Hemingway's Chair

by Michael Palin

  Nothing daunted, she had pulled herself up to allow room for his arms to go around her but in so doing caught him off balance and he fell to one side, knocking her drink with his hand and spilling vodka across her handbag.

  Martin had been mortified and the next day at work the incident wasn’t mentioned. Elaine was sad because she would have been perfectly happy for Martin to make love to her, but there seemed no way to say it without sounding cheap and for a while things had been distinctly awkward between them.

  A few months after that, at the end of a long summer day of too much sunshine and beer, they’d ended up back again beneath the bullfighter and this time Martin had been attentive and loving, but her pleasure had only increased his pleasure and it was all over before he had his clothes off and he’d gone out of the room, leaving her gazing up into the flashing dark eyes of El Cordobes, and the hot, cruel promise of the Spanish sun. She had driven home soon afterwards.

  So their affair remained on the runway, grounded by fog. Elaine let things take their course. She knew he was still attracted to her and sooner or later it would work out. But last night he had left Padge’s leaving party without a word and this morning when she’d put a sympathetic hand on his arm, he’d pulled away from her.

  * * *

  ‘Can I come in?’ she asked from the other side of the door.

  Martin looked quickly around. There was no time to change anything, but he put away the vodka bottle before answering.

  Elaine looked in cautiously.

  Martin, so erect and trim at work, seemed to be sagging under the weight of a monstrous grey and red check shirt, which bulged into his trousers. His face was flushed, and he stood awkwardly in front of his old typewriter as if trying to conceal something.

  ‘Were you writing?’

  Martin shrugged. ‘Nothing much.’

  There was a glass beside the typewriter. The sight of it brought back uncomfortable memories. Indeed the whole room seemed oppressive.

  ‘D’you want to go for a drive?’ Elaine asked him, as nonchalantly as she could.

  ‘A drive?’ he repeated.

  ‘The rain’s stopped. Looks like a nice evening.’

  * * *

  She drove them north along the coast, in her old and fast-corroding Fiat Uno. The heavy rain had emptied the usual beauty spots and when they parked up at the Point, midway between Theston and Hopton, they were entirely alone. They sat in the car in silence.

  The slate grey clouds had drifted out to sea leaving a jagged, messy, storm-streaked sky. Elaine watched it for a while until she felt it impossible not to say something.

  ‘I had to get you on your own. Just to know what you were thinking.’

  Martin was glad he’d taken vodka, rather than scotch or tequila. There was no trace on the breath.

  Elaine didn’t hurry him. She knew he’d been drinking. Probably vodka as there was no trace on his breath.

  ‘Why didn’t you let me talk to you?’ she asked.

  Martin stared at the sea. He reached forward and flicked open the glove compartment. There were some very old Opal Fruits in there. So old that Elaine didn’t offer him one. Eventually Martin spoke, gruffly and reluctantly. ‘Nothing to say. I should have got the job. I didn’t get the job. It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘It’s a rotten thing for them to do.’

  ‘It’s happening,’ he said. ‘It’s part of a process, you see. We’ve got to move with the new technology. All of us, not just me.’

  ‘But this man Marshall. They say he’s good.’

  ‘He’s probably bloody good. As an undertaker.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Elaine, you know what they’re doing all over the country. Licensing off post offices, closing post offices, getting out of expensive premises. Slimming down for privatisation. All that talk about new eras. They’re selling out. The days are over when the post office had to have the best place in town. Look at Atcham, they’ve got an insurance company in the old post office building and the post office franchised out to a sports shop.’

  Martin snapped the door of the glove compartment open and shut as he spoke. ‘Perhaps we’d better start thinking where we’d like to be for the rest of our working lives. How about the back of Brownjohn’s, they could squeeze us in between the fertiliser and the plastic buckets? Or maybe round at Omar’s. Cod, chips and child benefits.’

  ‘You know…’ Elaine, pleased to hear him angry, chose her moment carefully. ‘There is an alternative.’

  Martin grunted scornfully. ‘Street cleaning?’

  A car sped past, tyres hissing on the shiny wet road.

  ‘You know that Dad wants to retire,’ she said.

  ‘Good for him. I’m thinking about it myself.’

  A pair of seagulls screeched low over the car, landed on the railings and started to set about each other.

  ‘The point is,’ Elaine persisted, ‘that he wants the business to stay in the family and, as I’m the only child…’

  Martin nodded and stayed looking forward, through the rain-spotted windscreen, to the colourless sea.

  ‘The point is…’ Elaine turned to him and took his hand firmly, as one might take that of an elderly relative, in need of reassurance.

  ‘The point is that his business is mine for the asking. It’s not worth a fortune but it’s a lot better than working in a post office and … and I would like to run it, but…’ Elaine turned to look out of the side window, away from Martin. ‘… it really needs a couple.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Well?’ She waited.

  ‘Well…’

  ‘It could be a … sort of … answer to a lot of problems. I mean we’d have to relearn a bit but, you and me, we’re good with people. People like us because we talk to them. There’d be no shortage of customers.’

  ‘You mean, give up the post office?’

  ‘Why not? If it’s giving you up.’

  Martin frowned and flicked again at the door to the glove compartment.

  ‘I can’t walk away. I can’t have people saying I’ve no loyalty.’

  Elaine was incredulous. ‘After what they’ve done to you?’

  Martin nodded. ‘I can’t let them down, can I?’

  Elaine took a deep breath. It had taken a lot out of her to say what she said. She tried to sound unconcerned at the outcome.

  ‘Well, think about it, that’s all I say. Think about it. And leave that bloody glove compartment alone!’

  Five

  October the first came, as it had to, and the staff of Theston post office – Martin, Elaine, Arthur Gillis, John Parr and Shirley Barker the part-time helper – all assembled in the cavernous, empty room that had been a postal sorting office until the Royal Mail separated from Counter Services. Now it was a staff room. There was a kitchen and a lavatory, and a table to eat lunch from. It was here they were to meet their new Manager. It was half past eight on a Monday morning. The office was due to open at nine.

  At fifty-five years old, Arthur Gillis was the oldest among them. He was well-built and a little overweight besides, with a big square head, a florid complexion and tight wavy dark hair that was now turned mostly grey. He had joined the Post Office straight from twenty-five years’ service in the Ordnance Corps. He’d travelled and let you know it, and his abrupt manner with the public had taken some getting used to, but he was conscientious, efficient and had never been known to have a day’s illness. John Parr, on the other hand, was a quick, nervous young man who wore his long fair hair tied in a ponytail. He had a severe and uncontrollable blink. In order, perhaps, to cope with this he had developed an unrelentingly flippant persona. A constant stream of stories, jokes and fantasies poured forth, mostly concerning his huge and long-suffering wife, Cheryl, famous also for being Theston’s first traffic warden. Parr’s presence was a considerable strain on all of them, but particularly on Shirley Barker, a prim and humourless woman in her early fifties, who appeared to draw
all the satisfaction she needed out of life from looking after a dog and two elderly parents. She came in only on Saturday mornings and busy days at Christmas and in the summer.

  On this particular morning Elaine had just made coffee and the sound of stirring spoons tinkled softly in the high, empty room.

  ‘Do you know…’ began Parr, but no one ever did, for at that moment Nick Marshall bounded in, like an over-eager family pet that had just learnt to open doors on its own. His face had a ruddy glow, his neatly brushed thatch of rich blond hair bore tell-tale traces of a recent washing. His face was a little too broad to be classically handsome but his features were well shaped and pleasing. Nose straight and strong, mouth wide and purposeful, big round cornflower blue eyes set just too close to each other. He groaned in mock horror and flicked a hand up into his hair.

  ‘So sorry, everyone, so sorry. Late on my first day!’

  Martin glanced up at the clock. It was less than a minute after half past.

  Marshall rubbed his hands together as if it were cold, which it wasn’t. ‘Have I missed the coffee?’

  Elaine, to her own intense surprise, felt herself colouring. She pushed herself quickly away from the table she was leaning on, giving an unintentional impression of brusqueness. ‘I’ll do another one.’

  ‘Lost my way on the heath,’ Marshall explained as Elaine passed him.

  ‘Cycling?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Running.’

  So that was it. He was a runner. Martin knew there was some reason why he had experienced more than just routine resentment on seeing him. Martin had been a runner too but in the cold winter four years ago he gave it up and never went back. A small defeat, but it still rankled. Cycling was now the only exercise he took.

  ‘Every morning?’ he asked Marshall.

  Marshall grinned. His teeth were long and regular, if a little too pointed to be perfect. ‘Try to,’ he said.

  ‘Brave man.’

  ‘I have the runs every morning,’ Parr snorted. ‘Not your sort though!’

  Marshall ignored him, and went on chummily. ‘Got to keep the waistline down, you know.’ He pulled off an ingenuous smile, as five pairs of eyes swung simultaneously to the firm, flat line of stomach that conspicuously failed to trouble a well-tailored waistband.

  He took the mug of coffee from Elaine. ‘Thank you –’

  ‘– Elaine,’ added Elaine, feeling him hesitate over the name.

  ‘Yes, I know it’s Elaine…’ He held out his hand. ‘Elaine Rudge … isn’t it?’

  She took his hand and shook it, feeling a little foolish. It was soft and warm. He moved on.

  ‘And you’re Arthur Gillis.’

  ‘Mr Gillis. Yes,’ said Arthur. He was a bit of a stickler in these matters, but shook Marshall’s hand firmly nonetheless.

  There was a spring in Marshall’s step, as he moved from one member of staff to the other, that was almost a lope. It lent his movements a vaguely feral quality, so that even in the seemingly innocent ritual of handshakes and eye contacts there lurked a hint of the predatory. He went round all of them, deftly saving Martin for last.

  ‘And Martin, whose reputation I already know.’

  Martin smiled warily.

  Marshall took a sip of coffee and turned to them.

  ‘I’m Nick Marshall and I’m privileged to be your new Manager. I trained at Bletchley and I was previously Assistant Branch Office Manager in Luton, so you can understand just how happy I am to be here.’

  ‘Do you mind? My probation officer comes from Luton.’ John Parr got no help from his colleagues and Marshall barely broke stride.

  ‘This week I just want to get to know you, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to be a fly on the wall…’

  ‘My wife tried that but the wall fell down.’

  ‘… watching how you work, meeting the customers, getting to know the ropes, evaluating the resources we have here. What I would also like to do before Friday is meet with each of you on a one-to-one basis and I’ll organise that accordingly.’

  Aware that this last piece of information had sown more suspicion than goodwill, he essayed a wide and winning smile that embraced them all. He set down the mug of coffee with the air of one who was not going to pick it up again, and rubbed his hands together once more.

  ‘I can see there is great team spirit here, and I’m proud to be a part of it. Now, let’s go to work!’ This was followed by another round of firmly clasped handshakes. Then Elaine collected the coffee cups and Martin folded away his newspaper and went through into the main office and began the familiar preparations.

  He took out his till and checked it carefully before arranging small change into the hopper beside him. He checked his stock of TV licences and fishing licences and game licences and telephone savings cards and air mail stickers and road tax discs and milk tokens and postal orders and recorded delivery forms and visitors’ passports. He put in place next to him his portfolio – the indexed black ledger, its cover layered with the deposits of five years’ fingering, in which he kept his own supply of stamps, savings stamps and details of charges. He glanced at the latest Operations Bulletin and made sure his stop-list of missing giro-cheques was up to date. He noted that, as from that morning, the withdrawal period for National Savings Bonds worth over two hundred pounds had been extended to twenty-eight days, and he checked that there was a mailbag ready for parcels in the frame behind him. He reset his date stamp to 1st October and, having checked his watch against the old Newmark electric wall clock, he made his way through to the public area and slid back the bolts on the main door.

  Monday was one of their ‘queue days’. It was the day for family allowances and there was a steady stream of claimants ranging from harassed single mothers off the twice-daily bus to the brisk and bustling wives of local businessmen. Leading them, as usual, was Harold Meredith, who on this particular morning had come in on the pretext of some query about his disability pension.

  As Martin searched for the relevant information, Mr Meredith leaned close and confidingly towards him.

  ‘Here’s one you didn’t know, Martin. Old Mellor, the Postmaster before Padge, had his own private toilet out the back. I bet you weren’t aware of that, old boy. He even had different toilet paper from the rest of the staff. Much softer.’

  ‘I’ve had a look, Mr Meredith,’ said Martin, who sometimes surprised himself with his own patience. ‘It’s only payable on Wednesdays. All right?’

  ‘Those were the days when they were Postmasters. What are they now … eh?’

  ‘Managers, Mr Meredith.’

  The queue was shifting restlessly.

  ‘Are you a Manager?’ Mr Meredith asked him.

  ‘No, I’m not a Manager.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Mr Marshall is the new Manager.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Marshall from Luton.’

  ‘They’re calling them marshals now are they?’

  ‘No, he’s the Manager. His name is Marshall.’

  Mr Meredith turned to the queue behind him, as if appealing for sanity.

  ‘It’s getting like the Wild West in here.’

  At that moment John Parr, wreathed in smoke from a last minute cigarette, opened his position. There was a wholesale defection from Martin’s queue.

  John Parr blinked wildly and held up his hands.

  ‘All right! All right! I know I’m beautiful … Who’s first?’

  A slim, striking woman with a dark, vulpine look, a small black cashmere beret and a cigarette, had beaten the rest of the field. She pushed a heavy envelope forward.

  ‘How much is America?’ she asked in a voice that was surprisingly deep, almost masculine. And American.

  ‘More than you could afford, darling.’

  Parr laughed, uninfectiously. A quick, perplexed smile crossed the woman’s face.

  He blinked at her. ‘Put it on the scales, my love.’ Her smile turned to a frown.

  Harold
Meredith, having lost the bulk of his audience, heaved a sigh at Martin, folded his pension book and tucked it with equal care inside a plastic cover which he then transferred carefully to the inside pocket of his tweed jacket.

  ‘Well, I can’t stay here all morning. I’ve got a job now you know.’

  John Parr leaned across. ‘Don’t tell me. Night club bouncer.’

  ‘Very close, Mr Parr. I’m going to be a church bouncer.’

  ‘I thought they were trying to throw people into church, not out of it.’

  Harold Meredith shook his head gravely. ‘They’ve had things pilfered, you know. Reverend Burrell’s asked me to sit at the back, two hours a day, and keep an eye out.’

  The unmistakable tones of Pamela Harvey-Wardrell rose above the general mutterings. ‘I only hope this news hasn’t reached the criminal fraternity. They’ll be bussing them in.’

  Mr Meredith knew his time was up. He reached for his walking stick and the tweed cap which he had laid upside down on the counter when talking to Martin.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off.’

  In the momentary lull following Mr Meredith’s departure and the next document being slid across the counter, Martin briefly registered the dark woman at John Parr’s position. She was smoking. Very few women smoked at the counter these days and he found himself watching with fascination as she drew heavily on the cigarette, retaining the smoke with effortless confidence. Her concentration was total and, as she waited to be given her change, Martin, too, found himself waiting, riveted, for the moment of exhalation. When at last it came it was a triumph. An imperious flick of the head and the smoke was cast out high and wide, away towards the parcel counter. Martin stared, willing her to take the cigarette up to her mouth again, so he could once more see that long neck turn and elegantly lengthen.

  ‘It’s open at the page,’ said a quavering voice.