Hemingway's Chair

by Michael Palin

  The incident had given her an appetite for parental disapproval. This sustained her through her teens at a mixed boarding school (her choice) where she developed a passion for rugby football, and afterwards through a diploma course in engineering at a little-known Scottish polytechnic. From twenty-one onwards she had had relationships with one or two boys, and several girls. She had been at various times an actress, an acupuncturist and a television aerial installation engineer. She was clever, well-qualified and resourceful, but she was still not sensible.

  Her job with Shelflife Ltd had come along at the right time. She had just turned twenty-five. She had made a promising start in fringe theatre in London. But after a longish run as a rape victim, work had dried up and three months later she had answered the advertisement which led her to John Devereux and Shelflife. The prospect of a year by the seaside as a PA with a new telecommunications company sounded intriguing, appealing and not entirely probable. The sort of challenge she liked.

  However, the activities of Shelflife were not quite what she had expected. In fact, they were becoming murkier by the minute. They had purchased the old post office for a knockdown price and sold it on to the Nordkom consortium, of which they were a part, also at a knock-down price, but not quite as knock-down as the price they’d paid for it. The Mayor of the town had been offered preferential building contracts in return for preferential treatment of Shelflife’s submissions to the council. Following revelations at one particularly unpleasant dinner at Marshall’s flat, Councillor Rudge, the awkward, independent Chairman of the Planning Committee had been blackmailed into silence. The support of local bigwigs like Peregrine Harvey-Wardrell had been bought with attractive share option ‘sweeteners’.

  The pattern of deceit was becoming remarkably predictable and the one thing that depressed Geraldine was predictability. This was the only reason she could think of for not banishing Martin Sproale’s rambling, incoherent behaviour from her mind. That and the fact that he had clearly ceased to be a sensible person.

  * * *

  A week after Martin’s spectacular visit to the post office, Nordkom IV came once again to Theston harbour bearing its cargo of executives and multi-media experts from Holland. Once the boat was moored up, Devereux and Marshall and assorted advisers joined them and meetings were held throughout the day in the master stateroom. In the evenings when the executives and crew had gone ashore to sample the local beer or the clubs of Norwich and Ipswich, Geraldine would be required to come on board with the cleaners and bring food supplies for the next day.

  One evening, after the cleaners had finished, she was left alone on the yacht. It was a warm summer evening in mid-May and the sun lingered until well after eight o’clock. Geraldine climbed the half-dozen steps that led up to the flybridge. A set of immaculate, barely used striped canvas chairs had been laid out, and on the low table between them was a pair of binoculars. She picked them up and, adjusting the focus, scanned the harbour and its approach roads. Sure enough, there on the steeper of the two hills that led into the town, was a tall, oddly shaped, unmistakable figure wearing a red-bobbled, royal blue knitted hat, his wide shirt flapping in the wind. His arms were raised in a mirror image of her own and she knew he was watching her too.

  For the next two or three weeks, whenever the boat was in, she noticed him there. His position barely changed. Sometimes he would appear to take out a notebook and jot things down. Sometimes he would not have any fieldglasses with him. He would merely be standing and watching.

  Geraldine knew she could simply ignore Martin or even report him to Nick Marshall, but the more time went on the more she found herself identifying with his dogged and hopeless persistence. She began to find something admirable, even inspiring, in his refusal to face reality. In her mind he became the indomitable figure on the shore, the first Indian to see Columbus, the Celtic warrior watching the last Romans leave Britain.

  One evening he was no longer to be seen on the hill. As she drove the rubber dinghy which was used as a support craft across to the harbour steps having completed her day’s work, she felt oddly bereft. She made the boat fast and began to walk up the harbour steps when she saw him standing a few feet in front of her. This was the first time since his visit to the post office that he had made any attempt to approach her. She drew a quick breath. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to,’ she said.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Can I come aboard then?’

  Geraldine smiled and shook her head.

  ‘I can’t take you aboard. You know that. If they find out –’

  He replied quickly and decisively. ‘They won’t find out.’

  ‘No, Martin,’ she repeated firmly. ‘If they come back and find you there, bang goes my Christmas bonus.’

  He took a step towards her. ‘They won’t. They left fifty-five minutes ago in two cars, both taxis from Norwich. They’ll be at the Blue Beat Club in Queen Street or Rocco’s on Cow Hill. The journey averages one hour seventeen minutes each way. On four previous trips to Norwich they were back at 1.09, 2.12, 2.17 and 3.07.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said Geraldine. There was a trace of envy in her voice. Martin, gross and dishevelled, his hair now long and wild as an Old Testament prophet, shook his head and stared back.

  ‘Please?’

  * * *

  That was the first of several times that Martin went aboard. He knew exactly when it was safe and Geraldine, realising that this was the unorthodox company she craved, warmed to this shambling, driven figure. She showed him around the boat. Told him what worked how and where. But that was not enough for Martin. He liked the wheelhouse and the charts and the promise of the sea beyond the harbour wall. He wanted more than just to be aboard.

  Thirty-nine

  ‘A new era begins today for the town of Theston in Suffolk.’

  Ruth Kohler reached forward and adjusted the volume control on her radio. Only since taking the flat in Oxford had she come to know the illicit pleasure of soaking in an English bath. She lay back to enjoy the first cigarette of the day, wreathed in the ash-flecked bubble stacks of Elizabeth Arden Celebration Gel.

  ‘At midday today, Dennis Donnelly, the new Minister for Technology, will open the first stage of a major new European telecommunications centre financed by the Dutch multi-media giant, Nordkom BV.’

  And by lunchtime, said Ruth to herself, Ruth Kohler, visiting Professor of English, would be returning to Theston having completed major new work on her ground-breaking study of one of the century’s most controversial literary figures.

  ‘There have been strong rumours that Nordkom favour a link-up with the enormous resources of the British Post Office, if, as expected, privatisation proposals confirm the Government’s decision to allow the commercial freedom Post Office bosses have demanded for so long.’

  It was nice to be going back to the centre of the universe, thought Ruth. Oxford was fine, but nothing ever happened. She grinned to herself. She was looking good and feeling good and she was determined to stop agonising about things. She would call Martin when she got back and they would play the rest by ear. She had even found a decent bottle of grappa, though she had had to scour Oxford to do so.

  ‘It’s three minutes past seven,’ the radio voice sang through the soapsuds. ‘Stay tuned for the Dick Arthur Breakfast Show.’

  * * *

  A hundred and thirty miles away to the north-east of Oxford the soft throb of two eleven-hundred horsepower MAN 12 diesel engines weakened and died. An anchor chain clattered down through its hawse pipe and the long slim bow of the motor yacht Nordkom IV swung gently round in a light North Sea swell, until it pointed due north-west toward the tall, handsome flushwork tower of St Michael and All Angels, Theston.

  Through a low-lying band of sea mist the observer on the hill could just make out a small motor dinghy put out from the harbour, driven by an athletic young brunette wearing bulky yellow waterproof trousers and a yellow and black windcheater bearing the Nordkom logo.

 
A few minutes later five men in well-tailored lightweight suits disembarked from the yacht into the dinghy. Behind them came half a dozen crewmen in sweatshirts and white chinos. One or two of the suits held mobile phones, all carried briefcases. The distant sound of men laughing together drifted across the water.

  The dinghy reached the harbour wall as two silver-grey Mercedes estate cars slid into view. The men, still laughing, one or two hanging back to exchange banter with the woman at the helm, mounted the steps. Then they climbed into the waiting cars which drove off to the north in the direction of the town.

  The observer kept his glasses trained on the dinghy. After a long and inexplicable pause, he saw what he was waiting for. Three short flashes of light issued from it. He moved quickly down the hill toward the long, low concrete shelter set back on the deserted stretch of beach to the south of the harbour.

  He checked his watch as he went. It was twelve and a half minutes after seven. They had half an hour.

  * * *

  July 2nd was not the brilliant midsummer day Nick Marshall had hoped for. An easterly air-stream spread dull grey weather over Theston and now there was mist to contend with as well. ‘We’ll be lucky if we can see the bloody mast,’ he muttered as he pushed open the door of the Portakabin.

  He and John Devereux arrived at the harbour at a quarter to eight. Nick Marshall had already run seven miles and felt keyed up, but in control.

  ‘It’s a wee bit early. The sun’ll burn this lot off,’ Andy Glenson assured him. Glenson, a small, cynical Scotsman, was the foreman of works. He’d trained on the oil rigs, in the boom years of the seventies. He’d seen money made and lost. The third man in the cabin was Matt van Haren, the technical manager for Nordkom.

  ‘You’d better be right, lad,’ said Devereux. ‘If Princess Diana paraded up the beach stark bollock naked she wouldn’t get as many TV crews as we’ve got coming here this morning.’ He ran his fingers down a list on the table in front of him. ‘What’s going on? Are we offering free lunches?’

  Nick Marshall didn’t smile. He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘Everything all right, Matt? No last-minute hitches?’

  Matt van Haren was slim and fair-haired with a moustache he was trying to extend to a fuller beard. He was only a year or so older than Nick Marshall. He wore a black and yellow PVC jacket over a teeshirt. A walkie-talkie hung from his waist. ‘It was tight, I tell you. But we made the final connections last night.’

  ‘So we have…?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Three pole antennae.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘… and two transmission dishes,’ van Haren went on. ‘Both linked now with Zandvoort.’

  ‘You’ve checked it out?’

  Van Haren nodded. ‘I had them on the line one hour ago, everything is fine.’

  ‘And the onward links?’ asked Nick. ‘All in place?’

  ‘All in place, Nick. Don’t worry, we have done this before.’

  ‘Not here you haven’t,’ said Devereux, reaching for a plastic cup and tapping the still-gurgling coffee machine impatiently. ‘You don’t know this country, Matt. There are going to be a lot of buggers out there hoping we’ll fuck it up.’

  Glenson laughed gloomily.

  Van Haren spread a hand towards the window through which the spiky profile of the communications mast could be seen no more than three hundred yards away, rising from the superstructure of the old pier.

  ‘This makes good sense for our business, I think?’ asked Matt. ‘We are all of us part of the European Union, after all.’

  Glenson laughed again. ‘Excuse me, Jimmy!’ he said to Matt. ‘You’re part of Europe. We’re part of Britain.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘It’s not to do with aerials and tunnels, Matt, it’s in the brain. And that won’t change for a long, long time.’ He turned to Nick. ‘I mean, if we really believed we were Europeans we’d have a Dutchman to open this for Christ’s sake. They’ve done all the work!’

  ‘Oh come on, Andy,’ Nick said, with a touch of impatience. ‘Not now.’

  ‘Why do we have to make do with some pillock from Whitehall for a job that’s nine-tenths financed from Rotterdam?’ Glenson went on. ‘I mean, let’s have Ruud Gullitt or Marco van Basten or Queen fucking Beatrice, excuse my language, Matt.’

  ‘Marco van Basten and Ruud Gullitt were not available, Andy,’ Nick said with a touch of asperity.

  ‘And Queen Beatrice said if you’re on’t job she’s not coming near the fucking place,’ added Devereux.

  There was laughter, but Glenson persisted. ‘But isn’t that crazy?’

  Marshall made for the door. ‘Not now, Andy, we’ve got a lot to do. Bring the radios.’

  He went out into the damp, briny air. Behind him Glenson was warming to his theme. ‘What is the first thing they see in Holland when the world’s first voice-activated video phone link is established? Some prat who was Minister for Film and Basketball until yesterday. I mean, come on, Nick, there’s got to be a better way.’

  Their voices trailed off into the mist.

  * * *

  Martin Sproale held his breath and watched as the four men left the cabin. The mist was a blessing. They had taken longer to get the goods aboard than expected and they were in danger of being spotted now the site was opening up for the day. To his relief Devereux and Marshall soon climbed into Devereux’s car and drove away into the town. The other two men, the two wearing hard hats, disappeared into the main building.

  With one supreme effort Martin pulled his awkward, bulky cargo clear of the rail on to the deck of the Nordkom IV. Below him Geraldine kept the outboard idling, ready to move. They were on the starboard quarter of the yacht, facing out to sea, out of sight of the harbour, but a pale sun was already beginning to disperse the mist and there was a lot to be done.

  Martin hardly had time to savour the pleasure of finally seeing his chair on a boat. He dragged it across the teak plank floor of the deck and stowed it behind a bulkhead at the top of the stairs that led down to the saloon.

  He heard Geraldine’s urgent whisper. ‘I’ve got fifteen minutes!’

  Martin glanced toward the harbour. There was still no one in sight. ‘All right!’ he hissed back. ‘Coast’s clear.’ As cautious as she could be on the throttle, Geraldine eased the dinghy around the stern of the vessel. Here she was exposed and she knew that anyone watching now could threaten the whole operation. She had not felt her heart thumping like this since the last very silly thing she’d done. Which was either free-fall parachuting or skiing blindfold or telling her parents she was in love with Freda Mitchell. She couldn’t remember which.

  As the dinghy’s soft rubber side bounced gently against the sheer white hull, there came the sound of a badly fitted door scraping open on the harbour and Glenson and van Haren emerged from the control centre. They pointed towards the pier from which sprouted the slim, lightweight carbon-fibre communications mast, with its formidable array of dishes and assorted antennae, only a hundred yards from where Nordkom IV rocked on a gentle ebb tide. They began to walk purposefully towards it. Martin threw himself down onto the deck. Geraldine grabbed hold of a fender and pulled herself back and along the hull.

  Their voices came nearer.

  ‘I mean, I’m a European patriot, Matt,’ Glenson was saying in his hard Glaswegian accent. ‘I wanted a few flags on this one, you know. All the European countries, stuck on the wee mast.’

  They were out on the pier now, picking their way across the steel-strip walkway that led to the tower. If they reached it they would be able to see both sides of the Nordkom IV from where they stood. Geraldine clung to the hull, tucking herself tight in below the gunwale. Martin lay uncomfortably spread-eagled on the cool, polished surface of the deck. Suddenly one of the men turned. It was the Scottish one.

  ‘Oh Christ! Look at that.’

  Geraldine held her breath.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ said the Dutchman.

  ‘Devereux’s back. Probably wants the fuck
ing mast moved two feet to the left.’

  The voices fell silent for a moment, then the sound of Glenson’s low cursing receded and a minute later Martin allowed himself to peek above the bulkhead. The three men disappeared once more into the Portakabin.

  Half-crouched, he ran across to the starboard side and beckoned Geraldine forward. As she approached the stern he wriggled himself along the deck and, only at the last minute, when she shouted ‘Ready’, did he duck up, grab the cable she was pushing up through the hawsehole and make its looped end fast around the solid brass bollard. He took the first cable firmly, but the next one shifted away from him. As he grabbed for it again, he felt the first direct rays of the sun, spilling through the mist.

  Geraldine was angry. ‘Martin, for God’s sake, we practised this.’

  At the second attempt, Martin secured the line. As he did so there was a shout from the shore and he flung himself once again to the deck, hugging the cables.

  ‘Gerry,’ the shout from Devereux echoed round the harbour. ‘Where the hell are you!’

  Martin heard Geraldine’s equally powerful voice shout back. There was not a quaver in it. ‘Forgot my make-up! Had to go back. I’m heading over now.’

  Then more softly, ‘Martin?’

  ‘Yes?’

  There was a pause. He heard the flat of her hand slap against the hull. ‘Good fishing!’

  A moment later he heard her gun the outboard and head for the shore. The tide was receding fast now. No one would return to the Nordkom IV until it turned again, well after the ceremony. He was alone.

  * * *

  Three and a half hours later Nick Marshall, having attended a morning of briefings and itchy, but successful, last-minute negotiations, was waiting on the quayside for the arrival of the Minister. At the Market Hotel he had changed into a brand new Hugo Boss petrol-blue gaberdine suit, complete, after a short and bitter argument with John Devereux, with non-matching Post Office Counter Services tie. He glanced anxiously around the site. Opposite him, in a small enclosure, were gathered the official guests. The Harvey-Wardrells were to the fore, she looming a good six inches above her husband, Peregrine. He was not a big man at the best of times but today he was almost entirely concealed beneath the brim of his wife’s straw hat, which was so wide and of such a vibrant red that she stood out like a mediaeval Cardinal. By comparison the rest of the guests were unremittingly dowdy. Squeezed in with the Harvey-Wardrells behind an officious little blue and white striped rope, were such worthies as young Dr Cardwell, holding the hand of his dumpy wife Jane (they had met at a blind tasting), Cuthbert Habershon, the old coroner, standing uncomfortably side by side with his busy, unsmiling, replacement Eric Moss and his vigilant wife Bridget. Lord Muncaster was behind them, sporting an elegant light-grey worsted suit bought from the Rudges’ nearly-new stall, and alongside him, the Reverend Barry Burrell and his close friend Tessa.