Hemingway’s Chair

whistling as he completed
the stock check. He heard the safe click shut. As Martin threw the last bolt on
the main door he became aware of Nick Marshall behind him.
    ‘I
think I’ve spoiled someone’s Christmas.’
    Martin
corrected him bitterly. ‘ I was the one who spoilt it for him.’
    Marshall
shook his head. ‘No, I mean Elaine’s. She didn't even say goodbye.’ He seemed
less hurt than puzzled.
    Martin
locked the door and pocketed the heavy key. Marshall gathered up his papers. He
stopped and examined one of them.
    ‘Do
you want to know how much we’ve saved on staffing in the last three months?’ he
asked Martin.
    Martin
shook his head firmly. It was the last thing he wanted to know.
    ‘Four
and a half thousand pounds. And do you know what we’ll save in the next three
months? Six and a half thousand. That’s twenty-four thousand pounds this
branch will save Post Office Counter Services in a full year. That’s why I was
able to get next year’s renovation put forward.’
    Outside
in the yard a car horn sounded. Marshall bent to look out of the window. ‘All
right! I’m coming!’ he muttered. He turned back to Martin and patted him on the
arm.
    ‘Mart.
I know it’s been tough, but you wait. You won’t recognise this place in a
year’s time. That’s a promise.’
    At
the door to the counters Nick Marshall waved, shouted ‘Happy Christmas!’ and
was gone.
    Martin
stood with his back to the main door and looked around him. He saw a cracked
linoleum floor worn thin below the positions and a solid wooden counter with
its once high varnish cuffed and scratched by shopping baskets and pushchairs
and the heels of fidgeting children. He saw the new security screen rear incongruously
up to the ceiling, its anodised aluminium frame gleaming, its extra-toughened
glass naked of all the posters, stickers and exhortations to customers to check
their change which had covered its predecessor like moss on stones. He saw the
wooden writing shelf that ran the length of the opposite wall with sheaves of
forms sprouting from blue plastic boxes and biros chained to the wall.
    Above
the shelf he saw the wooden calendar box which Padge had insisted on changing
personally each morning, using the stout round knobs that protruded from the
side to change date, day and month. He saw the Newmark electric wall clock,
arbiter of coffee- and lunch-breaks for as long as Martin could remember. He
caught the familiar, comforting smell of ink and old money. He set the master
alarm and, dangling keys like a prison warder, let himself through the door to
the counters, locked it behind him and flicked off the lights.
     
    Martin
was going to go straight home but on an impulse he turned right out of North
Square and cycled down the High Street where the shop windows were already
illuminated against the December gloom, desperately flaunting themselves one
last time before Christmas. He rode on down to the sea front. He could see
Elaine striding purposefully along the pebble-strewn promenade. A dog was
running backwards and forwards in front of her, occasionally barking, eyes
flicking, beseechingly, from her face to the well-chewed tennis ball in her
hand. Martin wheeled his bicycle down the cliff path.
    ‘Elaine!’
he called and she looked up, startled. The dog saw Martin too and, with a
joyous yelp, peeled off and scampered towards him.
    ‘Hello,
Scruff, boy.’ Martin tugged at the dog’s ears, fighting to keep its nose away
from his crotch.
    ‘Scruff!’
shrieked Elaine. ‘Come here!’
    The
dog turned as she flung his tennis ball towards the sea. He raced away over the
beach, barking at each bounce and skidding into the sand.
    ‘Well
I never,’ said Elaine, glancing quickly at Martin before moving on. ‘All the
dogs are out today. Even Mr Marshall’s.’
    Martin
followed her, as Scruff came hurtling back. ‘I wanted to explain,’ he said.
    Scruff
stood, panting heavily, his tail thumping Martin’s leg.
    ‘Don’t
bother,’ Elaine said, stooping to extract the ball from his slobbery grip.
‘Everything’s quite clear,’ she said, hurling it away again. ‘Marshall throws
the ball and you fetch it for him.’
    ‘I
only did the decent thing and warned Arthur what was going to happen.’
    Elaine
gave a short cry of protest. ‘Martin, the only decent thing you had to do was
to stop that bastard from sacking a perfectly good employee.’
    ‘Early
retirement. That’s all it is. It’s not the end of the