Hemingway’s Chair

be for the rest of our
working lives. How about the back of Brownjohn’s, they could squeeze us in
between the fertiliser and the plastic buckets? Or maybe round at Omar’s. Cod,
chips and child benefits.’
    ‘You
know . . Elaine, pleased to hear him angry, chose her moment carefully. ‘There
is an alternative.’ Martin grunted scornfully. ‘Street cleaning?’
    A
car sped past, tyres hissing on the shiny wet road. ‘You know that Dad wants to
retire,’ she said. ‘Good for him. I’m thinking about it myself.’
    A
pair of seagulls screeched low over the car, landed on the railings and started
to set about each other.
    ‘The
point is,’ Elaine persisted, ‘that he wants the business to stay in the family
and, as I’m the only child….’
    Martin
nodded and stayed looking forward, through the rain-spotted windscreen, to the
colourless sea.
    ‘The
point is...’ Elaine turned to him and took his hand firmly, as one might take
that of an elderly relative, in need of reassurance.
    ‘The
point is that his business is mine for the asking. It’s not worth a fortune but
it’s a lot better than working in a post office and... and I would like
to run it, but...’ Elaine turned to look out of the side window, away from
Martin. ‘...it really needs a couple.’
    There
was a silence.
    ‘Well?’
She waited.
    ‘Well...’
    ‘It
could be a... sort of... answer to a lot of problems. I mean we’d have to
relearn a bit but, you and me, we’re good with people. People like us because
we talk to them. There’d be no shortage of customers.’
    ‘You
mean, give up the post office?’
    ‘Why
not? If it’s giving you up.’
    Martin
frowned and flicked again at the door to the glove compartment.
    ‘I
can’t walk away. I can’t have people saying I’ve no loyalty.’
    Elaine
was incredulous. ‘After what they’ve done to you?’
    Martin
nodded. ‘I can’t let them down, can I?’ Elaine took a deep breath. It had taken
a lot out of her to say what she said. She tried to sound unconcerned at the
outcome.
    ‘Well,
think about it, that’s all I say. Think about it. And leave that bloody glove
compartment alone!’

Five
     
     
     
    October
the first came, as it had to, and the staff of Theston
post office — Martin, Elaine, Arthur Gillis, John Parr and Shirley Barker the
part-time helper — all assembled in the cavernous, empty room that had been a
postal sorting office until the Royal Mail separated from Counter Services. Now
it was a staff room. There was a kitchen and a lavatory, and a table to eat
lunch from. It was here they were to meet their new Manager. It was half past
eight on a Monday morning. The office was due to open at nine.
    At
fifty-five years old, Arthur Gillis was the oldest among them. He was
well-built and a little overweight besides, with a big square head, a florid
complexion and tight wavy dark hair that was now turned mostly grey. He had
joined the Post Office straight from twenty-five years’ service in the Ordnance
Corps. He’d travelled and let you know it, and his abrupt manner with the
public had taken some getting used to, but he was conscientious, efficient and
had never been known to have a day’s illness. John Parr, on the other hand, was
a quick, nervous young man who wore his long fair hair tied in a ponytail. He had
a severe and uncontrollable blink. In order, perhaps, to cope with this he had
developed an unrelentingly flippant persona. A constant stream of stories,
jokes and fantasies poured forth, mostly concerning his huge and long-suffering
wife, Cheryl, famous also for being Theston’s first traffic warden. Parr’s
presence was a considerable strain on all of them, but particularly on Shirley
Barker, a prim and humourless woman in her early fifties, who appeared to draw
all the satisfaction she needed out of life from looking after a dog and two
elderly parents. She came in only on Saturday mornings and busy days at
Christmas and in the summer.
    On
this particular morning Elaine had just made coffee and the sound of stirring
spoons tinkled softly in the high, empty room.
    ‘Z)o
you know...’ began Parr, but no one ever did, for at that moment Nick Marshall
bounded in, like an over-eager family pet that had just learnt to open doors on
its own. His face had a ruddy glow, his neatly brushed thatch of rich blond
hair bore tell-tale traces of a recent washing. His face was a little too broad
to be classically handsome but his features were well shaped and