Hemingway’s Chair

world.’
    ‘Martin,
no one ever asked him if he wanted early retirement. He wasn’t allowed to
choose, was he? Did he want it? Did Pat want it? Did anyone ever ask them ?'She turned and walked on. Martin skirted a neatly piled dog-turd and
wheeled his bicycle after her. ‘Listen, it’s stupid to keep on being angry.’
    Scruff
raced back from the sea. Martin held back to avoid the shower of spray as he
shook himself down. Elaine turned. Her eyes were blazing. ‘The only stupid
thing I ever did was fall for you. I must have been bloody mad!’
    Scruff
dropped the ball and barked back, delighted at the shouting. Martin stopped.
There seemed to be no further point in trailing after her. ‘Look,’ he called.
‘I’ll see you on Christmas Day. Let’s talk about it after that. When we’re both
a bit... calmer.’
    Elaine
turned and shook her head. ‘No you won’t,’ she said.
    ‘Won’t
what?’
    ‘You
won’t see me on Christmas Day. There’s no point, Martin. I...’ She seemed to
struggle to find the word. ‘I don’t trust you any more.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘You
run the Post Office the way you and the Wonder Boy want to run it. I’ll collect
my salary for as long as I’m allowed to and I promise not to interfere. Good
luck and goodbye.’ She felt tears welling and fought hard against them. ‘You’re
not wanted, Martin. You’re redundant. You’ve been laid off. You don’t fit in
with my plans.’
    Then
the tears did come and she was angry with herself and turned sharply away
towards the cliff path.
    Scruff
laid the ball at Martin’s feet instead and eyed him, imploringly.

Fourteen
     
     
     
    When
Martin arrived back at Marsh Cottage it was almost dark. He was about to swing in to the doorway when his bicycle lamp
picked out a badly parked yellow Datsun blocking the gateway. He dismounted and
squeezed his bicycle alongside. It was most likely someone for his mother. Some
of these Theston women parked like schoolchildren. Left their cars wherever
they felt like it. To avoid whoever it might be he went around to the back
door. That didn’t work. His mother was there in the kitchen and, opposite her,
was a visitor he recognised. Sitting, with her hands tight around one of the
big white coffee mugs, was Ruth Kohler.
    Martin
was suddenly conscious of being damp and windswept, and his nose was running.
He sniffed hard and pushed the door open.
    ‘How
d’you do,’ he said formally and laid his briefcase on the chair.
    ‘You
look exhausted,’ said his mother.
    ‘It’s
just drizzle. It’s not cold.’
    ‘This
lady — ’
    ‘Ruth,’
Ruth reminded her again.
    ‘Ruth
and me are just having some coffee. D’you want a cup?’
    Martin
nodded and unzipped his anorak. Ruth looked at home in the kitchen. He was
surprised. She had a cigarette in her hand and his mother had found her an
ashtray. ‘A present from the Vatican’ was inscribed on its rim. A friend had
brought it back.
    ‘I
didn’t think you knew where I lived,’ he said, ducking into the back porch and
hanging up his things.
    Ruth
gave a quick, short cough and tapped the ash from her cigarette. ‘The most
discreet man in the world told me, but only after I threatened him.’ Martin
bent down, pulled off his bicycle clips and tucked them into the pocket of his
anorak. ‘I’m not with you.’
    ‘Our
mutual friend in the book trade. Mr Julian.’
    ‘Ah,
yes,’ Martin crossed to the sink and ran his hands under the hot tap. He caught
sight of his scraggy red-brown hair in the mirror and wished he could have had
time to comb it.
    ‘I
must go and see him. He’s got some magazines for me.’
    Ruth
expelled two long columns of smoke. ‘Not any more, I’m afraid.’
    Martin
reached for the towel. ‘Have they gone?’ Ruth nodded. Martin’s face creased
momentarily. ‘Well, that’s the way it goes,’ he said, and dried his hands
briskly, it’s my fault,’ said Ruth.
    Martin
turned. ‘Your fault?’
    ‘I
was the one who bought them. He didn’t tell me until after I’d paid. Said he
felt quite sad about selling them, but he’d waited a couple of months. I
thought I should come by and explain.’
    Martin
smiled ruefully. ‘I don’t have the money anyway.’
    Ruth
reached down to the chair beside her and produced a silver-ribboned parcel
wrapped in Christmas paper. She pushed it across the table towards him. ‘I hope
this’ll make up for it.’
    Kathleen
Sproale poured the hot water on to the coffee. ‘He’s got