Hemingway's Chair

by Michael Palin

  Frank elbowed his way through the crowd to the door of the Codrington Arms. Here his way was barred by Gordon Parrish, a long- serving waiter at the Market Hotel. He was dressed in a long white satin dress, gold sling-backs, false nose and a shoulder- length wig of sleek black hair.

  ‘My God, who have we here?’ asked Frank as he pushed by.

  ‘Barbara Streisand,’ Gordon said icily. ‘The diva.’ He produced a collecting tin.

  ‘Not the word I’d have used,’ muttered Frank, but he searched in his pocket and dropped a pound piece into Gordon’s tin.

  ‘It’s for the sailors,’ said Gordon with a fluttering of eyelashes.

  ‘He used to be a merchant seaman,’ Frank called to Ruth as they passed on in.

  The main saloon bar was packed. There were men dressed as carrots and policewomen in miniskirts and Father Neptune and his six watery cohorts, downing final pints before climbing aboard the P & O Ferries display.

  ‘The English pub is one of the glories of this country,’ Frank Rudge intoned as a body slumped to Ruth’s feet at the end of the bar, but no one could hear him anyway and he moved them through the crowd into a back bar which was quieter.

  The first person they saw there was John Parr. He seemed to be the only person in Theston who was drinking alone. On seeing them he nodded quickly and drained his glass.

  ‘Well, well, half the bloody post office is in here,’ Frank observed, adding mischievously, ‘I haven’t seen Mr Marshall, but I think he prefers the wine bar. You seen your pal today, Martin?’

  Martin spread his arms. ‘New boss,’ he explained to Ruth. ‘Doesn’t drink beer.’

  Frank Rudge turned to her. ‘Should have heard the fuss when he was appointed.’ He winked at Martin. ‘Now they’re bosom pals.’

  ‘He could have been worse.’ Martin turned to John Parr. ‘Isn’t that true, John?’

  Parr stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’m off,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Oh come on, John!’ Martin took him firmly by the arm and led him back to the bar. ‘Day off tomorrow.’

  John Parr shook his arm free. He blinked fiercely and rapidly. ‘I’m not going to be short of days off, thanks, Martin.’

  There was venom in the delivery and Frank and Ruth both turned.

  Martin looked hurt, but mainly mystified. ‘What’s the matter, John?’

  John Parr snorted derisively. ‘You trying to pretend you don’t know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  John Parr looked at Martin, narrowing his eyes then laughing grimly. He headed for the door.

  ‘The Boy Wonder thinks we’re overstaffed.’ John Parr pulled the door open. The sound of loud cheers and raucous laughter swept in from the saloon. He reached into his jacket and produced a letter which bore a familiar heading. He waved it at Martin.

  ‘At least they used the Royal Mail to tell me.’

  Ten

  The streets of Theston were swept clean. The carnival floats stood in car parks and back yards waiting to be dismantled. Only the strands of coloured lights in North Square remained to be taken down. The town was weary and mostly still asleep. There were scattered signs of life, early-morning dog walkers, sea-anglers packing up after the night’s vigil, a visitor or two collecting the Sunday papers. They were rewarded with an unusually appealing early winter’s morning. The sun shone low through a veil of high cloud, mist drifted off the marsh and the air was still and cool.

  Martin Sproale had also risen early. He had business to do in Theston and despite it being a Sunday he had set off from Marsh Cottage not much later than on a normal working day. He was standing now in Jubilee Park, watching a tennis match.

  Only two of the half-dozen courts were occupied. On one of them a young couple warmed up with desultory shots and frequent apologies, but at another a full-blooded battle was nearing its conclusion. Nick Marshall was serving to a young woman wearing a light grey tracksuit. Despite being considerably smaller than him, five foot two or three, she could have been mistaken for a sister. Her face was a little plumper and her nose short and tilted slightly upwards. But she had the same fair hair, cut short and dampened now with sweat. She was playing with quiet, watchful energy. Marshall, all in white save for a blue and yellow shoulder flash on his tennis shirt, served, making himself grunt with the effort. The first serve was low and deep and the ball kicked and spun away, unreturned.

  ‘Fifteen love,’ he called. The next serve his opponent returned well. Her shot skimmed the net but Marshall was up there and waiting and he volleyed it away to the far side of the court.

  ‘Thirty love!’ called Marshall, with the increasing relish of one who liked to hear the score, especially at times like this.

  On the third point he served into the net, bitterly reproached himself and delivered a second serve that was hard down the centre line.

  ‘Forty love! Match point…’

  His opponent settled herself on the line, then crouched forward and waited with admirable patience as Marshall bent low, leg outstretched like a ballet dancer. He paused interminably then slowly uncoiled himself, tossed up the ball, twisted with whippet-like grace and struck a third and final ace.

  He clenched his fist, punched the air and made for the door of the court, bobbing up the two remaining balls with his racquet as he went.

  Martin watched all this from the shelter which people used as a makeshift changing room. As Marshall came off the court, Martin took a deep breath, removed his bobble hat and stepped forward.

  ‘Nick?’

  Marshall turned, looking surprised. ‘Martin. Are you a tennis player?’

  ‘No, I’m not. But I know you play on Sundays.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And I er…’

  Marshall must have noticed him looking uncertainly at his partner.

  ‘This is Geraldine. Geraldine Cotton, Martin Sproale. He works with me at the post office.’

  Geraldine mussed up her hair and smiled, screwing up her face against the low sunshine.

  ‘How d’you do,’ she said, in a neutral accent, with possibly a hint of Home Counties cockney. Martin shook her hand. It felt remarkably cool considering what she’d been through.

  ‘Could I … could I talk to you a moment, Nick?’ asked Martin.

  Marshall rubbed an arm across his brow and grinned at his partner. ‘You see, I told you my staff were keen.’ He peeled a sweat-band from his head and looked across to Martin. ‘Sure. See you later, Gerry.’

  Geraldine seemed unconcerned and with a wave at the two of them, walked towards one of three cars already parked beneath the last few faded yellow leaves of a chestnut tree. Martin followed Nick towards his Toyota. He cleared his throat again.

  ‘Didn’t see you at the fair yesterday, Nick.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t make it. Had to be in London. Relations, you know. Besides, I don’t like crowds.’ He pursed his lips quickly.

  ‘It’s one of the big days in Theston’s year. A lot of customers there,’ said Martin.

  Marshall’s eyes flicked on to him.

  ‘Well, it’s just as well you were there, Mart. My man on the spot.’ He unlocked the back door of his car and reached inside for a black and silver tracksuit. Martin took the bull by the horns.

  ‘I certainly was on the spot, Nick, when I met John Parr.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He was looking very sorry for himself.’

  ‘Well, that’s a change.’

  Marshall began to ease on his tracksuit top.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Martin asked him.

  The right-hand side of Marshall’s mouth began to tremble ever so slightly. He stretched his cheek muscles to cope with it, but when he spoke it still wasn’t entirely under control.

  ‘Look, if you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about, it’s true that I told Devereux that in my opinion there were economies to be made. The next move was up to him, Martin. I make recommendations, but I don’t have the authority to fire people, you know that.’
/>   ‘Well, whoever did it, John Parr’s been told he’s out of a job.’

  ‘He can always go somewhere else.’

  ‘He’s born and bred here. His family are here.’

  ‘So? I was born and bred in Bristol.’ Marshall slipped the tracksuit top down over his broad shoulders and adjusted it carefully. ‘I worked in London, I worked in Luton and now I’m here.’

  Martin felt a sudden chill breeze. It reminded him that in his rush to cycle over to the courts he’d forgotten his gloves. Marshall put his hands against the car, extended his arms, and stretched out his right leg until the veins stood out on his temple. He relaxed and took a deep breath before changing to the other leg.

  ‘Look Mart, I’m sorry if that’s the way they’ve chosen to go with Parr, but I never said we could pull this off without a few … ugh!… sacrifices. I ask them for investment, I try to squeeze my case to the top of the list. I have to … ugh!… give something in return. I have to impress them that we are doing things right here.’

  He changed feet again, once more holding his position until it was obviously uncomfortable.

  ‘That security screen is an … ugh!… expensive item. The waiting list for the digital scales is months long. We got them in three weeks because they have … ugh!… confidence in my plan for Theston. A plan which I need you and … ugh!… everyone else to help me with.’

  ‘But not John Parr.’

  Another car was approaching up the long driveway. Both of them turned to look at it. Marshall reached into the back of his car and fetched out a small red towel. He dabbed at his brow as he talked.

  ‘Martin, I’ve been watching the way you all work. To be honest, you, me and Elaine could run that place between us.’

  He raised his hand as Martin made to protest.

  ‘I’m not saying we should, but we could, with two or three others on part-time contracts. That would mean big savings, which everybody wants, no matter who’s behind the counter.’

  Martin tightened his grip on his bobble hat. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Nick,’ he protested. ‘People here like to see the regular faces, they like to see local people. They might not want to take a holiday with John Parr, but he is one of them and they like him being there. You lose that goodwill and we’re done for.’

  Marshall blew out his lips, and rubbed his hair with the towel.

  ‘Martin, nothing is ever gained by standing still. We’re talking about a very special post office, in a very special town. Eight thousand people, on the coast, less than a hundred miles from the busiest ports in Europe. That’s quite a potential. Unrealised at present, because people are frightened, that’s all. They need some leadership, Mart, someone to say, “Look, don’t worry, it’s not all over, it’s just beginning”.’

  He jabbed an arm out towards the unexceptional sprawl of red brick and brown roofs which lay below them to the east.

  ‘I want to do things here that make outsiders take notice of the place. I want people to say, “Hey, Theston did it, why can’t we?” There are a very few people here who can rise to that sort of challenge, Mart. You’re one of them. John Parr isn’t.’

  Martin made to reply but Marshall went on. ‘You have the potential. You can make things happen. And I think you should start to behave as if you believe that the way I do.’

  Martin shifted out of the way as a car approached. He was confused. He had set out that morning to tackle Nick Marshall over a perfectly simple matter. Now Nick Marshall had changed the agenda and Martin had quite lost track of his original purpose.

  An ancient Volvo drew up beside them. Inside was a heavily built man in early middle-age with a worried frown, curly dark hair, one or two chins and, low and long on his upper lip, a George Orwell moustache. It was Quentin Rawlings. After leaving Reuter’s Rawlings had moved himself and his family from London to Theston. Since then he had devoted himself almost exclusively to the completion of his autobiography Someone Answer That. This had not sold at all well. Besides local journalism, he sent occasional environmental pieces to the Independent, who invariably sent them back. His wife, Maureen, who under the nom de plume Beverley Bull, wrote highly lucrative bodice rippers for the Middle Eastern market, lingered in the car a moment, transfixed by a last tantalising glimpse of Nick Marshall’s thighs as he slid the tracksuit leggings up across his slender buttocks and tightened them around his waist.

  Quentin Rawlings caught Martin’s eye and shouted across. ‘Are you a tennis player, Martin?’

  Martin shook his head brusquely. It was bad enough trying to hang on to Marshall’s drift without having to answer footling questions about tennis. All right. He couldn’t play tennis. It wasn’t an international crime for God’s sake.

  ‘One day perhaps,’ he shouted.

  ‘Bloody marvellous game!’ Rawlings called back, before turning, reluctantly, to his two teenage sons who climbed sulkily out of the Volvo. ‘Come on!’

  There was much slamming of car doors, and Martin watched them walk towards the court.

  ‘I feel really ill, Dad,’ said one of his sons.

  ‘You’re pathetic,’ said the other.

  The voices trailed away. Marshall, fully suited now, towelled his face vigorously and finally pushed his car door shut.

  ‘Martin, I’m sorry about Parr. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen like that again. I promise.’

  He got into his car and had it going pretty quickly. He raised a hand, but it was against the sun and Martin couldn’t tell if he was waving farewell or adjusting the mirror. Marshall turned the car briskly and scrunched down the gravel drive, heaving his seat-belt on as he went. Martin’s eyes followed him down to the gate, where he turned left and headed away from the town.

  * * *

  As it happened life was only lightly disrupted at the post office. Nick Marshall put in longer hours at the counter and was concerned to keep the staff happy. A new part-timer called Mary Perrick was recruited to help in the run-up to Christmas. She was in her late fifties, a large, maternal ex-teacher. It was the busiest time of year and no one had much time for regrets except on green giro day when John Parr came in to collect his dole money.

  But something had changed. The lazy coffee breaks and gossipy lunch hours of Padge’s day were replaced by a more formal and businesslike routine. Marshall could barely conceal his impatience for what he called ‘non-productive’ time. He made it clear that a ten-minute break was a ten-minute break and a rota had been posted on the staff-room wall with twenty-four-hour timings attached. But without John Parr there was no one prepared to laugh at the absurdity of the Individualised Leisure Rota with its terse, inhospitable injunction: ‘M. Sproale. Afternoon Period November 9th–17th. Break commencement: 15.20 hours, conclusion: 15.30 hours.’

  Then, one morning in early December, before the office opened, Marshall called them all together. He was wearing a sweater in preference to his usual suit. His hair was freshly cut and he looked like a schoolboy. He stretched his hands tightly together. ‘Good news,’ he began. ‘I’ve had a promise from HQ that the P50 Advance system will be installed first thing after Christmas.’ He smiled and looked around him expectantly.

  ‘What does that mean to a simpleton like me?’ asked Arthur Gillis.

  ‘It means that as from 27th December all Theston cashiers will have their own on-counter computer terminal.’

  Arthur Gillis glanced at Martin and raised his eyes heavenwards.

  ‘All computerised transactions are connected to a modem – you get the information faster, the customer spends half as much time hanging around, and balancing up takes ten minutes instead of two hours. It’s standard issue in Crown offices now.’

  ‘Are these things easy to work?’

  ‘Well, I’m not expecting you to learn it between eight thirty and nine, Arthur.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘They’re delivering a couple of them at the end of the week and I’m proposing that we have a session together after closing
time on Saturday to iron out any problems.’ He caught Arthur Gillis’s eye. ‘Don’t look like that, Arthur. They’re not monsters.’

  ‘No, but my wife is and there’ll be hell to pay when I tell her I’m working Saturday afternoon. It’s only two weeks till Christmas.’

  A curious expression appeared on Marshall’s face, a quick puckering of the corners of the mouth as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant. ‘I’ll tell you what, Arthur, why don’t I bring someone in on Saturday to cover for you, and you can have all the morning for your shopping?’

  Gillis looked unexpectedly grateful. ‘Well … Well, if you could do that, Nick. I’d very much appreciate it.’

  Elaine raised a hand. ‘Excuse me, Nick, but who comes in instead?’

  Marshall looked up at the rota on the wall. ‘Well, let me see now.’

  He nodded thoughtfully before turning to her. ‘Have you done your Christmas shopping?’

  Elaine shook her head emphatically. ‘I’m not coming in. It’s my first Saturday off in a month. You must be joking.’

  Arthur Gillis intervened. ‘Look, forget it. I’ll ask Pat to do the shopping.’ He tried to make the best of it. ‘She doesn’t mind so long as I give her the money!’

  But Elaine was indignant now, and wasn’t going to let the matter drop. ‘All we need to do is to have the training session another time,’ she said. ‘I mean why not Monday?’

  Marshall held up his hand and looked from Elaine to Arthur. The side of his mouth had gone into mild spasm.

  ‘There’s no need to worry. You both need your Saturday. I’ll get a part-timer in. Okay?’

  ‘Another one?’ asked Elaine suspiciously. ‘Where from?’

  He tensed his jaw and flicked quickly at his hair. ‘Leave it to me.’

  * * *

  Later that day, Martin and Elaine were alone together in the small, cluttered sitting room of the Rudge’s two-storey terrace house. It was one of a modest, attractive row of Victorian fisherman’s cottages set in a cul-de-sac between the sea front and the main street, close by the handsome fourteenth-century church. Frank and Joan Rudge were both out, Frank at an extraordinary session of the Town Council and Joan over at Marsh Cottage collecting some chair-covers from Kathleen Sproale.