Hemingway’s Chair

pity. Well, thought Martin, if he
were trying to give him some sort of moral lesson, this was not the time.
    Before
he left the room Martin took out a bottle of grappa, wrapped it in a scarf and
laid it carefully at the bottom of his bag. There was something to celebrate.
     
    When
Ruth opened the door of Everend Farm Cottage to find Martin standing there, his
breath forming visible clouds in front of him, his nose reddened like a gnome’s
in the bitter cold, she wisely, but with difficulty, kept from laughing.
    Martin
smiled nervously. She held the door open and he moved quickly inside. Ruth
watched him as he dropped his bag down on the sofa, felt in his pocket and
carefully laid fifteen brand new fifty-pound notes on the table.
    Ruth
was impressed. ‘Great-grandmother’s legacy? Bank raid?’
    Martin
was biting his lip hard, it’s all there. You can count it. ’
    Ruth
fingered the money. The new logs that Mr Wellbeing had cut for her hissed and
spat from the fire.
    ‘You’re
serious.’
    ‘I
had more money in my account than I thought.’
    Martin
began to hum as he pulled at the zip on his anorak. It was an odd, uneasy sound
and Ruth had never heard it before. For the first time since she had met him,
Ruth sensed that he might not be telling the truth and she was intrigued.
    ‘You
mean you cashed in your life savings for a one-legged chair?’ Ruth did laugh
then. ‘I think Papa would have appreciated that.’
    ‘Don’t
mock.’
    ‘I
wasn’t mocking, Martin. Hemingway had a sense of humour. You must know that.’
    ‘Not
about himself. He didn’t like to be laughed at.’ Ruth nodded uncomfortably.
Martin’s face was solemn and tense.
    ‘He
wouldn’t like you to have said that.’
    ‘No,
well, look, how about a drink.’
    Martin
didn’t move from the table. There was no trace of a smile on his face. ‘I think
maybe you should apologise before we drink.’
    Ruth
laughed nervously. ‘Look, I’m sorry for what I said, Martin. It was a
light-hearted remark. No big deal.’
    ‘You
goddamn well meant it though, didn’t you?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘It’s
what you think about me isn’t it? You think there’s something perverted about a
man of thirty-six who keeps Hemingway in his room.’
    Ruth
shrugged and laughed again. ‘Everyone’s entitled to live their life the way
they want,’ she said.
    ‘But
you want some of the action, too don’t you? You want the dirty, lousy pervert
to help you to meet Mr Hemingway. That’s what you said. You want to get to know
him. You want some of the dirt. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you want?’
Martin was advancing slowly towards her.
    ‘Come
on Martin, let’s have a drink. I’ve made some — ’
    ‘Well
if you want to meet him you have to be a little careful of what you say,
because he’s a difficult man sometimes. Especially with women.’
    Ruth
edged towards the kitchen. Martin kept on coming. ‘So maybe you should
apologise for being such a goddamn hypocrite.’
    Ruth
tried to smile, but it was hard. She knew she must stay calm. Then he lunged at
her, stopping only inches from her face, right fist raised and tightly
clenched. ‘Okay... apologise...’
    ‘Martin!’
    ‘Apologise,
you damn bitch!’
    ‘Martin,
I’m sorry for what I said.’
    Martin
stopped, beamed and pulled off his bobble-hat. ‘Pretty good eh?’
    ‘What
are you doing?’
    Martin
tossed his hat on to the table. ‘That was Ernest,’ he said simply, and his face
broke into an engaging, almost schoolboyish smile.
    Ruth
shook her head slowly. ‘God, you bastard. That was good. Look at me, for
Christ’s sake. I’m shaking.’
    Martin
removed his bicycle clips, pulled open the Velcro sealing on his anorak pocket
and slipped them inside.
    ‘Don’t
ever do that again.’
    ‘I
thought that’s what you wanted.’ Martin pulled off the anorak and hung it
behind the door.
    Ruth
leaned back against the kitchen doorway. ‘Jesus, I need a drink.’
     
    Later,
when they had eaten, Ruth put the money away in a safe place and promised to
ring her dealer friend in the morning. Martin remembered the grappa was at the
bottom of his bag. He retrieved it and they sat beside the fire and clinked
glasses. The first, sharp, eye-watering shock of the spirit took them by
surprise, as usual. They sat and watched the fire until Ruth looked up.
    ‘I
think we have to make some ground rules,’ she said.
    ‘For
what?’
    ‘For
the exchange of Hemingway information.’
    ‘You
sound