Hemingway’s Chair

cigar
smoke. It was time to make some contribution.
    ‘Exciting
times,’ he said. It seemed to be enough. Devereux nodded thoughtfully.
    ‘And
we want to make sure everyone sees it that way.’
    ‘Yes,’
said Martin, uncertainly.
    Another
low blue cloud headed across the table.
    ‘And
that’s where you come in, of course.’
    Devereux
looked up as Marshall returned from the telephone, muttering, shaking his head
and prodding at the buttons of a calculator.
    ‘Ah,
Nick. I’m just filling Martin in on a little background.’
    Marshall
shook his head, set the calculator aside and took a mandarin orange from a
fruit bowl on the side. He sat across the coffee table from them. Devereux
watched him for a moment, almost as a father might a son, then turned his
attention back to Martin.
    ‘We
see your role, Martin, as our man on the ground in Theston. The man who knows
the territory. The ’uman territory. You’re a local lad, Martin. People like
you. People trust you. Very important that. You can keep your ear to the
ground. People like me have to keep a professional distance.’
    ‘I
understand,’ said Martin.
    They
both watched Marshall for a moment. He took out a penknife and sliced into the
mandarin orange with surgical precision.
    ‘It’s
also very important to us, Martin, that we maintain the best possible relations
with the Town Council and in particular with the Planning Committee.’ Devereux
paused. Marshall finished work on the orange and began popping the immaculately
pith-stripped segments into his mouth.
    ‘The
Chairman’s quite well known to you, I believe?’ Devereux asked.
    Martin
looked uncertain.
    ‘Frank
Rudge. You’re friendly with the family, I hear.’
    At
this Marshall looked quickly up from his orange. Martin gave a non-committal
nod of the head. ‘Yes. I know the family.’
    Devereux
put his brandy glass down on the edge of the table and, leaning forward, tugged
at his socks, pulling and straightening them elaborately. ‘Tell me, Martin,
I’ve heard rumours to suggest that not everything Frank Rudge has done in his life
has been altogether... on the level.’
    ‘Frank?
He’s straight as a die.’
    Martin
knew the talk about Frank, but Frank had been a good friend to his mother and
as far as Martin was concerned the constant repetition of the rumours only
irritated him.
    ‘Pleased
to hear that,’ said Devereux, immediately suspicious. He took his glass again
and cradled it. ‘Was it always so?’
    ‘There’s
always rumours in a place the size of Theston.’
    ‘What
sort of rumours?’
    ‘Well,
a long time ago he had a fish processing plant that went of out business.
People lost money. Him included. That’s all.’
    Devereux
nodded, interesting. Very interesting.’ He reached for the ashtray. ‘You see,
the people we get involved with have to be dead straight, Martin. If they’re
not we have to know.’ He ground the remains of his cigar into a dark, wet
little mess. ‘We have to know their weak points.’
    There
was a silence.
    ‘Do
you read me?’
    Martin
nodded.
    ‘Good
lad!’ Devereux struck the table top and grinned. ‘Sproale, if things go well
your days behind the counter are definitely numbered.’
    ‘You’ll
be able to buy a second bicycle,’ said Nick.
    ‘Be
able to buy the fucking factory,’ said Devereux.
     
    Geraldine
drove Martin home. Forcefully. She raced down the narrow lanes and revved out
of the corners and it sobered him up dramatically.
    ‘There
might be something on the road,’ Martin said anxiously as a particularly dark
and leafy corner raced towards them.
    ‘Did
you know there’s a higher risk of hitting a hedgehog at thirty than at sixty?’
she shouted, as the corner unwound and the bypass loomed ahead.
    ‘I
was thinking of cyclists.’
    ‘Shouldn’t
be out at this time of night,’ she laughed, braking sharply and just early
enough to avoid a southbound forty-foot trailer.
    When
they reached Marsh Cottage she turned to him. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through
all that.’
    Martin
reassured her. ‘I’m all right. Not used to cars, that’s all.’
    ‘No,
not the driving.’ She pushed the heater up a notch and pulled up the collar of
her tweed overcoat. ‘The evening. It must have seemed pretty strange to you. I
could see what you were going through. I could tell it wasn’t your cup of
poison.’
    Martin
had begun to open the door. Now he paused. For some reason he trusted
Geraldine. ‘Did I do the right thing?’