Hemingway’s Chair

applause of the crowd roll round the harbour and he knew
that most of it was for him. They didn’t know it yet, but soon they would. Soon
the name of Nick Marshall would be as well known as Marconi or Alexander Graham
Bell, or even Bill Gates. Certainly it would be far, far better known than that
of Dennis Donnelly.
    The
Minister settled himself at the microphone with shameless ease. He spoke with
plausible spontaneity, glancing skilfully but carefully at the text his civil
servants had prepared for him.
    ‘I
am delighted and proud to be here in Theston today to inaugurate an
installation which will open up a new era in telecommunications. This will be
the model for hundreds of similar installations up and down our beautiful
coastline.’ He made a quick mental note to sack whoever it was in the
department who had inserted the word ‘beautiful’. ‘I am assured that when this
operation is complete there will be a link with Europe, both by cable and
satellite, which will be capable of handling two hundred megabits of
information per minute.'
    This
impressively meaningless statistic echoed metallically around the harbour and
was greeted with polite, if self-conscious applause.
    Ruth
heard the applause on her car radio as she pulled off the A45 beyond Ipswich
and began to negotiate the series of roundabouts that led to the Theston road.
    Elaine
heard the applause on the hill but did not join in. She wondered if she had
been the only one to notice the activity on the gleaming white yacht that rode
out beyond the harbour in the first rays of the midday sun. It appeared that
there was a figure on board, moving some heavy object towards the stern.
Something about the way the figure moved troubled her.
    Elaine
was not the only one watching what was happening on the Nordkom IV. As
the applause died, Geraldine Cotton, forced to stand in a tight charcoal-grey
two-piece suit amongst the ranks of minor local celebrities, knew that in a
very few moments Martin would have lifted the cover on the teak-strip deck and
revealed the brass-topped shaft into which deep-sea fishing seats were secured.
    Most
other spectators were watching the Minister and marvelling at his youth and
relative beauty.
    ‘The
construction of this centre is a tribute to all those involved,’ Donnelly went
on. ‘The Post Office engineers, the technical team, the construction workers,
the vision of the Mayor and council of the borough of Theston and of course our
friends across the water.’ He paused, expecting applause, but none came. He
would get them on the next paragraph, marked, in the margin, ‘Direct appeal to
the public’. He took his voice up an octave and tried hard to make his eyes
water, as he had seen Meryl Streep do so often and so well. ‘Let us not forget
that today, as the eyes of the world are upon us, we are here to celebrate a
British achievement. A triumph of British ingenuity and British foresight. This
truly is our chance to show that Britain can lead the world into the new era of
international communications. With pleasure and pride I declare Theston
International Telecommunications Transmission Centre open.’
    Then
a lot of different things happened. The Minister pulled a blue cord which drew
a curtain back from a plaque bearing his name and the intertwined logos of
Nordkom BV and Post Office Counter Services Ltd. The television crews swung
round to focus on the new mast, Theston School Band struck up ‘Rule Britannia’,
and out to sea a bright orange maroon soared into the air above Nordkom IV. As heads craned skywards, there came the throaty roar of powerful engines
starting and, before anyone knew what was happening, the pristine seventy-five-foot
vessel swung in a tight half-circle and headed out to sea. There rose from its
stern the silvery line of a cable. Then another similar line sliced up beside
it through the light swell. Together they rose above the surface of the water
as the engines throttled forward to the shrieking pitch of a power boat. The
cables tightened, the engines roared and, almost in slow motion, the
communications mast rocked, leaned and with a sickening crack ripped away from
the pier, toppled into the sea and disappeared beneath the grey-green waves.
    Some
of those watching claimed to have heard a whoop, or similar cry from the deck
of the boat. What happened next was obvious to everyone. The cables were
released from the boat and the yacht shot across the waves and out to sea. By
that time the