Read Online Maisie Dobbs by Jacqueline Winspear - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jacqueline Winspear
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get him out of the house socially, but he would sit in the drawing room, looking out the window, or reading, or writing in his diary. He worked from home after a while-for a small publishing house, somewhere not far from here, I think"
Celia rubbed her forehead as if pressure would squeeze memories into the present moment.
"He read manuscripts, wrote reports. He had obtained the connection through his uncle's business contacts.Very occasionally he would have someone drive him to the office, to discuss something. He'd had a mask made, of sorts, out of that very fine tin. It was painted in a glaze that matched the color of his skin. And he wore a scarf which he bundled around his neck and lower jaw-well, where his lower jaw used to be. Oh, poor, poor Vincent!"
Celia began to cry. Maisie stopped walking and simply stood next to her, but made no move to console by placing a hand on Celia's shoulder or a comforting arm around her.
"Allow grief room to air itself," Maurice had taught her. "Be judicious in using the body to comfort another, for you may extinguish the freedom that the person feels to be able to share a sadness"
She had learned, with Maurice Blanche as a teacher, respect for the telling of a person's history.
Maisie allowed some time to pass, then took Celia's elbow and gently led her to a park bench, set among a golden display of daffodils nodding sunny heads in the late-afternoon breeze.
"Thank you. Thank you for listening."
"I understand, Celia," replied Maisie.
As Maisie imagined Vincent's brutal disfigurement, she shuddered, recollecting the time she had spent in France, and the images that would remain with her forever, of men who had fought so bravely. She thought, too, of those men who had cheated death, only to struggle with the legacy of their injuries. And, in that moment, she remembered Simon, the gifted doctor who was himself a soldier in the struggle to tear lives free from the bloody clutches of war.
Maisie was brought back from the depths of her own memories by Celia, who was ready to continue her story.
"It was a bit of luck, really, that one of the patients he had been in hospital with remembered him. I wish I could recall his name. He had returned to France for a time after the war and saw that men with facial disfigurement were looked after in a different way. They were brought together for holidays, taken to the country to camps where they could live together for a while without having to worry about people drawing away-after all, they all had wounds. And, I suppose, more importantly, the public didn't have to look at them. Terrible, isn't it? Anyway, this man came back to England and wanted to get the same sort of thing going here"
Celia Davenham looked around her and briefly closed her eyes in the warmth of the waning spring sunshine.
"He bought a farm that was on the market, then got in touch with the men he had met while recovering from his own wounds. According to Vincent, he-heavens, what was his name? Anyway, this man had been deeply affected by the war in a way that made him want to do something for those with disfiguring wounds. Vincent was a strong supporter of the idea. It gave him an energy I certainly hadn't seen since before the war. In fact, the man was rather taken with Vincent's stubborn refusal to be known by anything but his first name. So Vincent went to live at The Retreat"
"Was that what it was called? The Retreat?"
"Yes. I think it was Vincent's idea. The name. There was a connection to `Beating The Retreat,' I think, in that they were withdrawing from society, which for many of them had become the enemy.Vincent said that it commemorated each man who died in France, and every man brought home to live with injuries. He said that it was for all those who suffered and should have had a place to go back to, when there never was one"
"Did he remain there, at The Retreat?"
"Yes, he did. He became very reclusive. My brother would visit occasionally. Of course, by
Celia rubbed her forehead as if pressure would squeeze memories into the present moment.
"He read manuscripts, wrote reports. He had obtained the connection through his uncle's business contacts.Very occasionally he would have someone drive him to the office, to discuss something. He'd had a mask made, of sorts, out of that very fine tin. It was painted in a glaze that matched the color of his skin. And he wore a scarf which he bundled around his neck and lower jaw-well, where his lower jaw used to be. Oh, poor, poor Vincent!"
Celia began to cry. Maisie stopped walking and simply stood next to her, but made no move to console by placing a hand on Celia's shoulder or a comforting arm around her.
"Allow grief room to air itself," Maurice had taught her. "Be judicious in using the body to comfort another, for you may extinguish the freedom that the person feels to be able to share a sadness"
She had learned, with Maurice Blanche as a teacher, respect for the telling of a person's history.
Maisie allowed some time to pass, then took Celia's elbow and gently led her to a park bench, set among a golden display of daffodils nodding sunny heads in the late-afternoon breeze.
"Thank you. Thank you for listening."
"I understand, Celia," replied Maisie.
As Maisie imagined Vincent's brutal disfigurement, she shuddered, recollecting the time she had spent in France, and the images that would remain with her forever, of men who had fought so bravely. She thought, too, of those men who had cheated death, only to struggle with the legacy of their injuries. And, in that moment, she remembered Simon, the gifted doctor who was himself a soldier in the struggle to tear lives free from the bloody clutches of war.
Maisie was brought back from the depths of her own memories by Celia, who was ready to continue her story.
"It was a bit of luck, really, that one of the patients he had been in hospital with remembered him. I wish I could recall his name. He had returned to France for a time after the war and saw that men with facial disfigurement were looked after in a different way. They were brought together for holidays, taken to the country to camps where they could live together for a while without having to worry about people drawing away-after all, they all had wounds. And, I suppose, more importantly, the public didn't have to look at them. Terrible, isn't it? Anyway, this man came back to England and wanted to get the same sort of thing going here"
Celia Davenham looked around her and briefly closed her eyes in the warmth of the waning spring sunshine.
"He bought a farm that was on the market, then got in touch with the men he had met while recovering from his own wounds. According to Vincent, he-heavens, what was his name? Anyway, this man had been deeply affected by the war in a way that made him want to do something for those with disfiguring wounds. Vincent was a strong supporter of the idea. It gave him an energy I certainly hadn't seen since before the war. In fact, the man was rather taken with Vincent's stubborn refusal to be known by anything but his first name. So Vincent went to live at The Retreat"
"Was that what it was called? The Retreat?"
"Yes. I think it was Vincent's idea. The name. There was a connection to `Beating The Retreat,' I think, in that they were withdrawing from society, which for many of them had become the enemy.Vincent said that it commemorated each man who died in France, and every man brought home to live with injuries. He said that it was for all those who suffered and should have had a place to go back to, when there never was one"
"Did he remain there, at The Retreat?"
"Yes, he did. He became very reclusive. My brother would visit occasionally. Of course, by
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