Christopher's Medal by S.A. Laybourn Page B

Rayburn stove, which cast off waves of heat, and copper saucepans hanging from a rack over a wooden butcher’s block. Dinner simmered on the back burner, something redolent with herbs and garlic.
    “Will this do, dearest?” Christopher’s father stood in the doorway with a bottle of white wine. He grinned at Grace with an echo of his son’s smile. “Margaret is very picky about her wine.”
    “Oh, George, don’t tease. I’m sure that’ll be fine.”
    Grace carried the salad onto the patio and set the bowl on the table. The patio rested beneath a low retaining wall. Beyond the wall, a strip of lawn rose steeply toward the edge of a beech wood. The wood was a mosaic of shifting dappled light and shadow. A single mourning dove called out into the hazy afternoon stillness.
    “I used to play in those woods when I was a kid.” Christopher set the wine on the table.
    “Cowboys and Indians?”
    “Nah, Narnia. I was forever searching for fauns and lions.” He slid his arms around her waist. “I used to get no end of grief on rainy days.”
    “Why?”
    “Because Sally would find me sitting in her wardrobe waiting for the door to Narnia to open.”
    “You were a strange boy, Beaumont.”
    “Yes, yes, I was strange.” He kissed her forehead. “What about you? What did you play at? I can’t imagine you played much with dolls.”
    “No, no dolls. They give me the creeps. I spent my childhood roaming the countryside on fat little ponies.” Grace rested her hands on Christopher’s chest. It was easy to forget the reason she was there in the drowsy afternoon. The scent of rain hung in the air and the sun was lost behind a smoky amber haze.
    “Here we go.” Mrs Beaumont bustled onto the patio. “Lunch is served.” She set a platter of meat and cheese on the table. “Have a seat.”
    Grace sank into a chair, grateful when Christopher sat beside her. The silence filled with the bustle of plates being passed back and forth. Mr Beaumont poured the wine.
    The conversation around the table was harmless, local gossip, stories about people Grace didn’t know. She was thankful that Mrs Beaumont at least took the trouble to give her the background so she wasn’t all at sea. This type of conversation was better than the inquisition she expected.
    After lunch, Mr Beaumont leaned back in his chair. “Fancy a drink down at the pub, Chris?”
    Grace took a deep breath. Christopher looked at her, asking the question. “Yes, you go and have a pint or two.” She tried to smile. “It’ll do you good.”
    He kissed her forehead. “We won’t be long.”
    “I know.” She watched him leave and braced herself for the inevitable.
    “Would you be so kind as to help me clear these plates?” Mrs Beaumont stood up.
    Grace scooped up some dishes and carried them into the kitchen. “Shall I wash them?”
    Mrs Beaumont smiled. “Thank you, dear.”
    Well, that’s something I suppose.
    Grace let the water run into the sink and started washing while Mrs Beaumont dried the dishes and put them away. The task was undertaken in silence and Grace wondered when the questions would start.
    “Would you like a coffee?” Mrs Beaumont plugged the kettle in.
    “Thank you, yes.” Grace rinsed the remaining soap bubbles from the sink and leaned against the counter while Chris’ mother retrieved mugs from a cupboard and shook coffee into a French press.
    “Do you like your coffee strong?”
    “Very.”
    “No wonder you and Chris get along so well.” Her smile had warmth in it for the first time. “My son isn’t worth speaking to until he’s had that first cup of coffee in the morning.” She set a jug of cream and sugar bowl on a tray. “Are you the same?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    The kettle boiled and Mrs Beaumont poured boiling water into the press. “Let’s go in the sitting room. It’s nice and comfortable there.”
    The sitting room was cool and dark. Mrs Beaumont opened the French doors onto the lawn then poured out the