Hemingway’s Chair

character.
    ‘Maybe
it’s not them,’ said Pat. She got up from her chair.
    ‘Who
could it be? It’s half past eight.’
    Outside
the door Martin shifted uneasily from foot to foot. He didn’t like the new
estates. They looked as though they had been assembled from kits, freshly
unpacked and set down, arbitrarily, on what were once attractive fields. The
little roads bore bogus off-the-shelf names like Lakeside Crescent and
Farmview, though the only view the houses had was of other houses. He didn’t
like what he was doing here either. He’d had a pint at the King’s Head after
work and a large whisky back at home but his mouth was still dry and his
stomach still tight. For the umpteenth time he checked that the envelope was in
the right pocket. Not in his anorak which he might hang up, but in his old
brown corduroy jacket, and not in the side, but the inside pocket. There must be
no prior hint that he had it. When the time came to deliver it, it must be
swift and sweet.
    He
pressed the bell a third time. Perhaps they weren’t in. Perhaps he’d got into
this dreadful state for nothing. Then he started. A light had gone on in the
hall. He took a deep breath. The door, still on a chain, was cautiously opened.
Mrs Gillis peered out. it’s me, Pat. Martin Sproale.’
    ‘Oh,
Martin! Whatever time do you call this?’
    ‘I’m
sorry. I’ve been working late... What with Christmas and everything. I was on
my way home.’ There was a pause and then the sound of the chain sliding back.
    ‘Well,
I’m glad it’s you. I was sat there thinking all sorts of awful things.’ She
held the door open. ‘Come in, love.’
    She
fussed around offering him cups of tea and slices of freshly made parkin and
telling him how much they missed their son who was working in Germany as a
builder and who sent money home and photographs too but that wasn’t the point,
they’d rather see him in the flesh.
    Then
Martin said that he had to talk to Arthur about a business matter and she
apologised for going on and took the cups away to wash them up.
    Throughout
all this Arthur had hardly said a word and when his wife had shut the door and
left them alone he unnerved Martin by fixing him with a smile.
    Then
he spoke. ‘Well, it’s not good news, is it?’ Martin looked away. He frowned and
scratched his head.
    ‘How
long have we known each other, Martin?’ Martin felt himself reddening. ‘Ten,
twelve years.’
    ‘Have
we ever had a bad word for each other?’
    ‘Not
that I can remember.’
    ‘No,
well, let’s not start now. I know what you’re going to say. It’s been written
on your face all day. I knew it’d come sooner or later. I’m not stupid. I can
see the way it’s going with Marshall. He’s young. He wants to change the world.
But mark my words, Martin, once your computers and your electronics run the
Post Office there’ll be no talk of ‘loyalty’ or ‘service’. You’ll either be in
or out. Well, I’m fifty-five and it doesn’t matter much to me. But you were
brought up on loyalty and service too, Martin, and you’re going to miss all
that. So don’t worry about me. You worry about yourself.’
    Martin
found himself halfway down Elmdene Way before he remembered that he still had
the letter. He cycled back, miserably, and slipped it through Arthur’s
letter-box.
     
    *
     
    The
news of Arthur Gillis’s departure broke on the Saturday, the day before
Christmas Eve. With two and a half days’ holiday ahead Nick Marshall
congratulated himself on the timing. He sweetened the pill by announcing that
he had successfully persuaded John Devereux, at Head Office, to bring forward
plans to renovate and upgrade North Square Post Office by six months — from
late summer to early in the New Year.
    The
customary exchange of staff Christmas presents took place in a peculiar
atmosphere of glum jollity. Boxes of chocolate, bars of soap, tins of nuts,
books and bottles were passed about peremptorily, as if everything had to be
done before the music stopped.
    Martin
watched Arthur Gillis slip the present he’d given him from its blue wrapping
paper. Arthur smiled and Martin wished the ground would open up beneath him.
    Arthur
held up the bottle. ‘That’ll go down well.’ Martin nodded speechlessly.
    ‘We
like a drop of Bailey’s.’
    Martin
saw only a poisoned chalice.
    By
two o’clock everyone had gone except for the Manager and his Assistant. As he
locked up and set the alarms, Martin heard Marshall