Hemingway’s Chair

quibble. Thirteen hundred on
the dot-matrix indicator or one o’clock on his watch, it marked a respite from
the nightmare. He sat for a moment in the narrow, airless back room which had
been provided for staff breaks. There were two spindly metal and plastic chairs
on either side of the door and a shelf beside a wash-basin on which was a
kettle, a box of tea bags, a jar of coffee and a stack of polystyrene cups. On
one of the chairs Shirley Barker sat peeling a piece of cing film from around
her lunch. Martin took his sandwiches from his anorak pocket and looked at them
without interest. He had no appetite.
    Shirley
looked up at him, myopically. ‘Not having your lunch, Martin?’
    He
shook his head.
    ‘I’ve
heard that about people who work in sweetshops,’ she said confidingly. ‘They
lose their appetite.’ Martin looked at Shirley, isn’t this awful?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Our new post office.’
    ‘I
think it’s lovely.’
    Martin
made for the door. He dropped his ham and cheese sandwiches, unopened, next to
the chair on which she sat eating. ‘Have mine as well.’
    ‘No,
thank you, I’m a vegetarian. I don’t condone the raising of animals for
slaughter.’
    ‘Then
just eat the cheese,’ he said, and slammed the door.

Twenty-three
     
     
     
    Martin
walked furiously out through the yard at the back of the
shop as if he knew where he was going. He didn’t. He stopped, then turned and
made his way along an alley which led eventually to the High Street near the
Market Hotel. He crossed the road and into North Square. The old post office
was a sorry sight. The builder had moved quickly to board up the windows and
the oak doors were scuffed and scratched and firmly shut. There was a noise of
sawing and hammering from inside and this led Martin cautiously down Echo
Passage. At the entrance to the site there was a gate which was open. Martin
went in. A truck was drawn up close to the back entrance and workmen inside
were tossing things through the window. As Martin drew closer he realised with
a shock that he recognised much of what was being flung away. The long public
writing desk, wrenched from the wall, scabs of plaster still stuck to its
fixings, poked out amongst the debris with which the back of the lorry was
nearly filled. Dismembered strips of what had once been a counter clattered on
top of each other. A drawer whose contents he had once laid out so meticulously
that he could tell a money order from a post cheque by the feel of its upper
edge, hit the side of the truck with a jarring clang.
    He
picked his way across the forecourt. A warning voice sounded from an upper
window. ‘Oi!’
    The
back door was open. Or rather, gone. There was another, louder, shout but
Martin darted quickly inside. The old sorting office was stripped bare, though
the daily break rotas were still stuck to one wall, and the Theston Civic
Theatre calendar which Elaine brought in each year was still hanging from its
nail on the back of the kitchen door. Where once had stood the door that led
from the staff room to the main office there was now a gaping hole. Martin
leaned through it and looked around. Two men in hard hats with handkerchiefs
tied around their mouths were working away with crowbars and hammerdrills
demolishing the counter, ripping down the shelves and tearing out wires and
piping. Nothing recognisable remained intact except the Newmark wall clock. It
had stopped, of course, and was turned at an odd angle, but it still hung in
its usual place. Choosing his moment Martin stepped forward, towards it.
    ‘Oi!
Get away from there!’ A voice rang out through the din.
    He
turned and there was Crispin the builder.
    ‘What
the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’ he shouted, his narrow eyes tight with
anger.
    Two
other men joined him. One held a sheaf of drawings in his hand and Martin
didn’t recognise him. The other was John Devereux. Martin could cope with
Crispin’s absurd anger. It was Devereux’s cool halfsmile that put the fear of
God into him.
    ‘
’ard ’at area this, Martin,’ said Devereux. ‘I’m sure Mr Crispin could spare
one if you want to look around.’
    There
was a splitting crack and crash from somewhere above them. Martin ducked
instinctively as a shower of rubble and plaster fell about him.
    ‘I
just came to see how the new post office was coming on,’ Martin heard himself
saying before a dust cloud rose from the floor and he started to cough.
    The
man with the charts looked