Hemingway’s Chair

in
the middle of March the leaves were still in bud and Harold Meredith had little
difficulty in locating not only the door, but also an antiquated pull-stop
doorbell.
    The
effort required to pull it produced precious little reward besides dizziness
and a faint tinkle from a distant room which Mr Meredith didn’t hear at all. He
was about to heave on it again when the blotchy green front door was pulled
open and Quentin Rawlings stood there. He wore a stained white polo-neck tucked
unsatisfactorily into a pair of mustard-coloured corduroys. His hair was
unkempt. He looked as if he had just got out of bed. In fact Quentin Rawlings
rarely got into bed. His life was centred around his anger, his typewriter and
his determination to correct all the ills of the world before he reached
retirement age. He stared truculently at Harold Meredith. ‘Yes?’
    ‘I’ve
come about the post office,’ said Mr Meredith. Quentin Rawlings emitted a
short, sharp yelp, which caused Mr Meredith to start back in alarm.
    ‘Don’t
talk to me about the post office.’
    When
Rawlings spoke he employed the same oratorical technique whether his audience
was the local Labour Party, the National Conference, or his wife at breakfast.
    ‘Did
you know that out of twenty thousand offices in this country, eighteen and a
half thousand are now owned by outside agencies? That in the last five years we
have lost something in the region of one thousand sub-post offices, each
serving an average catchment area of eight square miles each — that’s a total
of eight thousand square miles of rural Britain from which basic
services have been denied?’
    Harold
Meredith opened his mouth to speak.
    ‘Did
you know that the Government, not content with splitting up the traditional,
integrated multifunctional role of the postal services is proposing to sell
each one separately to the highest bidder?’
    Harold
Meredith’s mouth remained open.
    ‘I
mean is that not ludicrous? Parcels competing with letters competing with the
people who sell stamps? Have you ever heard anything like it?’
    Harold
Meredith decided his mouth would not be needed and closed it.
    ‘And
what’s more, I tell you that in this very town we live in they have decided to
replace the old post office, without consultation and without any formal
announcement of change.'
    Mr
Meredith raised a hand.
    ‘What
we should be doing here is not standing around letting them get away with it.
We should be making a noise, creating a fuss, rallying opposition, telling the
people of Theston what is happening under their very noses.’
    ‘Well,’
began Mr Meredith.
    Quentin
Rawlings jabbed a finger in his direction. ‘Start a campaign to raise these
issues.’
    ‘Well,’
repeated Mr Meredith.
    ‘All
you need,’ went on Rawlings, ‘is someone prepared to go round and do the leg
work, knock on doors, visit the shops, and someone else prepared to create and
co-ordinate a strategy. As it happens I’ve just completed a pamphlet on the
subject. Are you interested?’ Harold Meredith nodded helplessly. ‘Wait here,
I’ll get you a copy.’
    Some
time later Mr Meredith retraced his steps along the mossy overgrown paving
stones that led to the half-hung gate of Hogarth House. In his bag, in addition
to his clipboard, spare pair of gloves and fifty undelivered STOP leaflets,
were twenty-five unsold pamphlets by Quentin Rawlings entitled “Outrage! The
Persecution of the Post Office’.
    Rawlings
remained under the impression that the STOP campaign had entirely originated
from his chance meeting with Mr Meredith and Martin was quite happy not to
disabuse him, especially as Rawlings seemed only too keen to call a meeting, to
draw up a campaign plan and to work all the hours that God gave, insisting only
that his name, together with a list of the books he’d published, be printed on
all official communications.
    A
first meeting of the core group was called for Saturday morning at Hogarth
House. Apart from Martin, it was attended by Rawlings, his wife Maureen and
Harold Meredith. Rawlings urged that an important first step must be to
mobilise natural allies. The post office staff themselves would clearly be
anxious to protect their jobs and their future.
     
    On
his first afternoon back at work, Martin approached his colleagues. He had a
quiet word with each of them, suggesting that they meet in the staff room
immediately after close of business to discuss an urgent matter. Nick Marshall
had left after