Hemingway’s Chair

hand out. ‘On second thoughts, give me the page.’
    Geraldine
tore it off the pad. ‘Don’t you trust me?’ she asked.
    ‘I
don’t trust anybody. Especially after last night.’ Marshall crunched the paper
into a ball and threw it across the room. It landed in the waste paper basket
without touching the sides.
    He
went on. ‘That roof damage means we can legally have him out by the end of the
week and get Stopping’s boys in.’
    ‘Stopping?
Is he owt, as they say where I come from?’ Devereux looked across at Geraldine
and added, ‘That’s spelt O-W-T. It means is he any fucking good?’ Marshall
shrugged. ‘He’s the Mayor. We promised him some of the action — don’t write
that down either, Gerry. In fact don’t write anything down till I tell you. ’
Geraldine tore out another page, screwed it up and sent it arcing into the
basket. Devereux nodded approvingly. ‘Not bad for a woman. Do you know a woman
that can throw, Nick?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘In
my experience women can’t generally throw.’
    ‘I’ve
always been good at games, Mr Devereux,’ said Geraldine sweetly. ‘Especially
when balls are involved.’
    Devereux
smiled uncomfortably and crossed his legs. He couldn’t suss out this girl. She
looked great and talked like a lorry driver but he’d never met anyone who’d
laid a finger on her.
    ‘John?’
Nick was looking at him. ‘Are you with me?’
    ‘Yes?’
said Devereux, abstractedly.
    ‘I
said we have good news on the installation. The DTI licence is through. Under
development rights there’s no limit on masts under fifteen metres.’
    ‘That’s...
er...’
    ‘Forty-five
feet. We can start transmitting with half that.’
    ‘Sounds
good.’
    ‘I’ve
been in touch with Telemark. They’re the installation specialists. Norwegian.
They can have a mast, two transmission dishes, and three pole antennae in place
within three months.’
    ‘That’s
soon.’
    ‘It’s
important, though, John. We have to stay ahead of the game.’
    ‘I’m
not sure the new Post Office companies will be ready to complete by then.’
    Nick
shook his head despairingly. ‘They should be planning now. We have, for
God’s sake. Anyway, if the Post Office isn’t ready by then we’ll have to look
somewhere else.’
    Hey!
Careful, Nick. We’re partners, remember. And I’m your employer.’
    Nick
smiled. ‘By the way, John, how is your Dutch coming on?’
    Devereux
laughed. ‘Dutch! Those bastards speak English better than I do. Mind you, a
refresher trip to Amsterdam wouldn’t go amiss.’ He winked at Geraldine, who
ignored him.
    Nick
Marshall spoke with hardly a pause. ‘Die Engelse boerenlul heeft drie
miljoen gulden teveel betaald.'
    Devereux
laughed again. ‘What’s that mean? I have two sisters and the fat one fancies
you? Sorry! You won’t approve of that, Geraldine.’
    Geraldine
smiled and said, it means, “The English asshole has paid three million guilders
too much.” ’ She paused.
    Devereux
looked from one to the other. He gave an uneasy half-smile. Marshall smiled
back.
    ‘Not
the sort of thing they’re likely to say in English, you see John.’

Thirty-three
     
     
     
    At
about the time that the Manager of Theston post office wasmeeting
with the South East Area Coordinator beneath the lifeless prints of podgy
galleons and chunky foreshortened Cutty Sarks that dotted the walls of
his flat in Atcham, an unusual sight was to be seen at the holiday town of
Hopton, six miles due east on the edge of the North Sea.
    Behind
the disintegrating pebble-dash facade of the Lifeboat Inn the ex-Assistant
Manager of Theston post office was ordering a third round of Devlin’s Old Magic
Ale with a whisky chaser. His sky-blue anorak lay unzipped to reveal a v-necked
grey and yellow flecked sweater, a white shirt and a grey tie spattered with
the initials of his recent employer. His neat and well-pressed trousers were
secured by two bicycle clips to a pair of green and maroon paisley-patterned
socks.
    He
had arrived less than half an hour earlier at this old, tired pub perched
precariously on the edge of the crumbling cliffs between Theston and Lowestoft.
He had been drinking doggedly since then. Strangers rarely chose this pub and
Trevor, the barman, concluded that wherever his anoraked visitor came from,
there must be something seriously wrong.
    This
did not distress Trevor, indeed it rather cheered him up. He had lost track of
the times he himself had drunk to forget, and as a