Hemingway’s Chair

go to dinner at the Rudges’.’
    Nick
raised an eyebrow. ‘Christmas dinner at the Rudges’. Must be fun.’
    ‘Frank
tends to run the show. No one else gets a word in.’
    Nick
Marshall took a mouthful of Saint-Veran and thrust his lips forward like a
goldfish as he drew the air in over it. Martin was pleasantly relieved to see
that he could look quite ugly. Marshall swallowed the wine, nodded to himself
and poured them each a glass.
    ‘Cheers!’
he said. ‘To you and Elaine.’
    Martin’s
mouthful disappeared down some passage at the back of his throat he’d not known
about before. He choked helplessly and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. Nick
Marshall watched him like a fox might watch a chicken laying an egg.
    ‘You are going to get married?’ Marshall asked. Martin could only muster a
non-committal grunt, but this didn’t seem to be enough.
    Nick
leaned forward as if he might have missed something. ‘Mmm?’
    ‘I
think when we’re both ready,’ Martin began, uneasily.
    ‘You
must have been waiting to see what happened at the post office.’
    Martin,
once again, felt himself back on a conversational roller coaster.
    Nick
went smoothly on. ‘I do understand, you know. Your expectations and everything.
You must have hated my guts when I took over.’
    Martin
forced a laugh.
    ‘It’s
true isn’t it?’
    ‘I
never hated your guts,’ Martin lied. ‘I was upset for a while, yes. Promotion
would have made a difference to my life. A bit more money wouldn’t have gone
amiss.’
    Nick
nodded agreement. ‘But you resigned yourself to it.’
    ‘What
else could I do,’ Martin said, guardedly.
    ‘Elaine
didn’t, did she?’
    Martin
bristled at this. ‘Well, you sound as if you know all about it, Nick.’
    ‘She
makes it obvious, Mart. And I don’t blame her. But I’d rather she saw me as a
friend, not a devil. I can actually make things very nice for us all.’
    The
last thought hung pregnant in the air as the food arrived and there was much
fussing around with knives and forks and plates and serving dishes. Nothing
more of significance was said until Gordon Parrish had finally wheeled his
trolley away. Nick took barely a mouthful of Dover sole before leaning
forwards. ‘I suppose you’re following the privatisation debate . .
    Martin,
engaged in disentangling a stray piece of meat which had appeared inadvertently
amongst the gristle, tried his best to convey his strong feelings on the issue.
    ‘The
way I see it,’ Nick went on, ‘is that the Government’s committed to change —
it’s just a question of how fast it’ll happen. The Post Office is big, but it
won’t stay big if it has to pay two hundred million pounds back to the
Government every year. My guess is they’ll fudge it. Half public, half private.
What do you think?’
    Martin
swallowed hard and raised his head from his plate. ‘I’m against it,’ he said
firmly. ‘I don’t want to see some Arab millionaire end up with half the British
Post Office.’
    Nick
set his fork to one side, as if the business of eating was a tiresome
distraction. He picked up his wine glass and looked across at Martin, if an
Arab millionaire wanted to own half the British Post Office wouldn’t
that help everybody working in it?’
    ‘You
must be joking. It wouldn’t be British for a start.’
    ‘Look
at what the Arabs own already, Mart. Harrods, the Dorchester Hotel. You can’t
get much more British than that.’
    ‘But
not the Post Office. That’s different.’
    ‘Why?
Why is it different? It supplies a service. Harrods supplies cheese and chairs,
the Dorchester supplies hotel rooms, the Post Office supplies deliveries,
stamps and driving licences.’
    Across
the restaurant Martin caught sight of Cuthbert Habershon, the coroner. This
must be the day he retired. He and his friends crowded, jovially, round a
corner table. Champagne was already in the bucket. Martin found himself envious
of their easy familiarity. He swung his attention back to Nick Marshall, who
was still talking. ‘There would, if the privatisation bill was passed, be nothing
to stop a post office selling a lot more.’ Marshall paused to weigh up the
effect of his words. ‘What’s wrong with them selling insurance, holidays,
goldfish . .
    Martin
couldn’t answer straight away. Another glob of fat had wedged itself in a
crevice in his upper jaw not due for filling until the New Year. His tongue
worked frantically to dislodge it.
    ‘Mmm?’
    Martin
worked the