the wall, and now seemed to be clambering toward her, to freedom. Each bloom nodded up and down in the breeze, and in that moment the wave of roses reminded Maisie of the men who scrambled from a mud-soaked hell of trenches over the top and into battle. Bleeding from their wounds, millions of young men had died on the sodden ground and barbed wire of no-man's land.
Maisie closed and opened her eyes again quickly, to extinguish the images that presented themselves so readily in her mind's eye and had been haunting her since she had torn at the weeds on Don's grave at Nether Green Cemetery. She reminded herself that she could not afford to be distracted or influenced by her memories.
Maisie was leaning back against the MG's door, looking up at the gates, when a man walked through a smaller pedestrian entrance built into the wall.'Can I help you, Ma'am?'
'Oh yes indeed. Is this The Retreat?'
'Yes it is. And what might your business be here today?'
Maisie smiled at the man and approached him. He was tall and thin, with hair that seemed to be gray before its time. She was about to reply when she saw the long, livid scar running from his forehead across his nose and down to his jaw. There was no left eye where the left eye should have been, not even a glass one. The socket was laid bare, defiantly. And as Maisie looked into the right eye of the disfigured man, she saw that he dared her to turn away. She met the man's gaze directly.
'I have written but have received no reply, so I decided to visit without an appointment. It's about my brother. I understand that he might stay here, at The Retreat, until he is healed.'
And remembering how Celia Davenham so delicately touched her own face when speaking of Vincent's wounds, Maisie brought her fingers to her left cheek, mirroring the unseen pain of the wounded man before her. He visibly took a deep breath, and waited a second before replying.'You've come to the right place, Ma'am. Wait here and I'll be back in ten minutes. Mr. . . . er . . . Major Jenkins is who you need to see, and I'll have to get permission.'
Maisie nodded, smiled, and said she would be glad to wait. He hurried back through the pedestrian entrance and, taking a bicycle that had been leaning on the other side of the wall, raced along the driveway toward the house. Maisie squinted to watch as the man, now a speck in the distance, stood the bicycle by a door at the side of the house, then ran inside. Five minutes later the speck came running out of the door, took up the bicycle, and grew larger in her vision as he neared the front gate once more.
'You can come in to meet with Major Jenkins, Ma'am. I'll open the gate for you. Drive slowly to the front of the house, and park your motor by the big fallen tree on the gravel there. Major Jenkins is waiting for you.'
'Thank you, Mr. . . .'
Maisie held her head to one side, seeking a name.
'Archie, Ma'am.'
'Thank you, Mr. Archie. Thank you.'
'Actually, it's just Archie, Ma'am. We don't use surnames here.'
'Oh, I see. Thank you, Archie. Is 'Jenkins' the major's Christian name?'
The man's face reddened, except for the scar, which became pale as the surrounding skin heated.
'No. 'Jenkins' is the major's surname.'
'Ah,' said Maisie, 'I see.'
Maisie started the MG and drove to the gravel by the fallen tree as instructed. As she applied the handbrake, the door of the car was opened by a man who wore beige jodhpurs, a white shirt, and tall leather riding boots, and carried a baton.
'Miss Dobbs, I understand. I'm Major Jenkins.'
Maisie took the hand offered to balance her as she got out of the car. Jenkins was of average height and build, with dark brown hair, brown eyes, and pale skin that did not seem to match his hair and eye coloring. His hair was so neatly swept back that ridges left by his comb reminded Maisie of a freshly ploughed field. She quickly regarded his face, looking for the scars of war, but there were none. None that were visible.
'Thank you, Major Jenkins. No doubt Archie told you why I am here. Perhaps you could tell me more about The Retreat.'
'Indeed. Do come to my office, and we'll have tea and a talk about what we are trying to do here.'
Jenkins sat in the Queen Anne chair opposite Maisie, who was seated in an identical chair. Tea had been brought earlier by Richard, another man who seemed not yet to be thirty, who had worked hard to mouth words of greeting to Maisie, his shell-blasted jawbone moving awkwardly as he made an enormous effort to physically frame the voice that came forth from his throat.
For her part Maisie did not draw back from the men at The Retreat, although she was sure she was not seeing those with the more devastating wounds. She had seen such wounds when freshly shattered bone and skin still clung to the men's faces, and scars were the best outcome to be hoped for.
'I read about it, in fact,' said Jenkins,'then went over to France to have a look for myself. It seemed that these French chappies had a cracking good idea--provide a place of refuge for the men whose faces were altered, or taken, by war. It was certainly not the easiest thing to get going especially as, just after the war, many of the men here had such terrible injuries.'
'What happened to them?'
'Frankly, for some it was just too much--bad enough having the wounds in the first place, but being young and having the girls turn away, not being able to go out without people staring, that sort of thing. To tell you the truth, we lost some--but of course we were their last chance of a bearable life anyway.'
Jenkins leaned forward to offer Maisie a biscuit, which she declined with a wave of her hand. He nodded and set the plate down on the tray again.
'Of course, for most of our guests, being here helps. The men have no fear of sitting out in the sun, enjoying
