Hemingway’s Chair

longue and Martin
noticed for the first time that she had rather good legs. She crossed them
elegantly, absently fingered the pearls that hung down over the top of an
expensive angora jersey and indicated Martin to sit as well.
    He
sat cautiously on the edge of a wing-backed armchair.
    ‘It’s
the post office I’ve come to see you about, Mrs Harvey-Wardrell.’
    ‘Oh
yes.’
    She
listened to him with the same expression he had seen in pictures of white
missionaries in Africa. Earnest and slightly distracted.
    ‘I’ve
reason to believe that if we’re not careful we may never have our old post
office back again.’
    ‘You
mean we’ll have to keep using that neon-lit rabbit hutch?’
    ‘It
looks that way.’
    ‘It’s
an excrescence.’
    ‘Well,
exactly, and knowing you feel that way, I wonder if you would be interested in,
well, in leading a campaign.’
    At
the word ‘leading’ Mrs Harvey-Wardrell had shown momentary interest. Now her
eyes narrowed suspiciously.
    ‘Campaign?
What sort of campaign?’
    ‘To
get the post office back into North Square where it’s been for the last sixty
years.’
    ‘Well...’
A cloud passed over Mrs Harvey-Wardrell’s long and stately features. Martin
thought to himself how remarkable it was that the upper classes did not just
have bigger houses. Noses, eyes, ears and chins all seemed larger than the
national average. ‘Martin,’ she said, ‘Much as I abhor that abortion of a place
where you work, there is a teeny problem.’
    Martin
was quick to reassure her. ‘There’s hardly any work involved, Mrs
Harvey-Wardrell. All you would have to do is put your name to it.’
    Mrs
Harvey-Wardrell raised her eyes in saintly fashion as if what she was about to
say was wretchedly hard for her. ‘You have to understand, Martin, that I am not
a totally free agent. My husband is, as you know, an extraordinarily successful
economist, working at the very highest levels of international finance. But,
Martin, he is not a sentimental man and I fear...’ She paused on the word
‘fear’. With her eyebrows and her upper lip raised and nostrils flared she
looked for a moment like a horse refusing a jump. ‘I fear he will be less moved
by the desire to preserve the traditional tone of Theston post office, than to
make a considerable amount of money by acquiring it for more profitable
endeavours.’
    Martin
leaned forward, frowning. ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘He’s
buying it.’
    ‘Buying
it?’
    ‘Well,
not buying it himself of course. He’s arranging the finance. Apparently the
Post Office top brass can’t wait to get rid of it. Your friend Nick Marshall
was round here in January asking for advice. Doesn’t he tell you anything?’
    Martin
looked down, grimly. ‘He tells me what I need to know.’
    ‘I’m
sorry, Martin. I would do something if I could.’
    Martin
shifted uncomfortably. He felt desperately foolish. Outwitted and cheated. And
this had been going on since January? He rose from the chair.
    ‘Well,
I’m sorry to have bothered you, and I... I’d rather you didn’t mention my
visit. Especially to Mr Marshall. It was only from the best intentions.’ Mrs
Harvey-Wardrell accompanied him to the door. She seemed regretful.
    ‘The
menfolk make all these decisions. I suppose they know what they’re doing. I’m
told it’s all going to be frightfully beneficial all round.’
    Martin
nodded ruefully. A Pekingese dog waddled towards them. She hoisted it into the
air and nuzzled its snub face.
    ‘Caspar,
you’re hideous.’
    She
turned to Martin. ‘Try the vicar. He’s frightfully keen on causes.’
     
    The
Reverend Barry Burrell liked to be called Barry. He was good-looking in an
unforced way and was much disliked in Theston. His predecessor, Dr Wyngarde,
had behaved in an impeccably vicarish way, speaking the old Prayer Book
clearly, visiting the sick ineffectually and never preaching a sermon longer
than twelve minutes. Barry Burrell’s avowed aim was to be a hands-on rector. To
this end he had paid special attention to taking the church into the community.
He had held services in pubs and old folks’ homes, blessed stock cars and once
held midnight mass in the canteen of Theston Rubber Ltd. In return for these
favours he hoped the community would come in to the church. Traffic wardens
were encouraged to read the lesson, welders to bring their equipment to harvest
festival and one of the local bus companies to sponsor the Christmas crib. He
had a firm