Hemingway's Chair

by Michael Palin

  Mrs Sproale felt around in an armchair and produced a remote control. On the screen a camera zoomed in. An amorphous crowd of people became a young boy’s face. The zoom continued until only a pair of listless eyes filled the screen. Mrs Sproale pointed the control at the face and it disappeared.

  ‘Tea, Elaine?’

  ‘Well, I’ve really come to see Martin. Is it too late?’

  Mrs Sproale shook her head apologetically. ‘I’m afraid you’re too early. He’s still with his American lady.’

  Eighteen

  ‘Hemingway’s nickname for Mary?’

  ‘Kitten.’

  Martin nodded. ‘Correct. Her name for him?’

  ‘Lamb?’

  ‘Name of his dog at the Finca Vigia?’

  ‘Black Dog.’

  ‘Name of his cat?’

  ‘Which one? There were fifty-two of them.’

  ‘His favourite.’

  ‘Christopher Columbus.’

  The first frost of the winter was making its mark around the metal frames on the windows of Everend Farm Cottage, but it was still just possible to catch a glimpse of two figures sitting close by the red and gold glow of an open fire. It burned beneath a copper hood which drew the air and the smoke up an ageing brick chimney stack. The cottage itself was one of those modest, unambitious constructions which have a knack of surviving longer than their more palatial counterparts. Parts of the building were a hundred and fifty years old. A tiled roof had replaced thatch, metal frames had replaced wood on the windows and the lavatory had been brought indoors. Otherwise it remained much as it was built. Single storey, with a latch door that gave straight on to a parlour. An alcove window faced out to the west and on either side of the fireplace two smaller windows faced due south.

  From the parlour a doorway led through to a low-ceilinged bedroom from which two other doors led off, one to a tiny space into which Ted Wellbeing had managed to squeeze a lavatory, a wash basin and a shower and the other to the kitchen.

  Martin sat to one side of the fireplace, in a fat, low, well-worn leather armchair. There was a matching sofa at an angle to the fire but Ruth preferred to sit on the floor. All the floors in the cottage were uneven and, apart from the kitchen, cheaply carpeted. Her knees were drawn up tight to her chin and the firelight accentuated her angular, pointed features.

  Martin had become daily more obsessed with the thought of owning the fishing chair. Every other evening since Ruth had first shown him the photograph he had rung her to make sure that it did exist, that she knew where it was and that it would not be sold to anyone else. His waking hours had become filled with visions of riding it high over the ocean swell, creaking and twisting this way and that, strapped in as if for execution, grappling to wrench some mighty aquatic adversary from the balmy waters of the Pacific Ocean.

  Meanwhile he agonised over the finances. On eleven and a half thousand pounds a year, with his mother to help and their mortgage to pay, there was not a lot left over. He had already begun to put some by, but he reckoned it would be six months at the very least before he might have enough.

  It was in the hope of heading off some of the constant phone calls that Ruth had invited him round. At the start of the evening Martin had been the painfully shy, polite and tongue-tied young man she first met, but she had poured liberal Scotches and talked about Hemingway rather than real life and the combination had opened him up.

  One of them, she couldn’t now remember which it had been, had suggested making up a sort of Hemingway Trivial Pursuit. Several Scotches later the idea had given way to a fiercely fought version of Mastermind in which they took turns to ask the questions. Ruth was having to work hard to keep up.

  ‘You want to go on?’ Martin asked her.

  Ruth sighed doubtfully. ‘Sure,’ she said.

  Martin laid his head back against the faintly discoloured top of the armchair, frowned in concentration, and began again. ‘Hemingway’s favourite bar in Havana?’

  ‘Florida?’

  ‘Wrong. Floridita. Name of the cabin cruiser he bought in 1936?’

  ‘Pilar.’

  ‘Horsepower?’

  Ruth shook her head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘One hundred and fifteen. How did he pay for it?’

  ‘Loan from Pauline?’

  ‘No, loan from Arnold Gingrich, editor of Esquire, against future contributions.’

  Ruth shook her head impatiently and reached for another cigarette. She shook the box but it was empty.

  ‘Adriana Ivancich was the model for which story?’

  ‘Across the River and Into the Trees.’

  ‘What was her brother’s name?’

  ‘Older or younger?’

  ‘Older.’

  ‘Gianfranco.’

  ‘In 1934 the Hemingways came back from Africa to Europe. On which ship and to what port?’

  ‘The Gripsholm was the ship, yes? And the port was … Marseilles?’

  ‘Villefranche.’

  ‘Ah!’ Ruth reproved herself angrily. She got up and walked across to the alcove where she had taken to working.

  Martin leaned back. His head was beginning to ache. ‘Shall we stop?’ he asked.

  Ruth searched about among her books and papers for the packet of cigarettes she knew was there. ‘Keep going,’ she said tersely.

  Ruth found her cigarettes, lit one and resumed her concentration.

  Martin began again. ‘In which town did he marry Martha Gellhorn?’

  Ruth muttered the question back to herself, then answered ‘Cheyenne, Wyoming.’

  ‘Year?’

  ‘1939?’

  ‘No, 1940.’

  ‘Shit! Yes…’

  ‘What sort of pistol did Lieutenant Henry carry in A Farewell to Arms?’

  Ruth shook her head irritably. ‘Guns. I don’t know about guns.’

  ‘Astra 7.65, short barrel.’

  She held up her hands theatrically. ‘Okay, that’s boys’ talk. No more guns, right?’

  ‘Which of his wives left all his manuscripts on a train?’

  ‘Hadley.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Gare de Lyon, Paris.’

  ‘Life magazine ran The Old Man and the Sea in its entirety. How many copies did it sell in its first two days of publication?’

  Again Ruth bit her lip and shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Five and a half million,’ said Martin emphatically. He usually asked the questions without looking at her, but this time he watched her reaction to the answer. She didn’t appear to have one, other than looking a little cross. Martin went on.

  ‘Which year did Hemingway win the Nobel Prize for Literature?’

  ‘1953.’

  ‘1954.’

  Ruth cursed herself roundly. She leaned back and closed her eyes. ‘I’ve had it.’

  Martin looked up at the clock with a small smile of satisfaction. It was almost midnight. They’d begun nearly two hours ago, with decorous, generous questions about titles of books and wives’ names, but now it was a matter of pride and persistence.

  ‘Is this stuff good or bad for the memory?’ asked Ruth as she reached for the Scotch.

  ‘Probably both,’ said Martin.

  She poured herself a generous measure.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Ruth. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘We going on then?’

  ‘Sure. It’s time you took a bit of punishment.’

  Martin made a half-hearted attempt to pull himself out of the armchair. ‘I’ve got to be at work at half past eight.’

  She stood and moved across to the kitchen. He heard the tap running as she watered the whisky. She returned, stood in the doorway and took a drink. ‘One more round then we’re done. Okay?’

  Martin nodded. ‘What’s the score?’ he asked thickly.

  ‘God knows.’

  Ruth drank again. She was a little unsteady by now, but with a deep breath she summoned up all her energy.

  �
�Okay,’ she decided with a final flourish. ‘Welcome to the last, deciding round of Hemingway Challenge.’

  ‘It is midnight,’ Martin added edgily.

  ‘Mr Sproale is anxious and who wouldn’t be with so much at stake. So, here goes. How old was Ernest when he stopped wearing dresses?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll repeat the question. How old was Ernest when he stopped wearing dresses?’

  ‘Three months?’

  ‘Three and a half years. For how long after his birth did Mrs Hemingway keep Ernest in her bed?’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Well, that’s not the kind of thing –’

  ‘Just answer the questions, please. How did he commonly refer to his mother in later life?’

  ‘Grace?’

  ‘No. “That bitch”.’

  ‘What sort of question’s that?’

  ‘Which letter did he have trouble pronouncing?’

  ‘L,’ said Martin, reluctantly.

  ‘Good!’ Ruth went on, eyes half-shut, her body tense with concentration. ‘Which of his books was described as “lapsing repeatedly into lachrymose sentimentality and containing crucifixion symbolism of the most appalling crudity”?’

  Martin pulled himself up on to the edge of his chair and shook his head. ‘Look, I’m not answering that. That was in Kenneth Lynn’s biography which was a load of tripe.’

  ‘Answer the question please, Mr Sproale. Which was the book referred to?’

  ‘The Old Man and the Sea,’ Martin muttered, making another effort to get to his feet.

  ‘Thank you. How did Max Eastman title his review of Death in the Afternoon?’

  ‘Pass.’

  ‘Bull in the Afternoon.’

  Martin protested. ‘Lots of critics were jealous. They couldn’t afford to say they liked him.’

  ‘Why do you like him?’

  There was a silence between them. Then Martin pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I like him because. I like him because he wouldn’t have got himself involved in a stupid game like this.’

  Ruth sounded a mock fanfare. ‘The winner!’

  * * *

  As he was leaving she leaned one arm against the wall by the door and bowed her head contritely. ‘I had too much Scotch … I’m sorry…’

  Martin shrugged. He pulled on his anorak. She raised her head and watched him for a moment. He took the cycle clips from his pocket and attached them to his trousers. Then he felt in the pockets again and produced a pair of blue knitted gloves.

  ‘That was incredible,’ she said. ‘Have you ever thought of going on a game show?’

  Martin didn’t smile. He pulled on the gloves. ‘Of course not. Have you?’

  Ruth spread her arms again. ‘There I go again. Big feet.’

  Martin nodded goodbye. He took off a glove and held out his hand. Ruth shook it with mock formality. He pulled open the door and was about to leave when she stopped him. ‘Look, will you do something for me?’

  ‘So long as it’s not another quiz.’

  ‘Well, it’s sort of a quiz, but I don’t want to play it with you.’

  ‘Who do you want to play it with?’

  ‘Hemingway.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’ Martin was tired now. He’d had enough of games, but Ruth was suddenly animated.

  ‘Please,’ she said, beckoning him back in and pushing the door shut. ‘Five minutes, that’s all.’

  She walked a little way into the room, picked a cigarette out of the pack and turned back to him. ‘I spend my days writing about all the women who knew Hemingway. Right?’

  Martin nodded wearily and watched her light the cigarette. She blew the smoke out urgently and began to pace the room again. ‘I read their letters, their laundry lists, their diaries, their notebooks, whatever, and I feel I know them better than they know themselves. But Ernest I have a real problem with. I just don’t like the guy very much.’

  Martin managed a weak smile. ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ he said, but she didn’t seem to hear.

  ‘I can respect his work, some of it, and I can admire his … his physical strength, his courage. But I cannot see much that would explain why so many of these very intelligent, attractive, sensible women would want to spend more than a couple of days with him, let alone a lifetime.’

  She walked across to the fire and flicked off the ash from her cigarette.

  ‘The trouble is I’m getting all one-sided about it. I need to project myself into that great big, bull-necked head. I need to get in there and look around. And I can’t.’

  She looked across at Martin. His sky-blue anorak was zipped to the throat. His trousers were clipped. His blue knitted gloves were in place. Soon he would slip a royal blue bobble hat over his thatch of light red hair. He was an unlikely Hemingway.

  ‘You know him, Martin. You know him better than I ever will. You just said that yourself.’

  Martin shifted uncomfortably. It was the way she had used his name. She hadn’t used it often.

  ‘No, I’m not playing games,’ she said. ‘I’m not being a clever American bitch trying to score points. I’m serious.’

  Martin was embarrassed. ‘Well I’m a thick Englishman because I don’t understand what you want.’

  ‘Here’s an example.’

  Martin frowned.

  ‘Just real quick. Please?’ She indicated the armchair. ‘Just sit down a minute, somewhere comfortable.’

  Martin shook his head, moved reluctantly to the chair and perched himself on one of the arms. Ruth reached for the bottle, found his glass on the table, recharged it and handed it to him. Her lean, light olive skin seemed to shine. Her eyes were darker than ever. Her long, rangy body seemed light and alert.

  ‘Now, if I were your wife Pauline and less than three weeks ago I had just delivered you, Ernest, a son by Caesarean section after a seventeen-hour labour which I thought I would never survive, and you, Ernest, had just planned a fishing trip to Wyoming, how would you tell me about it?’

  ‘Well, he might say –’

  ‘No. What would you say, Ernest?’

  Martin sat quite still for a moment. He raised the whisky glass to his lips and drank. Then a curious thing happened. First it was a sort of physical transformation. Martin lowered his head and when he raised it again it seemed heavier and his narrow shoulders rose, went back and widened to accommodate it. But even more extraordinary than this sudden illusion of bulk and substance was the way he looked at her. Keeping the head rolled a little forward, Martin jutted out his jaw and fixed her with a scowl which, as she was to describe it later, did not belong to him.

  He stood up and took a step towards her. Ruth instinctively retreated.

  ‘Listen to me for Christ’s sake.’ His voice had dropped an octave. The accent was robust, if not entirely accurate. The point was that whoever this was, it wasn’t Martin.

  ‘I ain’t gonna apologise for a crime I didn’t commit. You do your job, I do mine. Right?’

  Then the scowl vanished as swiftly as it had come and a smile spread across the face like sun emerging from a cloud. He straightened his shoulders and raised his head until he was looking down on Ruth the way she remembered her father used to.

  ‘I’m a writer, baby, and I love you very much, Mrs P. and I love the boy. Wyoming at this time of the year is the only thing in the world that’s more beautiful than you are.’

  A slow smile spread over Ruth’s face. She shook her head slowly. The man opposite her stopped, relaxed, smiled quickly and awkwardly, and became Martin Sproale again. He cleared his throat and made for the door.

  ‘That’s bullshit,’ Ruth said admiringly. ‘That’s very good bullshit.’

  Nineteen

  The refurbishment of Theston post office was taking longer than was expected. Meanwhile pensions, licences, benefits, packets, parcels, recorded deliveries, visitors’ passports and the rest all had to be dealt with in the cramped confines of a temp
orary area, half the size of the old one.

  One Thursday, with February approaching and still no escape from plaster board and unshaded light bulbs, Martin felt disgruntled enough to confront Nick Marshall at close of business.

  Marshall was defensive. He pulled out the aerial of his mobile phone, then pushed it in again, with what would have passed, in a lesser man, for nervousness. ‘The improvement programme is a lot more complicated than we thought, Martin. There’s a problem with the roof.’

  ‘The roof? I thought we were just putting up a few new partitions.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I thought, but they’ve found a serious weakness. With the beams.’ Nick Marshall felt the onset of the twitch and Martin saw it too. Marshall clenched his jaw and looked purposeful, but the right side of his mouth still fluttered. ‘This is an old building, Mart.’

  ‘1934?’

  ‘Well, that’s old. That’s nearly sixty years old. Padgett should have reported all these problems a long time ago.’

  ‘So, how much longer do we have to put up with this?’

  ‘I’ve got Crispin to do a full report on the state of the place.’

  ‘Crispin?’

  ‘The builder,’ added Marshall, quickly.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Martin remembered where he’d heard the name now. Elaine had called him a crook.

  ‘If it’s as bad as it sounds we may have to move to a TSA.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Nick Marshall drew his lips right back, as if someone had very suddenly inserted something into his bottom. ‘Temporary Secure Alternative.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well,’ his jaw was still clenched, as if in considerable pain. ‘There’s space at the back of Randall’s.’

  He walked away from Martin, along the counter, checking drawers, locks, computer keyboards. Martin followed him. ‘Randall’s?’ he asked incredulously. ‘The sweetshop?’

  ‘And newsagent,’ Marshall added, with a touch of asperity. ‘There’s a back area which they use for storage. I’ve had a look and that could be up and running in a couple of weeks.’