Hemingway’s Chair

Bulletin and made sure his stop-list of
missing giro-cheques was up to date. He noted that, as from that morning, the
withdrawal period for National Savings Bonds worth over two hundred pounds had
been extended to twenty-eight days, and he checked that there was a mailbag
ready for parcels in the frame behind him. He reset his date stamp to 1st
October and, having checked his watch against the old Newmark electric wall
clock, he made his way through to the public area and slid back the bolts on
the main door.
    Monday
was one of their ‘queue days’. It was the day for family allowances and there
was a steady stream of claimants ranging from harassed single mothers off the
twice-daily bus to the brisk and bustling wives of local businessmen. Leading
them, as usual, was Harold Meredith, who on this particular morning had come in
on the pretext of some query about his disability pension.
    As
Martin searched for the relevant information, Mr Meredith leaned close and
confidingly towards him.
    ‘Here’s
one you didn’t know, Martin. Old Mellor, the Postmaster before Padge, had his
own private toilet out the back. I bet you weren’t aware of that, old boy. He
even had different toilet paper from the rest of the staff. Much softer.’
    ‘I’ve
had a look, Mr Meredith,’ said Martin, who sometimes surprised himself with his
own patience, it’s only payable on Wednesdays. All right?’
    ‘Those
were the days when they were Postmasters. What are they now... eh?’
    ‘Managers,
Mr Meredith.’
    The
queue was shifting restlessly.
    ‘Are
you a Manager?’ Mr Meredith asked him.
    ‘No,
I’m not a Manager.’
    ‘Good
for you.’
    ‘Mr
Marshall is the new Manager.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Mr
Marshall from Luton.’
    ‘They’re
calling them marshals now are they?’
    ‘No,
he’s the Manager. His name is Marshall.’
    Mr
Meredith turned to the queue behind him, as if appealing for sanity.
    ‘It’s
getting like the Wild West in here.’
    At
that moment John Parr, wreathed in smoke from a last-minute cigarette, opened
his position. There was a wholesale defection from Martin’s queue.
    John
Parr blinked wildly and held up his hands.
    ‘All
right! All right! I know I’m beautiful... Who’s first?’
    A
slim, striking woman with a dark, vulpine look, a small black cashmere beret
and a cigarette, had beaten the rest of the field. She pushed a heavy envelope
forward.
    ‘How
much is America?’ she asked in a voice that was surprisingly deep, almost
masculine. And American.
    ‘More
than you could afford, darling.’
    Parr
laughed, uninfectiously. A quick, perplexed smile crossed the woman’s face.
    He
blinked at her. ‘Put it on the scales, my love.’ Her smile turned to a frown.
    Harold
Meredith, having lost the bulk of his audience, heaved a sigh at Martin, folded
his pension | book and tucked it with equal care inside a plastic cover which
he then transferred carefully to the inside pocket of his tweed jacket.
    ‘Well,
I can’t stay here all morning. I’ve got a job now you know.’
    John
Parr leaned across. ‘Don’t tell me. Night club bouncer.’
    ‘Very
close, Mr Parr. I’m going to be a church bouncer.’
    ‘I
thought they were trying to throw people into church, not out of it.’
    Harold
Meredith shook his head gravely. ‘They’ve had things pilfered, you know.
Reverend Burrell’s asked me to sit at the back, two hours a day, and keep an
eye out.’
    The
unmistakable tones of Pamela Harvey-Wardrell rose above the general mutterings.
‘I only hope this news hasn’t reached the criminal fraternity. They’ll be
bussing them in.’
    Mr
Meredith knew his time was up. He reached for his walking stick and the tweed
cap which he had laid upside down on the counter when talking to Martin.
    ‘Well,
I’ll be off.’
    In
the momentary lull following Mr Meredith’s departure and the next document
being slid across the counter, Martin briefly registered the dark woman at John
Parr’s position. She was smoking. Very few women smoked at the counter these
days and he found himself watching with fascination as she drew heavily on the
cigarette, retaining the smoke with effortless confidence. Her concentration
was total and, as she waited to be given her change, Martin, too, found himself
waiting, riveted, for the moment of exhalation. When at last it came it was a
triumph. An imperious flick of the head and the smoke was cast out high and
wide, away towards the parcel counter. Martin stared, willing her to