Hemingway's Chair

by Michael Palin

  ‘At least I got it switched on. It would have taken Padge three weeks to learn that.’

  But Marshall kept the pressure up, ignoring the jokes. Elaine sat beside Gillis and guided him through. The atmosphere was tight and uncongenial and at the end Marshall’s thanks for their time had rung pretty hollow.

  Twelve

  On the last Wednesday before Christmas, not long after his tea with Ruth, Martin found himself once more at the Market Hotel, this time for dinner at the invitation of Nick Marshall. Marshall had sprung it on him only that morning. Martin had barely time to cycle home, wash the ink off his hands, change into his dark grey suit and cycle back into town again. Nick was there already. As he watched Martin standing by the cloakroom being helped out of his anorak he allowed himself a little pity. Martin was a decent man. He knew the job backwards. But he was chronically passive, irretrievably agreeable, painfully inept, one of those obliging individuals who would go out of his way to help anyone but himself. The salt of the earth, some would call him and Nick, being seriously concerned with fitness, knew that too much salt was bad for you.

  Martin came towards him, one hand smoothing down his hair, the other tugging at his collar. ‘Sorry I’m late. Foul night!’

  ‘You’ve still got your clips on.’

  ‘Oh, God!’

  Martin bent down, and looking quickly round as he did so, took off his bicycle clips and dropped them into his jacket pocket.

  He laughed nervously.

  ‘Shall we have a pint first?’ Martin said, remembering how much he’d preferred the bar last time.

  ‘No, let’s go in,’ said Nick. ‘They’ve got the table ready.’

  Martin followed him obediently into the restaurant. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, how Nick Marshall could live like this on a post office manager’s salary.

  They sat down near the window. Gordon Parrish obligingly, and in the case of Nick, lingeringly, draped napkins over their crotches.

  Nick looked across at Martin. ‘I expect you’re wondering how I can live like this on a post office manager’s salary?’ He winked. ‘Don’t.’

  They ordered. Nick chose fish, Martin steak and kidney pie. Nick selected a bottle of white wine, and as soon as it came he insisted on pouring it himself.

  ‘I hate other people telling me how fast I should drink my wine, don’t you?’

  Martin had always assumed that the pouring of the wine by the waiter was the way things were done, and clearly the wine-waiter did too, for he took his redundancy badly and stood across by the sideboard arranging bottles sulkily.

  ‘I hate Christmas,’ said Nick. ‘How about you?’

  Martin knew by now that such enquiries were intended less as expressions of interest than rhetorical springboards for whatever Nick had to say, and he treated them as such.

  ‘Well, I always like a day off,’ Martin ventured.

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘I shall get up late,’ Martin shrugged. ‘We usually go to dinner at the Rudges’.’

  Nick raised an eyebrow. ‘Christmas dinner at the Rudges’. Must be fun.’

  ‘Frank tends to run the show. No one else gets a word in.’

  Nick Marshall took a mouthful of Saint-Véran and thrust his lips forward like a goldfish as he drew the air in over it. Martin was pleasantly relieved to see that he could look quite ugly. Marshall swallowed the wine, nodded to himself and poured them each a glass.

  ‘Cheers!’ he said. ‘To you and Elaine.’

  Martin’s mouthful disappeared down some passage at the back of his throat he’d not known about before. He choked helplessly and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. Nick Marshall watched him like a fox might watch a chicken laying an egg.

  ‘You are going to get married?’ Marshall asked.

  Martin could only muster a non-committal grunt, but this didn’t seem to be enough.

  Nick leaned forward as if he might have missed something. ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I think when we’re both ready,’ Martin began, uneasily.

  ‘You must have been waiting to see what happened at the post office.’

  Martin, once again, felt himself back on a conversational roller coaster.

  Nick went smoothly on. ‘I do understand, you know. Your expectations and everything. You must have hated my guts when I took over.’

  Martin forced a laugh.

  ‘It’s true isn’t it?’

  ‘I never hated your guts,’ Martin lied. ‘I was upset for a while, yes. Promotion would have made a difference to my life. A bit more money wouldn’t have gone amiss.’

  Nick nodded agreement. ‘But you resigned yourself to it.’

  ‘What else could I do,’ Martin said, guardedly.

  ‘Elaine didn’t, did she?’

  Martin bristled at this. ‘Well, you sound as if you know all about it, Nick.’

  ‘She makes it obvious, Mart. And I don’t blame her. But I’d rather she saw me as a friend, not a devil. I can actually make things very nice for us all.’

  The last thought hung pregnant in the air as the food arrived and there was much fussing around with knives and forks and plates and serving dishes. Nothing more of significance was said until Gordon Parrish had finally wheeled his trolley away. Nick took barely a mouthful of Dover sole before leaning forwards. ‘I suppose you’re following the privatisation debate…’

  Martin, engaged in disentangling a stray piece of meat which had appeared inadvertently amongst the gristle, tried his best to convey his strong feelings on the issue.

  ‘The way I see it,’ Nick went on, ‘is that the Government’s committed to change – it’s just a question of how fast it’ll happen. The Post Office is big, but it won’t stay big if it has to pay two hundred million pounds back to the Government every year. My guess is they’ll fudge it. Half public, half private. What do you think?’

  Martin swallowed hard and raised his head from his plate. ‘I’m against it,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t want to see some Arab millionaire end up with half the British Post Office.’

  Nick set his fork to one side, as if the business of eating was a tiresome distraction. He picked up his wine glass and looked across at Martin. ‘If an Arab millionaire wanted to own half the British Post Office wouldn’t that help everybody working in it?’

  ‘You must be joking. It wouldn’t be British for a start.’

  ‘Look at what the Arabs own already, Mart. Harrods, the Dorchester Hotel. You can’t get much more British than that.’

  ‘But not the Post Office. That’s different.’

  ‘Why? Why is it different? It supplies a service. Harrods supplies cheese and chairs, the Dorchester supplies hotel rooms, the Post Office supplies deliveries, stamps and driving licences.’

  Across the restaurant Martin caught sight of Cuthbert Habershon, the coroner. This must be the day he retired. He and his friends crowded, jovially, round a corner table. Champagne was already in the bucket. Martin found himself envious of their easy familiarity. He swung his attention back to Nick Marshall, who was still talking. ‘There would, if the privatisation bill was passed, be nothing to stop a post office selling a lot more.’ Marshall paused to weigh up the effect of his words. ‘What’s wrong with them selling insurance, holidays, goldfish…’

  Martin couldn’t answer straight away. Another glob of fat had wedged itself in a crevice in his upper jaw not due for filling until the New Year. His tongue worked frantically to dislodge it.

  ‘Mmm?’

  Martin worked the pinguid morsel to the front of his mouth, bent low over the plate and deposited it, alongside several others. ‘Why?’ he said eventually. ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘They’ve a guaranteed, built-in customer base that any other shop would be crying out for. They’re right at the heart of domestic finances already. They would have a head start on all communications-related merchandise. Mobile phones, home computers, fax machines.’

  ‘Isn’t that
going a bit far?’ Martin protested.

  Nick Marshall shook his head vigorously. ‘The problem, Mart,’ he said, ‘is not going far enough.’

  * * *

  They finished the meal and as swiftly as the bill arrived Nick sent it back accompanied by a Visa card. Martin reached inside his coat. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Business expense, Mart.’

  ‘You’re not self-employed.’

  ‘Well, put it this way,’ Marshall added mysteriously. ‘I do the odd piece of consultancy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Martin. ‘You didn’t need to do that.’

  ‘Well, Mart, I feel I owe you a lot of thanks. An outsider taking over a well-loved local office. It wasn’t easy, and I didn’t always get it right. Especially over that business with John Parr. I did that badly.’

  Martin toyed with an empty wine glass. It was his turn to be magnanimous. ‘We all make mistakes.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Nick. He patted the side of his mouth with the linen napkin, then rubbed his hands and stretched them back against each other. ‘That’s why I’d like you to be the one to tell Arthur Gillis.’

  ‘Tell Arthur Gillis what?’

  Nick put down the napkin. He sorted the credit card and counterfoil carefully into his wallet and looked up. ‘I’ve recommended him for early retirement. I don’t think Head Office will put up much of a fight.’

  He pursed his lips very tightly. Martin sat and stared.

  Nick stood, abruptly. ‘Shall we go?’

  Martin didn’t move.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mart, but the man’s computer illiterate. He won’t survive.’

  ‘He’s hardly had a chance.’

  ‘Mart, there are people who get it slowly and people who get it fast and people who will never get it. Arthur Gillis will never get it. He knows it too. He’ll be offered decent terms. He’s only five years off retirement age.’

  ‘But I’ve worked with Arthur for ten years. Everyone knows him.’

  This time Nick made no attempt to conceal his irritation. He felt unduly conspicuous standing there with Martin gazing up at him, dumbstruck. It was all unnecessary and overdramatic, and any moment his mouth might start giving him trouble. Resting his hands on the table, he leaned down and spoke briskly. ‘He’s not going to disappear off the planet, Mart. People can still know him. He just won’t have to sit behind a post office counter any more. Lucky man, some would say.’

  Martin remained obstinately seated. ‘Well, you tell him that yourself.’

  Nick Marshall leaned closer. ‘Look, Mart. You gave me stick over the way I dealt with Parr. You were right. I should have told you what I was doing and let you handle it. It’s what you do best. Well, this time I shan’t make that mistake.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his grey flannel suit and held out an envelope.

  Martin flicked his eyes sideways. He saw the name of Arthur Gillis on the front, swallowed hard and then looked up.

  ‘And if I say no?’

  ‘I’ll just put a stamp on it and he’ll hear about it in the normal way.’

  Thirteen

  On the Thursday evening before Christmas the Gillises were watching television when the doorbell sounded. Pat Gillis looked across to her husband and was about to get up when he motioned her back. ‘Let them sing something first. You’re always up like a jack-in-the-box. Let them sing something.’

  Pat Gillis squeezed the handkerchief she was holding. She was a small, nervous Yorkshirewoman, with dark, centre-parted hair and prominent green eyes. ‘I don’t like to have them hanging around. They sing these long carols just to give them time to have a look at the house.’

  ‘Who’ve you been talking to?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge. One of them sings and the others look in the window to see where your video is.’

  ‘Well, they’ve sung nothing yet and anyway, we haven’t got a video.’

  ‘We’ve had the television on. They might have sung already for all you know.’

  They sat there, listening.

  The doorbell sounded again. Two chirpy notes, as if announcing a cartoon character.

  ‘Maybe it’s not them,’ said Pat. She got up from her chair.

  ‘Who could it be? It’s half past eight.’

  Outside the door Martin shifted uneasily from foot to foot. He didn’t like the new estates. They looked as though they had been assembled from kits, freshly unpacked and set down, arbitrarily, on what were once attractive fields. The little roads bore bogus off-the-shelf names like Lakeside Crescent and Farmview, though the only view the houses had was of other houses. He didn’t like what he was doing here either. He’d had a pint at the King’s Head after work and a large whisky back at home but his mouth was still dry and his stomach still tight. For the umpteenth time he checked that the envelope was in the right pocket. Not in his anorak which he might hang up, but in his old brown corduroy jacket, and not in the side, but the inside pocket. There must be no prior hint that he had it. When the time came to deliver it, it must be swift and sweet.

  He pressed the bell a third time. Perhaps they weren’t in. Perhaps he’d got into this dreadful state for nothing. Then he started. A light had gone on in the hall. He took a deep breath. The door, still on a chain, was cautiously opened. Mrs Gillis peered out.

  ‘It’s me, Pat. Martin Sproale.’

  ‘Oh, Martin! Whatever time do you call this?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been working late … What with Christmas and everything. I was on my way home.’

  There was a pause and then the sound of the chain sliding back.

  ‘Well, I’m glad it’s you. I was sat there thinking all sorts of awful things.’ She held the door open. ‘Come in, love.’

  She fussed around offering him cups of tea and slices of freshly made parkin and telling him how much they missed their son who was working in Germany as a builder and who sent money home and photographs too but that wasn’t the point, they’d rather see him in the flesh.

  Then Martin said that he had to talk to Arthur about a business matter and she apologised for going on and took the cups away to wash them up.

  Throughout all this Arthur had hardly said a word and when his wife had shut the door and left them alone he unnerved Martin by fixing him with a smile.

  Then he spoke. ‘Well, it’s not good news, is it?’

  Martin looked away. He frowned and scratched his head.

  ‘How long have we known each other, Martin?’

  Martin felt himself reddening. ‘Ten, twelve years.’

  ‘Have we ever had a bad word for each other?’

  ‘Not that I can remember.’

  ‘No, well, let’s not start now. I know what you’re going to say. It’s been written on your face all day. I knew it’d come sooner or later. I’m not stupid. I can see the way it’s going with Marshall. He’s young. He wants to change the world. But mark my words, Martin, once your computers and your electronics run the Post Office there’ll be no talk of ‘loyalty’ or ‘service’. You’ll either be in or out. Well, I’m fifty-five and it doesn’t matter much to me. But you were brought up on loyalty and service too, Martin, and you’re going to miss all that. So don’t worry about me. You worry about yourself.’

  Martin found himself halfway down Elmdene Way before he remembered that he still had the letter. He cycled back, miserably, and slipped it through Arthur’s letter-box.

  * * *

  The news of Arthur Gillis’s departure broke on the Saturday, the day before Christmas Eve. With two and a half days’ holiday ahead Nick Marshall congratulated himself on the timing. He sweetened the pill by announcing that he had successfully persuaded John Devereux, at Head Office, to bring forward plans to renovate and upgrade North Square Post Office by six months – from late summer to early in the New Year.

  The customary exchange of staff Christmas presents took place in a peculiar atmosphere of glum jollity. Boxes of chocolate, bars of soap, tins of nuts, books and bottles were
passed about peremptorily, as if everything had to be done before the music stopped.

  Martin watched Arthur Gillis slip the present he’d given him from its blue wrapping paper. Arthur smiled and Martin wished the ground would open up beneath him.

  Arthur held up the bottle. ‘That’ll go down well.’

  Martin nodded speechlessly.

  ‘We like a drop of Bailey’s.’

  Martin saw only a poisoned chalice.

  By two o’clock everyone had gone except for the Manager and his Assistant. As he locked up and set the alarms, Martin heard Marshall whistling as he completed the stock check. He heard the safe click shut. As Martin threw the last bolt on the main door he became aware of Nick Marshall behind him.

  ‘I think I’ve spoiled someone’s Christmas.’

  Martin corrected him bitterly. ‘I was the one who spoilt it for him.’

  Marshall shook his head. ‘No, I mean Elaine’s. She didn’t even say goodbye.’ He seemed less hurt than puzzled.

  Martin locked the door and pocketed the heavy key. Marshall gathered up his papers. He stopped and examined one of them.

  ‘Do you want to know how much we’ve saved on staffing in the last three months?’ he asked Martin.

  Martin shook his head firmly. It was the last thing he wanted to know.

  ‘Four and a half thousand pounds. And do you know what we’ll save in the next three months? Six and a half thousand. That’s twenty-four thousand pounds this branch will save Post Office Counter Services in a full year. That’s why I was able to get next year’s renovation put forward.’

  Outside in the yard a car horn sounded. Marshall bent to look out of the window. ‘All right! I’m coming!’ he muttered. He turned back to Martin and patted him on the arm.

  ‘Mart. I know it’s been tough, but you wait. You won’t recognise this place in a year’s time. That’s a promise.’