Christopher's Medal (23 page)

“She was winding you up.” Jane lit a cigarette. “I could see it in her face. She just wanted to piss you off.”

“She did a bloody good job.” Grace rolled down the window and lit a cigarette of her own. “I don’t think I could forgive him if he let her visit. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I just want to scream right now. How much I bloody hurt.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. I’m sorry, Grace.”

“So am I. I guess that explosion did more than mess his leg up.” She looked down at the ring. “It seems to have knocked the old class system back into him.” Grace threw the cigarette out of the window and started the car. “If that’s how he wants it, then a shit-flicker like me has no right to expect otherwise. He’s fucking welcome to that cold-hearted cow.” She wrenched the shift into reverse. “Let’s go home. I just want to get home, open that bottle of wine and get pissed.”

* * * *

“The psychiatrist thinks it’s time that you visit Chris,” Margaret told her.

Grace leaned against the windowsill and looked at her tiny back garden. The daffodils were rising out of the black soil, thick leaves unfurled and reaching up toward the watery, late winter sunlight. She remembered the blind optimism with which she’d planted them. “Really?”

“He said that it’s an issue that needs to be resolved.”

Great, now I’m an issue.

She had done so well since the disastrous visit to the hospital. She had disappeared into her hormone-free world of numbness and mist. She couldn’t remember a February so shrouded in fog. Now, she had to leave the cocoon and get herself all torn up again. She’d thought, if she tried hard enough, she could fall out of love with Christopher. It hadn’t worked. The cottage was still full of him, from the neatly labeled boxes in the spare room to the red toothbrush resting, untouched, in the holder. There were little nagging reminders of him everywhere.

“When?”

“Can you come tomorrow?”

Best to get it over and done with. Take one long, last look and walk away.
“Yes, I’ll come. I’ll be there for mid-morning if the traffic isn’t too bad.”

“We won’t tell him. There’s no point in him getting worked up.”

“No.” She could say goodbye and be back home in time for evening stables. She wouldn’t have time to get all worked up and nervous. She had one night to figure out what she was going to say and one night to steel herself against the inevitable pain of seeing him and hearing him turn her away. She could finally get confirmation that she was no longer good enough for him.

* * * *

Grace climbed out of the car and looked at the house. She tried not to remember how it had been the first time she had been there, surrounded by green trees and flowers. Her only nerves had revolved around the uncertainty of meeting Christopher’s family. Summer had been in full swing and the woods had been alive with birdsong. Now, the house was shrouded in mist and silence. The air was cold and damp and the roof tiles were dark with moisture. The woods beyond were quiet, thin shreds of mist clung to the treetops and water dripped softly from the bare, black branches. Grace thrust her trembling hands into her pockets and walked slowly along the path. Her mind was a tangle—fear, longing and sorrow wrestled for control. Her stomach was a churning mess. She stood on the front porch, took a deep breath and knocked. She wanted a cigarette very badly.

“Grace.” Margaret swept her up into a fierce hug. She smelled of talcum powder and she was a pocket of steady warmth in the chill of the morning. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too.” Grace followed her into the shadowy, silent hall. The fresh flowers of summer had been replaced by an arrangement of dried barley and silk poppies, the scarlet of the flowers a shock against the pale gold of the barley.

“He’s in the guest room,” Margaret told her. “He rarely leaves it these days.”

Oh, God…not there, I don’t think I can do this.
“How is he?”

“Miserable and angry.” His mother wiped her eyes. “He’s not our son, Grace. I don’t know this man. He frightens me. He doesn’t eat, he rarely sleeps and, when he does, he has dreadful nightmares. He wakes up screaming and yelling and he can’t hear us when we go to him.” She began to weep in earnest. “I don’t know what to do.”

Grace held her. It was easier than looking at the pain in Margaret’s brown eyes, her son’s eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I wish I knew what to say. I wish I could say that it’ll be all right.” She stepped back and looked at the stairs.

Margaret squeezed her arm. “I’d wish you good luck, but those words don’t seem to fit.”

“That’s all right, I’d best get this over with.” The stairs were silent beneath her feet. She gripped the banister, feeling the smooth warmth of ancient oak beneath her damp palm. She paused in the hallway and took another deep breath before carrying on, her steps muffled by the carpet.

Grace stood in front of the bedroom door for a long time before she knocked gently and walked in.

Christopher sat in a chair by the window. The cold, gray light picked out the new hollows on his face where a day’s worth of stubble lingered. His wounded leg stuck out in front of him, and a cane rested against the arm of the chair. His long, pale hands curled on his lap while he stared out of the window. Grace bit her lip and wondered what to say. Her longing was a fierce, twisting ache.

“Chris?” She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice and failed. “Chris?” She watched him in an agony of fear. He remained still and she thought that, perhaps, he hadn’t heard her. Then, after a few minutes, he turned, slowly to face her.

At first, Christopher thought he was imagining things, that his longing had got the better of him. He ached for her so much, hated that he had become too broken for her. He wasn’t the man who’d once made her happy. He would never make her laugh again. He’d never imagined life without her, but it had to be that way. He’d certainly never believed that she’d turn up, against his wishes. Her voice, soft and hesitant, twisted a knife in his gut. Her eyes were wide and full of uncertainty. The pain there mirrored his. For a moment, he felt that heady rush of love for her come back. Christopher fought it. He couldn’t weaken. He had to turn her away. Her hurt fuelled his anger. How dare she come here and make things worse.

His eyes were huge and dark. Pain had replaced any warmth that might have once dwelt there. Anger flared within them, his lips were set in a thin, hard line. A muscle twitched on his cheek. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, finally. “I don’t want to see you.”

Grace set her jaw. Her fear fell away. “Why not?”

“Because we’re done. I’m not the man you fell in love with. I’m not the man who loved you.”

She put her hands back into her pockets and stared at the shadowy, heavy beams of the ceiling. She refused to look at the rumpled bed where he had made love to her. “As long as you live to draw breath, you will always be the man I love.”

“No, Grace. He’s gone. He died. Now, just go. Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

Grace watched his hands. They clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists. “I can’t go, Chris. I can’t just walk away. I love you and I want to help you.” She didn’t want to beg, but his words hurt her. They made her wonder if that summer had ever happened, whether that Christopher had ever existed.

“I don’t need help. I just need time. I want to be left alone. I want to keep what we had untouched. Just leave me with those memories. I don’t want them spoilt. You shouldn’t have come. You should’ve stayed away.”

“I couldn’t do that. I can’t walk away without trying. Hear me out.” Grace fought to keep the tears from her voice.

He turned away. “No. There’s nothing you can say that will make me change my mind. For the love of God, Grace, just go. You deserve better than this.”

“Who are you to say what I deserve and what I don’t?” Anger began to rise in her. “If you still love me, you’ll give me a chance. I can help you. Let me try.”

“No.” The chill in his voice clawed at her guts.

“Look at me. Just look at me.”

“No, Grace. There’s nothing else to be said. I think it’s best that you just go. Leave me to sort myself out. You don’t need me.”

“But you need me,” she replied, softly.

“I can look after myself.” His voice was cold. “Go. We’re just talking in circles, we’re getting nowhere. For fuck’s sake, go. I can’t love you, Grace. Do you really want to be stuck with a man who can’t love you? Who can’t feel anything? Do you want my nightmares? Do you want to change the dressings? Do you want that?”

“I don’t care. I just want you back. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for you. That’s why I said I’d marry you. That’s why people who love each other get married.”

“Christ! You’re just not getting it, are you? We can’t pick up where we left off. It’s not the same anymore. Everything’s changed.” He splayed his hands across his lap and stared at them. “Please leave me alone. I can’t take any more of this.”

Anger fought with pity. “You can’t take any more of this? What about your parents, Chris? Your mother is in tears just about every time she phones me. How do you think your parents feel when you won’t eat, when you push the plate away and sulk? When you shut yourself away up here? You’re killing them. They look at the stranger who sits where their son once sat and they don’t know what to do. You’ve got them lost and hurt and they’re doing all that they can. You’re too wrapped up in yourself to notice. You’re the only bloody soldier who’s ever suffered, who’s ever been hurt. Bloody hell! There’s hospital wards full of men like you, and you think you’re the only sodding one. You’re nothing special. You’re just another broken man who’s so far up his own arse that you can’t see the damage you’re causing. Fine, if you really want to spend the rest of your miserable, fucking life like this, fine. Have at it.”

Grace took a deep breath and continued. “I love you, Chris. I don’t care what your leg looks like, I don’t care how fucked up you are. I do care that you’ve become a selfish, cold-hearted bastard who clearly doesn’t give a toss what havoc he’s causing. If you want me to go, I’ll go. I’ll walk out of here knowing that I’ve tried. I’ll go back and pick up what’s left of my life. It doesn’t matter to you that I’m broken, that you’ve torn me to pieces. At least I have the guts to work at putting myself back together. I have friends and family who’ll help me and I’d never dream of turning them away, or putting them through the hell you put everyone through.”

There was one more thing that needed to be said. “This is all bullshit anyway. I know Pippa’s been to see you. You were happy enough to let her see you, but not me. That tells me everything. That tells me that all that pretty talk about wanting to be in my world was nothing but crap. Fine. Good luck with that one. I can’t imagine she’ll make much of a nurse. Never mind, she can afford to hire a few. You deserve each other, Chris.”

She watched him. His head was bowed, his hands in tight knots on his lap. He pounded his thighs. “Please just go, Grace. Go away.” His voice broke. “For fuck’s sake, just leave me alone.”

“All right, I’ll go. I’m done here.” Grace pulled the ring from her finger. She held it out to him and it glittered like ice. “You gave me this because you loved me. You can have it back because it doesn’t mean anything now, not to you, anyway.” It was hard to keep her voice cold, to keep from shaking. “Goodbye, Chris. I’m sorry, I truly am. Just know that I’ll always love you.”

When he didn’t move, Grace let the ring drop to the floor. She took one, long last look at him and ached to touch him. Instead, she turned and walked away, closing the door with a gentle snick behind her. She felt as if all her winters had come at once, all of them cold, bleak and empty. It was of little comfort to her that he still wore the medallion.

Christopher heard the faint chink of the ring when it hit the floor and the long, dark pause before Grace turned and left the room. The click of the latch sounded like a gunshot, sharp and final. He looked at his hands, where they still rested on his lap. His leg was raw agony, but the pain inside was far worse. He’d expected her to put up a fight, but he hadn’t anticipated her tearful anger, and how each word had sliced into him like another burning fragment of shrapnel.

The ring glinted in the dull wintry light. Christopher looked at it for a moment and was suddenly overtaken by the memories, the cold wind, the warmth of Grace when she rested against him. He’d rarely cried in front of a woman, apart from his mother, but he’d felt the burn of tears when she’d told him how much she loved him. The sapphire seemed to have a light of its own, more brilliant than the dull, late-winter day. He couldn’t leave it sitting there on the rug. Christopher edged out of his chair, dragging his leg. Moving still hurt. His eyes watered when he stooped slowly and retrieved the ring. It still held the warmth of her hand and, when he heard the door close, he cried once more, holding the ring in his clenched fist.

I’m not going to cry. Not here.

Grace made her way downstairs on trembling legs and found his parents sitting at the kitchen table looking pale and worried. She sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. Henry hugged her and said nothing.

She took her hands away from her face. “I’m sorry. I tried, I really did. He won’t listen.” She dashed at her eyes. “That’s one more issue resolved. Tell the psychiatrist that.”

“Darling, I don’t know what to say.” Margaret’s hand covered hers. “What do we do now?”