Hemingway’s Chair

said.
    ‘Martin,
his life is my work, but I happen to think that there are a lot of other people
in his life just as interesting as he was.’
    ‘Yes.
Well, that’s up to you. I think he was... he was like the ocean liner.’ The way
he said the word ‘ocean’ confirmed Ruth’s suspicion that her caller had taken a
drink or two.
    ‘Yes?’
she said cautiously.
    ‘He
was the ocean liner and they were the little tugboats that buzzed around him.’
    Ruth
laughed a little nervously. ‘Never underestimate tugboats. They guide the liner
into port.’
    At
the other end she could hear a sip and a swallow. This was all getting too
serious.
    ‘You
sound as if you’re finishing off the grappa,’ she said, brightly.
    ‘The
grappa? No, that’s your drink. I’m saving that for you.’
    She
laughed.
    ‘Save
it for both of us,’ she said. ‘I’m saving for the chair. That’s what I’m saving
for. I may only work at the bloody post office but I’m going to have it. You
see. Excuse my language.’
    ‘Be
my guest. I come from New Jersey.’
    ‘Will
you please ask your friends, or your contacts to hang on to it. Okay? Will they
do that? Will they give me some time?’
    ‘If
you’re serious.’
    ‘I’m
deadly serious. I want that chair.’
    Ruth
narrowed her eyes as the smoke stung them. She could see a light moving
outside. Mr Wellbeing worked until after dark these days when the fields were
wet and heavy.
    ‘In
that case I’ll tell them I have a buyer.’
    ‘Tell
them that. Tell them I need a week or two, though.’
    ‘D’you
have the money?’
    Martin
almost shouted down the phone. ‘I’ll get the money.’
    ‘Okay,
fine.’
    There
was a pause. She waited.
    ‘Tell
them I want it.’ There was an urgency near to desperation in his voice now. ’It
may take time, but please don’t let it go.’
    ‘I
get the message,’ said Ruth, stretching down and reaching out for the letter
from the Morton-Smiths.
    A
beam of light swung across the room, followed almost immediately by the sound
of Mr Wellbeing’s tractor changing down a gear as it turned up the track
towards the farm.
    ‘Let
me know if I can be of any more help then,’ she said in a winding down sort of
way.
    ‘I
will.’
    There
was a pause. The tractor rumbled past on its way up to the farm.
    After
a moment Martin’s voice came again, and this time she detected the sound of a
smile. ‘Adiós, hija.' His Spanish wasn’t bad.
    ‘ Adiós ,
Papa.’
    She
hung up and smoked thoughtfully for a while. The sound of the tractor receded.
Soon she heard it turn and she heard the jarring scrape of metal as the trailer
was reversed into the barn, then a shudder as the engine finally died.
    When
everything was quiet again she could feel her heart beating. She should really
finish her letter home, fix something to eat and then read for at least a
couple of hours. There was plenty to do, but at this precise moment she could
do nothing. She felt unsettled. She was here at Everend Farm Cottage for the
sole purpose of completing a book. A book that was important to her. A book
that would establish her credentials as a serious scholar and maybe even make
her a little money. She needed her time to be left clear and uncluttered. Now,
almost without her noticing, she had allowed a stranger into her life and she
had the uncomfortable feeling that he would not easily be persuaded to leave.

Seventeen
     
     
     
    Elaine
had inherited a fighting streak from her father. Frank Rudge
was an obstinate man and he’d never been far from a fight. He was born down the
coast at Alford, third son in a family of fishermen. His father, John Rudge,
had never had much of an opinion of his youngest son. He thought him soft and
unambitious. When Rudge Senior retired he handed over the business and the
half-dozen boats it involved to Frank’s two elder brothers.
    Displaying
an unexpected abundance of the family talent for stubbornness and tenacity,
Frank moved north to Theston, took a job with the local harbourmaster, married
a Theston girl and set about finding a foothold in the tightly controlled
fishery business of his newly adopted home. Theston fishing was in the hands of
two or three families who didn’t take kindly to newcomers. But, with the help
of some inside information from the coast guards, Frank outmanoeuvred them by
winning a contract from the Ministry of Defence to maintain an area of beach
south of the harbour for amphibious vehicle training. Three years later