Hemingway's Chair

by Michael Palin

  She smiled and they shook.

  * * *

  That night Ruth stayed up quite late after Martin had gone, writing another letter to her friends in New Jersey.

  Dearly beloved,

  The book goes well and keeps me warm. (Why do I go on like this about the cold? I sound like one of those bleached Florida matrons that come north once a year to grumble about the weather. It’s no worse than New Jersey. It just feels so fucking cold.) Anyway it’s late and my Hemingway partner has just cycled off in a blaze of grappa after a kind of revealing evening. No, nothing romantic. If you saw him you’d know why, but he is interesting and a little strange. I told you that he’s mad about Hemingway – has pics of him all around his room etc., all pretty much standard retarded-development high school fan stuff – except that he does know one hell of a lot about the man, has an authentic bar with all Hemingway’s specialities disguised inside a medical supply cabinet from the Ospedale Croce Rossa in Milan (Farewell to Arms) and has this day given me ONE THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS in sterling to purchase on his behalf a chair (see Christmas letter) which the illustrious MCP personally sat upon while, mercifully unsuccessfully, trying to pluck innocent marlin from the Pacific Ocean. And this from a post office clerk’s wage.

  What is kind of fascinating, frightening and a little astral are the things he does and says and the way he behaves which are uncannily like what I imagine E H to have been like. He does this by a sort of referred experience. He hasn’t been anywhere or done anything but like one of those Indian holy men who concentrate their life on the Buddha’s toenail he has projected himself into Hemingway to the extent that at moments, it truly seems as if he has the potential to become him, or at least the essence of him. I know this will sound crazy but if I write it all down you can at least see that I’ve thought about it. I can assure you I’m not hysterical and only a little drunk, but it is weird. How can a nice, shy, screwed-up, small-town postal clerk who lives with his mother and cycles to work tell me more about the essence of Ernest Hemingway than all the reading I’ve done in six months?

  Whatever the answer I’m going to try and push this on a little further. No, don’t worry, nothing kinky. I’ve prepared some questions I’d like to have asked E H if he had not blown his brains out in ‘61. We’ll see. But it is exciting and is making me think that perhaps Admiring Ernest could be a bit of a ground-breaker. On the other hand it may all be the onset of premature senility.

  Your loving exile,

  Ruthie.

  Twenty-two

  Theston was coming out of a dour flat winter and into brisk and businesslike March winds. Winds of change, thought Martin unhappily as he parked his bicycle against the railings beside the church and walked through to the High Street. His heart was heavy. This particular morning was not one he had been looking forward to. It was the first working Monday for sixteen and a half years that he had not cycled into North Square, turned down Echo Passage and come to rest, balletically, at the foot of the steps in Phipps’ Yard. He couldn’t. Over the weekend Phipps’ Yard had been boarded up.

  * * *

  Above the doorway of Randall’s, High Class Confectioner and Newsagent, a man on a ladder was fixing the red and gold lozenge-shaped sign of the Post Office. The same sign that could be seen above Wilkinson’s sports goods shop in Atcham, the Koppi-Rite stationery centre in Alford and jostling for space with cigarette and soft-drinks displays outside shops all across the country. It was a vision of the beginning of the end of something, Martin was sure of that.

  He felt uncomfortably self-conscious as he entered Randall’s. Under his anorak he wore his old brown check shirt, green corduroy jacket and not quite matching trousers and his oldest pair of sandals, which he’d put on at the last minute, as a silent protest. He ran the gauntlet of curious shop assistants. He knew most of them, for this was where he bought Christmas, Easter and birthday presents and occasional treats for himself. He had always felt effortlessly superior in Randall’s. He was Number Two man from the post office in North Square. A man of some influence. No mere shop assistant he. But that was yesterday. Now he was nearly one of them.

  Joyce, a thin, garrulous woman whose husband looked after the golf course, examined him carefully from behind the newspaper counter which occupied one side of the front of the shop. Rita, a single parent of Czech extraction, stood opposite, in front of shelves of boiled sweets and mint chews and humbugs. She had only just arrived and was still buttoning up the front of her pink nylon sales coat.

  ‘Morning, Martin,’ she said as he passed, followed by a suppressed giggle, as if the whole thing were a great new game.

  Amanda, a small, defiant girl, fresh out of university with a good degree in Social Studies, was wiping the outside of a long perspex screen which curved up along the length of the confectionery counter and behind which was displayed Randall’s famous selection of hand-made chocolates and toffees. The centre of the shop widened out into an area dotted with free-standing displays. Mills and Boon stories on a rack, cheap plastic toys, books about the Royal Family. Here it was that Alan Randall, the manager and grandson of the man who had founded the shop, was fussing about, attending to the construction of an Easter egg mountain. Alan Randall was dapper, artificially tanned and lived alone. He greeted Martin, who did not like him, with a professional smile.

  ‘They’re all at the back,’ he said, stretching out his arm like a butler at a dinner table. ‘Mind the step.’

  Martin chose instead to descend the six or seven inches by means of a newly-erected wheelchair ramp. The back of the shop smelt of wet plaster and newly-laid carpet. Halogen lamplight reflected off a line of free-standing chrome posts set across the carpet. Through them ran a thick-coiled rope which led from a sign reading ‘Queue Here’ to a sort of no-man’s-land some few feet back from the counters.

  The positions lay behind shaded glass, which rose from an expanse of grey panelling. At each one was a powder-grey computer terminal. From the side walls video monitors jutted out on stubby grey arms.

  The overall effect was discreet, anonymous, characterless. He could as easily have been in a building society, an airline office or a funeral parlour. What caused his heart to sink further was that it looked anything but temporary.

  ‘Is Marshall in yet?’ he asked Mary Perrick, who was clutching a thick knitted cardigan to her and looking around in awe.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ she said.

  ‘Is Mr Marshall in?’ Martin repeated more sharply.

  As he heard his name Nick Marshall advanced from a corner of the room, arm outstretched. His eyes shone and his freshly washed hair glowed as it had the day Martin first met him. He had with him a short, heavy, efficient-looking woman who wore a grey suit that matched the carpet and was carrying a clipboard on which she was checking certain items. She had close-cut, tinted, blue-grey hair and a pair of half-moon glasses which she removed as Marshall introduced her.

  ‘Martin, meet the woman responsible for this amazing transformation – Stella Holt of Elldor – the shopfitting division of Post Shops Limited. Stella, this is my trusty right-hand man, Martin Sproale. He’s worked at Theston post office man and boy for fourteen years.’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  Stella Holt shook Martin’s hand. She had a cool, firm grip which she withdrew quite sharply, making him aware that he had cycled to work and was still very warm. Her voice was efficient, expressionless. ‘You’ll know that barn in North Square pretty well,’ she said to him.

  ‘Yes, I can’t wait to get back there,’ said Martin. Nick, who had just noticed his sandals, looked sternly at him. Stella Holt moved on busily and Martin followed her to where the rest of the staff stood around. Elaine avoided his eye. Shirley Barker looked faintly disapproving, Geraldine faintly amused.

  Marshall cleared his throat, rubbed his hands and addressed them. ‘Stella and the team have done a beautiful job in an incredibly short time, and now it’s up to us to make the best of it. We open at eleven
, so you’ll have a couple of hours together. Stella, over to you.’

  Stella looked down her glasses at them. Her dead eyes were magnified as she smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Marshall, and let me say how pleased I am that thanks to your efforts Theston has had the chance to benefit from the most exciting and up-to-date developments in counter technology.’

  Marshall inclined his head graciously. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Stella,’ he said and loped gracefully away, much to Martin’s irritation.

  Stella turned her cold, grey professional eye upon the assembled staff. She smiled again, a rhetorical smile. Not one to be returned.

  ‘This is the Standard Pattern Local Enterprise Office,’ she began, ‘and we have many hundreds operating successfully up and down the country to meet the needs of the modern consumer. Before we go on to practical matters like uniform and counter discipline, I want to start by giving you the philosophical overview of the LEO policy.’

  Martin felt himself slowly suffocating, and there was no escape. He could hardly bear to think of it. Even as he stood here North Square was being vandalised by Crispin’s men. In the name of what? He felt foolish and inadequate and helpless. He swallowed hard and looked up. Stella Holt was watching him, using eye contact mercilessly. He felt like a butterfly in a display case, pinned through the heart.

  ‘We at Elldor have worked on post office conversions for the last three and a half years and during that time we have evolved, in consultation with Post Office Counter Services Limited and the Government’s Customer Charter, the concept of MEC – Maximised Efficiency Control.’ She held out two chubby hands, forefingers pointing upwards, like an air hostess in a safety demonstration. ‘If you would care to look now at the monitors above your head.’

  The monitors flickered into life, synchronised celestial music sounded from them and the initials ‘MEC’ appeared on the screens. Then the initials faded and merged into the likeness of Stella Holt, who now appeared in prerecorded video on screen as well as in real life. At the same time there was a cry of alarm from the front of the shop. A small child seemed hellbent on selecting his Easter egg from the very bottom of Mr Randall’s mountain.

  ‘The three elements of Maximised Efficiency Control are Identity, Immediacy and Impetus.’

  At that point the north face of the Easter egg mountain tilted, defied gravity for a split second and then slowly toppled to the ground.

  ‘Identity means enabling the customer to identify staff and facilities quickly and clearly, and to this end we have developed an in-house style with themed garments and fittings.’

  Eggs, bunny motifs and the chocolate likenesses of chirpy chickens lay scattered across the shop.

  ‘Staff are encouraged to wear name badges.’

  Two smiling models appeared on the screen. They attached their lapel badges. The man smilingly became ‘Steve’ and the woman smilingly became ‘Janet’. Their smiles contrasted strongly with the contorted features of Alan as he surveyed the collapse of his mountain.

  ‘Customers will be brought forward from a single queue by the operation of a flashing number light, indicating the position available and accompanied, for the visually impaired, by a sound identification.’

  They watched a light flash and a metallic voice announce, ‘Position Number Three.’

  ‘The full greeting, as laid down in the Customer Charter, is “Good Morning”, before twelve, and “Good Afternoon”, after twelve, followed by personal identification and the Assistance Information Request.’

  Obligingly Steve said, ‘Good Morning, my name is Steve. How may I help you?’ and a moment later Janet said, ‘Good Afternoon, my name is Janet. How may I help you?’

  Confused sounds of accusation and counter-accusation rose from the fallen egg display. Stella glared and turned up the volume on the monitor.

  ‘Immediacy involves a clear, accurate evaluation and fulfilment of customer requirement in the minimum possible time.’

  To illustrate this point Janet was joined by an elderly man, whose eyes shone with health and decency. He asked for a postal order and three stamps. Janet asked him what value of stamps he required. ‘Three first class,’ he replied. ‘Wouldn’t you rather have a book of ten?’ asked Janet. The old man might have been offered a round the world cruise, so pathetically grateful was his response. Stella Holt reappeared on screen.

  ‘You will note there Janet’s use of the Proactive Selling Technique to maximise customer potential. And not just with stamps. A twenty-pound phonecard will often fit the bill much better than a ten-pound phonecard. Remember that your customers, whilst in a queue situation, will have been able to watch a video display of all the Post Office products and it is well worth reminding them of selected benefits.’

  At this point the real Stella Holt strode across to the front of the shop to add her contribution to the egg mountain incident. Mr Randall had inadvertently trodden on one of the exhibits and the offending child, who can only have been three or four, had compounded his already incandescent rage by laughing.

  ‘If your business also comprises a Post Office Gift Shop –’ the video went on.

  ‘Which this one doesn’t,’ muttered the returning Stella and switched herself off. ‘Now, any questions?’

  * * *

  Stella Holt had assured them that it was part of her job to stay for the first few hours of opening time to see if there were any teething troubles. This meant there was no question of Martin not wearing his grey and yellow spotted sweater and identification. Unfortunately Stella had brought the wrong lapel badge and she asked if Martin wouldn’t mind being called Derek until Tuesday.

  His first customer was a stranger, which was an enormous relief. He was a big, thick-set young man, with an earring and short-cropped hair. He looked around suspiciously, with a wary loose-limbed aggression, as if he feared some sort of trap.

  ‘Am I on television?’ he asked Stella Holt.

  She shook her head dismissively. ‘This is a post office,’ she said.

  The man didn’t seem convinced and narrowed his eyes as he approached Martin’s position.

  ‘Good morning, my name is Martin,’ Martin muttered quickly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It says you’re Derek,’ the customer pointed out.

  Stella Holt moved swiftly in. ‘Don’t worry, it’s his first day.’

  The second customer to arrive was Harold Meredith. He entered with a cry of ‘There you are!’ and, as was his habit, made a beeline for Martin’s position. Stella Holt rushed up and intercepted him.

  He looked alarmed. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he said indignantly.

  ‘There is a new single queuing system in operation from today, sir. Could I ask you to step back to the end of the rope, please?’

  ‘Take your hands off me. I want to see Martin.’

  A disembodied voice rang out. ‘Position Number Two,’ it said, with an odd, squeaky inflexion. It sounded like a Swedish castrato speaking unnaturally good English.

  ‘Who said that?’ asked Mr Meredith, fearfully.

  ‘There you are, sir, Position Number Two is available.’

  ‘I want to see Martin.’

  ‘He’s operational,’ she said, quite sharply.

  ‘Position Number Two,’ trilled the Swedish eunuch.

  Harold Meredith thumped his walking stick down on the floor.

  ‘Listen madam, I don’t know who you are, or where you’ve come from, but this is my post office and I shall choose to see who I want.’

  Stella Holt’s tone hardened. ‘If you go to Position Number Two you will be dealt with and out of here much more quickly.’

  ‘What makes you think I want to get out of here quickly?’ Mr Meredith protested. ‘I’m not in a hurry. I like being here.’

  Stella Holt had made dealing with Mr Meredith something of a personal crusade and she wasn’t going to give up easily. ‘Have you seen our video?’ she asked him. She pointed out one of the video screens which was gently burbling on about
licence renewals and commemorative issues. Harold Meredith peered up at it.

  ‘I don’t come to the post office to watch television, thank you,’ he said. ‘I come to the post office to get away from television.’

  ‘It gives you suggestions for what you might want.’

  ‘Oh, I know what I want,’ said Mr Meredith. ‘I want to ask whether or not I need to fill in the tax district number in my application form for transfer of my war disability pension to my brother-in-law’s building society account.’ Stella Holt gave up. Quite soon after that, gathering together her armoury of clipboards, calculators, compact cameras and portable telephones she left, with encouraging words and a fast-fading smile. She missed Mrs Harvey-Wardrell by a whisker. Which was probably just as well.

  ‘That is quite ghastly!’ boomed Mrs Harvey-Wardrell from as far back as the remains of the Easter egg mountain.

  What Mrs Harvey-Wardrell saw before her was not a post office as she and generations of Harvey-Wardrells had come to know it. It was more like a freshly landed spacecraft. A stopgap environment on the road to automation and eventually the final eradication of the human element from the whole process. She said as much to her small pale companion, a lady called Lettice Brockwell, who had a ginger moustache and one leg slightly shorter than the other.

  Mrs Harvey-Wardrell, sporting a Barbour, deer-stalker and long green wellingtons, strode across the strip of grey carpet which was studded with the Post Office Counter Service logo, as if it had been walked on by someone with it stuck on their foot.

  ‘Position Number Two,’ squeaked the voice. Owing to some electrical fault the Swedish choirboy had moved up from alto to soprano.

  ‘Whatever’s that, Lettice?’

  ‘It said “Position Number Two”, Pamela.’

  She spied Martin, who was desperately trying to look unconcerned, at Position Number One. ‘What’s all this Position Number Two business, Martin? This is a post office, not the Kama Sutra.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a standard feature now, Mrs Harvey-Wardrell,’ said Martin lamely.