Christopher's Medal (21 page)

* * * *

They were all waiting for her, Christopher’s family. The waiting area of the trauma ward was brightly lit and awash with false calm.

Margaret hugged her. “The consultant is with him now. We haven’t seen him yet. He’s still unconscious.”

Grace looked at the double doors that separated them from the ward. After all this time it seemed hard to believe that Christopher was on the other side of those doors, that he was so close. She sat next to Margaret and held her hand while they waited. Her stomach lurched every time the doors opened. Finally the doctor emerged, tall and important in his pristine white coat, a stethoscope slung casually around his neck. Half a dozen medical students followed in his wake like acolytes.

“Mr and Mrs Beaumont?” He stood before them, his brow screwed into furrows. “I’m Doctor Chase.” He found another chair and pulled it up. “I’ve had a look at Captain Beaumont’s wounds, I’ve had a good look. They did a good job at Bastion but, then, they always do. The wounds were well irrigated and debrided.”

“What does that mean?” Sally asked.

“Tidied up would be the best way to describe it. The deeper wounds have been packed and he’s on antibiotics, because that’s always the biggest danger with this kind of wound, infection.” He wiped the end of his stethoscope on the lapel of his coat. “One of the fragments sliced into his femur so we’ve put him in a splint, too. It’s a fairly clean break, but it just makes his recovery that much slower. One or two of the wounds are very large and we’re looking at doing a couple of skin grafts.” He looked at Margaret, his eyes solemn. “He was lucky not to lose his leg. He could have a tough time ahead. He’ll need help.”

Grace was aware that everyone had turned to look at her. “I’m his fiancée,” she told him. “I’ll be looking after him.”

“I don’t know how these injuries will affect him in the long term. It’s highly likely that he’ll need physio. What’s your nearest hospital?”

“Addenbrookes.”

“That’s something, it’s a good hospital. When he’s ready to go home, I’ll refer him to someone there for outpatient treatment and physio. Chances are, he’ll be given exercises to do at home, he’ll probably need your help.”

“That’s all right.” Grace would’ve done anything to make Christopher better.

“It’s likely that there’ll be some long-term pain issues, not to mention mobility. It all depends how everything heals, how well the nerves grow back. Luckily, he’s in good physical condition. That will be a big help. We’ll have a clearer picture as time goes on. In the meantime, we all just have to be patient.”

He stood up and put the chair back. His acolytes clustered around him once more. “You can see him now. He’s still unconscious. That’s our doing. He’s doped up to the eyeballs for the pain. But talk to him. Let him know you’re here. He may hear you and that’s a good thing. He’s in his own room so you’ll have privacy.” He shook their hands, leaving Grace until last. “Good luck.”

Grace decided that he didn’t have to add that she was going to need it. She already knew.

* * * *

Christopher looked so pale and still that Grace started to cry. She sat in the chair beside the bed and took his hand—it rested, warm and lifeless in hers while she stroked his fingers with her thumb. He still had the beard and it made him look gaunt and gray in the cool, white light of the room.

“God, Chris. What have they done to you?” she whispered. There were tubes everywhere and, beneath the sheets, his left leg was covered by a frame. She kissed his forehead and his eyelids. “I love you so much and I promise I’ll do everything I can to make you better.”

There was no response, just the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest.

“I don’t care how long it takes. We’ll do this. We’ll get by.” She stroked his face. “I just want you back with me.”

She rested her head on his hand and prayed. She only hoped that it would be enough.

Chapter Twelve

“Are you all here to see Captain Beaumont?” The ward sister glanced up as Grace and Christopher’s family walked toward his door for another visit. “If I may have a word.” She steered them toward the waiting area. “Captain Beaumont is conscious. I thought you should know that.”

Grace felt relief wash through her. Sally took her hand and squeezed it.

“But I need to warn you. Don’t expect him to be pleased to see you. He’s in a lot of pain, he’s a bit confused. He’s still not sure of what happened. He knows he’s in England and he knows that you’re all here and he doesn’t really want to see anyone.”

“Do you think we should even see him?” Margaret asked. Grace blanched at the hurt in her eyes.

“It’s probably not a good idea.”

Grace could understand that. As much as she wanted to see Christopher, she wasn’t sure she was ready. She felt guilty at her relief. “How long do you think we should give him?”

The sister shrugged. “I don’t know. He has a psychiatric evaluation later today. We may get some idea. Please, try not to be upset. It’s not a personal thing. He didn’t come round and decide he hates you all. He needs time.”

Grace swallowed and looked at the ceiling.

“We’ll call the moment he decides that he wants to see you. I promise.” The sister’s voice was gentle.

“It probably would be best.” Sally put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “The last thing Chris needs is more upset.” She glanced at Grace. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s a very good idea. We all have a lot we need to get used to. I’m glad that he’s safe, but I think I need time too. I need to get used everything in my own head. I don’t want to make things worse.”

“I think that’s wise.”

Grace sank down in a chair and covered her face with her hands. She felt tired and drained, torn between relief and tears.

“Are you all right?” Sally sat down beside her. “Will you be okay with this?”

“Yes. I’ll be fine. What’s important is that Chris gets better.” It would be hard to walk away, knowing that, a few feet away he was awake and in pain. She knew it would only be a matter of time before he was ready to see her again.

* * * *

Grace hated January. It was cold, gray and empty. She spent two weeks waiting, as the days became a seamless silence of soft, white mist. Sally phoned once to tell her that the hospital had phoned to let them know that Christopher’s wounds were healing as well as could be expected. He had asked to see his parents, but that was it. Grace tried to phone him, but his cell phone was switched off. She left a message.

“Hi, it’s me, Grace. I’m just calling to say hello and find out how you’re doing. Call me when you can. I love you.” She didn’t want to leave anything heavy, full of sighs and longing. She just wanted him to know she was there and waiting.

He never phoned back and it hurt her to hear his voice, the message prompt recorded long before Afghanistan, when everything was still good.

Grace phoned the hospital and the switchboard put her through to his ward, to a nurse with a harassed air.

“Captain Beaumont isn’t in his room at the moment.”

Grace heard the rustling of paper and a heavy sigh.

“He’s with the physio. Phone back in about an hour.”

Grace looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Yeah, I’ll do that.” She wanted to ask how Christopher was, how he was doing, but the nurse’s tone put paid to further questions. She thanked her and put the phone down. It seemed such a simple wish, to hear his voice, to hear him say that he loved her.

Grace rubbed her eyes and stared at the fog. It cloaked the house in silence and a gray chill that crept into her bones. She had an hour to fill—a long, empty hour. No racing on television, the papers already read from front to back. She’d even done the crossword puzzle.

The yard was quiet. Evening stables was hours away and her father had gone racing. Grace found her jacket and boots and walked out into the mist. Even the crows were silent, sulking in a ragged gathering in the black trees. Allonby nickered softly when she turned the corner into the yard. His star shone a brilliant white in the gray gloom. Grace sorted through the bits of paper, empty bute sachets and cellophane in her pockets until she found the mints. She held her hand out and Allonby lipped the mint from her palm, his muzzle warm velvet against the chill of the day.

“What do I do now, eh?” Grace rubbed his nose. “He won’t phone me back. Why doesn’t he want to speak to me?”

The colt nibbled at her hair. His breath was scented with hay.

“No, I didn’t think you’d have an answer.” She tugged his ear and headed to the tack room. If she mucked out now, there wouldn’t be so much to do at evening stables.

Grace walked back to the house after an hour, two rows of stables skipped out. She sank into a chair, picked up the phone and hit the redial button.

A different nurse answered. Grace asked for Christopher.

“He’s just come back from physio. Hold on, I’ll just fetch him for you. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Grace.” She waited, hearing the nurse set the phone down. “Captain Beaumont?” Her voice was cheerful, speaking of an easy familiarity with Christopher. “There’s someone called Grace on the phone for you.”

Grace tightened her hand around the receiver and felt a sharp little stab in her gut. She was ‘someone called Grace’, someone whom this nurse, who knew him, hadn’t heard of. She wished she hadn’t phoned. Grace pressed the phone to her ear, straining to hear Christopher’s voice. There was a distant murmur then the brisk footsteps of the nurse.

“I’m sorry, miss. Captain Beaumont can’t come to the phone at the moment.”

“Oh.” Grace’s fingers cramped. She wrestled with the sudden tightness in her throat. “All right. I see.” She didn’t. She couldn’t see at all. Her eyes burned. “Just tell him to phone me some time.”

“I will.”

Grace thought she heard sympathy in her voice. That made her hurt even more. “Thanks.” She hung up and fought an urge to crawl into bed and cry herself to sleep. The dull glint of the sapphire on her finger was a bitter reminder. For a moment, she was back on the beach, warm in Christopher’s arms. She wanted that Christopher back, the affectionate one, irresistible and charming. Grace wondered if she’d ever see that man again.

* * * *

Margaret’s phone call was weighty with things that were left unsaid. Grace listened to his mother’s chatter. He hadn’t spoken much, but he’d been pleased to see them. He’d cried a bit, but recovered himself.

“I asked him if he was ready to see you,” Margaret said, then fell silent.

Grace puffed on her cigarette. She knew what the answer was even before his mother said it. She had used the empty days of waiting to do her research, driven by a nagging suspicion that Christopher had returned with more than a messed-up leg. She now knew more than she ever wanted to learn about Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. “It’s all right,” Grace told her. “He doesn’t want to see me.” Another draw on the cigarette and her eyes swam with tears. She stared out of the window, at the mist. A starling settled on the fence, regarded her with a cold, silvery eye then flew away. The world was so still.

“He says that he’s not that man you fell in love with.”

God, now what do I do? How do I fix this mess?

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The cigarette burned away to ash in the ashtray. She curled and uncurled her free hand. “As long as he lives to draw breath, he is the man I fell in love with.” Grace wasn’t going to cry, not on the phone. “I suppose, somehow, I need to convince him of that, when the time is right, if there’s a right time.”

“Darling, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. We’ll do all that we can, you know that.”

“I know.”

“He needs you, Grace, he just doesn’t realize it yet.”

Grace sighed and twisted the cold butt of the dead cigarette between her fingers. “We can’t force him. Not yet.” She wondered how she could sound so calm and reasonable when her insides were being torn to pieces.

“Shall I talk to the psychiatrist? Do you think that would help?”

“It might.” Grace glanced at the calendar—the big, black crosses fell away at the beginning of the month. It was nearly February. He had been home for nearly a month, away from harm, yet he could’ve been lost in the hinterlands.

“We’ll do that, then. We’ll arrange to speak to the psychiatrist when we go to the hospital in a couple of days.”

She wanted to ask how Christopher looked. Instead, she looked at the photograph on the wall. The one that she had loved, the Guardsman gazing at something that no one else could see.

“Grace, are you all right?”

No, I’m dying, Margaret. I’m dying and I don’t know what to do.

“I’ll be all right. I think it’s best that I try and keep busy. You know, that way, I won’t think so much.”

Maybe it won’t hurt so much.

“I’m sorry. I know how hard this must be for you. How much it hurts.”

Grace’s voice cracked. “Yes, it does. It hurts a lot. Don’t worry about me. Just concentrate on Chris. Help him to get better.”

She put the phone down and stared out of the window again, grateful for the mist. Sunlight would have just been a mockery. She looked at her watch. Morning break was over. It was time to get back to work. She hoped that her father would give her a stupid, dangerous two-year-old to ride. Something that needed her full attention and, if she happened to break her neck in the meantime, that would be all right too.