Hemingway’s Chair

handshake and a close friend called Tessa.
    He
was unhelpful to Martin.
    ‘Jesus
Christ our Lord is the figurehead, Mr Sproale, not me.’
    They
talked in one of the side chapels at St Michael and All Angels. In the
background Harold Meredith, their recently appointed vigilante, pottered,
rearranging hymn books and trying to catch what they were saying.
    ‘I’m
one of the toilers in the vineyard,’ Barry was telling Martin, if you would
like me to come in to your post office and wash the feet of your employees,
symbolically of course, I would. If you want to use our church for a service of
reconciliation between the divisions of the restructured post office I would
gladly offer it in His name, but for me to be a leader would be an assumption
of powers that are only His to deploy.’
    ‘What
would you feel like, Reverend Burrell — ’
    ‘Barry,
please.’
    ‘What
would you feel like, if you had to carry on your business in the back of
a sweetshop?’
    Barry
Burrell liked a joke and he laughed heartily. Then he took Martin’s hand, shook
it warmly, disappeared into the vestry and closed the door behind him.
    Martin
heard the subdued sound of female laughter. ‘Choir practice,’ explained Harold
Meredith.

Twenty-seven
     
     
     
    For
the next three days, as discreetly as possible, Martin canvassed
the great and the good of Theston. He chose only those he felt would be
sympathetic, but the response was disappointing. Cuthbert Habershon, the
well-respected, recently retired District Coroner, was too busy growing roses.
Dr Cardwell preferred to save the Health Service first and the Post Office
second. Norman Brownjohn, the ironmonger, Theston’s senior shopkeeper, was very
keen for the post office to move from Randall’s, but only as far as Brownjohn’s.
The one local worthy who offered unequivocal support was not on any of Martin’s
lists. Indeed Martin had deliberately tried to avoid him. Be that as it may,
Harold Augustus Meredith had put his house and forty-seven years of experience
in the Royal Army Pay Corps at Martin’s disposal and, in the absence of any
other candidate, Martin had reluctantly accepted. As soon as the details were
finalised, Mr Meredith would begin to circulate a petition. But first the name
of the campaign had to be fixed, policy formed, statements of intent drawn up.
And it was already Thursday.
    A
squally March wind spattered the windows and rattled the roof as Martin pulled
the Corona Portable Number 3 towards him. For once he didn’t need to feel
apologetic or inadequate. At last he had something important to write. Five
hours later, when the wind had subsided, leaving low grey clouds and an early
twilight, Martin slipped his finished work into an envelope and cycled over to
Everend Farm Cottage. He needed Ruth’s word processor and printer. He also
needed her approval. Ruth read his prospectus carefully, but without making the
noises he expected, is it all right?’ he asked anxiously, it’s kind of long.
All that historical stuff. I mean, who is this guy Padge? Was he martyred by
the Romans or something?’
    ‘He
was the old Postmaster.’
    ‘But
he doesn’t need three paragraphs, right? I mean this is a call to arms,
not a novella, Martin. People don’t have time to read more than a page.’
    They
have time in Theston,’ he said, defensively. ‘Look, I know about these things,
believe me. I have leafleted, Martin. Three Mile Island, Stop the Whaling,
Nicaragua. I came into this world bearing leaflets, and I know two things. Keep
it short and make sure you mention the phone number at least twelve times.’ She
riffled through his copious sheets of paper. ‘You have no phone number here at
all.’
    ‘Meredith
doesn’t like the phone,’ said Martin. ‘He's eighty-two. He can’t hear it ring.’
    ‘Was
he your automatic choice?’
    Martin
looked hurt.
    ‘I’m
sorry. Cheap shot. But is it wise to have old, deaf people running a campaign?’
She tapped the end of her cigarette into the saucer of her teacup.
    ‘There
wasn’t a lot of choice,’ Martin explained. ‘People were either busy, or they
didn’t want to get involved. Meredith knows the town, he’ll go out collecting
signatures. He’ll work hard. I know that. He’s got nothing else to do.’
    ‘Okay.
Let’s say this eighty-two-year-old troublemaker hits the streets, what is he,
i.e. you, asking people to do?’ She flicked the pages. ‘I mean looking at this
I’m not sure if you want me to