Hemingway’s Chair

into the yard. He jumped quite painfully to the ground and reached
for his bicycle. The pedals whirled furiously until he took control and then he
cycled away and did not stop to look back until he reached the top of Victoria
Hill.
    Like
the whirling cloak of an operatic villain, the tarpaulin flapped and swirled
angrily in the air above the post office. Then, as he watched, it rose up one
last time, somersaulted, ripped free and tumbled messily across the low gables
of the fine Georgian houses on Market Street until, lashed on by more ferocious
gusts, it licked and slapped and tumbled its way over the rooftops before
wrapping itself around the massive chimney breast that rose from the roof of
the old Masonic Hall. Here it held fast for a while, then the wind dropped and
it sank, slowly and groggily, to disappear from sight behind the fancy
crenellated parapet.
    Martin
felt a surge of pure and inexpressible delight.

Thirty-one
     
     
     
    On
the morning after the storm Martin overslept for the first time in sixteen and a half years. When he came down Kathleen
was packing up his sandwiches. Martin rushed about the kitchen. His head was
squeezed tight with pain. It felt as if a bullet were lodged inside, but he
knew it was vodka. He had virtually emptied a bottle on his return. It had been
his way of celebrating. ‘Where’s my briefcase?’
    ‘Where
you normally leave it.’
    ‘Where’s
my hat?’
    ‘On
the radiator.’
    ‘Oh,
God.’
    He
was halfway down the bypass when he remembered he hadn’t shaved.
    He
cycled perilously fast and was rounding the corner of Bishop Street and within
sight of the back entrance to Randall’s when he saw Harold Meredith hurrying up
the street towards him. He turned his head away and crouched low on the bike.
Harold Meredith waved his stick and shouted. ‘Martin!’
    It
was no good. Martin uncoiled himself and slid to a halt.
    ‘Very
good news!’ shouted Mr Meredith. ‘About the campaign!’
    Martin
looked quickly around and raised his finger to his mouth.
    Mr
Meredith came up close to him and dropped his voice to a loud whisper. ‘I’m
glad I’ve caught you. I missed you earlier in the week.’
    Martin
began to wheel his bicycle towards the gate of Randall’s yard. ‘I’m late for
work, I can’t stop now,’ he said.
    ‘I
had a bright idea. I put those little forms you gave me into every hymn-book in
church!’
    They
had reached the gate.
    ‘Mr
Meredith,’ said Martin, reaching for his key. ‘I’m late, I must — ’
    ‘I
put out a hundred at communion and two hundred at matins before that vicar
found out.’
    The
pride in his voice only made Martin feel worse. He unlocked the gate.
    ‘Three
hundred altogether I put out.’
    The
church clock struck nine. Martin had never been late for work. Not once in
sixteen and a half years. He had no option but to push the gate gently shut.
Harold Meredith stuck his stick in the gap.
    ‘Two
hundred and ten replies, Martin. Two hundred and ten replies! All wanting to
save the old post office.’
    Martin
thrust the gate open again. He looked down at Mr Meredith. The old man seemed
to have shed at least ten years. His eyes were bright. His chin stuck out
defiantly. Martin wanted, suddenly, to hit him. To knock him down. Anything to
stop him.
    ‘I’m
thinking of putting them in the bus. Driver wouldn’t notice and there’s no
conductor any more.’
    ‘Mr
Meredith — ’ Martin repeated, wearily.
    ‘I’m
on my way to tell Mr Rawlings. He’ll be pleased.’
    The
pain in Martin’s head was now so intense that he could control himself no
longer, it’s too late,’ he screamed. His voice began a slowly rising crescendo.
‘Don’t you understand? It’s too late! We have been scuppered! Shafted! Stitched
up and sold down the river! The campaign is over. The post office has gone
forever, Mr Meredith.’ Even as he shouted he felt the girdle of pain loosen.
‘And we the innocent of Theston have been shat upon. Shat upon from a very
great height!’
    He
was wiping his lips on the sleeve of his anorak when he heard a discreet cough
from close behind him. It was Nick Marshall.
    ‘I
think we need to have a word, Martin. Inside.’ Nick Marshall followed Martin
into the staff room and turned and leaned against the door. He pushed a hand
through his hair, put an arm out against the wall and stood frowning, his body
poised and taut, trying to contain his impatience. He cleared his throat
tersely. ‘Glad you could make it