William Wharton: Shrapnel

All the time, I’m trying to work up a conversation. I can’t tell them what I’m really doing, although they’ve probably figured it out faster than I did. So, I tell them I’m an artist and will be doing drawings around town to pass the time.

I think of an old film with Ronald Coleman where he wanders through the English countryside with a portable easel on his back singing, ‘When a body meets a body coming through the rye’; I romanticised over that one for six months. It could be one of the influences that made me want to be an artist. Of course, he meets the most beautiful girl in his wanderings and she thinks he’s ‘God’s gift to earth’ because he can draw and paint.

I wonder if I can talk Taylor into letting me buy a portable easel instead of hauling a map table around. He said I should make myself inconspicuous. Maybe I could even wear civilian clothes, some old tweeds and a Sherlock Holmes cap with a bill. The English would never shoot me as a spy, or maybe they would. I’ve lost a lot of confidence in the people who make those kinds of decisions.

There’s a great wooden combination paint box and easel in the window. I ask the price. It’s just under ten pounds. Taylor could never get a requisition through even if he’d try. But I act as if I’m seriously considering it, all in the interest of security. I ask the young girl her name and she tells me its Miss Henderson. I look at her, pretending I’m Ronald Coleman.

‘Might I call you Violet?’

She blushes and turns around. I figure I’ve blown it. What would Ronald Coleman have done?

Luckily I have a bit over ten pounds in my pocket, more than enough. I ask for a receipt. I’ll need it to get my money back, if that’s remotely possible. Then I remember, I forgot India ink. I ask. Without a word she turns and takes a bottle from one of the shelves. She twists the top open to check if it’s dried up. It is. She opens three before she finds one that’s okay. India ink is like that. It goes to seed or something and you have bits of black grit in ink plasma and there’s no way you can make it flow through a pen, especially a crow quill pen or an engineering pen. It’s very nice of her to check.

‘Thank you, Miss Henderson. There’s nothing worse than having black sand for ink.’

She looks at me with those violet eyes.

‘My name is really Michelle. It’s a French sounding name isn’t it?’

‘My name is William. I’m called Will by my friends. I hope I’ll be seeing you again.’

She smiles, gives me my change, looks me in the eye.

‘Perhaps William, you might need some more India ink.’

I begin walking around the town, measuring distances, counting buildings, taking notes, humming ‘Coming Through the Rye’, thinking about violet eyes. This is going to be one terrific assignment. I’m pacing from the church to the mayor’s office, trying to keep count, when I see Michelle coming up the street. She has a small cloth basket with packages in it. I know, from my wandering around, that today’s market day, the day when the farmers come in to sell the few things they can sell that aren’t rationed. I look up and lose count. Michelle stops in front of me.

‘What are you doing William? I see you marching up and down the streets marking things on your papers. You don’t look to me as if you are doing any drawings.’

So, I confess. I’m probably giving away state secrets to an enemy spy who’s been posted in this town for almost twenty years and has a secret radio in her bedroom. I like to meditate on her bedroom.

‘I’m trying to make a map of the town. My officer thinks it would be a good idea, in case any Germans come charging over the hill we’ll all know which way to run.’

She swings her bag around so she’s holding it with two hands in front of her. She looks at me, inquisitively, the same way she did in the shop.

‘Well, William, I’m quite sure there are maps in the council archives. I think they would let you use them for your work, if you asked. In fact, if you want, I’ll ask. My uncle is a council member.’

She smiles and turns away. She’s about five steps back up the hill when Ronald Coleman asserts himself.

‘How can I find out if this would be possible. Where should I go, Michelle?’

‘Come to the shop this afternoon. I will know by then.’

She continues on up the hill. I’m totally confused. I can’t even come within a hundred of how many paces I’d done when we met. I wait until she’s out of sight, then sneak up the hill to the church again. I start pacing anew. At the bottom of the hill (the whole town is on the side of a hill) is a wooden cattle fence with a cattle gate. I go through it and I’m out in open country. Everything is deep green. We have some fair-to-middling green in Pennsylvania, but this green is the kind you expect to find in Ireland.

Taylor’d said I was supposed to give some idea of the surroundings for this town so I go through the gate, turn and march across fields to another rolling hill beside the town, from which I have a great view of the entire area with the church on top of the hill, the line of streets and all the little side streets crossing it and down to the fence. There are sheep in the fields. I figure the fence is to keep the sheep out of town. There are the same kinds of fences at the end of each side street. I spend the afternoon drawing the town, then inking in my drawing. I don’t even go back to the mill for chow. I’ve bought some hard rolls and soft cheese at a shop and nibble on them as I draw. Boy, I’m really into being Ronald Coleman now. I keep repeating that part, ‘if a body kiss a body, need a body cry’.

At about two thirty, I have my drawing done. There are some things I don’t like about it, especially the big brick mill in the middle of the town on the other side of the street. It really stands out like a sore thumb. I probably shouldn’t have put it in. But then that’s what Taylor wants. This will show I’ve been working seriously if he asks to see what I’ve done.

I head back to the stationery store. Michelle is there alone, without the older lady. She smiles when I come in. She holds out a paper with old fashioned writing.

‘Show this to the woman at the desk in the public library. She’ll be expecting you.’

‘Where is the public library? We’ve all been looking for things to read but no one knew of a library.’

‘Do you know where the chemist shop is?’

‘You mean the drugstore.’

‘Yes, that’s right, what you call a drugstore. Well, just before you go into the chemist’s, beside his door is a smaller door. It doesn’t have any sign over it. You go up those stairs and knock on the door at the top. As I said, she’s expecting you. There should be no problem and I think you will find all you want.’

I want to show her the drawing I’ve done in the field but instead buy another pink pearl eraser I don’t need. I do make a lot of mistakes but not enough to wear out an eraser in one afternoon. She smiles her magic smile again.

‘Thank you for everything, Miss Henderson. This could certainly save me much measuring and pacing around town.’

She looks quickly over her shoulder.

‘You may call me Michelle or even Violet whichever you prefer, when we’re alone. Mama is always afraid I’ll become too close with our American friends.’

Another smile. I try a ‘knowing’ Ronald Coleman smile of my own and back out of the store, almost knocking over a whole stand of fountain pens in the window stand by the door.

I find the library just as she said. The lady is waiting for me there. I show her the note from Michelle. She looks at it briefly, smiles, then turns back into the room. The library couldn’t have more than a thousand books plus some periodicals, also what I guess one could call the ‘archives’. It’s to this part she goes, pulls out three cardboard folders and comes back to the small narrow, shelf-like counter separating us. The counter is hinged so one can lift it to go in and out of the ‘library’. She unties the small string on the portfolio wrap around ties, and opens it. I know this is it, all right. I’ve struck gold. Somebody in the past has done beautiful topographical maps of the town and surrounding area. It even has contour lines and is all to scale. I stare appreciatively at the drawing. It is done with more loving care and skill than I could ever manage, but is exactly what I need. I smile up at the librarian.