Hemingway’s Chair

expected. She had been part-time almost as long as Elaine had been
full-time. Mary Perrick, Parr’s replacement, was efficient and sensible, but
Martin was surprised to see the new employee brought in only that morning. It
was Geraldine, the same girl Martin had last seen damp and dishevelled from the
tennis court. Today she was in a tight little light grey suit which revealed a
little more of her compact, muscular body than he had been aware of on the tennis
court. Her honey-blonde hair, fairer than he remembered, was brushed back quite
severely from the temples.
    Marshall
had announced her briskly. ‘This is Geraldine Cotton. She will be coming in
when necessary to fill any gaps over the next few weeks.’
    And
that was that. Martin found himself feeling embarrassed, compromised. Geraldine
met his eye with a quick smile and then looked away. She seemed to him serious,
efficient, over-qualified. Something was not quite right.
    The
training itself had been equally uncomfortable. Nick Marshall was not a natural
teacher, preferring exhortation to instruction. From the outset he assumed a
basic standard of computer literacy and an unquestioning devotion to the new
technology. This soon split the class into two, those over fifty and the rest.
But at least Shirley Barker knew what a cursor was. Soon it "'as Arthur
Gillis versus the rest. Gillis, who had once been taught to strip down a
machine gun blindfold, was lost at the keyboard. He tried to laugh it off.
    ‘At
least I got it switched on. It would have taken Padge three weeks to learn
that.’
    But
Marshall kept the pressure up, ignoring the jokes. Elaine sat beside Gillis and
guided him through. The atmosphere was tight and uncongenial and at the end
Marshall’s thanks for their time had rung pretty hollow.

Twelve
     
     
     
    On
the last Wednesday before Christmas, not long after his tea with Ruth, Martin
found himself once more at the Market Hotel, this time for dinner at the
invitation of Nick Marshall. Marshall had sprung it on him only that morning.
Martin had barely time to cycle home, wash the ink off his hands, change into
his dark grey suit and cycle back into town again. Nick was there already. As
he watched Martin standing by the cloakroom being helped out of his anorak he
allowed himself a little pity. Martin was a decent man. He knew the job
backwards. But he was chronically passive, irretrievably agreeable, painfully
inept, one of those obliging individuals who would go out of his way to help
anyone but himself. The salt of the earth, some would call him and Nick, being
seriously concerned with fitness, knew that too much salt was bad for you.
    Martin
came towards him, one hand smoothing down his hair, the other tugging at his
collar. ‘Sorry I’m late. Foul night!’
    ‘You’ve
still got your clips on.’
    ‘Oh,
God!’
    Martin
bent down, and looking quickly round as he did so, took off his bicycle clips
and dropped them into his jacket pocket.
    He
laughed nervously.
    ‘Shall
we have a pint first?’ Martin said, remembering how much he’d preferred the bar
last time.
    ‘No,
let’s go in,’ said Nick. ‘They’ve got the table ready.’
    Martin
followed him obediently into the restaurant. He found himself wondering, not
for the first time, how Nick Marshall could live like this on a post office
manager’s salary.
    They
sat down near the window. Gordon Parrish obligingly, and in the case of Nick,
lingeringly, draped napkins over their crotches.
    Nick
looked across at Martin. ‘I expect you’re wondering how I can live like this on
a post office manager’s salary?’ He winked. ‘Don’t.’
    They
ordered. Nick chose fish, Martin steak and kidney pie. Nick selected a bottle
of white wine, and as soon as it came he insisted on pouring it himself.
    ‘I
hate other people telling me how fast I should drink my wine, don’t you?’
    Martin
had always assumed that the pouring of the wine by the waiter was the way
things were done, and clearly the wine-waiter did too, for he took his
redundancy badly and stood across by the sideboard arranging bottles sulkily.
    ‘I
hate Christmas,’ said Nick. ‘How about you?’
    Martin
knew by now that such enquiries were intended less as expressions of interest
than rhetorical springboards for whatever Nick had to say, and he treated them
as such.
    ‘Well,
I always like a day off,’ Martin ventured.
    ‘What
are you going to do with it?’
    ‘I
shall get up late,’ Martin shrugged. ‘We usually