Hemingway’s Chair

hull.
    Their
voices came nearer.
    ‘I
mean, I’m a European patriot, Matt,’ Glenson was saying in his hard Glaswegian
accent. ‘I wanted a few flags on this one, you know. All the European
countries, stuck on the wee mast.’
    They
were out on the pier now, picking their way across the steel-strip walkway that
led to the tower. If they reached it they would be able to see both sides of
the Nordkom IV from where they stood. Geraldine clung to the hull,
tucking herself tight in below the gunwale. Martin lay uncomfortably
spread-eagled on the cool, polished surface of the deck. Suddenly one of the
men turned. It was the Scottish one.
    ‘Oh
Christ! Look at that.’
    Geraldine
held her breath.
    ‘What’s
the problem?’ said the Dutchman.
    ‘Devereux’s
back. Probably wants the fucking mast moved two feet to the left.’
    The
voices fell silent for a moment, then the sound of Glenson’s low cursing
receded and a minute later Martin allowed himself to peek above the bulkhead.
The three men disappeared once more into the Portakabin.
    Half-crouched,
he ran across to the starboard side and beckoned Geraldine forward. As she
approached the stem he wriggled himself along the deck and, only at the last
minute, when she shouted ‘Ready’, did he duck up, grab the cable she was
pushing up through the hawsehole and make its looped end fast around the solid
brass bollard. He took the first cable firmly, but the next one shifted away
from him. As he grabbed for it again, he felt the first direct rays of the sun,
spilling through the mist.
    Geraldine
was angry. ‘Martin, for God’s sake, we practised this.’
    At
the second attempt, Martin secured the line. As he did so there was a shout
from the shore and he flung himself once again to the deck, hugging the cables.
    ‘Gerry,’
the shout from Devereux echoed round the harbour. ‘Where the hell are you!’
    Martin
heard Geraldine’s equally powerful voice shout back. There was not a quaver in
it. ‘Forgot my make-up! Had to go back. I’m heading over now.’ Then more
softly, ‘Martin?’
    ‘Yes?’
    There
was a pause. He heard the flat of her hand slap against the hull. ‘Good
fishing!’
    A
moment later he heard her gun the outboard and head for the shore. The tide was
receding fast now. No one would return to the Nordkom IV until it turned
again, well after the ceremony. He was alone.
     
    *
     
    Three
and a half hours later Nick Marshall, having attended a morning of briefings
and itchy, but successful, last-minute negotiations, was waiting on the
quayside for the arrival of the Minister. At the Market Hotel he had changed
into a brand new Hugo Boss petrol-blue gaberdine suit, complete, after a short
and bitter argument with John Devereux, with nonmatching Post Office Counter
Services tie. He glanced anxiously around the site. Opposite him, in a small
enclosure, were gathered the official guests. The Harvey-Wardrells were to the
fore, she looming a good six inches above her husband, Peregrine. He was not a
big man at the best of times but today he was almost entirely concealed beneath
the brim of his wife’s straw hat, which was so wide and of such a vibrant red
that she stood out like a mediaeval Cardinal. By comparison the rest of the
guests were unremittingly dowdy. Squeezed in with the Harvey-Wardrells behind
an officious little blue and white striped rope, were such worthies as young Dr
Cardwell, holding the hand of his dumpy wife Jane (they had met at a blind
tasting), Cuthbert Habershon, the old coroner, standing uncomfortably side by
side with his busy, unsmiling, replacement Eric Moss and his vigilant wife
Bridget. Lord Muncaster was behind them, sporting an elegant light-grey worsted
suit bought from the Rudges’ nearly-new stall, and alongside him, the Reverend
Barry Burrell and his close friend Tessa.
    In
a separate enclosure the members of the Town Council, with the notable
exception of Frank Rudge, jostled with the likes of Alan Randall and Norman
Brownjohn for a view of the proceedings. Ernie Padgett sat hunched forward on a
chair at the front with his big, massively coiffured wife Brenda standing
beside him, her hand lightly resting on his shoulder. Frank Rudge claimed to
have been suffering from chest pain and had stayed at home, as had Kathleen
Sproale, who hated any sort of occasion. Harold Meredith and Quentin Rawlings
had been denied official invitations, and they stood, grim-faced, up on the
hill with the public.
    It
was to that hill