Hemingway’s Chair

set fire to the new post office, chain myself to
a bulldozer or boycott Chinese food products.’
    Martin
was getting thoroughly rattled. He had not expected to have to defend himself
against Ruth, of all people. ‘It’s a serious attempt to warn people what is
happening.’
    ‘I
know it’s serious, Martin, but reading this you’d think the closing of Theston
post office was the second worst thing this century after Hiroshima. What you
need to do is decide what you want to achieve, and what you need to do to
achieve it. D’you want money or marches or civil disobedience?’
    Martin
thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why not?’
    ‘Why
not what?’
    ‘Why
not all that? If that’s what it takes.’
    ‘Are
you ready to go to prison?’
    ‘I’d
never thought of it like that, but — yes, if I had to.’
    Ruth
picked a shred of tobacco off her bottom lip. ‘For a post office ?'
    Martin
stared back defiantly. ‘Yes.’
    Ruth
shook her head slowly and with admiration. ‘You would too. You would.’
    Martin
seemed awkward with her compliment. ‘If everything else failed,’ he muttered.
‘All I want to do now is collect enough signatures to force the Post Office to
change its mind.’
    Ruth
raised her hands. ‘Good, that’s clear. That’s cut a page and a half already.
Now, next problem is the name.’ Martin felt on stronger ground here. Until he
saw the expression on her face.
    ‘Look,’
Ruth said. ‘I’m with you all the way. I love protesting. But,’ she scanned the
top of Martin’s first page, ‘ “Theston People For Re-opening the Post Office in
North Square” does not trip lightly off the tongue. Nor is TPFR a promising
start for an acronym. So how about turning that around and trimming it down a
little.’
    ‘What’s
an acronym?’
    Ruth
looked surprised. ‘For a man who’s been in love with Hemingway for most of his
adult life — ’
    ‘Hemingway
never used fancy words.’
    ‘ Touché .’
Ruth smiled. She went on more quietly. ‘An acronym is something, you know, like
UNICEF or UNPROFOR. Words made up from first letters, so people never have to
say the whole thing. And that’s what you need. Something nice and simple. Save
Our Post Office? SOPO? Not bad.’
    Martin
objected. ‘We’ve got a post office. It’s the old one we want to save.’
    ‘Save
Our Old Post Office. SOOPO?’ She shook her head. ‘Not so good.’
    ‘It’s
accurate.’
    ‘That’s
not the point of an acronym.’
    Martin
threw up his arms. ‘Well, why don’t you just think of a word and fit the cause
to it?’
    ‘Stop!’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘No,
that’s it,’ she said triumphantly. ‘STOP. Save Theston’s Old Post Office.’
    ‘That
would be STOPO.’
    ‘Martin,’
Ruth said icily, ‘don’t be a pedant.’

Twenty-eight
     
     
     
    In
the end it was Quentin Rawlings who came to the rescue. Ifit
had not been for him STOP would never have started. Harold Meredith, though
willing, was a far from ideal campaigner. His house-to-house technique was, to
say the least, eccentric. His fondness for doorstep chats, indeed chats of any
kind, slowed down his progress. Often, at the end of a visit, he would leave
without having remembered to mention what he came for or, having mentioned it,
would leave without his leaflets or his clipboard. By the time he returned the
occupants had had time to slip out the back door or hide.
    By
the end of his first day he had obtained seven signatures on the petition and a
promise of a stall at the next Conservative jumble sale. On his way home he
decided to make one last call. Pushing wearily on a wrought-iron gate which
hung half off its hinges, he found himself at the bottom of the path that led
to the door of Hogarth House — family home of Quentin and Maureen Rawlings.
    Pushing
away a black and white plastic football with the end of his walking stick, he
made his way to the front door. Hogarth House was not as pretty as it sounded,
nor was it romantically named after the painter. It dated from 1907 and was one
of three homes in the area built for the family of Maurice Hogarth, the
sugar-beet king. It was tall and vulgar with unnecessary finials and fussy
stucco mouldings that only served to accentuate its awkward proportions. The
current owners had done little to the red and yellow brick facade other than
let an adventurous Virginia creeper loose on it. This had become so prolific
that in high summer it was quite difficult to find the front door at all. But