Hemingway’s Chair

recognised.
Beneath it protruded a thatch of fine sandy hair. His eyes were red-rimmed and
bloodshot and a line of thin stubble ran along his jaw. He wore a shapeless
sports shirt and long, baggy check shorts fastened with a length of rope. He
seemed bigger than she remembered and shabbier too. Though his slow, deliberate
movements betrayed little, the colour that rose quickly to his face indicated
his surprise at seeing Ruth. oLo,’ he nodded, shortly, leaning against the
doorway.
    Ruth
was uncomfortable, and Kathleen, sensing this, began to busy herself, gathering
up the cups from the table.
    ‘I
brought the chair,’ said Ruth.
    Martin
didn’t seem to take this in. ‘The chair?’ he said, thickly.
    ‘Your
chair. It’s in the car,’ Ruth pointed. ‘Only just. Had to take a seat out. Mr
Wellbeing helped.’
    Suddenly
Martin began to respond. He pushed himself away from the door and looked
towards Ruth with a look of disbelief. ‘My chair.’
    Ruth
nodded.
     
    Together
they eased it from the back of her Datsun and with some difficulty carried it
upstairs. His room was strewn untidily with books, papers and bottles. The bed
was unmade. Once they had put the chair down, Martin quickly pulled the sheets
and blankets up and over the bed and thrust a couple of bottles back into the
cabinet. Then he straightened a little awkwardly. As he stood and watched her,
it seemed to her that the expression in his eyes was almost the same as the
expression in the eyes on the photograph on the wall behind him. Wary, once
wise, now a little afraid.
    Martin
gave her a quick, nervous smile and began searching for a place for the chair
to stand.
    ‘How
are you doing, Martin?’ she asked, deliberately not looking at anything too
closely.
    ‘Good,’
he said. ‘Good. I’ve been making lists of everything.’
    ‘Lists?’
    ‘You
know. All the ships he sailed on. All the injuries he had. All the hotels he
stayed in. All the rivers he fished. There’s a lot to do.’
    He
pulled two chairs together and began to arrange the fishing chair between them.
    ‘Do
you want a hand?’ Ruth asked.
    ‘Yes...
yes... thanks.’ He spoke quickly, nervously again.
    They
pushed the chair into position. He didn’t sit in it right away. His fingers
brushed lightly along the armrests and lingered across the rough, worn back
supports, as if renewing acquaintance with an old friend.
    ‘I
hope you don’t mind me coming round like this?’ she asked him, cautiously.
    ‘No.’
    ‘I
came to see you in the post office a couple of times but you weren’t around.’
    ‘No.
I don’t work there any more,’ said Martin, quickly, dismissively. He took hold
of the arms of the chair and leaned his weight on to it.
    ‘You
left?’
    Martin
stood back, looked down at the concoction of wood and leather and metal
balanced uncomfortably against the thick shoulder of an armchair. He nodded
admiringly.
    ‘You left the post office?’ Ruth repeated.
    Martin
looked up as if hearing the question for the first time. ‘I was asked to
leave.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because
of the campaign.’ He turned towards her and looked up, with a nervous smile
that faded quickly. ‘You can’t keep things like that a secret in Theston,’ he
said.
    Suddenly
and unexpectedly Ruth found herself too upset to speak. Tears filled her eyes
in an aching rush. Martin turned away, embarrassed, the way she had hoped he
wouldn’t be, staring uncomfortably out of the window. As she angrily fought
back the tears Ruth was in a sense relieved. If his response had been friendly
and physical who knows what she might have said and done.
    ‘I’m
sorry.’ She shifted, it’s all been my fault.’
    ‘What
for?’
    ‘For
opening my big mouth. For getting you into chairs and campaigns.’
    Martin
turned back to her and wagged a finger. He seemed suddenly to have regained
confidence. He heaved himself into the chair. It swayed precariously. ‘The
battle’s not over.’
    He
grinned, broad and wide and pushed himself hard against the unyielding wooden
back. ‘The battle’s not over, Ruth. We’ll start another campaign. Only this
time we’ll run it ourselves.’
    Ruth
smiled. She reached in her bag and searched briskly for a cigarette. ‘You’ll
have to do it without me this time,’ she said.
    Martin’s
face clouded. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘I’m going away for a while.’
    His
frown deepened. ‘How long?’
    ‘However
long it takes to finish my book.’ She lit up and inhaled