Shrapnel Read online

  I try to explain what I want. The old lady is confused, but the young one steps forward. She has very dark hair and beautiful violet eyes. She pulls down some dusty boxes and there are crow quill pens, and engineering pens, great for map drawing, but I’d have bought split goose feathers from her. She also has some quality pink pearl erasers. This master spy does make mistakes once in a while.

  She also brings out some rulers, wooden and thick, twelve inch jobs and, miracle of miracles, a transparent T square.

  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.

  ‘Would it be all right with you if I make copies of this? My officer at the mill wants maps of the town for defence purposes.’

  She looks at me and smiles. Then her face purses.

  ‘Yes, but you must not take these maps out of the library. It is not permitted. You would need to work on them here.’

  That’s fine with me. I have no desire to try making adequate copies either in the mill with that bunch of animals or out in the field.

  ‘Would it really be possible, Madame? If so, I’d very much appreciate it.’

  She lifts the hinged counter so I can come through. She clears off a library-type table of some books.

  ‘Would this be a large enough place for you to work?’

  I assure her it’s more than I can possibly expect. She moves the folders onto one corner of the table and I spread my portfolio with my equipment.

  I work the rest of the afternoon without interruption. Virtually no one comes into the library. It might be public but the public doesn’t seem to know about it, use it. In America I’d figure it for a ‘bookie’ joint or a tax dodge of some kind.

  The other maps are just as good as the first. One set shows all the various activities in the different buildings and the dates of construction. The other set shows the name of each person or organisation in every building as well as an indication of the type of surface on each of the roads or paths.

  I decide to combine all three maps into one. With my overlays it’s no big deal at all. With tracing paper, I make my first copy, then use this to make an ink ‘original’. With this kind of work I’ll really have something to show when I finish. I can spread this job out for weeks, that is, if we stay around that long. Maybe I’ll even do such a beautiful set of maps I’ll be assigned out of I&R into S2 proper, or even up to G2. That thought alone is enough to keep me working.

  It’s after five thirty on the big wooden wall clock when the librarian says she must close. She says it in such a way I feel she thinks she’s interfering with the war effort by throwing me out. She hasn’t come near me all day. Maybe she’s afraid she’ll see something secret she shouldn’t see.

  ‘Would it be all right if I left my drawings here in the library?’

  ‘Certainly, do you think they would be quite safe?’

  ‘It would be most convenient for me. Could you tell me what time you will be open tomorrow?’

  She repeats a well-rehearsed, oft given, answer.

  ‘We are open from nine to twelve and two to six every day, except Sunday. On Saturday we stay open all day from nine to six. Sundays we are closed. But, if you prefer, you may come here to work any time you want. I shall give Michelle Henderson the keys and she can let you in.’

  This is getting better than I could have dreamed. Ronald Coleman would be proud of me. I take along some of the tracings I’ve done so I can show them to Taylor if he asks what I’ve been doing. I decide to keep the sketch from outside town for myself.

  So it goes. Every day I go to work on that nice little library table. I really feel out of the army. I’m getting some terrific information and drawings. I couldn’t be more inconspicuous. I don’t think three people in town even know I’m doing any drawings. But Michelle still doesn’t come around. I stop by the store once to buy some India ink but only her mother is there. She’s nice to me, but I figure it’s best not to ask about Michelle. She gives me my ink without checking to see if it’s dry but when I get to the library it’s perfectly okay. I was hoping for an excuse to go back.

  In the mill, everybody’s wondering where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing. They’ve made new mattresses from straw and burlap. Those guys are going stir crazy. There are about ten thousand rumours swirling around about what’s going to happen. There are full days of close order drill, rifle practice and bayonet practice going on in the courtyard. Boy did I luck out.

  Then Sunday comes. But, naturally, the stationery store is closed. I’m just turning around when the window over the store front opens and there’s Michelle leaning over the sill. She holds out the key.

  ‘I’ll be right down. Mama is off to church.’

  She comes down a flight of steps similar to those leading up to the library. She looks even more beautiful, not dressed in the sort of apron she wears in the shop. I try not to stare. She looks away from me, and we start up the street. It’s amazing how quiet a little town in the Midlands can be on Sunday during a war.

  She leads me up the stairs to the library and lets me go in first. I’m afraid for a moment she won’t come in but she does, and locks the door behind her.

  ‘Let me see what you have been doing all this time. Mama says you came to buy more ink when I was not there, so you must be doing something, or else you spilled it.’

  I open and show her my combination maps. They are something of which I’m proud. She leans over them and I come up beside her. She has a smell of strong soap and no perfume. She seems so fragile, so beautiful to me; but then I guess anything female would have seemed so to me right then.

  She must feel me leaning over her because she suddenly straightens up. She looks at me.

  ‘Roger would really appreciate this. He is our school master and was asked to make all these maps two years ago before he went away. He hated making them, insisted he was a literary scholar and not some kind of artist. It is his mother who runs our library you see and these are all his books. It was his idea; he wanted the town and his former students to have access to a library easily, without having to go all the way to Congleton or Hanley. He loved reading and was such a fine person.’

  So I’ve been told where I stand. It’s a challenge even for Ronald Coleman. Nothing like this happened in the movie, but then, before I can move she looks me in the eye. I smile back at her. It’s some kind of mind reading act. She must know I only came over to the store as an excuse to see her. My ‘Ronald Coleman’ act didn’t fool her.

  After about an hour’s work, during which I try to tell her about the drawing I’ve done of the town from up on the hill, she’s ready to leave. As she is about to go she turns back.

  ‘Up there where you made your drawing, there is the best view around, and it is a lovely day, perhaps we could take a little picnic together.’

  I nod, stupidly, very un-Ronald Coleman-like and we smile. She says she’ll pack us a little to eat in a picnic basket and agrees to meet at the sheep gate by eleven o’clock. Her mother will be coming home by twelve thirty.

  Well, I don’t get much work done the rest of that morning. I’m watching the clock on the wall and sometimes it seems to be stuck. But finally, eleven arrives. The minute hands have been jumping in tiny clicks until they are at five minutes to eleven and I’m free. I lock up the library and head toward the sheep gate, trying not to hurry or run. Ronald Coleman would stride down the street very confident in himself. I am not.

  She’s already there. She’s wearing the same clothes as this morning except for a blue green shawl over her shoulders. She smiles when she sees me and looks in all directions.

  ‘I was afraid you would not come. I was so frightened, I almost did not come myself.’

  ‘How could I not come? I watched the clock all morning.’ We’re both somewhat embarrassed. On top of the hill, Violet spreads out a blanket for our table cloth. She makes sa
ndwiches from brown bread and a soft cheese. It’s so great not to be eating GI food.

  I pull out the first drawing I made, and she’s most appreciative, pointing out different houses and saying who lives in them. We’re more or less leaning against each other as we huddle over the drawing. Maybe war is worth it. I’d never have gotten to meet Violet.

  After we’ve eaten and put things back in the basket, Violet looks at me, my heart almost stops. Our eyes can’t escape. She puts out her hand. I cover it with mine. She starts, stops, then starts again. There are tears in her eyes.

  ‘William, there is something I must tell you.’

  She takes a deep breath.

  ‘The man who made those drawings, Roger, is the man I am going to marry. We are not officially engaged because in my mother’s eyes I am too young, but we have promised ourselves to marry when he comes back.’

  She stops, looks down, away from my eyes, then looks up again.

  ‘I am sorry, William. I thought you ought to know. I enjoy your company very much and feel strongly toward you. I will miss you terribly when you are gone, but I do love Roger, you can see from his maps he is such a wonderful person.’

  I’m sure Ronald Coleman would know exactly what to do, but I definitely don’t. I sit there quietly. I can’t look into her eyes or I’ll cry. She reaches into the bottom of her picnic basket and pulls out a small sealed envelope.

  “William, here is the address of a very good girlfriend of mine. She will give me any letters you send. I promise to write back. Is that all right?”

  There’s no way I can say ‘no it isn’t’. I promise. I tell her I’ll write her from wherever I am.

  She stands and I stand with her. We walk back to the sheep gate. We don’t talk. At the gate, we stop and stare for a long moment into each other’s eyes. Each of us is on the edge of tears. I’m embarrassed. What kind of Ronald Coleman am I? I don’t ever remember him crying in any film. She hands me the envelope and runs away up the hill. I stand watching her.