’re just a glorified shit-flicker. I watched you and I wanted to push the hair out of your eyes so I could see what color they were. I loved sitting next to you, just talking, in that stable. I could’ve sat there all evening.” His lips brushed hers. “I love you, Gracey Beaumont. I could still spend an entire summer evening sitting on an upturned bucket, just talking with you.”

  “I’d like that.” Grace smiled. “Because I love you too.”

  “Shall I tell them to take their medal and stuff it?”

  “That’s entirely your choice. I know you don’t think so and I know you don’t want to remember, but it was a bra
ve thing that you did.”

  “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

  “You didn’t have to lie out there and shoot.” Grace picked up his hand and kissed his palm. “This is entirely your call, Chris. I shouldn’t think you’d want a lot of fuss and bother, though.”

  “No. I don’t. I don’t really want anyone else to know.” He sighed. “I know I hated everything about that place and what we had to do, but… I don’t know…” He bit his lip. “I suppose it would be rude to tell them to stuff it. It wouldn’t be right. But I don’t want a ceremony. I don’t want to go back to the barracks.”

  “Will they send it to you in the post?”

  “I suppose so.” He stood up. “I should phone Howie. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but I guess I owe him a call.”

  * * * *

  “Chris?” Grace shook the rain from her coat and peered into the living room. December had come on the heels of a storm with cold, driving rain and a bitter wind that cut the morning work short. “Are you there?”

  “I’m in the bedroom.” His voice sounded heavy.

  Grace tossed her boots into the laundry room. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  She hung her coat up and walked into the bedroom. It was gray and cold and rain streamed down the window. She found her husband sitting on the bed, staring at a brown packet on his lap. She sat down beside him. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t open it, Grace. I know what it is and I can’t open it.”

  She glanced and the packet, at the return address. “Your medal.”

  He sighed. “Yeah.”

  Grace put her arm around him. “No one says that you have to. We can put it away somewhere,” she said, softly.

  “That would be a good idea.” He rested his head on her shoulder. “I’m done with it, Gracey. That’s the last of it now. Take it and put it away, please.”

  She took the package. “I will. It doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe if we have kids…one day. I’m so proud of you, Chris. Not just because of what you did…over there, but because of who you are and how you’ve fought back.” She wanted him to make love to her. He felt so warm and solid while he rested against her in silence. Instead, she kissed his hair and rose. There were some things that would have to wait.

  * * * *

  “Dad, are we finished yet?” Grace stood in the tack room doorway shivering in the rainy chill of the December evening. Her father was taking an agonizingly long time with evening stables. It was Christmas Eve and she wanted to be home. Christopher had promised her surprises and had driven to the shops earlier. She had no idea what he was up to, but she wanted to find out. She wanted to enjoy the novelty of their first Christmas together. It seemed impossible that a year before, she had been glumly checking her emails and tucking into a curry with Billy. Now the cottage felt like home again, it was ready for Christmas and all the good things that went with it.

  When she had left for evening stables, the pheasant had been in the slow cooker filling the house with a rich, herby aroma. Christopher had been stacking logs beside the fireplace. The lights on her tiny Christmas tree twinkled in the late afternoon gloom while Christmas music played on the radio.

  “Patience, Gracey,” her father called out from one of the stables. “I’m nearly done.”

  “Good, because we’re all freezing here.”

  The yard had finally settled into the winter routine after the fuss over the Breeders’ Cup. Allonby had come home in triumph, greeted by a small crowd of well-wishers before he’d limped into his stable, taken a few leisurely mouthfuls of hay and fallen asleep, his legs tucked underneath him on the deep, golden bed of straw. Now he was gone, settling into his new home at a stud farm a few miles up the road. His half-sister, a smaller, more compact version of him, now occupied his box. Grace could see her white blaze glowing in the muted light of the yard when she hung her head over the stable door, always curious to know what was going on.

  Jane lit a cigarette and sat down on the traveling trunk. “I bet you’re looking forward to this Christmas.”

  “Oh, yes.” Grace thought longingly of the warm cottage, of Christopher whistling while he set about his Christmas Eve secrets. “As soon as we’re done here, I’m going home, locking the door and not stirring until tomorrow morning. Dad says he’ll do the horses on his own.”

  “Bollocks.” Pavel spat. “I help too.”

  “It’s all right, Pavel. If Dad says he’s going to do it on his own, he will. He reckons we’ve all earned the time off.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, fine by me.”

  They all glanced up as the stable door closed. “Right, you lot. Piss off home. Merry Christmas, don’t drink your bonuses all at once.”

  “Thank fuck for that.” Billy kissed Grace’s cheek. “Have a brilliant Christmas, Gracey. Make sure you get plenty of mistletoe action.”

  Grace nodded and smiled. “That would be nice.”

  “Goodnight, Dad.” She kissed her father’s cheek. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Have a good evening, Gracey, love. You’ve earned it.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” She put her hands into her pockets and hurried across the gravel. The rain whispered on the gravel and dripped from the eaves of the cottage. The kitchen windows were steamed up but Grace could see Christopher standing at the sink. It was a good evening to be home and warm.

  “All done?” he asked when she swept into the kitchen.

  “Yup, that’s it.” She locked the door and drew the curtains. “All done.” After the cold outside, the cottage was a haven of warmth. The aroma of herbs and pheasant filled the kitchen.

  “Well, go and get yourself changed and cleaned up and I’ll dish up dinner.”

  She tossed her boots into the laundry room. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  “Nope, just relax.” He kissed her forehead. “Tonight is on me.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure, now…go.”

  The living room was lit only by the tree, the fire and by candles on the table, which had been cleared of Grace’s habitual piles of papers and her laptop. She hurried into the shower then changed into comfortable clothes. By the time she returned to the living room, Christopher was setting the food out on the table.

  “I think I managed to take all the lead shot out,” he said when she sat down. “You’d better be careful, just in case.”

  “It smells lovely.” She poured the wine and handed him a glass.

  “Better than last Christmas Eve?” He touched her glass with his.

  “Oh, yes. I shan’t do that again.” It seemed impossible how different it all felt. How right it all was. They had been a world apart, separated by broken internet and a war. Instead of curry there was pheasant stew. Instead of Billy there was her husband.

  * * * *

  After dinner, he cleared the plates away and returned to the settee. Grace curled up next to him.

  “This is how it should be,” he whispered against her cheek.

  “Yes.” His closeness stirred all kinds of feelings inside. Grace slipped her hand between the buttons of his shirt and smiled when he sighed and trembled.

  “Grace.” His voice was a shaky whisper. His fingers strayed to her breast and lingered there.

  Grace quivered. His touch sent languid waves of heat through her.

  “Close your eyes,” Christopher told her.

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.” He rose and left her. She still felt his touch.

  “All right.” She hid her face in a cushion and tried to work out what Christopher was up to. All she could hear was a soft, whispering rustle.

  “Don’t open them yet,” he called from the hallway. “I’m not finished.”

  She relaxed against the cushion and listened to the music. Christopher had chosen Radio Three’s classical programming over Radio One’s more modern fare. It fit the peace and the candlelight. She felt him sit beside her once more. “All right, y
ou can look now.”

  Grace opened her eyes and tried to work out what was different. Her husband looked the same, apart from the huge grin. The room looked the same. The same presents waited under the tree, no new candles were lit.

  “I don’t see anything different. Perhaps I’m just tired.”

  “Do you remember that letter I wrote and left with your Christmas presents last year?”

  She smiled and looked at the doorways between the kitchen and the living room and between the living room and the hallway. Sprigs of mistletoe hung over each one. “You said you were going to hang mistletoe in every doorway.”

  “I always try to keep my promises, Gracey.” His voice was gentle.

  “You do, wonderfully,” she replied.

  “We’ll start with this one, eh?” He pulled a small sprig out of his pocket and held it above her head. “Can I kiss you?”

  “Yes, please.” Grace closed her eyes as his lips brushed hers. It was like a first kiss, sweet and hesitant. Her hand drifted to his face and she kissed him back. She tried to subdue her longing, but it rose in her when he drew her closer. The scent of juniper and lemon rose between them and stirred up a wealth of memories. Grace sighed against his lips and curled her fingers into his hair.

  “Ah, God, Gracey, I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too.” She quivered when he slid his hands to her waist.

  “It’s been too long.”

  “Yes.” She ran her hand along his thigh, taking her time. His sharp intake of breath made her smile. She kept going, sliding her hand inwards and upwards.

  “Oh, God, Grace,” he breathed.

  Grace felt him grow hard when she rubbed the heel of her hand along the front of his jeans. She covered his mouth with hers and let him gather her up. She trembled when he groaned and caressed her. Every nerve in her strained for his touch.