Christopher's Medal (24 page)

“I don’t know. All I know is that I’d better go. I’m sorry, I can’t stay here. I need to go home. I need time to get over this, to get over him. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes. I really hoped that if he saw you, he would see sense, he’d change his mind.”

“He didn’t.” Grace stood up. As much as she loved Christopher’s parents, she wanted to be away. She couldn’t bear to see the dreadful hurt and disappointment in their eyes. She wondered how they would ever cope with the self-absorbed monster that their son had become. “I’m sorry. I really have to go. Forgive me.”

“It’s all right. I understand.” Margaret’s voice was warm and it took everything Grace had not to fall into her arms and cry.

Instead, she fished the car keys out of her pocket and walked toward the door. She wouldn’t look back. She slid into the car and backed out of the drive. She drove for a little while, until she reached a layby at the side of a fallow field high up on the Downs. The sky was milky white and crows roosted in a copse of trees in the flat, dead winter landscape. Grace turned off the engine, hid her face in her hands and wept.

Chapter Fourteen

“I suppose,” Grace told Jane, “I should phone around a few movers and have these boxes shipped to Berkshire.” She stood in the doorway of the spare room and looked at the boxes. There were six once more. When she’d returned from Berkshire, she had packed away Christopher’s remaining clothes, his shaving things, his cologne, his toothbrush and the CDs he had made for her. She’d wrapped the pendant in tissue and put that in an envelope, unaddressed, and placed it in the box before taping it shut. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to label it.

Grace didn’t know what to do with his car. It sat where she had left it, parked beside hers covered in an old tarpaulin so that she didn’t have to look at it. In the end, she put the keys in the envelope with the pendant. If he wanted the car that badly, he could come and get it.

It took her an entire afternoon to take the photographs down from the walls, every last one of them. By the time she’d finished, Grace was drained and numb. It felt like she had said goodbye countless times as she wrapped each picture. The man in them didn’t exist anymore.

There was nothing left of Christopher in the house that could be seen, but there was still plenty that could be felt. He lingered like a ghost, a drift of juniper and a warm whisper in the small, bleak hours of the morning.

“If you give Steve the petrol money, he’ll take them. He’s not got any races in the next couple of days. He’ll do it,” Jane said.

“Thanks. That would be best. I just want them gone. Tell him there’s no need to sweep out the horseshit before he loads the boxes in. I couldn’t give a monkey’s chuff whether they stink his room out or not.”

Jane laughed. “You don’t mean that, surely.”

“No, not really, but it makes me feel better saying things like that.”

“Give us a minute. I’ll phone Steve.” She pulled the phone from her pocket and wandered back into the kitchen.

Grace leaned against the door frame and stared at the boxes. Her future had once sat in them. Now they just reminded her of a colossal failure. She would decorate the room, buy a desk and turn it into her office. She could have a futon couch for guests. It seemed a shame to waste a room. She hated the dull magnolia color of the walls and the beige carpet.

“He’ll take them tomorrow.” Jane returned to the hallway.

Grace managed a smile. “Thanks.” The numbness was finally creeping through her. She could look at the daffodils in the garden and not hurt anymore. They were just flowers, bold and yellow against the relentless gloom of a reluctant, wet spring. She was glad it was spring. Allonby had to be worked back to full fitness. There were yearlings to be broken in. They took time and patience and it was what she needed. She followed Jane back into the yard. The soft, March drizzle was cold on her face and Leona Lewis’
Better in Time
rang out from the tack room radio. It was a little twist of the knife that she could do without.

It was all right. It would get better. One day, songs like that would cease to have any meaning. They’d become words and music once more.

She smiled at Billy when he stuck his head over a stable door and grinned at her. The rain had turned his hair into a riot of black curls.

“All right there, Gracey?” he asked.

“I’m okay.” She went into the tack room and picked up a saddle. Her father had given her a little bay filly to break in. She’d already taken well to the saddle and the bridle and, today, they were going to back her.

“Let’s get this over and done with,” she told Billy.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“You could break your neck.”

Grace rested the saddle on top of the filly’s stable door. “I could but, frankly, I couldn’t give a fuck if I did.”

“You don’t mean that. Don’t talk like that, Gracey.”

She slipped into the stable and tied the filly to the ring on the wall. “I don’t mean it, Billy. Don’t worry, I’m not really suicidal. I’m not really anything anymore.” She unfastened the filly’s rug and removed it gently. She made sure that every move she made was slow and steady. This was a good horse, by a Storm Cat mare. She could win races and Grace didn’t want to ruin her. “I think it’s better this way. You know. I know you can’t stand it when I shut myself down, but I think it’s the only way I can cope. I can’t let him get to me anymore. I’ve decided that I’m done crying about him.”

“Yeah.” Billy looked at his feet. “I know. You’re doing a grand job, Gracey. You’re made of tough stuff.”

Grace placed the saddle on the filly’s back with care then tightened the girth. The horse didn’t flinch. “I don’t know about that. I think it’s just self-preservation, plain and simple.” She unfastened the rope from the wall and handed it to Billy. “Now, let’s drop the subject, shall we? Give us a leg up.”

Billy complied and Grace rested on her stomach, across the filly’s back. The horse shifted from side to side and snorted. She settled when Grace spoke to her and stroked her neck. Grace allowed herself to relax and the filly stood still. “Anyway,” she told Billy. “We have a busy flat season coming up. Dad’s already plotting Allonby’s campaign. He’s got it in his head that he should run in the Diamond Jubilee, if his leg holds up. We’ll get him back to work soon and hope for the best.”

“The Diamond Jubilee? Bloody hell, that’s big. I hope he’s going to be all right.”

“So do I. We just have to be careful.” She patted the filly’s neck and eased back onto the straw. “But I reckon he’s up to it. You, above anyone else, should know that.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Jeez, Gracey, that certainly is something to chew on.”

“Which is exactly what I need. I really don’t want to spend all my time moping and longing for something that won’t happen. I need to move on and get on with my life. I don’t want to become some miserable, moping…thing. I’m tired of the grief. If Chris wants to be with Pippa, then he’s welcome to her. Lying bastard.”

“I can’t blame you for that.” Billy untied the filly and removed her head collar. “I’m really sorry that it’s all ended like this. You two were good together.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “We were.”

* * * *

Her father had it all figured out. Allonby would be aimed at the Diamond Jubilee race at Royal Ascot. The yard had run horses at Ascot before, but never in a Grade One race.

“Is he really up for it, Dad?” Grace asked while she sat in the clutter of his office.

“Yes, he is, or he will be if we can keep him fit without knackering his leg. We’ll have to be careful with him. He’s the best horse I’ve ever trained by a long chalk.” He grinned at her. “We’ve got nothing to lose, Gracey. This is just a little yard. We’ve had some decent horses, enough to keep things ticking over but, now, we’re going to play with the big boys. If he wins the Jubilee, it’s bound to bring in more owners and more horses. You’re going to be very busy.”

“I don’t mind that.”

“If he wins at Ascot and comes out of the race all right, we’ll head for Haydock in September and run him in the Sprint there. There’s no point in over-racing him. We’ll just slowly bring him back up to fitness and keep him ticking over. At least I can rely on you to look after him here and Billy to look after him on the track.”

“What does the General reckon to all this?”

“He’s lapping it up. He’s like a dog with two cocks. I don’t think he expected his horse to be this good.”

“I’m glad for him. Of all the owners, I’d rather it was his horse that was doing well.” She shuddered at the thought of the estate agents from Essex having a horse like Allonby. They would never be out of the yard.

“So, he might be around the yard a bit more. Will you be all right with that? You’re not going to hide in a stable and cry, are you?”

“No, Dad. I think I’ve done all my crying.”

“Good lass.” He patted her shoulder and rose. “Now, get your arse back to work.”

* * * *

Christopher picked up his stick and hobbled to the bedroom window when he heard the rumble of a lorry on the drive. He hated the intrusion, the loss of silence.

“Fucking thing.”

A blue horsebox idled on the gravel. He leaned against the sill and watched the driver lower the ramp and wondered what the hell was going on. The lorry reminded him of Newmarket and of Grace. He remembered Wolverhampton with a pang. Grace driving the horsebox, watery sunlight in her hair and the long conversation that helped to eat up the miles and the hours. Christopher closed his eyes. He wanted that day back. He didn’t need this reminder of what he’d thrown away, what he’d lost. He headed for the stairs, determined to make the lorry go away.

Christopher beat his mother to the door. He wrenched it open in time to find the driver on the doorstep holding a box, labeled ‘Odds and Sods’. He recognized his own writing, remembered writing those words.

“Are you Christopher Beaumont?”

“Yes.”

“I have some boxes for you.”

* * * *

“Boss.” Pavel, his hair plastered to his head by the rain, peered over the stable door.

Grace fastened the bandage around Allonby’s leg with the Velcro strip. “Yes, Pavel.”

“Boss,” he repeated.

She could barely hear him above the relentless drumming of the rain on the roof. She looked at him. The cold air turned his breath to pale smoke. “What is it?”

He stared at her mutely. She could see that he was struggling to find the English.

“Come,” he told her.

Grace rose from her knees with a sigh and patted the colt’s neck. She decided to indulge Pavel’s urgency. He shifted from foot to foot, his teeth chattering. The stable block was alive with the usual comforting sounds of evening stables. The radio blared from the tack room. Jane was singing along, very badly, to a song. Dave whistled while he set the buckets out in the feed room and Grace could hear the swish of Harry’s broom as he tried to sweep straw off the wet path.

“What’s wrong?” She hoped it wasn’t Pavel’s favorite bay filly—she was prone to colic. Grace didn’t fancy another long night walking her up and down until the pain passed. She’d been to the shops at lunchtime and bought some paint for the spare room. She had intended to make a start.

“Look.” Pavel nodded toward the end of the yard. The outside light illuminated the pouring rain. Steve’s horse box was parked in front of her cottage. He was carrying the boxes back inside.

“What the fuck?” A hard, cold anger unfurled inside her. She didn’t want the damn boxes back. She had a room to paint. They would just be in the way. How dare Christopher send them back. Grace walked out into the yard and took a deep breath. She stood in the rain and exhaled slowly. Light spilt out of her kitchen door. She heard the uneven crunch of gravel in the darkness beyond the yard.

“Who’s there?” she demanded. Her hands shook.

“Grace.”

Grace could barely hear his voice beneath the constant whisper of the rain. She moved into the dark, leaving the comfort and safety of the yard behind her. It had been two weeks and she’d done really well. Now, all her hard work had begun to unravel. “Who’s there?” she repeated, fighting to keep her voice cold.

You know damn well who it is.

“Grace.” Christopher stood in the downpour. He leaned on his walking stick and stared at her.

“Why are you here?” Grace remained still even though her knees trembled and she wanted to take him into her arms. She tried to hold onto her anger and remember how much he had hurt her. “You have a bloody nerve just turning up out of the blue, after all you said. You said you didn’t want to see me again. You made it quite clear that we weren’t together anymore. I was hardly going to come back here and let that hurt me for long. Why the hell did you come back? Why are you doing this to me?” Suddenly, it was easy to be angry. She had worked hard to find her normal life, to get back into the job that she loved.

“Because I need you, because I love you and I’ve never stopped loving you.” His voice shook. “I’m so sorry, Grace. I didn’t mean to hurt you. There’s something black and horrible inside me and I want it gone. Help me, please?”