Hemingway’s Chair

remains of the causeway. There the first drops of rain hit him and
by the time he reached his bicycle his coat was sodden and heavy, and the wind
was screaming. There was no question of his riding so he walked along the road
holding his bicycle as close as he could beside him, and that warmed him up and
despite the sudden ferocious wildness of the storm he reached the centre of
town feeling oddly exultant.
    He
wheeled his bicycle along Market Street and past the bright lights of the
hotel, across the High Street and into North Square.
    He
stood in the swirling rain and looked across to the post office. Scaffolding
shrouded the building and where the roof had once been a huge tarpaulin slapped
and cracked and strained in the wind. Martin raised a hand and wiped the water
from his face, then, mounting his bike, he rode round the two sides of the
square and down through Echo Passage. He would have coasted into Phipps’ Yard
and come to rest, precisely, at the back steps of the post office, but the site
was boarded up and the gates were padlocked.
    He
looked around. There was no one to be seen. He leaned his bicycle against the
wooden security fence and made sure it was firm. Then he climbed awkwardly up
on to the saddle, from where he could reach a projecting scaffolding bar. His
coat had doubled in weight from the rain and it required all his strength to
heave himself up by the bar until he could swing his feet on to the top of the
fence and lever up the rest of his weight.
    Once
over the fence he ran along the scaffolding walkway until he reached a ladder,
leading up to the next level. From there another ladder led to the roof level.
Up here, where it was exposed, the rain stung his face and hands and the wind
savaged the tarpaulin with such force that he could not for a moment move with
any safety. He knelt on the wooden planks and clung to the rocking scaffold for
dear life. The moment there was a lessening of the howling wind he ran quickly
to the corner of the building and ducked down. A rope running through a grommet
in the tarpaulin secured the roof covering to the scaffold.
    When
he saw how poorly the knot was tied he gave a mental note of thanks to Marshall
for employing a builder like Joe Crispin, and began to tug away at the end of
the rope. Then the force of the gale hit fair and square and he fell backwards
as the tarpaulin bucked and sprang out of his hands. Released from the knot, it
lashed and curled furiously over on itself like a scorpion in a fire, but did
not break free. Martin scrambled along the scaffold boards, which shook and
shuddered at one fierce gust, pitching him painfully against a pile of bricks.
He fell back, his foot skidding out over a sheer drop to the street. He grasped
giddily at the scaffolding bar and held himself from falling. He lay there
panting. Sixty feet below he could see the rain in the lamplight sweeping
across North Square. He was surprised to see there were vehicles passing and
what he had thought were empty streets were dotted with people sheltering from
the storm. Someone, beneath the awning of the Market Hotel, seemed to be
looking up towards him and he heaved himself back on to the scaffold and
crouched down, bent double against the sodden duckboards.
    The
rain lessened, then came again with swift, torrential force. Grabbing the rail
he slipped and slithered the last few feet. He reached the corner and found
another knot, but this one was tightened by the extra pressure and he could not
release it. A bus pulled up right below him. He flattened himself against the
boards and waited as it disgorged its passengers. In between the high-pitched
screams of the gusting wind he could hear voices quite clearly. The image of
Robert Jordan, flattened against the floor of the forest as the Fascist cavalry
advanced towards him, came, thrillingly, into his mind as he clung for dear
life to the swaying, storm-racked scaffold.
    Then
the wind fell and he wrenched the tarpaulin down with all his strength and tore
at the knot, knowing one sudden gust might fling him from the roof. At last the
rope was free and, bent double, he scuttled back along the scaffold. He had
reached the top of the ladder on the second level before the wind came again
and he tumbled down and fell on a stack of timbers. He dragged himself up and
flung himself towards the fence. Above the shrieking of the wind he could just
make out the sound of splitting fabric and a scattering of dislodged bricks as
they fell