Can I borrow your pencil?

Published on June 29th, 2009

I am sketching at a nearby church late on Sunday morning (see image), and experience an interesting encounter. Some of the dialogue here may be paraphrased but I assure you not exaggerated.

I stand at one side of the gated entrance – the most interesting composition in that particular light – and peek up from my sketch pad at the church-goers passing before me in their cars after morning service. Some smile, others stare in bemusement (probably at my hat).

I sketch, car and foot traffic continues.

A family laden with flowers hunts out a gravestone, then huddles in clear grief at the sight of it. Within a few moments the initial reaction fades and they are snapping digital pictures of the large, white cross and themselves beside it as if it were the latest exciting addition to the Blackpool beach front.

Another car pulls up, parking just outside the gate. I see from the corner of my eye two figures peering in to the church grounds, then disappear behind the hedge heading for the entrance proper. Moments later they return, a cloud of expensive perfume leading the way. I sense they are heading straight for me.

“Can we borrow your pencil, we need to make a note of a number.” She asks with a tone that recommends I not refuse, and sporting an accent that suggests she can amply afford her cloud of perfume while still only purchasing it at the duty free en route to the twice annual vacation in Monaco.

Not one to be as rude as the person making such a request, I agree. Who knows, they may like the drawing and want to buy it: keep the punters happy (for now).

The husband appears. Marks & Spencer striped shirt and slacks. Interesting: not quite the available funds for a tailored shirt on a Sunday, so the Monaco trips are likely just to maintain the impression of wealth. He hands her a till receipt, the only piece of paper he can find, apparently.

“What’s the number?” She asks, poised to write while searching for something to rest on as she has only now realised I have given her a sturdy, metal mechanical pencil. The husband has forgotten the number, and heads off to find it again. She’s not entirely happy at the delay.

“Look at the state of this place. Isn’t it terrible that they don’t keep everything tidy.” (It was clearly no question.)

Me, having lost my only pencil, cannot simply continue to draw in an attempt to ignore the clearly irate woman. I look at the graveyard with its wispy long grass and wildflowers. In the morning sun it looks quite stunning. “I see a lot of graveyards like this.” I reply, being as non-committal to an opinion as possible.

“It’s disgusting. My mother’s buried over there,” she points to the rear of the church, “but with it looking like this I don’t think I want to go to see her grave. We have paid for a plot around the back there but I don’t think I want to be here now. We’ve come from a long way. My mother was married here, I was christened here. We telephoned to complain about the grounds before, they told us it was all to do with the butterflies. It’s in a terrible state. It used to be a lovely little church, quite unusual. Butterflies. They say they let the flowers grow for the butterflies. I think they just can’t be bothered.”

I am feeling the cloud of perfume, which has gratefully dissipated (not quite as expensive a product as it first appeared, perhaps), replaced with a cloud of agitated, middle-aged woman. My immediate reaction is to make it quite clear I am nothing to do with this church, just in case I become the target for a continued string of anger release. I should also note that I have not had the pencil returned to me as she clutches it still waiting the husband’s return from the telephone number quest.

She continues: “You are sketching [no shit, Sherlock] What will you do with that?”

“This is just a study for a larger, more finished piece.” I am tempted to say: Are you interested in a drawing of the church? I can make the grass look whatever height you prefer? But something warns me that even if I do manage a sale, she is never going to be satisfied and, frankly, at this point, the interruption to my concentration is threatening a sudden infliction of tourettes.

The husband returns, with the number. She makes a note of it on the receipt and finally returns the pencil (no thank you).

It is now his turn to rant: “We rung them up about this last time. They just don’t want to know.”

“We’re going to call them up again and complain.” She interjects. Why does she not simply pop into the church right then and speak to real people face-to-face? I wonder. “Thank you for the pencil.” OK, that’s a minor point in their favour at least. They turn and head back towards their car.

Just one pace, and the husband swings around to me once more, leaning in so as to stress whatever he is about to say, “They probably don’t have enough money. But they have plenty for the immigrants. Good day to you!” He barks then whirls to evade any response and marches to his car in the sure knowledge he has made his point and triumphed with the final word in an argument that that did not really exist outside his own head.

Tags: attitude, butterflies, church, people, rude, sketching
Posted in Art & Illustration | 6 Comments »