She looked at him a moment. ‘Not what I’ve heard.’
‘What have you heard?’ Martin asked. Scruff was jumping up, reaching for the top of Martin’s legs, and Martin tickled the top of his head.
‘I’ve heard Nick was quite generous,’ said Elaine.
‘Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you,’ said Martin, and he suddenly pushed the dog away. ‘Get off me, Scruff!’
‘What did you do with it?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Your thousand pounds?’
Martin stooped and threw a pebble low towards the sea. Scruff hurtled after it. ‘If you must know I bought a chair.’
‘A chair! For a thousand pounds?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Nor would most people. Where did you find it?’
‘I didn’t find it. Ruth found it.’
‘Oh. Well, if Ruth found it.’
Elaine turned and stared out at the sea. Scruff was splashing about at the water’s edge, nose down, searching.
‘She’s got control over you,’ Elaine went on, without looking at him. ‘She’s got you under her spell, hasn’t she? I remember when she came in the post office that first time. John Parr laughed at her and said she looked like a witch. I remember it because I thought that was a cruel thing to say. But maybe he was right.’
‘What’s it worse to be then,’ said Martin, ‘a witch or a tart?’
Elaine’s eyes blazed. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I know what you’re doing behind my back, Elaine.’
Elaine shook her head. ‘Your bloody back. That’s all I ever saw, your bloody back.’
Martin turned away, bitterly. ‘Well, I don’t care,’ he said. ‘Whatever you do from now on, Elaine, it’s all right with me.’
She looked at him suspiciously.
‘You’ve made your choice. It’s simple. You’ve chosen Marshall. You like him. I hate him, that’s all.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ Elaine retorted. ‘I remember the time when you thought he was the best thing since sliced bread.’
Martin reached for a pebble and weighed it up. ‘That was before I knew what was going on.’
He picked up a pebble and flung it low over the surface of the waves. It bounced once, twice and disappeared. Scruff barked in delight and scurried off after it.
‘Well, you were right, for once,’ said Elaine. ‘We’re lucky to have him here.’
Martin snorted derisively. ‘What’s lucky about having someone who wants to destroy our livelihood?’
‘Oh God, Martin. Don’t tell me you really believe all that Save the Post Office rubbish. He’s given us a damn sight more efficient office than the one at North Square ever was.’
‘Oh, it’s rubbish is it?’ Martin replied angrily. ‘Wanting to keep a decent post office is rubbish?’
‘Martin,’ said Elaine, ‘it’s a building. That’s all it is. A building. What we do can be done anywhere.’
The waves were growing larger and one spilled on to the beach quite close to them. Elaine scrambled higher up the shingle and stopped, looking down at him.
Martin scrambled after her. ‘It’s not just the building. It’s what goes with it.’ He was shouting now. ‘We’re like the milkman. We keep an eye on people. If someone doesn’t come in for their pension or their allowance or their green giro we know about it. If anything’s happened to them we can tell. They can tell us things too. We’re the listening centre of the community.’
‘Is that one of Miss America’s phrases?’
‘Oh, fuck off, then!’ shouted Martin. ‘You talk about me being controlled and twisted. You believe anything Nick Marshall tells you. Well if Ruth’s a witch then he’s a crook. A twenty-four-carat-gold crook. Just like your father used to be!’
Elaine stared out to sea, into the wind. A long dark rim of cloud was spreading from the eastern horizon. She turned and looked along the beach. She called to Scruff, who reluctantly sniffed his way along the pebble-strewn sand towards her. Then she glanced quickly at Martin. ‘Well, I’ve some news for you. The post office is sold. They signed yesterday. We couldn’t move back even if we wanted to. It’s not ours. So you know where you can stick your stupid campaign.’
There was a distant noise, like the soft rolling of thunder.
* * *
Martin watched Elaine until she was over the other side of the harbour. He saw her hold the door of her car open and shout impatiently for the dog. Then she climbed in herself, without looking back. He heard the gears grate and wheels kick the gravel as she swung around and drove away fast up the low hill that led to the town.
He gazed out to sea for a long time. The sight of that huge sombre sweep of water was comforting. Its restlessness soothed and reassured. To the east the border of black cloud grew as an inoffensive blue and lemon sunset faded in the west. A persistent and strengthening wind agitated the surface of the water. A curtain of rain was approaching fast and thunder rumbled far out over the sea.
Martin sprang up and went tripping and sliding down the shingle. Then he half-ran, half-stumbled along the stony beach until he reached the barbed-wire fence and the broken remains of the causeway. There the first drops of rain hit him and by the time he reached his bicycle his coat was sodden and heavy, and the wind was screaming. There was no question of his riding so he walked along the road holding his bicycle as close as he could beside him, and that warmed him up and despite the sudden ferocious wildness of the storm he reached the centre of town feeling oddly exultant.
He wheeled his bicycle along Market Street and past the bright lights of the hotel, across the High Street and into North Square.
He stood in the swirling rain and looked across to the post office. Scaffolding shrouded the building and where the roof had once been a huge tarpaulin slapped and cracked and strained in the wind. Martin raised a hand and wiped the water from his face, then, mounting his bike, he rode round the two sides of the square and down through Echo Passage. He would have coasted into Phipps’ Yard and come to rest, precisely, at the back steps of the post office, but the site was boarded up and the gates were padlocked.
He looked around. There was no one to be seen. He leaned his bicycle against the wooden security fence and made sure it was firm. Then he climbed awkwardly up on to the saddle, from where he could reach a projecting scaffolding bar. His coat had doubled in weight from the rain and it required all his strength to heave himself up by the bar until he could swing his feet on to the top of the fence and lever up the rest of his weight.
Once over the fence he ran along the scaffolding walkway until he reached a ladder, leading up to the next level. From there another ladder led to the roof level. Up here, where it was exposed, the rain stung his face and hands and the wind savaged the tarpaulin with such force that he could not for a moment move with any safety. He knelt on the wooden planks and clung to the rocking scaffold for dear life. The moment there was a lessening of the howling wind he ran quickly to the corner of the building and ducked down. A rope running through a grommet in the tarpaulin secured the roof covering to the scaffold.
When he saw how poorly the knot was tied he gave a mental note of thanks to Marshall for employing a builder like Joe Crispin, and began to tug away at the end of the rope. Then the force of the gale hit fair and square and he fell backwards as the tarpaulin bucked and sprang out of his hands. Released from the knot, it lashed and curled furiously over on itself like a scorpion in a fire, but did not break free. Martin scrambled along the scaffold boards, which shook and shuddered at one fierce gust, pitching him painfully against a pile of bricks. He fell back, his foot skidding out over a sheer drop to the street. He grasped giddily at the scaffolding bar and held himself from falling. He lay there panting. Sixty feet below he could see the rain in the lamplight sweeping across North Square. He was surprised to see there were vehicles passing and what he had thought were empty streets were dotted with people sheltering from the storm. Someo
ne, beneath the awning of the Market Hotel, seemed to be looking up towards him and he heaved himself back on to the scaffold and crouched down, bent double against the sodden duckboards.
The rain lessened, then came again with swift, torrential force. Grabbing the rail he slipped and slithered the last few feet. He reached the corner and found another knot, but this one was tightened by the extra pressure and he could not release it. A bus pulled up right below him. He flattened himself against the boards and waited as it disgorged its passengers. In between the high-pitched screams of the gusting wind he could hear voices quite clearly. The image of Robert Jordan, flattened against the floor of the forest as the Fascist cavalry advanced towards him, came, thrillingly, into his mind as he clung for dear life to the swaying, storm-racked scaffold.
Then the wind fell and he wrenched the tarpaulin down with all his strength and tore at the knot, knowing one sudden gust might fling him from the roof. At last the rope was free and, bent double, he scuttled back along the scaffold. He had reached the top of the ladder on the second level before the wind came again and he tumbled down and fell on a stack of timbers. He dragged himself up and flung himself towards the fence. Above the shrieking of the wind he could just make out the sound of splitting fabric and a scattering of dislodged bricks as they fell into the yard. He jumped quite painfully to the ground and reached for his bicycle. The pedals whirled furiously until he took control and then he cycled away and did not stop to look back until he reached the top of Victoria Hill.
Like the whirling cloak of an operatic villain, the tarpaulin flapped and swirled angrily in the air above the post office. Then, as he watched, it rose up one last time, somersaulted, ripped free and tumbled messily across the low gables of the fine Georgian houses on Market Street until, lashed on by more ferocious gusts, it licked and slapped and tumbled its way over the rooftops before wrapping itself around the massive chimney breast that rose from the roof of the old Masonic Hall. Here it held fast for a while, then the wind dropped and it sank, slowly and groggily, to disappear from sight behind the fancy crenellated parapet.
Martin felt a surge of pure and inexpressible delight.
Thirty-one
On the morning after the storm Martin overslept for the first time in sixteen and a half years. When he came down Kathleen was packing up his sandwiches. Martin rushed about the kitchen. His head was squeezed tight with pain. It felt as if a bullet were lodged inside, but he knew it was vodka. He had virtually emptied a bottle on his return. It had been his way of celebrating.
‘Where’s my briefcase?’
‘Where you normally leave it.’
‘Where’s my hat?’
‘On the radiator.’
‘Oh, God.’
He was halfway down the bypass when he remembered he hadn’t shaved.
He cycled perilously fast and was rounding the corner of Bishop Street and within sight of the back entrance to Randall’s when he saw Harold Meredith hurrying up the street towards him. He turned his head away and crouched low on the bike. Harold Meredith waved his stick and shouted. ‘Martin!’
It was no good. Martin uncoiled himself and slid to a halt.
‘Very good news!’ shouted Mr Meredith. ‘About the campaign!’
Martin looked quickly around and raised his finger to his mouth.
Mr Meredith came up close to him and dropped his voice to a loud whisper. ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you. I missed you earlier in the week.’
Martin began to wheel his bicycle towards the gate of Randall’s yard. ‘I’m late for work, I can’t stop now,’ he said.
‘I had a bright idea. I put those little forms you gave me into every hymn-book in church!’
They had reached the gate.
‘Mr Meredith,’ said Martin, reaching for his key, ‘I’m late, I must –’
‘I put out a hundred at communion and two hundred at matins before that vicar found out.’
The pride in his voice only made Martin feel worse. He unlocked the gate.
‘Three hundred altogether I put out.’
The church clock struck nine. Martin had never been late for work. Not once in sixteen and a half years. He had no option but to push the gate gently shut. Harold Meredith stuck his stick in the gap.
‘Two hundred and ten replies, Martin. Two hundred and ten replies! All wanting to save the old post office.’
Martin thrust the gate open again. He looked down at Mr Meredith. The old man seemed to have shed at least ten years. His eyes were bright. His chin stuck out defiantly. Martin wanted, suddenly, to hit him. To knock him down. Anything to stop him.
‘I’m thinking of putting them in the bus. Driver wouldn’t notice and there’s no conductor any more.’
‘Mr Meredith –’ Martin repeated, wearily.
‘I’m on my way to tell Mr Rawlings. He’ll be pleased.’
The pain in Martin’s head was now so intense that he could control himself no longer. ‘It’s too late,’ he screamed. His voice began a slowly rising crescendo. ‘Don’t you understand? It’s too late! We have been scuppered! Shafted! Stitched up and sold down the river! The campaign is over. The post office has gone forever, Mr Meredith.’ Even as he shouted he felt the girdle of pain loosen. ‘And we the innocent of Theston have been shat upon. Shat upon from a very great height!’
He was wiping his lips on the sleeve of his anorak when he heard a discreet cough from close behind him. It was Nick Marshall.
‘I think we need to have a word, Martin. Inside.’
Nick Marshall followed Martin into the staff room and turned and leaned against the door. He pushed a hand through his hair, put an arm out against the wall and stood frowning, his body poised and taut, trying to contain his impatience. He cleared his throat tersely. ‘Glad you could make it today, Martin.’
Martin’s pain was now almost completely gone and he was beginning to think more clearly. ‘I’m sorry about all that.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t feel at all well this morning, Nick. I’ve not been myself for a few days.’
‘So I hear,’ Nick smiled darkly. ‘You’ve been the organiser of a campaign.’
‘Campaign?’
‘What’s it called, Mart? “STOP”? Is that it? Very clever.’
‘That was a grass-roots campaign, set up by others, Nick.’
‘Not what I heard. Not what I believed either. Eighty-year-olds don’t go printing stuff like that, calling themselves names like STOP.’
‘They do if they feel strongly enough, and he wasn’t alone. There’s plenty of people out there who think like him. We don’t want to lose a post office that worked perfectly well.’
‘So it was “we”.’
‘All right, I happen to agree with them. But that doesn’t mean I ran the campaign.’
‘Stop lying, Mart. It doesn’t suit you. I was told by an impeccable source. Someone who knows you very well.’
Martin nodded grimly. ‘Someone who used to know me well, but who now knows you a lot better from what I hear. And you’re welcome. At least the Elaine Rudge I used to know didn’t betray friends.’
‘Elaine’s not the traitor, Martin. You are. A decision was taken for the best interests of the post office in Theston. You are an employee of that post office.’
As he spoke the side of Marshall’s mouth began slowly but surely to flicker into life. He rushed a handkerchief to the danger area. ‘Or were.’
From his pocket he produced an official-looking white envelope which he handed to Martin. ‘When you get home, read this,’ he said.
Martin tore the envelope open. There was a folded sheet inside, embossed with the Peterborough-designed company logo. Martin read what it said quite quickly. He looked up. Nick Marshall was staring intently at the wall, as if looking for barely visible life-forms.
Martin concentrated hard on keeping his voice from shaking. ‘You can’t do this. I’ve been sixteen years with the Post Office. You can’t do this.’
Marshall turned to th
e door. ‘It’s a month’s notice. Full pension.’
‘For what? For wanting to help the customers?’
‘That’s the way you see it, Mart. The Post Office sees it as industrial sabotage, and that could cost more than your job.’
Martin gasped in disbelief. ‘Industrial sabotage? For helping collect a few names? I mean, what are we coming to?’
Marshall produced something else from his pocket and held it up. It was a bicycle clip. ‘I expect you were wondering where this had got to. I know how much clips mean to you, Martin.’
‘So what, it’s a bicycle clip. You find bicycle clips all over the place.’
‘Not often on scaffolding, fifty feet above the ground.’
‘You can’t prove anything.’
‘We could try though, Mart, and if we did, you would lose more than your job.’
Marshall became brisk. He didn’t want to be in this small airless room doing this. He was a scientist, an engineer, an inventor. He had done his best to learn about human behaviour but it was a slippery, awkward, time-consuming thing, unstable, irrational, unquantifiable. He moved past Sproale and reached for the door.
‘By all means stay the full month,’ he said, ‘but I should tell you that as from Monday morning Ms Rudge will be my Assistant Manager.’
Thirty-two
At lunchtime that day, John Devereux and Nick Marshall met at Nick’s flat for one of their regular briefings.
‘Nicholas, my lad, I sometimes think there’s someone Up There working for us.’
The loss of the tarpaulin covering on the old post office was one of several bits of good news for Devereux that morning.
Geraldine served them coffee then opened up her notepad and sat ready.
Marshall checked some notes. ‘The surveyor reckons there’s a couple of thousand pounds worth of direct damage, replacement of materials etc. plus another thousand in man hours lost – drying out the timbers, that sort of thing.’ He handed the notes across to Devereux. ‘It looks very rosy.’
‘Negligence?’
‘Of course, and just at the right time. Crispin was cheap and did as he was told, but now Nordkom have bought the building they’ll need someone who knows what they’re doing.’
Hemingway's Chair Page 21
