Christopher's Medal (31 page)

“Yes, it is, and yes, he is sound. I just want him to stay that way. I feel sick. I’m not cut out for this big race crap.”

“You’d better get used to it real quick, Gracey. It’s happening and it won’t be the last time.”

They found space in the ring and watched Harry walk the colt. Grace marveled at the colt’s calm while he surveyed the crowd with a breathtaking arrogance. The horse behind him was jigging about and already worked into a state and it didn’t appear to bother Allonby one bit.

Billy nudged her. “Lookit, Her Royal Highness.”

Grace glanced over her shoulder and spotted the Queen talking to her trainer. It was at that moment that the weight of the occasion finally caught up with her.

My God, we’re really here. We’re just about to take part in a
huge
race.

“I want a cigarette,” she told him. “I really, really want a cigarette.”

Billy laughed and the bell rang for the jockeys to mount up. Grace walked with Billy across the grass and gave him a leg up while the colt kept moving.

“I don’t need to tell you anything you don’t already know,” she told him, patting his knee. “Go get ’em, Billy.”

“Don’t worry, Boss, we’ll do our best for you.”

“I know you will.” She stopped and watched them amble around the ring, aware that the General and his wife had joined her. Mary took her arm. “He looks wonderful,” she said. “You know, Grace, I don’t even care if he doesn’t win, just being here, just knowing that he’s good enough to run in this race is enough for us.”

“I hope for better than that,” Grace replied as the horses were led out onto the course. Harry unclipped the lead rein and Allonby walked on, his neck arched while he followed the others in front of the stand. He danced a bit, swishing his tail and snorting, when the horse in front of him began to head toward the start. Grace watched Billy rise in the stirrups when Allonby sprang forward into a steady, ground-eating canter. The afternoon sun turned his coat to dark silk and his black tail shone as it fluttered out behind him. Grace followed the General and Mary into the stands with the other owners and trainers. After three years of slumming it at all-weather tracks and lesser meetings, Grace tried not to gawp at the company she was keeping. She blushed like a schoolgirl when one well-known trainer wished her luck and another patted her shoulder.

Then it was all business when the runners reached the stalls. Grace watched Allonby carefully. He watched his rivals with mild interest as they were led into the stalls. When it was his turn, he walked in meekly and stood still, while the horse in the stall next to him tossed its head and stamped on the grass. With the last horse in, the stands fell silent for the briefest of moments, until the gates sprang open, releasing twenty-five well-bred, hard-muscled three-year-olds onto the long sweep of turf.

It was like a cavalry charge when they surged forward in a line across the track in a melee of multi-colored silks and gleaming coats of bay, chestnut, gray and black. Grace searched for Allonby and found him, tucked in behind the group on the stand side that had broken away from the back about two furlongs from the start. She could see Billy leaning low over his neck using nothing but his hands and his heels. Grace stood up and curled her hands into tight fists as Allonby continued at a steady pace. She bit her lip, not wanting to start whooping and yelling in such exalted company. The colt’s ears were pinned back when he passed other runners and the field spread out and began to fall apart. The lead horse started to tire and Allonby and two others caught up and passed him easily. The three remaining horses were well-matched, pounding head to head to head toward the final furlong marker. The nearside jockey picked up his whip, but his horse didn’t respond.

“Billy, don’t use the stick, not yet.” Grace prayed under her breath when Allonby and the other horse pulled away, still matching each other stride for stride, dark bay against sorrel. The stands were alive with cheering and the race announcer’s voice raised in pitch when the two horses pulled a length clear of the remainder of the field. They hurtled toward the finishing line. Billy finally picked up his stick and showed it to Allonby. The colt lowered his head, stretched out his neck and lunged forward, finding another gear. He pulled away by a head and the sorrel fought back, until his nose was even with Allonby’s eye.

Grace realized that she was yelling herself hoarse and the General was squeezing the life out of her arm when they approached the post. At the last minute, Allonby found something extra after one smack from his jockey. He pinned his ears flat against his head and stretched out across the line, leaving his rival half a length behind.

Grace found herself swept up in an exuberant hug, lifted off her feet. Mary retrieved her hat and Grace trembled as they made their way down to the winner’s enclosure. Harry was beaming as he led Allonby in from the track. Grace marveled at the horse’s calm. He walked as if he owned the place, head held high while a ripple of applause followed him around the paddock. Billy’s grin was huge when he patted the colt’s neck, jumped from the saddle and hugged Grace.

Everyone was clapping, the Channel Four crew hovered close by and the Queen was making her way down to present the trophy. Grace handed the saddle to Billy so that he could be weighed in. When the Channel Four presenter waved the cameraman in, she took a deep breath and gave him her best smile. He gave her a few minutes to compose herself, then Grace found herself faced with questions that her father should’ve been there to answer. Four years of hard work and paying attention did pay off though, and she thought she acquitted herself quite well as she explained her father’s training philosophy with Allonby. The General was next to be interviewed and Grace stood by and listened while he praised her father, the staff, his horse, then he added, “Grace here has been through a rough time of it lately.” He squeezed her shoulders, “This is just what she needs, eh, Grace?”

Grace nodded weakly and managed a smile when Billy returned, still grinning. She let the presenter interview him while she saw to Allonby, throwing the winner’s rug over his back before giving Harry the signal to lead him away. She fielded the congratulations of other trainers, owners and jockeys, before the trophy presentation. She was glad that the General had the spotlight. There was no way she was ready to say anything to the Queen. She just wanted to get back to the sanctuary of the stable yard and the routine of winding the big horse down after his race. She shook as she walked away from the enclosure.

“I’ll meet you in the car park,” Billy told her.

“Yeah, okay.”

“You were great, Gracey. You handled the interview like you were born to it.”

Grace managed a smile. “Yes, I bet I was impressive. I hope I didn’t look like a rabbit in the headlights. Did he feel all right to you?”

“He felt fine. Don’t fret. As long as he’s running all right, we’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.”

“God, I hope you’re right. Life’s shite enough as it is without this. We need Allonby to do well, Billy. There are people pulling their horses out of yards left, right and center because of the economy. If Allonby does well, we won’t have that problem.”

“We’ll just have to play it by ear. It’s not like your Dad overfaces him. He’s sensible. We just have to keep the faith, Gracey.”

“I’m trying, I really am. It’s been a crappy year and my faith in life has taken a bit of a nosedive.”

He hugged her. “Yeah, I don’t blame you for being down on things. You’ve been through a shit storm, but things will turn out all right, I know it will. Hopefully that dickhead you fell in love with saw you on telly and is giving himself a sound kick up the arse right now. I hope he feels like shit.”

She raised her chin and smiled at him. “You know what, Billy-boy, I hope so too.”

Chapter Eighteen

A lorry had jackknifed across the north and southbound carriageway of the A1. It added three hours to the return trip from Nottingham. Grace was glad to get back to the yard, tired and as bad-tempered as the colt that had raced unsuccessfully that day. She sent Harry home and put the colt to bed.

The yard was silent and dark. A thin sliver of moon rose above the trees and an owl called out from the woods across the road as she walked wearily to the cottage. She just wanted her bed. She fumbled with the lock and tried to remember why she’d left the kitchen light on before she left home, given that it had been light when she’d gone. Grace dropped her bag on the counter and looked in the fridge. Hunger suddenly gnawed at her and the choice was grim—an apple, yoghurt or a wedge of cheese, its edges fuzzed with mold. She opted for the apple and wandered into the living room.

Something didn’t fit. The lamp glowed softly in the corner and the radio was on. Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock were telling each other to come back home. Grace paused, the apple half-bitten. Someone else had come back home. Christopher slept on the settee as if he’d never been gone. She stared at him for a long time and tried to decide whether she was relived or furious while he dozed, oblivious to the havoc he caused inside her. She walked into the bedroom and checked the wardrobe. The leather bag was back where it used to be and his dirty clothes were crammed into the hamper. In the bathroom, the red toothbrush was back where it had once sat, the shampoo bottle stood beside hers once more.

Do you really think it’s going to be that easy? You think you can just put your stuff back where it was and pretend that it’s all just wonderful?

She returned to the living room and wanted to shake him awake. While she stood there debating with herself, Christopher stirred.

Grace put the apple down and shoved her hands into her pockets to stop the shaking. It had been a long day. She didn’t want this. Not now. Not ever. It wasn’t right. She braced herself and tried to ignore the fact that he was still beautiful, that in spite of everything, she ached for him and wanted to hurl herself into his arms. Instead, she perched on the arm of the chair and watched him as he sat up and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Grace.” His voice was uncertain, hoarse.

She said nothing and bit into the apple.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Sorry would do for a start but, given that most of our conversations before you walked out started with that word, it’s probably not worth it.” She took some satisfaction in seeing him wince. “How bloody dare you turn up out of the blue like this.” She tossed the rest of the apple into the bin where it landed with a decisive thump. “How did you find the nerve?”

He stared at her. His eyes full of hurt.

“You disappear, leaving a note full of self-sacrificing bullshit, you don’t bother to contact anyone and you think you can just waltz back in here, put all your bits and pieces back where you think they belong and carry on as if nothing has happened. You’ve been gone for four bloody months. I’m tired of packing you away. I’m tired of trying to pretend that we never happened. I’m tired of it, Chris. Sorry doesn’t cut it, sorry is just not enough.”

Grace paused and took a breath. “I know you’re damaged and fucked up, but you know what? So am I. I can’t do this. I can’t put you back together, not on my own. Not if you won’t help. I’ve had four months to get myself back together again, to pick up my life. It isn’t a great life, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than hurting all the bloody time. It’s better than worrying about what Chris I’ll find when I walk through the door. At least I can sleep at night knowing I won’t be woken up by your nightmares, or your pacing, or your anger.” She turned away and looked out of the window at the dark night beyond. “I think you should go. I don’t think I can put myself through all that crap again.”

She waited in silence for his answer.

“I don’t know what to say.” His voice was full of weariness. “Except that you’re right.”

Grace folded her arms and gazed at the ceiling. She didn’t want to look at him, knowing that it would be too easy to crumble when she saw his eyes. “Your stuff is in the loft. I’ll get it down for you in the morning.” Her eyes stung and her heart hammered against her ribs. The mouthful of apple sat like a burning coal in her stomach. “Why the hell did you even bother to come back?”

“Because I love you.”

She bit her lip. His pain clawed at her gut. Madonna sang about saying goodbye. Grace found that she couldn’t do that. “If you love me, why the hell did you leave? Surely you must’ve known what it would do to me, to your family.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you anymore. I thought that, if I went away, I could sort it all out myself.”

“Did you?” It was hard to keep her voice steady and cold.

“No.”

She turned, slowly. His head was in his hands, his long fingers splayed through his hair while he stared at the floor. It would’ve been so easy to put her arms around him, to tell him that everything would be all right. “I didn’t think so.” She swallowed. “I’m really tired. I’ve been up since four, I spent hours on the A1 stuck in the horse box listening to Harry snore and a three-year-old colt try to stamp his way through the floor. It wasn’t like I could take him for a walk because he’s twenty-five-thousand guineas worth of animal. So, it’s not a good time to talk about anything. I’m going to bed and we can talk about this in the morning. You have all night to come up with a good reason why I should even consider letting you stay.” She swept past him, refusing to look. “Goodnight.” She slammed the door behind her and left him to it.