Hemingway’s Chair

Catholics. She had even been known to go
by Super-Saver to the mosque at Bedford, to make her simple point that God was
not petty-minded.
    ‘And
how is the most handsome couple in Theston?’ she enquired, playfully.
    ‘Just
good friends, Miss Loyle.’ It was Elaine’s regular riposte and was more than
usually curt today, s Viv Loyle gave a shriek of laughter, wagged a finger and
stepped off the pavement into the path of a delivery lorry. There was a screech
of brakes, nothing new in Theston. Lettuces scattered across the road.
    ‘When
did he talk to you then?’ Martin asked Elaine.
    ‘Yesterday
afternoon some time.’
    ‘You
never told me that.’
    ‘I
was going to tell you tomorrow night,’ she said. ‘When we went to the
Pheasant.’
    ‘Well,
I’m sorry.’
    Elaine
seemed about to say something, but she stopped and shook her head. A largish
middle-aged woman, her Puffa jacket inflated to Michelin size by the wind, blew
along the pavement towards them. ‘Hello, Elaine! Hello, Martin!’ she trilled.
    ‘Hello,
May,’ called Elaine. ‘How’s Mr Pimlott?’
    ‘No
better. He has to be turned twice a night.’
    ‘Oh,
poor man.’
    ‘Poor
man! We’ll be in the grave before him. Bye!’ The wind blew harder by the church
and Elaine held the hair out of her eyes as she stopped and turned. ‘Martin?’
she said. ‘Can I ask you something?’ Martin dug his hands deep in his anorak
pockets. ‘Do you love me?’ she asked.
    He
kicked out. A small stone shot across the road. ‘There’s so much going on at
the moment, Elaine.’
    ‘Not
between you and me there isn’t.’
    ‘Look...’
    She
interrupted him. ‘There’s no future at that post office, Martin. Marshall’s
only interested in himself. He doesn’t care for people like us. We’re
dispensable. He just wants to get the most out of us and if he doesn’t get what
he wants he’ll find someone else. Mark my words.’
    They
were out of the wind now but her eyes were still watering. She turned away from
him and, reaching in her bag, drew out a purple tissue and blew her nose into
it. She took a deep breath and turned to face him.
    ‘Just
remember what I said to you the other day, Martin. In the car.’

Six
     
     
     
    It
was Thursday. Martin had felt uncomfortable all day. Even
physically uncomfortable. He couldn’t face his sandwiches, which was quite
unlike him. Women were beyond him. He’d combed the Master’s works to try and
find some clue to Elaine’s behaviour. But none of Hemingway’s women fitted Elaine.
    He
had to admit that Papa could be strange and brusque and bullying with women (as
he could be with men). He liked them either mysterious and witty or loyal and
submissive, and Elaine would have failed on both counts.
     
    ‘Ready?’
    It
was a quarter to six. The day’s work was done and Nick Marshall was holding
open the back door of the post office whilst Martin fiddled around with his!
briefcase.
    ‘You
won’t need that,’ Nick assured him.
    ‘Can
you drop me back here? For the bike?’
    ‘Of
course, I’ve got to get back for a meeting I anyway.’
    ‘Oh?’
    Marshall
grinned quickly and pulled back his f shoulders. ‘Trying to drum up more
business.’
    As
he settled nervously into the figure-hugging front seat of Marshall’s Toyota
Carina, Martin had to admit to a certain buzz of excitement. On a Manager’s
salary, which he knew well enough to be sixteen thousand one hundred and fifty
pounds a year, the man seemed to live like a king. There was even a car
telephone. In addition to his mobile. A bottle of champagne was adrift on the
back seat.
    Martin
slowly relaxed and watched the seaside boarding houses give way to the new
estates and then to the farms and then to the close, dark woods. He was struck
by a new and quite unfamiliar sensation. He felt important.
     
    ‘Where
d’you like to sit?’
    ‘Anywhere’ll
do,’ said Martin. It was too cold to sit outside.
    Marshall,
two pints in hand, led him to a corner table in what was the old snug bar,
which Ron Oakes had now carpeted, curtained, hung with stuffed birds and
renamed the Hatchery. Martin had often shared this same table with Elaine.
    ‘You
and Elaine are an item, then?’
    Martin
frowned for a moment, then blushed in surprise. ‘Oh... well, yes we... er...’
    Nick
Marshall tugged his neck muscles tight. ‘I clocked you at lunchtime. Yesterday,
taking a walk. You’re well in there, Martin. I could think of worse People to
sit next to all