Hemingway’s Chair

study in alcoholism.’
    Martin
was stung. ‘He could have come off the booze, but he enjoyed it. Anyway he was
never drunk. I mean, rolling drunk. Never incapable.’
    ‘I’ll
soon be making tea,’ shouted Kathleen from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Are you
staying, Ruth?’
    Ruth
glanced at her watch and set her glass down. ‘No thanks,’ she shouted back, and
turned to Martin. ‘I have to go.’
    ‘There’s
no hurry. I enjoy talking about him.’
    Ruth
laughed and stood up. She brushed down the creases in her well-cut black
trousers and Martin saw that her legs were long and slim.
    ‘Well,
I’ve spent the last three months unravelling his love life and I need a break.’
    Martin
held out the bottle towards her. ‘One for the road?’
    ‘No,
really Martin.’ She held her hand over the glass. ‘This is just fine.’
    Martin
poured himself another and raised a toast again. ’ Salud .'
    She
raised hers back and laughed. ‘ Skol .’
    Martin
drank most of it back in one. ‘Are you on your own at Christmas, Ruth?’ he was
surprised to find himself asking.
    Ruth
shook her head emphatically. ‘No, I have to go to Oxford. There’s a lot of
material I need to dig out of the Bodleian Library. I’m combining it with a
trip to see friends. And you?’
    Martin
retreated. Played safe. ‘Well, we usually go to the Rudges.’
    ‘That’s
nice. I envy you.’
     
    After
Ruth had gone, Martin sat at the kitchen table and contemplated the parcel she
had given him. Then curiosity got the better of him and he pulled the silver
ribbon and ran his fingers under the flaps at both ends of the wrapping paper
and folded it back. Inside there was a card. On the front was Robert Capa’s
photograph of Hem, his son Gregory and two rifles, leaning against a log in Sun
Valley, Idaho. On the back was written, ‘From Ruth Kohler and Admirers of
Ernest. Happy Christmas.’
    Beneath
the card was a copy of the Toronto Daily Star for 27th January 1923 and
below it a copy of the first Esquire magazine ever printed.
     
    As
Martin was opening her present, Ruth was driving along a narrow road that led
between wet, ploughed fields wondering if he had opened it yet and wondering
why she had lied to him about spending Christmas with friends.
    She
wound down her window. It was warm and the easterly air was stale.

Fifteen
     
     
     
    It
was early January and the weather had turned numbingly cold. Butinside the post office Harold Meredith was concerned with
more than the temperature.
    ‘What’s
wrong with it?’
    ‘There’s
nothing wrong with it, Mr Meredith,’ said Martin.
    ‘Then
why are you — ’ He tapped on the glass. ‘Can you hear me?’
    ‘Yes,
I can hear you.’
    ‘Then
why are you closing down?’
    ‘We’re
not closing down, we’re going to move into another part of the building whilst
the improvements are done. When you next see it it’ll be a different place.’
    Harold
Meredith’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What will it be?’
    ‘It’ll
be a post office, but much more comfortable and easy for you to use.’
    ‘It’s
easy to use now, except for this blooming thing.’
    ‘What’s
that?’
    ‘This
thing.’ He jabbed a thin finger at the sliding security box. ‘Jaws. You could
get rid of that for a start.’
    ‘It’s
for security reasons, Mr Meredith,’ said Martin wearily. ‘You know that.’
    ‘If
you ask me, it’s the criminal that runs the country these days,’ went on Mr
Meredith, it’s like that card they’ve given me for my meter. What was wrong
with putting a coin in? Oh, no, they said, this is much more secure. Well, I
said, I’ve got three jars full of 10 p’s. What am I going to do with them?
Well, they said, give them to us and we’ll give you a credit. I said, you take
your hands off my 10 p’s.’
    ‘That’s
the electricity company, Mr Meredith, you’ll have to go and talk to them.’
    Pamela
Harvey-Wardrell, looking like some legendary Cossack general in a lovat
greatcoat, knee-length leather boots and black astrakhan hat, glared into the
back of Harold Meredith’s head from three places away. She cleared her throat.
Without turning, Mr Meredith sighed, picked up his gloves and cap, unhooked his
walking-stick and made his way slowly across to the writing desk.
    Mrs
Harvey-Wardrell reached Martin and handed over the details of her road tax
renewal. ‘I don’t know why all our post offices have to be fortresses these
days, do you Martin? I mean take France —