Hemingway's Chair

by Michael Palin

  At the door to the counters Nick Marshall waved, shouted ‘Happy Christmas!’ and was gone.

  Martin stood with his back to the main door and looked around him. He saw a cracked linoleum floor worn thin below the positions and a solid wooden counter with its once high varnish cuffed and scratched by shopping baskets and pushchairs and the heels of fidgeting children. He saw the new security screen rear incongruously up to the ceiling, its anodised aluminium frame gleaming, its extra-toughened glass naked of all the posters, stickers and exhortations to customers to check their change which had covered its predecessor like moss on stones. He saw the wooden writing shelf that ran the length of the opposite wall with sheaves of forms sprouting from blue plastic boxes and biros chained to the wall.

  Above the shelf he saw the wooden calendar box which Padge had insisted on changing personally each morning, using the stout round knobs that protruded from the side to change date, day and month. He saw the Newmark electric wall clock, arbiter of coffee- and lunch-breaks for as long as Martin could remember. He caught the familiar, comforting smell of ink and old money. He set the master alarm and, dangling keys like a prison warder, let himself through the door to the counters, locked it behind him and flicked off the lights.

  * * *

  Martin was going to go straight home but on an impulse he turned right out of North Square and cycled down the High Street where the shop windows were already illuminated against the December gloom, desperately flaunting themselves one last time before Christmas. He rode on down to the sea front. He could see Elaine striding purposefully along the pebble-strewn promenade. A dog was running backwards and forwards in front of her, occasionally barking, eyes flicking, beseechingly, from her face to the well-chewed tennis ball in her hand. Martin wheeled his bicycle down the cliff path.

  ‘Elaine!’ he called and she looked up, startled. The dog saw Martin too and, with a joyous yelp, peeled off and scampered towards him.

  ‘Hello, Scruff, boy.’ Martin tugged at the dog’s ears, fighting to keep its nose away from his crotch.

  ‘Scruff!’ shrieked Elaine. ‘Come here!’

  The dog turned as she flung his tennis ball towards the sea. He raced away over the beach, barking at each bounce and skidding into the sand.

  ‘Well I never,’ said Elaine, glancing quickly at Martin before moving on. ‘All the dogs are out today. Even Mr Marshall’s.’

  Martin followed her, as Scruff came hurtling back. ‘I wanted to explain,’ he said.

  Scruff stood, panting heavily, his tail thumping Martin’s leg.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Elaine said, stooping to extract the ball from his slobbery grip. ‘Everything’s quite clear,’ she said, hurling it away again. ‘Marshall throws the ball and you fetch it for him.’

  ‘I only did the decent thing and warned Arthur what was going to happen.’

  Elaine gave a short cry of protest. ‘Martin, the only decent thing you had to do was to stop that bastard from sacking a perfectly good employee.’

  ‘Early retirement. That’s all it is. It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘Martin, no one ever asked him if he wanted early retirement. He wasn’t allowed to choose, was he? Did he want it? Did Pat want it? Did anyone ever ask them?’

  She turned and walked on. Martin skirted a neatly piled dog-turd and wheeled his bicycle after her. ‘Listen, it’s stupid to keep on being angry.’

  Scruff raced back from the sea. Martin held back to avoid the shower of spray as he shook himself down. Elaine turned. Her eyes were blazing. ‘The only stupid thing I ever did was fall for you. I must have been bloody mad!’

  Scruff dropped the ball and barked back, delighted at the shouting. Martin stopped. There seemed to be no further point in trailing after her. ‘Look,’ he called. ‘I’ll see you on Christmas Day. Let’s talk about it after that. When we’re both a bit … calmer.’

  Elaine turned and shook her head. ‘No you won’t,’ she said.

  ‘Won’t what?’

  ‘You won’t see me on Christmas Day. There’s no point, Martin. I…’ She seemed to struggle to find the word. ‘I don’t trust you any more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You run the Post Office the way you and the Wonder Boy want to run it. I’ll collect my salary for as long as I’m allowed to and I promise not to interfere. Good luck and goodbye.’ She felt tears welling and fought hard against them. ‘You’re not wanted, Martin. You’re redundant. You’ve been laid off. You don’t fit in with my plans.’

  Then the tears did come and she was angry with herself and turned sharply away towards the cliff path.

  Scruff laid the ball at Martin’s feet instead and eyed him, imploringly.

  Fourteen

  When Martin arrived back at Marsh Cottage it was almost dark. He was about to swing in to the doorway when his bicycle lamp picked out a badly parked yellow Datsun blocking the gateway. He dismounted and squeezed his bicycle alongside. It was most likely someone for his mother. Some of these Theston women parked like schoolchildren. Left their cars wherever they felt like it. To avoid whoever it might be he went around to the back door. That didn’t work. His mother was there in the kitchen and, opposite her, was a visitor he recognised. Sitting, with her hands tight around one of the big white coffee mugs, was Ruth Kohler.

  Martin was suddenly conscious of being damp and windswept, and his nose was running. He sniffed hard and pushed the door open.

  ‘How d’you do,’ he said formally and laid his briefcase on the chair.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ said his mother.

  ‘It’s just drizzle. It’s not cold.’

  ‘This lady –’

  ‘Ruth,’ Ruth reminded her again.

  ‘Ruth and me are just having some coffee. D’you want a cup?’

  Martin nodded and unzipped his anorak. Ruth looked at home in the kitchen. He was surprised. She had a cigarette in her hand and his mother had found her an ashtray. ‘A present from the Vatican’ was inscribed on its rim. A friend had brought it back.

  ‘I didn’t think you knew where I lived,’ he said, ducking into the back porch and hanging up his things.

  Ruth gave a quick, short cough and tapped the ash from her cigarette. ‘The most discreet man in the world told me, but only after I threatened him.’

  Martin bent down, pulled off his bicycle clips and tucked them into the pocket of his anorak. ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘Our mutual friend in the book trade. Mr Julian.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Martin crossed to the sink and ran his hands under the hot tap. He caught sight of his scraggy red-brown hair in the mirror and wished he could have had time to comb it.

  ‘I must go and see him. He’s got some magazines for me.’

  Ruth expelled two long columns of smoke. ‘Not any more, I’m afraid.’

  Martin reached for the towel. ‘Have they gone?’

  Ruth nodded. Martin’s face creased momentarily. ‘Well, that’s the way it goes,’ he said, and dried his hands briskly.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ said Ruth.

  Martin turned. ‘Your fault?’

  ‘I was the one who bought them. He didn’t tell me until after I’d paid. Said he felt quite sad about selling them, but he’d waited a couple of months. I thought I should come by and explain.’

  Martin smiled ruefully. ‘I don’t have the money anyway.’

  Ruth reached down to the chair beside her and produced a silver-ribboned parcel wrapped in Christmas paper. She pushed it across the table towards him. ‘I hope this’ll make up for it.’

  Kathleen Sproale poured the hot water on to the coffee. ‘He’s got quite enough bits and pieces anyway,’ she said appeasingly. She turned to Ruth. ‘He’s got his own bookshop up there. And I have to clean it.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ retorted Martin. ‘You clean it because you like to have a snoop.’

  Now it was Ruth’s turn to be the appeaser. ‘I love books. Any chance I can see it?’

&nb
sp; Martin smoothed his hair down as best he could, shot a fierce glance at his mother and cleared his throat. ‘You can see it if you want.’

  Martin led Ruth upstairs, across the landing, and pushed open the door. Once inside she looked around, shyly at first, occasionally shaking her head and exclaiming. She peered closely and wonderingly at his first editions and asked if she might take them down. She ran her hands over the Corona typewriter and stared hard at the photographs he had stuck on the wall. She ignored the hats that hung behind the door and was not much interested in the punch bag, the billhook (possibly Cuban), or the bullfight poster. She made a face at the kudu horns and smiled and shook her head at the Wehrmacht belt.

  Then her eye was taken by the medical cabinet and she asked him about it and he told her it was from a hospital in Milan and it was of the same design and vintage as the one in the American Red Cross Hospital where the nineteen-year-old Hemingway fell in love with his nurse Agnes Von Kurowsky.

  She whistled at this and asked if it still had period bandages and eighty-year-old iodine inside. Before he could stop her she had pulled at the enamel catch. As the door swung open she stood back, visibly impressed. ‘Now that’s one hell of a bar.’

  More than two dozen bottles, some with old, faded, unfamiliar labels, were clustered inside.

  ‘All his favourite drinks,’ said Martin, sheepishly. ‘I’ve sort of collected them over the years. All except applejack brandy. The off-licence in Theston keep saying they’ll get me some but they don’t know if anyone makes it any more. Oh, and absinthe. That’s a tricky one. It’s illegal in most countries.’

  ‘I don’t see any Bollinger Brut, 1915.’

  Martin picked up the reference eagerly. ‘As bought for David Bourne by Marita.’

  She nodded and smiled. ‘Right. The Garden of Eden. The only novel I can still read.’

  Martin ignored this. ‘I only buy his non-fiction drinks,’ he explained, pushing the door shut again.

  ‘There’s not much non-fiction in Hemingway,’ Ruth smiled. ‘Except in his novels.’

  Martin looked vaguely troubled.

  Ruth felt for her cigarettes.

  ‘Are you going to offer me a Christmas drink?’ she asked, indicating the medicine cabinet. ‘I’ll pass on iodine but take anything else you’ve got.’

  She watched, amused, as he dropped to his knees and searched carefully through the ranks of bottles.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ he called from the cupboard. After much rummaging he produced a bottle from right at the back. He held it out to her.

  ‘Grappa,’ she said approvingly.

  ‘This is Nardini,’ he said. ‘There’s lots of them, though.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Ruth. ‘He talks about it often enough, but I never knew what it was.’

  Martin looked pleased, nodded, poured a glass and handed it to her. ‘They call it the poor man’s brandy. It’s made of everything the wine-makers throw away. Skins, pips, stalks. They all go in. Sit down, if you can find room.’

  Ruth perched herself on the edge of the bed. She waited until he had poured one for himself, then she raised her glass.

  ‘Salute,’ she said.

  ‘Salute,’ Martin replied, a little less confidently.

  She took a mouthful, caught the dry, fiery flavour and made a face. ‘Boy, that hurt!’ Her eyes watered and she grinned painfully.

  ‘D’you like it?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘A little strong for me.’

  ‘You get used to it. Hemingway loved it.’

  She nodded and held the glass up with mock solemnity. ‘Exhibit A,’ she said.

  ‘Exhibit A?’

  She glanced towards the photograph.

  ‘This is what killed him.’

  Martin shook his head vigorously. ‘He killed himself because he couldn’t write any more.’

  ‘Why couldn’t he write any more? Because his liver was gone and his blood pressure was sky high and he was overweight and ill. Don’t tell me that wasn’t because of the booze.’ Ruth took another sip of the grappa. This time she caught the dry, woody flavour and it was strong, but friendly.

  ‘Ernest Hemingway’s life, Martin, is a case study in alcoholism.’

  Martin was stung. ‘He could have come off the booze, but he enjoyed it. Anyway he was never drunk. I mean, rolling drunk. Never incapable.’

  ‘I’ll soon be making tea,’ shouted Kathleen from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Are you staying, Ruth?’

  Ruth glanced at her watch and set her glass down. ‘No thanks,’ she shouted back, and turned to Martin. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘There’s no hurry. I enjoy talking about him.’

  Ruth laughed and stood up. She brushed down the creases in her well-cut black trousers and Martin saw that her legs were long and slim.

  ‘Well, I’ve spent the last three months unravelling his love life and I need a break.’

  Martin held out the bottle towards her. ‘One for the road?’

  ‘No, really Martin.’ She held her hand over the glass. ‘This is just fine.’

  Martin poured himself another and raised a toast again. ‘Salud.’

  She raised hers back and laughed. ‘Skol.’

  Martin drank most of it back in one. ‘Are you on your own at Christmas, Ruth?’ he was surprised to find himself asking.

  Ruth shook her head emphatically. ‘No, I have to go to Oxford. There’s a lot of material I need to dig out of the Bodleian Library. I’m combining it with a trip to see friends. And you?’

  Martin retreated. Played safe. ‘Well, we usually go to the Rudges.’

  ‘That’s nice. I envy you.’

  * * *

  After Ruth had gone, Martin sat at the kitchen table and contemplated the parcel she had given him. Then curiosity got the better of him and he pulled the silver ribbon and ran his fingers under the flaps at both ends of the wrapping paper and folded it back. Inside there was a card. On the front was Robert Capa’s photograph of Hem, his son Gregory and two rifles, leaning against a log in Sun Valley, Idaho. On the back was written, ‘From Ruth Kohler and the Admirers of Ernest. Happy Christmas.’

  Beneath the card was a copy of the Toronto Daily Star for 27th January 1923 and below it a copy of the first Esquire magazine ever printed.

  * * *

  As Martin was opening her present, Ruth was driving along a narrow road that led between wet, ploughed fields wondering if he had opened it yet and wondering why she had lied to him about spending Christmas with friends.

  She wound down her window. It was warm and the easterly air was stale.

  Fifteen

  It was early January and the weather had turned numbingly cold. But inside the post office Harold Meredith was concerned with more than the temperature.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it, Mr Meredith,’ said Martin.

  ‘Then why are you –’ He tapped on the glass. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, I can hear you.’

  ‘Then why are you closing down?’

  ‘We’re not closing down, we’re going to move into another part of the building whilst the improvements are done. When you next see it it’ll be a different place.’

  Harold Meredith’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What will it be?’

  ‘It’ll be a post office, but much more comfortable and easy for you to use.’

  ‘It’s easy to use now, except for this blooming thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This thing.’ He jabbed a thin finger at the sliding security box. ‘Jaws. You could get rid of that for a start.’

  ‘It’s for security reasons, Mr Meredith,’ said Martin wearily. ‘You know that.’

  ‘If you ask me, it’s the criminal that runs the country these days,’ went on Mr Meredith. ‘It’s like that card they’ve given me for my meter. What was wrong with putting a coin in? Oh, no, they said, this is
much more secure. Well, I said, I’ve got three jars full of 10 p’s. What am I going to do with them? Well, they said, give them to us and we’ll give you a credit. I said, you take your hands off my 10 p’s.’

  ‘That’s the electricity company, Mr Meredith, you’ll have to go and talk to them.’

  Pamela Harvey-Wardrell, looking like some legendary Cossack general in a lovat greatcoat, knee-length leather boots and black astrakhan hat, glared into the back of Harold Meredith’s head from three places away. She cleared her throat. Without turning, Mr Meredith sighed, picked up his gloves and cap, unhooked his walking-stick and made his way slowly across to the writing desk.

  Mrs Harvey-Wardrell reached Martin and handed over the details of her road tax renewal. ‘I don’t know why all our post offices have to be fortresses these days, do you Martin? I mean take France – d’you know France at all?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘I’ll need the test certificate,’ he said.

  Mrs Harvey-Wardrell rummaged in her bag. ‘We’re terribly fond of the Ardèche, always nipping off there if Perry can be spared from the City, and the post offices there are frightfully good. Cats on the counter, glorious smell of cooking from the back, ragoût simmering for the lunch hour. Everything quite wonderfully relaxed.’

  A small furtive man in a tight brown suit whom Martin had not seen before came briskly up to the counter. ‘Excuse me –’

  Mrs Harvey-Wardrell’s head flicked down. ‘Excuse me!’

  The man appealed to Martin. ‘I’m looking for –’ But he got no further.

  ‘I don’t care who you’re looking for, it is the absolute height of bad manners to intrude upon a private transaction.’

  ‘Can’t we just get on with it,’ suggested an increasingly aggressive nursing mother who had been queuing for nearly twenty minutes.

  Mrs Harvey-Wardrell swivelled round to deal with the new threat, and the furtive man took his chance. He leaned towards Martin. His eyes were set well back in a narrow, pinched face. ‘I’m looking for Mr Marshall, please.’

  Before Martin could say anything, Nick Marshall, looking none too pleased, came up behind him and ushered the man rapidly to the door at the end of the counter.