Hemingway’s Chair

conclusion. Nick Marshall was serving to a
young woman wearing a light grey tracksuit. Despite being considerably smaller
than him, five foot two or three, she could have been mistaken for a sister.
Her face was a little plumper and her nose short and tilted slightly upwards.
But she had the same fair hair, cut short and dampened now with sweat. She was
playing with quiet, watchful energy. Marshall, all in white save for a blue and
yellow shoulder flash on his tennis shirt, served, making himself grunt with
the effort. The first serve was low and deep and the ball kicked and spun away,
unreturned.
    ‘Fifteen
love,’ he called. The next serve his opponent returned well. Her shot skimmed
the net but Marshall was up there and waiting and he volleyed it away to the
far side of the court.
    ‘Thirty
love!’ called Marshall, with the increasing relish of one who liked to hear the
score, especially at times like this.
    On
the third point he served into the net, bitterly reproached himself and
delivered a second serve that was hard down the centre line.
    ‘Forty
love! Match point...’
    His
opponent settled herself on the line, then crouched forward and waited with
admirable patience as Marshall bent low, leg outstretched like a ballet dancer.
He paused interminably then slowly uncoiled himself, tossed up the ball,
twisted with whippet-like grace and struck a third and final ace.
    He
clenched his fist, punched the air and made for the door of the court, bobbing
up the two remaining balls with his racquet as he went.
    Martin
watched all this from the shelter which people used as a makeshift changing
room. As Marshall came off the court, Martin took a deep breath, removed his
bobble hat and stepped forward.
    ‘Nick?’
    Marshall
turned, looking surprised. ‘Martin. Are you a tennis player?’
    ‘No,
I’m not. But I know you play on Sundays.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And I er...’
    Marshall
must have noticed him looking uncertainly at his partner.
    ‘This
is Geraldine. Geraldine Cotton, Martin Sproale. He works with me at the post
office.’ Geraldine mussed up her hair and smiled, screwing up her face against
the low sunshine.
    ‘How
d’you do,’ she said, in a neutral accent, with possibly a hint of Home Counties
cockney. Martin shook her hand. It felt remarkably cool considering what she’d
been through.
    ‘Could
I... could I talk to you a moment, Nick?’ asked Martin.
    Marshall
rubbed an arm across his brow and grinned at his partner. ‘You see, I told you
my staff were keen.’ He peeled a sweat-band from his head and looked across to
Martin. ‘Sure. See you later, Gerry.’ Geraldine seemed unconcerned and with a
wave at the two of them, walked towards one of three cars already parked
beneath the last few faded yellow leaves of a chestnut tree. Martin followed
Nick towards his Toyota. He cleared his throat again. ‘Didn’t see you at the
fair yesterday, Nick.’
    ‘No,
I couldn’t make it. Had to be in London. Relations, you know. Besides, I don’t
like crowds.’ He pursed his lips quickly.
    ‘It’s
one of the big days in Theston’s year. A lot of customers there,’ said Martin.
    Marshall’s
eyes flicked on to him.
    ‘Well,
it’s just as well you were there, Mart. My man on the spot.’ He unlocked the
back door of his car and reached inside for a black and silver track suit,
Martin took the bull by the horns.
    ‘I
certainly was on the spot, Nick, when I met John Parr.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘He
was looking very sorry for himself. ’
    ‘Well,
that’s a change.’
    Marshall
began to ease on his tracksuit top.
    ‘Why
didn’t you tell me?’ Martin asked him.
    The
right-hand side of Marshall’s mouth began to tremble ever so slightly. He
stretched his cheek muscles to cope with it, but when he spoke it still wasn’t
entirely under control.
    ‘Look,
if you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about, it’s true that I
told Devereux that in my opinion there were economies to be made. The next move
was up to him, Martin. I make recommendations, but I don’t have the
authority to fire people, you know that.’
    ‘Well,
whoever did it, John Parr’s been told he’s out of a job.’
    ‘He
can always go somewhere else.’
    ‘He’s
born and bred here. His family are here.’
    ‘So?
I was born and bred in Bristol.’ Marshall slipped the tracksuit top down over
his broad shoulders and adjusted it carefully. ‘I worked in London, I worked in
Luton and now I’m