Hemingway’s Chair

aimed a kick at the nearest
chair.
    ‘Why
wasn’t Elaine here? She’s in the union. She was always much more of a fighter
than me.’ He looked up at Geraldine. ‘She’s a fighter, you know. She’s a
toughie is Elaine. I mean, we’ve worked together, side by side, for six years.
Did you know that?’
    Geraldine
ran her cup under the hot tap. The water splashed off and some of it ran on to
the floor.
    ‘Damn!’
Geraldine reached for a cloth.
    ‘She’ll
support the campaign. Surely... won’t she?’
    ‘Well,
don’t bank on it.’
    ‘Why
ever not?’
    Geraldine
squeezed out the cloth and laid it carefully on the side of the basin. She
looked at Martin. He was waiting for her to say something. He was hot. He
looked tired. He looked as though he needed comforting words, but she knew that
for some reason he trusted her and expected the truth.
    ‘You’ve
been shafted, Martin,’ said Geraldine quietly. ‘Elaine’s with Nick. They’re
going out together.’
    Martin
stared back.
    ‘They’re
an item, Martin.’

Twenty-nine
     
     
     
    Ruth
saw Ted Wellbeing trundle up the hill on his tractor. A seed
drill reared up behind the back wheels, bucking and quivering and shedding
clods of freshly turned soil as he negotiated the gullies left by a week of
wind and sweeping rain.
    Today
she envied him. Envied him the outdoors and the mindless routine. As the sun
climbed higher (on the days when it was visible) Ruth began to feel restless.
She was ready to get away from other people’s lives for a while and back into
her own. For nearly a week she had been working hard trying to prove a theory
of hers that Hemingway’s preoccupation with the way hair was cut and the way it
could be altered to change a personality began, not with gender confusion in
early childhood, but from the time he met Pauline Pfeiffer. Of all the wives,
of all the Hemingway women, Ruth felt closest to Pauline. Her vivacity, her
bookishness, her slim, neat figure and dark features appealed to Ruth. So she
had been trying very hard to prove that it was Pauline’s obsession with her
appearance, and particularly the style, cut and colour of her hair, that
activated her husband’s fascination with genderbending. That it was Pauline who
had led him to explore the subject in two of his most important books, A
Farewell to Arms and, more particularly, in Ruth’s favourite, The Garden
of Eden — an odd, haunting, erotic tale not published until twenty-five
years after Hemingway’s death.
    Unfortunately
the facts were refusing to fit her theory. They were being highly obstreperous
— appearing, disappearing and reappearing in all the wrong places. She sat at
the window for a while, not writing, just watching the blue-grey sky turn white
and then slowly darken. She stood and stretched and felt for the switch on the
big yellow table lamp she’d bought herself as a Christmas present. Then she
walked into the tiny bathroom and pulled the cord of the light switch. She
looked into the mirror and was holding her own thick, dark hair back from her
forehead when a knock on the front door startled her.
    When
she opened the door, Martin stood there. He had a sports bag over his shoulder
and his face was hot from cycling. He looked dejected and helpless, which only
increased her irritation at seeing him.
    ‘I
didn’t expect you,’ she said.
    ‘I
didn’t think you ever expected me,’ he muttered and she sensed that something
was wrong.
    ‘Are
you busy?’ he asked, looking in as if half-expecting to see others there.
    ‘I’m
writing, as ever,’ she shrugged. ‘The saga continues.’
    ‘I’ll
go if you want. I just came to see the chair.’
    Ruth
laughed, lightly. ‘Of course. I forgot. Come on in.’
    She
felt uneasy and embarrassed for him. They stood awkwardly for a while, then she
said, ‘Look, you go ahead. I’ll fix a drink.’
    She
went into the kitchen and pushed the door half-closed behind her. For once she
didn’t want to talk Hemingway. She poured herself a drink first and sipped it
unhurriedly, staring out at the sodden countryside, letting the slow warmth
revive her.
    When
she came out of the kitchen, Martin was no longer there. In his place was a
hunched, wary figure wearing a white tennis cap, grey sweatshirt and a light
brown cotton jacket with a pattern of tiny check. He wore plain white
Bermuda-length cotton shorts. His calves were bare and he sat, leaning forward,
as if waiting. Ruth approached cautiously. The figure in