Hemingway’s Chair

hard.
    ‘I
thought you’d nearly finished.’
    ‘So
did I. But — ’ He watched as she tossed her head and stretched her long neck
and threw a column of smoke high into the air as she had the first day he set
eyes on her. ‘I was wrong,’ she said flatly.
    Martin
lay back in the fishing chair and took in what she had said.
    ‘I’ll
be in Oxford,’ she went on. ‘I need the libraries. I’ve got to find a whole lot
of new stuff.’
    ‘How
long?’
    ‘Six
weeks. Maybe two months. As long as it takes.’ Martin nodded slowly. He seemed
about to speak, then quickly, abruptly, his mood changed. ‘Can we go for a
drive? There’s something I want to show you.’
     
    *
     
    They
drove down to the bypass and across into Theston, avoiding the centre of town
and coming out on the hill above the harbour. Here Martin asked her to pull
over and park. They got out of the car. He had brought with him an old pair of
marine binoculars. He led her a little way down the hill to where they could
see the harbour more clearly, and raised the glasses to his eyes.
    In
the short time since he had been there with Elaine, the place had been
galvanised. Vans and trucks painted with the lightning-bolt logo of the
Telemark company were clustered around what had once been Frank Rudge’s cold store
and processing warehouse. This was now scaffolded and a lightweight aluminium
frame was already in place on the roof. Even though it was a Sunday there were
men working, securing a fabric skin across it. A line had been marked out
towards the pier and trenches were being dug. Beside the trenches lengths of
pipe were piled ready and a huge drum of cable dominated one end of the site.
Council contractors had begun laying a new and wider tarmac surface to the
harbour approach road.
    But
today Martin was looking elsewhere. He took down the binoculars and handed them
to Ruth. ‘There, look.’ He pointed excitedly. ‘In the harbour.’
    Ruth
adjusted the glasses and focused on a long, graceful motor yacht with a black
tinted perspex screen and a white streamlined hull and superstructure. A line
of four portholes led to a name on the bow that she could just pick out. Nordkom
IV. It was a glamorous boat, incongrous and dominating in the harbour.
    Martin
whispered to her. 'Pilar!'
    ‘Oh
come on!’ Ruth grunted derisively. ‘ Pilar' had character. That’s just a
playboy boat.’
    But
Martin was hardly listening. His eyes were fastened on it, as it rocked gently,
lazily at anchor. She could see beads of sweat on his temple. He spoke softly
and urgently, without a glance towards her.
    ‘Imagine
being out on that. Outriggers in place, lures dropped. Riding a ten-foot swell,
in the fighting chair, a five-hundred pounder circling on the line. Reeling in
slow and steady. Hours sometimes.’
    Ruth
knew nothing about boats and fishing. She hated The Old Man and the Sea and found Santiago the fisherman the most dismally sentimental of all
Hemingway’s heroes.
    ‘They
blow them out of the sea nowadays, don’t they?’ she said sourly.
    Martin
didn’t hear her. He was gazing at the boat. It was as if she had already gone
away.

Thirty-seven
     
     
     
    One
month to the day after he had received his letter of dismissal,
and three weeks after Ruth had left for Oxford, Martin Sproale returned to
Theston post office. He presented an extraordinary aspect. His hair had grown
thick and bushy. His face had fleshed out and much of it was now concealed
beneath a thickening pale red beard. His shoulders had grown broad enough to
hold a wide beige sweatshirt, which hung way down over a billowing pair of
cotton shorts. He wore grubby espadrilles and no socks. The whole effect was of
a weird distortion, as if Martin’s long, rangy frame was seen in a fairground
mirror. This, at any rate, was how it looked to Elaine who happened to be
between transactions as he appeared, hovering at the handmade chocolate counter
and glowering through at the long line of Monday morning post office customers.
    Since
Martin had been sacked there had been rumours in Theston that he had gone away
or even that he was seriously ill. These were contradicted by reported
sightings of him on the hill overlooking the harbour. Though all confirmed that
something had snapped, nothing quite prepared Elaine for the wild, shambling
figure who was now approaching the ten-deep queue which coiled obediently
around the rope and stainless-steel cordon.
    ‘Position
Number Four.' The high, strident