Hemingway’s Chair

take the
cigarette up to her mouth again, so he could once more see that long neck turn
and elegantly lengthen.
    ‘It’s
open at the page,’ said a quavering voice.
    Martin
smiled quickly at a tiny headscarved lady staring in at him. ‘Sorry, Miss
Loyle.’ Hettie Loyle was one of a pair of identical twins, both still alive in
their eighties. They were like a double act. Their humour was sharp and rather
dangerous and they had few real friends in the town.
    ‘Looking
at the ladies again, Martin?’ she said.
    He
gave a dismissive grunt of laughter, but coloured all the same.
    ‘You
know what we used to say when I was young?’
    Martin
shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t know, Hettie.’
    She
flashed a row of perfect teeth. ‘Your eyes were out like bulldogs’ bollocks!’
    Martin
shook his head. Hettie Loyle laughed happily.
    Martin
had stamped the counterfoil, handed back the book and was counting out the
money when John Parr slid a large brown envelope along the counter.
    ‘Sling
it in the bag could you, Mart. Cheryl came over romantic last night and I can’t
move my back any more.’
    ‘American?’
Martin nodded in the direction of the departing customer.
    ‘Yeah,
looked like a witch.’
    Martin
winced. He reached for the packet, and was about to send it swiftly into the
grey prison-made polypropylene sack behind him when he caught sight of a
printed heading on the address label. In incongruous Gothic script it read,
‘The Hemingway Society of New Jersey’.
    He
turned it over and there, in bold capitals and purple ink, was the name and
address of the sender. ‘Ruth Kohler, Everend Farm.’
    A
voice came from behind him. ‘Problem, Martin?’!
    Martin
looked up. Nick Marshall was standing there. Martin couldn’t be sure how long
he’d been I there. He had something in his hand that looked suspiciously like a
mobile phone.
    ‘Mmm?’
    ‘Problem
with the packet? You seemed to be spending a long time with it.’
    Martin
lobbed the parcel quickly into the sack.
    ‘No,
it was... American, you know. Don’t get many Americans in here.’
    ‘So
you thought you’d better check the spelling.’
    Marshall
smiled and Martin thought it best to laugh.
    ‘Your
queue awaits,’ Marshall said and patted him professionally on the shoulder.
     
    The
next evening Martin was still working at half past six. Tuesday was balance day
when post offices across the country checked their stock and their tills at
close of business. There was only one personal computer at Theston and Martin
and Elaine were the only two qualified to work it. Martin was on his own
tonight, apart from Marshall who hovered, checking figures, examining returns
and asking a lot of questions. At the end, when the last figures had been fed
through, and everything tallied, Martin felt relieved. It hadn’t been easy
having his new boss there and he’d been all fingers and thumbs on the keyboard.
Now suddenly he felt the younger man’s hand rest lightly on his shoulder. There
was a hint of something like lemon on his skin.
    ‘Martin...?’
    ‘Yes,
Mr Marshall.’
    ‘Oh,
Nick, please. How’s Thursday evening looking for you?’
    ‘Thursday?’
Thursday had come to mean only one thing. Elaine at the Pheasant after work.
    ‘Thursday?’
Martin repeated lamely.
    ‘For
a little chat.’
    ‘Well
— ’
    ‘I’ll
pick you up after work. We’ll go somewhere for a ^er or two. D’you know the
Pheasant Inn? I’m told u s the nearest thing round here to a decent country
pub. We can sit outside. Enjoy the Indian summer.’
     
    ‘Well,
why did you have to say yes?’ asked Elaine.
    It
was his suggestion.’
    The
next day, Wednesday, Elaine had persuaded Martin to take a walk with her in the
lunch hour. There was a quick, licking wind as they crossed the square. The
heavy grey storm clouds had passed over and the sunbeams fell from behind them
like bands of rain.
    ‘You
could have said you were doing something on Thursday,’ she said reprovingly.
    ‘He
doesn’t give you time to explain.’
    They
turned and walked in the direction of the church.
    ‘And
why can’t he talk to you at work, like he does the rest of us?’
    This
was news to Martin. ‘Has he talked to you, then?’
    ‘Yes.
And he’s nothing to say. Afternoon, Miss Loyle.’
    Viv
Loyle was, marginally, the more eccentric of the Loyle twins. She was a regular
churchgoer, but didn’t mind which church she went to. One week she would turn
up among the Methodists, the next the