Hemingway’s Chair

No one
was really listening. Stopping’s remarks were so judicious that he might well
have been speaking of anyone over the age of sixty who had lived in Theston all
their life. Even Mrs Padgett looked bored. Dr Cardwell, young, keen and once a
runner-up in the Suffolk Wine-Taster of the Year competition, yawned
shamelessly. Barry Burrell, the vicar, equally young and keen, found himself
staring quite hard at the long, well-displayed thighs of Maureen Rawlings, a
novelist, recently arrived in the town, as she in turn rose on tiptoe for a
better view of the clean-limbed pertness of the youngest of the men from Post
Office Headquarters.
    Maureen’s
husband, Quentin, an occasional journalist, tugged at his wildly disordered
hair and stared about him sourly. Cuthbert Habershon, the solicitor and
district coroner, head thrown back, seemed utterly absorbed in the ceiling, as
if seeking divine assurance that his own retirement, now only fourteen weeks
away, would not involve a speech from Ken Stopping. At last Martin caught the
eye of one of the suits from Head Office, and smiled at him as comfortably and
conspiratorially as he thought was appropriate. He certainly didn’t want to
appear to be assuming anything. He would be ready when the time came. The man,
whose hair was greying, smiled back warmly and Martin looked quickly away. He
felt the heat and eased himself towards the bar.
    Mr
Meredith was there, shakily refilling his wine glass.
    ‘I
knew his father,’ he said, for no particular reason.
    At
that point there was another outbreak of shushing, and a renew al of interest
among those closest to the Mayor.
    ‘...garden
shed... green fingers... all of us…’
    The
group broke to one side. Stopping looked anxiously at the door and after a
moment that seemed like an eternity, Norman Brownjohn from the hardware store
wheeled in the present from the people of Theston — a gleaming new Arcrop Major
lightweight alloy barrow containing a hundred pounds worth of garden tools. Not
Martin’s idea, for he knew Padgett to be a lot less fit than he ever let on. A
Zimmer frame might have been more use.
    But
there was undeniable warmth in the chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’,
and by the time Padge had been persuaded to speak there were, at last, a few
handkerchiefs out.
    Padge
fought to focus. He breathed in cautiously, didn’t cough and felt relieved.
    ‘Well,
I don’t know what to say...’ he began.
    ‘First
time in your life, Padge!’ a woman shouted from the back.
    ‘Ssh!’
    ‘I’ve
been looking forward to this day for forty-eight years, and now it’s here I
wish it had never happened.’
    It
seemed as if Padge had surprised himself with that one, and those close to him
could see his eyes fill. A low hum of ‘aah’s suggested appreciation but an
implied preference for the jokes.
    ‘Not
that I shall be short of things to do. I’ve got roses — ’
    ‘And
Rosie’s got yours!’ came loudly from one of the off-licence crowd. Groans and
laughter.
    ‘And
I’ve got my vegetables... and I’ve got Brenda.’
    ‘And
in that order!’ Brenda Padgett shouted lustily, as the place dissolved into
waves of grateful laughter.
    Padge
stopped, took a deep breath and went on. ‘But there’ll be nothing to replace
the warmth and friendliness I’ve met at the post office. On both sides of the
counter.’
    ‘Hear!
Hear!’
    ‘We
get called all sorts of names, especially closing at lunchtime on a Saturday,
but I couldn’t have had a more hardworking and cheerful staff.’
    Martin
felt his face burning as heads turned to seek him out. He fiddled with the
tablecloth. Padge went on. ‘It’s been a pleasure and a privilege to be your
Postmaster and I wish my successor all the very best.’ The applause seemed to
go on and on. Eventually Manin looked up, tentatively, like a soldier after a
bombardment, and he caught the eye of the grey-haired man from Head Office who
was clapping as enthusiastically as the rest and smiling in his direction.
    ‘Brenda
and I will still look forward to seeing you at the post office, only this time
we’ll be in the queue with the rest of you. Thank you very much!’
    After
the applause had died down the man who had caught Martin’s eye stepped forward.
He was of average height and the pinstripe on his well cut suit seemed to
suggest a man more at home with executive decisions than retirement parties. He
was about Martin’s age, mid thirties, but with hair swept back and