Hemingway's Chair

by Michael Palin

  ‘Are you serious?’

  Marshall peered closely at the latest edition of Counter News. ‘If you’d like to remain here while the roof caves in, Martin, maybe you could explain the reason to our customers.’

  ‘So we’re ending up in a sweetshop after all.’

  ‘It’ll only be a month or two, assuming there’s no real problem here.’

  Martin felt weak and suddenly quite short of breath. He wished, for once, that Marshall would turn and look at him.

  ‘How is it going to work?’ Martin asked.

  Marshall tapped his finger on the copy of Counter News. ‘That’s interesting. They want us to use PF 58 forms for compensation claims against Parcelforce, but they don’t send us any. Have you seen them, Mart?’

  Martin’s hands were hot. He rubbed them quickly on the side of his trousers. ‘How is it going to work?’ he repeated. ‘This temporary accommodation?’

  Marshall cleared his throat. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘How do you turn the back room of a sweetshop into a post office? Temporarily?’

  The side of Marshall’s mouth jerked as if being raked by machine-gun fire. ‘We use a company called Elldor.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Don’t you read your Counter News? They’re a private company formed to do post office conversions.’

  ‘What about the post office engineers?’ asked Martin.

  ‘They are the post office engineers.’

  ‘You mean they’ll set up a post office and take it all down again?’

  ‘If they have to.’ Marshall unlocked one of the tills, tidied a piece of paper off the counter into it and pushed it shut again.

  ‘They will have to,’ said Martin.

  Marshall nodded. ‘Then they will,’ he said quietly. He moved towards the door, anxious to keep his back to Martin. ‘I certainly think the customers deserve better than this,’ he said, raising his hand to avoid a cluster of wires hanging down from the ceiling.

  ‘I think the customers need their post office back,’ said Martin angrily. ‘I think most of them are getting a little bit fed up with all this. A move and then another move. It’s not good for business.’

  Marshall turned from the door. He smiled. It was a controlled smile, wide enough both to prevent his mouth from moving involuntarily and to reveal his long, regular, largely unfilled, ever-so-slightly pointed alabaster-white teeth. He took a step towards Martin. ‘You know, the trouble with you, Martin, is you’re a short-term man. Maybe you should start to take the longer view.’

  ‘I think of my customers, that’s all, Nick.’

  ‘I’m thinking of you, Martin.’ He revealed his teeth again, more generously this time. ‘I’ve been watching you. You’re getting restless.’

  Martin nodded at the makeshift counters. ‘It’s working in the middle of a bloody building site.’

  Marshall looked at him appraisingly. ‘No, it’s deeper than that, if you ask me. What you need is a challenge.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think it’s time to get off your bike, Mart. Take on a little more responsibility.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  Marshall’s left hand played again with his mobile. He put his head on one side and looked hard at Martin, as if coming to some sort of decision. Then he stretched his right hand out towards him, index finger pointing.

  ‘If you’re interested, there’s someone you should meet.’

  Martin looked suspicious and Marshall gave him one of his warmest, most thorough, most deliberately disarming smiles. ‘Come round to the flat tonight. About seven. I’ll get Geraldine to cook something up. We’ll have a chat.’

  Martin must have still looked dubious for he added, ‘It could be worth your while.’

  Twenty

  Marshall’s flat was small and sparsely furnished. It occupied one side of the top floor of what had once been both a family house and a country hotel on the outskirts of Atcham. A few dull prints of naval inaction relieved the blandness of avocado walls. The furniture seemed carefully chosen for its neutrality. There was a smell of new carpet about. Martin glimpsed a tidy bedroom almost entirely taken up with a large double bed covered by a paisley duvet. A pile of magazines was stacked high on one side of a dressing table. The room next to the bedroom looked more of an office. Through a crack in the door he could see shelves full of directories, at least two computers and thick clusters of wires and cables. He could detect no signs of a feminine presence, indeed it was hard to think where one might fit in.

  ‘Why do you live right out here?’ Martin asked, as Marshall handed him a pitifully small Scotch.

  ‘Well, it suits me for now. I’m not a great one for putting down roots. Here, have a look at this.’ He picked up a copy of Business Investor magazine, and tossed it across to him. The cover illustration featured a montage of aerials and matt-black satellite dishes beneath the heading, ‘Future Perfect. The Next Revolution’.

  ‘Page fifteen.’

  Marshall disappeared into one of the rooms and a moment or two later Martin could hear him talking on the telephone. He opened the magazine and found the article, but couldn’t understand much of it. It was full of terms like ‘information super-highway’, ‘interactive services’ and ‘electronic cottages’. The gist seemed to be that information technology was now so sophisticated that there seemed little necessity for two human beings ever to meet again.

  Martin was wading slowly through this world of endless possibilities when he heard a key in the lock and a moment later Geraldine Cotton pushed the door open and, holding it with her foot, reached outside again for two bulging carrier bags. Martin got up. ‘D’you want a hand?’

  She shook her head and he sat back down again. She pulled a last bag in and changed her mind. ‘You could take those two through to the kitchen for me, that’d be a help.’

  Martin sprang up again. He took them through and watched her as she unbuttoned an old wide-shouldered tweed coat. She slipped it off, revealing a collarless flannel shirt draped low over a navy teeshirt and a short, tight, red leather skirt. She slipped her feet unselfconsciously out of a pair of high-heeled shoes.

  ‘He’s given you a drink then,’ she said.

  ‘And a magazine.’

  ‘You are honoured. People usually just get the magazine.’

  Geraldine dropped the coat on a chair and quickly looked around the room. ‘Not too bad,’ she muttered to herself, then smiled brightly as she passed by Martin. ‘Sit down. You look uncomfortable.’

  Martin selected the sofa. It was imitation leather of some kind and its surface had a thin, sticky texture. It sighed unhappily as he sat down. Geraldine briskly dealt herself a Scotch and he noticed she took it neat and large and very gratefully. ‘Drowning sorrows?’ Martin asked.

  She laughed. ‘Drowning Tesco’s. The whole of Suffolk was in there tonight. Don’t they have any other shops round here?’

  ‘Not many, thanks to Tesco’s.’

  Geraldine laughed. ‘Are you a Green?’ she asked, disappearing into a kitchen that gave on to one end of the room. In order to reply, Martin had to get up once again, and move closer to the kitchen. He hovered in the middle of the room.

  ‘I don’t save rain forests, if that’s what you mean. But I care about the shops, yes.’

  She gave him a faint smile, halfway between amusement and approval. ‘Good for you.’

  She was about to say something else when Marshall bounded back into the room. ‘Sorry about that. Business call. Sit down, Mart, please.’ Martin, who had only just stood up, sat down again.

  ‘Did you read the article?’

  Martin nodded equivocally. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Geraldine began opening packets and crunching wrappings and clattering around in cupboards. Nick Marshall peeled off the jacket of his sage-green flannel suit, loosened his tie and settled himself into a wing-back armchair beneath a solid, unimaginative print of two First World War
frigates becalmed on an unlikely pea-green sea. He was not drinking, Martin noticed. Marshall checked his watch. He glanced to the kitchen. Then he rubbed his hands together and interlocked his fingers, stretching the palms of his hands away from him.

  ‘Mart, you remember asking me once about how I could afford hotel meals on a postal manager’s salary?’

  Martin didn’t remember asking any such thing, but he recognised the familiar formula and he knew that it was an introduction to whatever it was that Marshall was about to tell him.

  ‘Well, I think the time has come for me to give you an explanation.’

  Martin tried to look duly grateful. Marshall indicated the magazine. ‘That’s what it’s all about.’

  Martin looked down again at the pages as if enlightenment might lie there. None was forthcoming. Meanwhile Nick Marshall cradled his hands behind his head, leaned back against the wall and launched into his explanation.

  ‘I’m what they used to call a computer whiz-kid. Unfortunately I never knew I had the skills until I went to work for the Post Office. I never knew I had any skills, which is why I went to work for the Post Office. No offence intended, but you know what I mean.’ He suddenly straightened up and leaned forward. ‘While I was at Luton they were installing the first counter computers and asking for our reactions. I’d become fascinated by the buggers and I got myself on a night-school course to learn as much as I could as quickly as I could and when they came round from Head Office I not only gave them my reaction, I gave them a programme which was one hell of a lot better than the one we were working on.’ He stopped and from the way he flashed a look across at him Martin had the uncomfortable feeling that he expected him to understand what he was talking about.

  ‘Well, I was thanked and patted on the head and they took my improvements and I never heard another word about it. Eighteen months later they announce their new Contour Plus system into which, surprise, surprise, half my work was incorporated. They were installing these all over the country and it would have cost them a lot of money to admit that one of their own clerks had had a hand in designing them. So they ignored me, and I protested and they threatened me with the sack. Well, by that time I’d moved on a bit and I’d become fascinated by DIANE.’

  Martin grasped eagerly at this morsel of human interest. ‘Diane?’

  ‘Direct Information Access Network, Europe. I was working on a system that would be able to co-ordinate every daily post office transaction anywhere within the EC, virtually simultaneously. Unfortunately this required very powerful equipment. The Post Office had the equipment, but they’d already screwed me so I had to decide whether to stay inside and develop it with them or sell the information on.’ He suddenly broke off. ‘Gerry!’ he called towards the kitchen. ‘Did Matt call?’

  Geraldine called back. ‘Twice. He’ll be in later.’

  He switched seamlessly back to Martin. ‘Thankfully there were some buggers in the Post Office who could see the advantages. Some of these people were very high up and they knew about my system and they were impressed. But they knew that the longer the legislation took the greater the uncertainty over the funding. So rather than hang around they would take a calculated risk and go into development with a European partner. That way they could hit the ground running when privatisation came along.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to leave the Post Office?’ Martin asked.

  ‘It’s early days. We have to keep a low profile. There are two or three groups chasing the same technology, but they’re not there yet. The Post Office network could beat the balls off the rest. If it’s used properly.’

  Martin had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that he should not be hearing this. Geraldine was cutting and slicing and humming Aïda in the kitchen.

  ‘So,’ Martin had to make an effort to concentrate. ‘Are you saying that you’re involved with a private company –’

  Marshall nodded. ‘I’m a limited company, yes. I have to be for my own protection.’

  ‘And your company is involved with an outside partner?’

  ‘Sure. My company, Shelflife Limited, sells my services to an international communications company called Nordkom.’

  ‘Whilst you’re still an employee of the Post Office.’

  ‘Right.’

  Martin found himself glancing fearfully at the door. He started to speak then dropped his voice as Geraldine appeared from the kitchen, glanced at them both, smiled and walked down the passage towards the bedroom. Marshall nodded after her. ‘She’s all right. She works for Shelflife. Knows everything.’

  Martin stared at him. His head swung back to Geraldine only to see a door shut behind her. He slowly turned back to Marshall. ‘Surely,’ he began haltingly. ‘If this is true, it’s unbelievable.’

  Nick flicked his hair and allowed himself a smile. ‘Nicely put.’

  His smugness made Martin angry as well as puzzled. ‘I mean, it’s absolutely wrong, isn’t it? You’re employed by the Post Office. It’s unethical.’

  ‘They were unethical first.’

  Martin swallowed the remains of his whisky. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  Marshall stretched out his long legs. ‘Because I have a feeling your great love for the Post Office establishment is no greater than mine. It died the day they appointed me Manager, didn’t it? We’re brothers under the skin, Martin. We both feel a bit thwarted. Another?’ He pointed at Martin’s glass.

  Martin held it out tentatively. He wanted to keep a clear head so he could remember all this. ‘Thanks. Small one,’ he added. Unnecessarily.

  Marshall stood up. He stood easily, casually, hands thrust comfortably into trouser pockets. Geraldine passed by and smiled. As Marshall spoke he moved to a trayful of bottles. ‘Besides which, I need your help.’

  ‘To do what?’

  Marshall looked around. ‘Seen the Scotch, Gerry?’

  Geraldine’s arm with a rolled-up sleeve and a bottle of Scotch appeared round the kitchen doorway.

  ‘For various reasons – proximity to continental markets, low land values, local political stability – we, that is, we and Nordkom, see Theston as the prime location for the transmission centre of the system we’re working on.’ He bent forward, poured a careful quarter inch into Martin’s glass and handed it to him. ‘Theston will be the nerve centre of the operation. It would be nice to have someone working for us with … local expertise.’

  Martin found his mouth was quite dry. His grip around the glass tight and warm.

  Marshall replaced the bottle and walked across to the window. He pushed one of the curtains gently aside and looked out. Then he let the curtain fall back and turned again to Martin. ‘And of course you would be entitled to a consultancy fee.’

  ‘A consultancy fee?’

  ‘Oh, yes. From the moment you came on board you’d be entitled to a fee.’

  Marshall reached into his jacket and drew out an envelope. ‘I didn’t expect you to come here for nothing.’

  He laid a long, buff envelope on the coffee table.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’s a thousand.’

  ‘A thousand pounds!’

  ‘To begin with.’

  Martin stared down at the table.

  He could not take his eyes from the envelope. It lay there like one of those killer plants he’d read about: innocent and deadly at the same time. Innocuous until touched, then instantly snapping shut to engulf the molester. Martin knew that whatever happened he must not touch it. He heard Marshall’s crisp, classless voice, as if from a long way away. ‘Think of it as an investment in your future,’ it was saying. ‘And the future of the town you were born and bred in. What you are becoming part of is something exciting, and groundbreaking. It’s something that can only do good.’

  There was a sudden hiss and a resounding clang from the kitchen. ‘Shit, there goes the spinach!’ Geraldine shouted.

  Nick Marshall called out to her. ‘What time did you tell h
im?’

  ‘There’s spinach all over the fucking floor.’

  ‘What time did you tell him?’

  ‘What? Oh, seven thirty!’ Geraldine shouted back.

  There was a faint noise outside. Marshall went across to the curtain and pulled it aside again. ‘That’ll be him,’ he said.

  Martin looked up quickly. An image had come powerfully into his mind. It was one of towering waves and a lone figure strapped into a chair on the stern of a pitching boat. ‘Nick?’ His voice was thick and barely recognisable. ‘This … consultancy fee…’ Nick was moving to the door.

  Martin spoke rapidly. ‘If I were to accept it … if I were … I have to be sure … you must promise me that the Post Office will never know.’

  Marshall reached for the lock. ‘You’re safe, believe me.’

  ‘On your honour?’

  Marshall pulled the door open. Footsteps could be heard hurrying up the stairs. Marshall turned to him again. ‘On my honour, Mart.’

  Martin shut his eyes tight. There was a jumble of sights and sounds. The lone fisherman turned and smiled and beckoned him. Martin opened his eyes, leaned down to the table, picked up the envelope and slipped it quickly inside his jacket.

  The door opened. Martin’s heart froze.

  The man who stood there was John Devereux, Area Coordinator for Post Office Counter Services, the local boss, the hard-eyed pragmatist whose official visits to the post office had been likened to night raids from the Gestapo. Martin felt a sense of searing, flooding panic.

  He rose awkwardly to his feet. He was aware only of the sudden awful enormity of what he had done. The envelope in his inside pocket seemed to swell and expand. He felt it tearing through the lining, rearing up and out over his lapel, racing towards his chin like some uncontrollable erection. It must be impossible for the South East Area Co-ordinator not to see his guilt, smell his shame, feel his loathsomeness, sense his naked treachery. Devereux held out his hand.

  Martin, clammy palm cupped nervously, took hold of it. Devereux’s grip was strong and firm, his gaze was cool and piercing, and his South Yorkshire accent was gruff and uncompromising.