Hemingway’s Chair

pinguid morsel to the front of his mouth, bent low over the plate
and deposited it, alongside several others. ‘Why?’ he said eventually. ‘What’s
the point?’
    ‘They’ve
a guaranteed, built-in customer base that any other shop would be crying out
for. They’re right at the heart of domestic finances already. They would have a
head start on all communications-related merchandise. Mobile phones, home
computers, fax machines.’
    ‘Isn’t
that going a bit far?’ Martin protested.
    Nick
Marshall shook his head vigorously. ‘The problem. Mart,’ he said, ‘is not going
far enough.’
     
    They
finished the meal and as swiftly as the bill arrived Nick sent it back
accompanied by a Visa card. Martin reached inside his coat. ‘How much do I owe
you?’
    ‘Business
expense, Mart.’
    ‘You’re
not self-employed.’
    ‘Well,
put it this way,’ Marshall added mysteriously. ‘I do the odd piece of consultancy.’
    ‘Thank
you,’ said Martin. ‘You didn’t need to do that.’
    ‘Well,
Mart, I feel I owe you a lot of thanks. An outsider taking over a well-loved
local office. It wasn’t easy, and I didn’t always get it right. Especially over
that business with John Parr. I did that badly.’
    Martin
toyed with an empty wine glass. It was his turn to be magnanimous. ‘We all make
mistakes.’
    ‘Exactly,’
said Nick. He patted the side of his mouth with the linen napkin, then rubbed
his hands and stretched them back against each other. ‘That’s why I’d like you
to be the one to tell Arthur Gillis.’
    ‘Tell
Arthur Gillis what?’
    Nick
put down the napkin. He sorted the credit card and counterfoil carefully into
his wallet and looked up. ‘I’ve recommended him for early retirement. I don’t
think Head Office will put up much of a fight.’
    He
pursed his lips very tightly. Martin sat and stared. Nick stood, abruptly.
‘Shall we go?’
    Martin
didn’t move.
    ‘I’m
sorry, Mart, but the man’s computer illiterate. He won’t survive.’
    ‘He’s
hardly had a chance.’
    ‘Mart,
there are people who get it slowly and people who get it fast and people who
will never get it. Arthur Gillis will never get it. He knows it too. He’ll be
offered decent terms. He’s only five years off retirement age.’
    ‘But
I’ve worked with Arthur for ten years. Everyone knows him.’
    This
time Nick made no attempt to conceal his irritation. He felt unduly conspicuous
standing there with Martin gazing up at him, dumbstruck. It was all unnecessary
and overdramatic, and any moment his mouth might start giving him trouble.
Resting his hands on the table, he leaned down and spoke briskly. ‘He’s not
going to disappear off the planet, Mart. People can still know him. He
just won’t have to sit behind a post office counter any more. Lucky man, some
would say.’
    Martin
remained obstinately seated. ‘Well, you tell him that yourself.’
    Nick
Marshall leaned closer. ‘Look, Mart. You gave me stick over the way I dealt
with Parr. You were right. I should have told you what I was doing and let you
handle it. It’s what you do best. Well, this time I shan’t make that mistake.’
He reached into the inside pocket of his grey flannel suit and held out an
envelope.
    Martin
flicked his eyes sideways. He saw the name of Arthur Gillis on the front,
swallowed hard and then looked up.
    ‘And
if I say no?’
    ‘I’ll
just put a stamp on it and he’ll hear about it in the normal way.’

Thirteen
     
     
     
    On
the Thursday evening before Christmas the Gillises were watching television when the doorbell sounded. Pat Gillis looked
across to her husband and was about to get up when he motioned her back. ‘Let
them sing something first. You’re always up like a jack-in-the-box. Let them
sing something.’
    Pat
Gillis squeezed the handkerchief she was holding. She was a small, nervous
Yorkshirewoman, with dark, centre-parted hair and prominent green eyes. ‘I
don’t like to have them hanging around. They sing these long carols just to
give them time to have a look at the house.’
    ‘Who’ve
you been talking to?’
    ‘It’s
common knowledge. One of them sings and the others look in the window to see
where your video is.’
    ‘Well,
they’ve sung nothing yet and anyway, we haven’t got a video.’
    ‘We’ve
had the television on. They might have sung already for all you know.’
    They
sat there, listening.
    The
doorbell sounded again. Two chirpy notes, as if announcing a cartoon