Hemingway’s Chair

demanding appetites the next. Her
analyst told her this was as much to do with her as them, that her equally
demanding appetites led her unerringly to the wrong men.
    She
smiled at this thought as she checked herself in the bathroom mirror. Dark,
olive skin (mother’s side), hair black and thick, bunched back over her ears
and desperately needing attention, eyes deep green and staring back at her with
a disturbing intensity, nose narrow and rugged like a headland running down
into the sea, mouth wide, lips thin, chin rather fine (father’s side). Neck
average and unremarkable, shoulders carrying on where the face left off,
angular and rocky, breasts slim and neat and even. Sometimes it excited her,
this dark and secretive body, but most of the time she saw it as something to
be covered quickly. To be unloaded away from bright light, like exposed film.
    A
couple of hours later, she was in Theston. Wearing her black beret and black
boots and a baseball jacket over freshly ironed black Levi’s, she locked up the
yellow Cherry in the temporary car park on Victoria Hill, and made her way
towards the festivities.
     
    *
     
    Everyone
in Theston, or so it seemed, either visited or worked at the Fair. Stalls
selling everything from railway signs to organic cheeses sprouted along the
pavements of High Street and Market Street. There were sideshows along the sea
front. There was a fairground in Jubilee Park and kite-flying competitions on
Victoria Hill.
    Quentin
Rawlings, who had once been a Reuter’s man in Paris, and whose published work
was now confined to short, angry pieces in the East Suffolk Advertiser, could be seen in the garden of his overgrown Victorian house, clad in beret and
Breton fisherman’s sweater, running the boulodrome and celebrating what
he called a day of Gallic Xenophobia.
    Alan
Randall, purveyor, by his own admission, of the last remaining hand-made
chocolates in Theston, provided the Punch and Judy show. This year he was
engaged in a fierce wrangle with the Blood Transfusion Service, who had seen
fit to park their trailer in the school playground, which he regarded as his
own private auditorium.
    The
Sea Scouts gave resuscitation displays in the church hall and there was an Army
recruiting caravan in the British Home Stores car park.
    At
the church of St Michael and All Angels, Barry Burrell, the vicar, left Harold
Meredith to guard its priceless collection of fourteenth-century treasures
(plate, chalice, both mentioned in Pevsner along with the rood-screen), whilst
he threw himself into organising the Cricketing Christians, who traditionally
played forty-overs of beach cricket come rain or shine, with trusties from the
local prison.
    But
North Square remained the nucleus of the day’s activities. Here were located
the prime sites occupied by the most celebrated businesses — the Rudges’
nearly-new clothes stall; Dr and Mrs Cardwell’s home-made wine kiosk; and
Maureen Rawlings’s Spice Bazaar.
    A
stage had been set up at the bottom of the post office steps where a jazz band
played during the day and the Keith Stackpole Experience played by night. It
was towards this throbbing centre that Ruth Kohler was remorselessly drawn.
    What
was happening around her seemed most un-English. Everyone appeared to be
talking to each other. Despite the cold, grey weather, the atmosphere of
jollity and involvement was pervasive and yet she had no idea how to connect
with it all. She would have given anything for a quick Bloody Mary, but the
pubs she passed were full of noisy male laughter and didn’t seem welcoming, so
she settled for a coffee instead. She was looking hesitantly in at the door of
the Theston Tea Shoppe, when she heard a voice.
    ‘Are
you going in?’
    She
turned to see who had spoken and found herself face to face with a youngish
man, pale-skinned, with soft reddish hair and a round, unmemorable face. He was
breathless and quite pink. She apologised and moved to one side.
    ‘I’m
sorry. I can’t seem to make up my mind.’
    His
pinkness deepened, alarmingly, leaving Ruth to assume some unintentional gaffe
on her part.
    ‘You
were in the post office?’ he blurted out.
    ‘Yes,
I... er... I’ve been to the post office,’ she admitted.
    ‘I
work there.’
    ‘Oh
really.’
    ‘Yes…
Behind the counter.’
    ‘Ah.’
    This
was a conversation he seemed to need more than she did, but it was the only one
on offer so Ruth stayed with it as best she could.
    ‘I
like English post