Hemingway's Chair

by Michael Palin

  ‘Meredith doesn’t like the phone,’ said Martin. ‘He’s eighty-two. He can’t hear it ring.’

  ‘Was he your automatic choice?’

  Martin looked hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry. Cheap shot. But is it wise to have old, deaf people running a campaign?’ She tapped the end of her cigarette into the saucer of her teacup.

  ‘There wasn’t a lot of choice,’ Martin explained. ‘People were either busy, or they didn’t want to get involved. Meredith knows the town, he’ll go out collecting signatures. He’ll work hard. I know that. He’s got nothing else to do.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s say this eighty-two-year-old troublemaker hits the streets, what is he, i.e. you, asking people to do?’ She flicked the pages. ‘I mean looking at this I’m not sure if you want me to set fire to the new post office, chain myself to a bulldozer or boycott Chinese food products.’

  Martin was getting thoroughly rattled. He had not expected to have to defend himself against Ruth, of all people. ‘It’s a serious attempt to warn people what is happening.’

  ‘I know it’s serious, Martin, but reading this you’d think the closing of Theston post office was the second worst thing this century after Hiroshima. What you need to do is decide what you want to achieve, and what you need to do to achieve it. D’you want money or marches or civil disobedience?’

  Martin thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not what?’

  ‘Why not all that? If that’s what it takes.’

  ‘Are you ready to go to prison?’

  ‘I’d never thought of it like that, but – yes, if I had to.’

  Ruth picked a shred of tobacco off her bottom lip. ‘For a post office?’

  Martin stared back defiantly. ‘Yes.’

  Ruth shook her head slowly and with admiration. ‘You would too. You would.’

  Martin seemed awkward with her compliment. ‘If everything else failed,’ he muttered. ‘All I want to do now is collect enough signatures to force the Post Office to change its mind.’

  Ruth raised her hands. ‘Good, that’s clear. That’s cut a page and a half already. Now, next problem is the name.’

  Martin felt on stronger ground here. Until he saw the expression on her face.

  ‘Look,’ Ruth said, ‘I’m with you all the way. I love protesting. But,’ she scanned the top of Martin’s first page, ‘“Theston People For Re-opening the Post Office in North Square” does not trip lightly off the tongue. Nor is TPFR a promising start for an acronym. So how about turning that around and trimming it down a little.’

  ‘What’s an acronym?’

  Ruth looked surprised. ‘For a man who’s been in love with Hemingway for most of his adult life –’

  ‘Hemingway never used fancy words.’

  ‘Touché.’ Ruth smiled. She went on more quietly. ‘An acronym is something, you know, like UNICEF or UNPROFOR. Words made up from first letters, so people never have to say the whole thing. And that’s what you need. Something nice and simple. Save Our Post Office? SOPO? Not bad.’

  Martin objected. ‘We’ve got a post office. It’s the old one we want to save.’

  ‘Save Our Old Post Office. SOOPO?’ She shook her head. ‘Not so good.’

  ‘It’s accurate.’

  ‘That’s not the point of an acronym.’

  Martin threw up his arms. ‘Well, why don’t you just think of a word and fit the cause to it?’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No, that’s it,’ she said triumphantly. ‘STOP. Save Theston’s Old Post Office.’

  ‘That would be STOPO.’

  ‘Martin,’ Ruth said icily, ‘don’t be a pedant.’

  Twenty-eight

  In the end it was Quentin Rawlings who came to the rescue. If it had not been for him STOP would never have started. Harold Meredith, though willing, was a far from ideal campaigner. His house-to-house technique was, to say the least, eccentric. His fondness for doorstep chats, indeed chats of any kind, slowed down his progress. Often, at the end of a visit, he would leave without having remembered to mention what he came for or, having mentioned it, would leave without his leaflets or his clipboard. By the time he returned the occupants had had time to slip out the back door or hide.

  By the end of his first day he had obtained seven signatures on the petition and a promise of a stall at the next Conservative jumble sale. On his way home he decided to make one last call. Pushing wearily on a wrought-iron gate which hung half off its hinges, he found himself at the bottom of the path that led to the door of Hogarth House – family home of Quentin and Maureen Rawlings.

  Pushing away a black and white plastic football with the end of his walking stick, he made his way to the front door. Hogarth House was not as pretty as it sounded, nor was it romantically named after the painter. It dated from 1907 and was one of three homes in the area built for the family of Maurice Hogarth, the sugar-beet king. It was tall and vulgar with unnecessary finials and fussy stucco mouldings that only served to accentuate its awkward proportions. The current owners had done little to the red and yellow brick façade other than let an adventurous Virginia creeper loose on it. This had become so prolific that in high summer it was quite difficult to find the front door at all. But in the middle of March the leaves were still in bud and Harold Meredith had little difficulty in locating not only the door, but also an antiquated pull-stop doorbell.

  The effort required to pull it produced precious little reward besides dizziness and a faint tinkle from a distant room which Mr Meredith didn’t hear at all. He was about to heave on it again when the blotchy green front door was pulled open and Quentin Rawlings stood there. He wore a stained white polo-neck tucked unsatisfactorily into a pair of mustard-coloured corduroys. His hair was unkempt. He looked as if he had just got out of bed. In fact Quentin Rawlings rarely got into bed. His life was centred around his anger, his typewriter and his determination to correct all the ills of the world before he reached retirement age. He stared truculently at Harold Meredith. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve come about the post office,’ said Mr Meredith. Quentin Rawlings emitted a short, sharp yelp, which caused Mr Meredith to start back in alarm.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about the post office.’

  When Rawlings spoke he employed the same oratorical technique whether his audience was the local Labour Party, the National Conference, or his wife at breakfast.

  ‘Did you know that out of twenty thousand offices in this country, eighteen and a half thousand are now owned by outside agencies? That in the last five years we have lost something in the region of one thousand sub-post offices, each serving an average catchment area of eight square miles each – that’s a total of eight thousand square miles of rural Britain from which basic services have been denied?’

  Harold Meredith opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Did you know that the Government, not content with splitting up the traditional, integrated multi-functional role of the postal services is proposing to sell each one separately to the highest bidder?’

  Harold Meredith’s mouth remained open.

  ‘I mean is that not ludicrous? Parcels competing with letters competing with the people who sell stamps? Have you ever heard anything like it?’

  Harold Meredith decided his mouth would not be needed and closed it.

  ‘And what’s more, I tell you that in this very town we live in they have decided to replace the old post office, without consultation and without any formal announcement of change.’

  Mr Meredith raised a hand.

  ‘What we should be doing here is not standing around letting them get away with it. We should be making a noise, creating a fuss, rallying opposition, telling the people of Theston what is happening under their very noses.’

  ‘Well,’ began Mr Meredith.

  Quentin Rawlings jabbed a finger in his direction.

  ‘Start a campaign to raise these issues.’

  ‘Well,
’ repeated Mr Meredith.

  ‘All you need,’ went on Rawlings, ‘is someone prepared to go round and do the leg work, knock on doors, visit the shops, and someone else prepared to create and co-ordinate a strategy. As it happens I’ve just completed a pamphlet on the subject. Are you interested?’ Harold Meredith nodded helplessly. ‘Wait here, I’ll get you a copy.’

  Some time later Mr Meredith retraced his steps along the mossy overgrown paving stones that led to the half-hung gate of Hogarth House. In his bag, in addition to his clipboard, spare pair of gloves and fifty undelivered STOP leaflets, were twenty-five unsold pamphlets by Quentin Rawlings entitled “Outrage! The Persecution of the Post Office’.

  Rawlings remained under the impression that the STOP campaign had entirely originated from his chance meeting with Mr Meredith and Martin was quite happy not to disabuse him, especially as Rawlings seemed only too keen to call a meeting, to draw up a campaign plan and to work all the hours that God gave, insisting only that his name, together with a list of the books he’d published, be printed on all official communications.

  A first meeting of the core group was called for Saturday morning at Hogarth House. Apart from Martin, it was attended by Rawlings, his wife Maureen and Harold Meredith. Rawlings urged that an important first step must be to mobilise natural allies. The post office staff themselves would clearly be anxious to protect their jobs and their future.

  * * *

  On his first afternoon back at work, Martin approached his colleagues. He had a quiet word with each of them, suggesting that they meet in the staff room immediately after close of business to discuss an urgent matter. Nick Marshall had left after lunch for yet more important meetings and said he would not be back that day.

  The tiny, claustrophobic area of storage space known as the staff room was woefully inadequate for a meeting. Martin pushed the door open, hitting Shirley Barker a sharp crack on the knee. He flushed, apologised, looked around and was about to welcome them all when he stopped abruptly.

  ‘Where’s Elaine?’ he asked.

  Geraldine took an upturned mug and rinsed it under the tap.

  ‘I think she had to buy something before the shops closed. She said it was urgent.’ She smiled unconvincingly as she said it and the others had stopped talking and were watching Martin out of the corners of their eyes.

  ‘Is she coming back, d’you know?’

  ‘She said to carry on without her.’

  ‘Well,’ said Martin, feeling in his pocket for a handkerchief, ‘some of you might already have noticed that there is a campaign to stop the Post Office from selling off our old premises in North Square.’

  ‘What on earth for?’ asked Shirley Barker. ‘The Post Office’ll do what they want. That building we were in was a death-trap, so I heard.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ said Martin. ‘That was a story put about by people who want to make sure we never come back. Now I don’t know about you but as far as I’m concerned North Square was a one-hundred-per-cent better place to work in. There was space and light and room to move and above all, it was a centre for this community. There was none of this Customer’s Charter rubbish about single queues and flashing lights and minimum counter times. We treated our customers well because we wanted to, not because we were told to. This –’ he nodded contemptuously towards the door to the office, ‘this is a cage, and if we let them have their way we’ll all end up like bloody rats.’

  There was silence. Shirley Barker affected shock, Mary Perrick looked embarrassed. Geraldine watched Martin from above her mug of tea.

  ‘What I propose is that, as it is in all our interests, we try and help the STOP campaign.’ He reached in his briefcase and drew out a bundle of slips of paper secured with rubber bands.

  ‘What I’m asking you to do is quite simple.’

  He pulled one of the slips out and held it up.

  ‘Each of these pieces of paper contains the name of the campaign, the aim of the campaign and an address and telephone number. And all you have to do is slip one into every pension book, post office savings book, family allowance docket and anything else that gets passed over the counter. Obviously it’s best not to do it when Marshall’s around because he’s … well he’s management really, it would be an embarrassment for him.’

  He looked around and began to slip the rubber bands off the bundles of paper.

  ‘I’d like us to start tomorrow, if we can.’

  Shirley Barker stood up. As she spoke, she gathered her handbag, coat and scarf together. ‘Martin, I value my job and I find it very useful and I want to keep it. I don’t honestly mind where I work.’

  ‘With respect, Shirley,’ said Martin, ‘You are part-time. You spend a lot less of your life here than I do.’

  Shirley pointed at the others. ‘We’re all part-timers here apart from you. Mary’s a part-timer. Geraldine’s a part-timer. And they’re here because you got rid of John Parr and Arthur Gillis. Remember? Maybe you’d be better off starting a campaign to bring them back, rather than having a go at us.’ She fastened her floral pattern headscarf, pursing and unpursing her narrow lips nervously. ‘Arthur was a fine and decent man with years of working life ahead of him. Save the Post Office came a bit too late for him.’

  She picked up her bag and reached for the door. When she went out it slammed shut behind her.

  Martin stared at the door. Mary Perrick stood up. She was a softer, rounder, infinitely warmer sort than Shirley Barker, but the message was the same. ‘I’d rather not get involved either, Martin. I need this job too. It doesn’t pay much, but I’m thankful for whatever.’

  She stood for a moment and spread her hands wide, then, with nothing else to say, nodded, smiled a quick, embarrassed smile, opened the door and went out.

  Geraldine cradled the mug of tea in her hands and made no move.

  Martin frowned. He thrust his lower lip forward. He slowly replaced the rubber bands on the slips of paper and returned them to his briefcase. Geraldine stood up and took her mug over to the wash-basin. Martin aimed a kick at the nearest chair.

  ‘Why wasn’t Elaine here? She’s in the union. She was always much more of a fighter than me.’ He looked up at Geraldine. ‘She’s a fighter, you know. She’s a toughie is Elaine. I mean, we’ve worked together, side by side, for six years. Did you know that?’

  Geraldine ran her cup under the hot tap. The water splashed off and some of it ran on to the floor.

  ‘Damn!’ Geraldine reached for a cloth.

  ‘She’ll support the campaign. Surely … won’t she?’

  ‘Well, don’t bank on it.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  Geraldine squeezed out the cloth and laid it carefully on the side of the basin. She looked at Martin. He was waiting for her to say something. He was hot. He looked tired. He looked as though he needed comforting words, but she knew that for some reason he trusted her and expected the truth.

  ‘You’ve been shafted, Martin,’ said Geraldine quietly. ‘Elaine’s with Nick. They’re going out together.’

  Martin stared back.

  ‘They’re an item, Martin.’

  Twenty-nine

  Ruth saw Ted Wellbeing trundle up the hill on his tractor. A seed drill reared up behind the back wheels, bucking and quivering and shedding clods of freshly turned soil as he negotiated the gullies left by a week of wind and sweeping rain.

  Today she envied him. Envied him the outdoors and the mindless routine. As the sun climbed higher (on the days when it was visible) Ruth began to feel restless. She was ready to get away from other people’s lives for a while and back into her own. For nearly a week she had been working hard trying to prove a theory of hers that Hemingway’s preoccupation with the way hair was cut and the way it could be altered to change a personality began, not with gender confusion in early childhood, but from the time he met Pauline Pfeiffer. Of all the wives, of all the Hemingway women, Ruth felt closest to Pauline. Her vivacity, her bookishness, her slim, neat f
igure and dark features appealed to Ruth. So she had been trying very hard to prove that it was Pauline’s obsession with her appearance, and particularly the style, cut and colour of her hair, that activated her husband’s fascination with gender-bending. That it was Pauline who had led him to explore the subject in two of his most important books, A Farewell to Arms and, more particularly, in Ruth’s favourite, The Garden of Eden – an odd, haunting, erotic tale not published until twenty-five years after Hemingway’s death.

  Unfortunately the facts were refusing to fit her theory. They were being highly obstreperous – appearing, disappearing and reappearing in all the wrong places. She sat at the window for a while, not writing, just watching the blue-grey sky turn white and then slowly darken. She stood and stretched and felt for the switch on the big yellow table lamp she’d bought herself as a Christmas present. Then she walked into the tiny bathroom and pulled the cord of the light switch. She looked into the mirror and was holding her own thick, dark hair back from her forehead when a knock on the front door startled her.

  When she opened the door, Martin stood there. He had a sports bag over his shoulder and his face was hot from cycling. He looked dejected and helpless, which only increased her irritation at seeing him.

  ‘I didn’t expect you,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t think you ever expected me,’ he muttered and she sensed that something was wrong.

  ‘Are you busy?’ he asked, looking in as if half-expecting to see others there.

  ‘I’m writing, as ever,’ she shrugged. The saga continues.’

  ‘I’ll go if you want. I just came to see the chair.’

  Ruth laughed, lightly. ‘Of course. I forgot. Come on in.’

  She felt uneasy and embarrassed for him. They stood awkwardly for a while, then she said, ‘Look, you go ahead. I’ll fix a drink.’