Hemingway’s Chair

pleasing. Nose
straight and strong, mouth wide and purposeful, big round cornflower blue eyes
set just too close to each other. He groaned in mock horror and flicked a hand
up into his hair.
    ‘•So
sorry, everyone, so sorry. Late on my first day!’ Martin glanced up at the
clock. It was less than a minute after half past.
    Marshall
rubbed his hands together as if it were cold, which it wasn’t. ‘Have I missed
the coffee?’
    Elaine,
to her own intense surprise, felt herself colouring. She pushed herself quickly
away from the table she was leaning on, giving an unintentional •oppression of
brusqueness. ‘I’ll do another one.’
    ‘Lost
my way on the heath,’ Marshall explained as Elaine passed him.
    ‘Cycling?’
asked Martin.
    ‘Running.’
    So
that was it. He was a runner. Martin knew there was some reason why he had
experienced more than just routine resentment on seeing him. Martin had been a
runner too but in the cold winter four years ago he gave it up and never went
back. A small defeat, but it still rankled. Cycling was now the only exercise
he took.
    ‘Every
morning?’ he asked Marshall.
    Marshall
grinned. His teeth were long and regular, if a little too pointed to be
perfect. ‘Try to,’ he said.
    ‘Brave
man.’
    ‘I
have the runs every morning,’ Parr snorted. ‘Not your sort though!’
    Marshall
ignored him, and went on chummily. ‘Got to keep the waistline down, you know.’
He pulled off an ingenuous smile, as five pairs of eyes swung simultaneously to
the firm, flat line of stomach that conspicuously failed to trouble a
well-tailored waistband.
    He
took the mug of coffee from Elaine. ‘Thank , you—’
    ‘-Elaine,’
added Elaine, feeling him hesitate over the name.
    ‘Yes,
I know it’s Elaine...’ He held out his hand. ‘Elaine Rudge... isn’t it?’
    She
took his hand and shook it, feeling a little foolish.
    It
was soft and warm. He moved on.
    ‘And
you’re Arthur Gillis.’
    ‘Mr
Gillis. Yes,’ said Arthur. He was a bit of a stickler in these matters, but
shook Marshall’s hand firmly nonetheless.
    There
was a spring in Marshall’s step, as he moved from one member of staff to the
other, that was almost a lope. It lent his movements a vaguely feral quality,
so that even in the seemingly innocent ritual of handshakes and eye contacts
there lurked a hint of the predatory. He went round all of them, deftly saving
Martin for last.
    ‘And
Martin, whose reputation I already know.’ Martin smiled warily.
    Marshall
took a sip of coffee and turned to them. ‘I’m Nick Marshall and I’m privileged
to be your new Manager. I trained at Bletchley and I was previously Assistant
Branch Office Manager in Luton, so you can understand just how happy I am to be
here. ’
    ‘Do
you mind? My probation officer comes from Luton.’ John Parr got no help from
his colleagues and Marshall barely broke stride.
    ‘This
week I just want to get to know you, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to be a
fly on the wall...’
    ‘My
wife tried that but the wall fell down.’
    ‘...watching
how you work, meeting the customers, getting to know the ropes, evaluating the
resources we have here. What I would also like to do before Friday is meet with
each of you on a one-to-one basis and I’ll organise that accordingly.’
    Aware
that this last piece of information had sown more suspicion than goodwill, he
essayed a wide and winning smile that embraced them all. He set down the mug of
coffee with the air of one who was not going to pick it up again, and rubbed
his hands together once more.
    ‘I
can see there is great team spirit here, and I’m proud to be a part of it. Now,
let’s go to work!’ This was followed by another round of firmly clasped
handshakes. Then Elaine collected the coffee cups and Martin folded away his
newspaper and went through into the main office and began the familiar
preparations.
    He
took out his till and checked it carefully before arranging small change into
the hopper beside him. He checked his stock of TV licences and fishing licences
and game licences and telephone savings cards and air mail stickers and road
tax discs and milk tokens and postal orders and recorded delivery forms and
visitors’ passports. He put in place next to him his portfolio — the indexed
black ledger, its cover layered with the deposits of five years’ fingering, in
which he kept his own supply of stamps, savings stamps and details of charges.
He glanced at the latest Operations