Hemingway’s Chair

here.’
    Martin
felt a sudden chill breeze. It reminded him that in his rush to cycle over to
the courts he’d forgotten his gloves. Marshall put his hands against the car,
extended his arms, and stretched out his right leg until the veins stood out on
his temple. He relaxed and took a deep breath before changing to the other leg.
    ‘Look
Mart, I’m sorry if that’s the way they’ve chosen to go with Parr, but I never
said we could pull this off without a few... ugh!... sacrifices. I ask them for
investment, I try to squeeze my case to the top of the list. I have to...
ugh!... give something in return. I have to impress them that we are doing
things right here.’
    He
changed feet again, once more holding his position until it was obviously
uncomfortable.
    ‘That
security screen is an... ugh!... expensive item. The waiting list for the
digital scales is months long. We got them in three weeks because they have...
ugh!... confidence in my plan for Theston. A plan which I need you and...
ugh!... everyone else to help me with.’
    ‘But
not John Parr.’
    Another
car was approaching up the long driveway. Both of them turned to look at it.
Marshall reached into the back of his car and fetched out a small red towel. He
dabbed at his brow as he talked.
    ‘Martin,
I’ve been watching the way you all work. To be honest, you, me and Elaine could
run that place between us.’
    He
raised his hand as Martin made to protest. ‘I’m not saying we should, but we could ,
with two 0r three others on part-time contracts. That would mean big savings,
which everybody wants, no matter who’s behind the counter.’
    Martin
tightened his grip on his bobble hat. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Nick,’ he
protested. ‘People here like to see the regular faces, they like to see local
people. They might not want to take a holiday with John Parr, but he is one of
them and they like hint being there. You lose that goodwill and we’re done
for.’
    Marshall
blew out his lips, and rubbed his hair with the towel.
    ‘Martin,
nothing is ever gained by standing still. We’re talking about a very special
post office, in a very special town. Eight thousand people, on the coast, less
than a hundred miles from the busiest ports in Europe. That’s quite a
potential. Unrealised at present, because people are frightened, that’s all.
They need some leadership, Mart, someone to say, “Look, don’t worry, it’s not
all over, it’s just beginning”.’
    He
jabbed an arm out towards the unexceptional sprawl of red brick and brown roofs
which lay below them to the east.
    ‘I
want to do things here that make outsiders take notice of the place. I want
people to say, “Hey, Theston did it, why can’t we?” There are a very few people
here who can rise to that sort of challenge, Mart. You’re one of them. John
Parr isn’t.’
    Martin
made to reply but Marshall went on. ‘You have the potential. You can make
things happen. And I think you should start to behave as you believe
that the way I do.’
    Martin
shifted out of the way as a car approached. He was confused. He had set out
that morning to tackle Nick Marshall over a perfectly simple matter. Now Nick
Marshall had changed the agenda and Martin had quite lost track of his original
purpose.
    An
ancient Volvo drew up beside them. Inside was a heavily built man in early
middle-age with a worried frown, curly dark hair, one or two chins and, low and
long on his upper lip, a George Orwell moustache. It was Quentin Rawlings.
After leaving Reuter’s Rawlings had moved himself and his family from London to
Theston. Since then he had devoted himself almost exclusively to the completion
of his autobiography Someone Answer That. This had not sold at all well.
Besides local journalism, he sent occasional environmental pieces to the Independent ,
who invariably sent them back. His wife, Maureen, who under the nom deplume Beverley Bull, wrote highly lucrative bodice rippers for the Middle Eastern
market, lingered in the car a moment, transfixed by a last tantalising glimpse
of Nick Marshall’s thighs as he slid the tracksuit leggings up across his
slender buttocks and tightened them around his waist.
    Quentin
Rawlings caught Martin’s eye and shouted across. ‘Are you a tennis player,
Martin?’
    Martin
shook his head brusquely. It was bad enough trying to hang on to Marshall’s
drift without having to answer footling questions about tennis. All right. He
couldn’t play tennis. It