Maisie and Celia left the Ritz and entered Green Park.
'It's so lovely here--the daffodils are pretty, but they're late this year, aren't they?'
'Indeed they are.'
'Maisie, the fabrics at Liberty were simply gorgeous, almost overwhelming, as always. I have to confess, I bought three yards of the most exquisite sheer lilac silk.'
'Good for you. How very clever of you to be able to sew.'
'I learned from one of our maids who was an absolute whiz with the needle. Mummy insisted upon such drab colors and styles--it was the only way for me to avoid looking like a dowdy schoolmistress. Of course, during the war it wasn't as easy to get fabric, but remember there
Maisie nodded, remembering the demand for goods from the Indian subcontinent after the Gurkha regiments joined British forces in France. She remembered Khan, laughing as he told her about the invitations he was suddenly receiving from the very best houses, simply to have the presence of one who seemed, in the eyes of hostesses of the day who were not always clear about the geography of the Indian subcontinent, to be an ambassador for the legion of small, hearty, fearless Nepalese men fighting alongside the regular British soldiers.
There was a comfortable silence as Maisie and Celia made their way along Queen's Walk toward St. James's Park. Strolling alongside St. James's Park lake, they commented that it would have been a good idea to save some pieces of bread to feed the swans, and laughed together at an anxious nanny running in pursuit of a pair of mischievous children toddling on chubby legs toward a pair of mallards. Yet as she brought her step into line with that of her companion, and held her shoulders, arms, and hands as if she were her shadow, Maisie felt once again the melancholy that gripped Celia. But Maisie also knew that Celia would soon confide in her as she had when they last met, for her feelings for Vincent had been dammed inside her, and having been once unleashed, demanded to be heard.
'It was 1917 when Vincent came back to England. He was admitted immediately to hospital, for his wounds were so, so . . . .'
Celia put her hand to her face again, searching for a word to describe Vincent's wounds that would reflect her newfound bravery in telling the tale.
'Utterly devastating, Maisie. I could hardly recognize him when I visited. I had to beg my brother to take me with him--George had arrived home some time before Vincent, as his injuries were not as severe. Vincent wore a linen mask and only removed it when I assured him that I would not flinch.'
'Go on,' encouraged Maisie.
'But I couldn't contain myself. I burst into tears and rushed from the room. My brother was furious. Yet Vincent wasn't angry with me. But he was angry at everything else.'
'Many men were angry when they returned, Celia. Vincent had a right to his anger.'
Celia stopped in her walk, shielded her eyes from the sun, which was now late-afternoon low in the sky, then looked again at Maisie.
'That was when he said that he wanted to be just 'Vincent.' He said that as far as Britain was concerned, he was just a piece of meat anyway, he might as well buck the whole system. He said he'd lost his face, so he could be whomever he wanted to be. Except he wasn't quite as polite as that.'
'Indeed. Do you know what happened in France? To Vincent?'
'I know, mainly from my brother, that something happened-- more than being wounded. I believe there was some . . . discord. With his commanding officers.'
'What happened when Vincent was discharged from hospital?'
'Convalescence. By the sea, in Whitstable. The army took over one of the large hotels. Vincent wanted to write about his experiences in France. He was very upset. But each time we sent him a quantity of paper, it was taken away from him. The doctors said that writing distressed him. My brother was furious. He gave Vincent a typewriter, which was confiscated and returned. Vincent maintained he was being silenced, but said he was determined to speak before the war was long gone and no one wanted to know anymore.'
'The poor man.'
'Then I met Christopher. A very solid man. Of course, he hadn't gone to France. I have to admit I never really found out why. I believe his business protected him from conscription. I seemed to go forward into marriage with a numbness in my mind. But I'd lost one brother, and of course Vincent was deeply, deeply injured. Christopher was a port in the storm. And he is, of course, so very good to me.'
'What happened to your friend Vincent after the war, Celia? It seemed that he died some time later.'
'Yes, he died only a few years ago. He returned to his parents' home, but as he was terribly disfigured, he became a recluse. Oh, people tried to 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.
