Hemingway’s Chair

tone of the earlier announcements
had been traced to a fault in the system. The tape had now been readjusted and
the voice was deeper and more vibrant. The Swedish eunuch had been replaced by
an elderly tragic actress.
    Martin
went straight to the head of the queue. There was some shuffling and much
whispering among those customers who recognised him. The wide-bosomed
middle-aged lady at the front of the queue was not one of them. She shot a
withering look of disapproval as Martin took up position alongside her. ‘Do you
mind?’ she said sternly. ‘There is a queue, you know.’
    Martin
leaned in towards her. ‘I’m disabled.’
    She
eyed Martin sceptically, glancing quickly down at his lower half. ‘I’m sorry to
hear that, but there is a queue.’
    He
leaned in closer. ‘Cambodia. With the UN. Clearing land mines.’
    The
lady was not convinced. ‘You look all right to me.’
    ‘Internal,’
Martin whispered.
    ‘What?’
she asked.
    ‘My
stomach has been almost entirely replaced.’
    ‘ Position
Number One ,' the voice announced, tragically.
    As
the woman made to go forward Martin held up a carrier bag. ‘My stools,’ he
said. ‘They were meant to go off yesterday.’
    He
moved swiftly to the counter. Shirley Barker was at Position Number One. She
could not disguise a mixture of shock and distaste at Martin’s appearance.
    Martin
pushed aside a few matted strands of hair and regarded her cheerfully. ‘Hello,
daughter,’ he beamed.
    ‘Hello,
Martin,’ Shirley replied cautiously. ‘How are you?’
    His
eyes searched behind the counter.
    ‘It
must be a nice change not having to get up at six thirty every morning,’
Shirley ventured warily.
    Martin
nodded enthusiastically. ‘Means I can get up at six, when it’s barely light
enough to see the pine trunks and the soles of your feet are wet from the dew
on the stones, and the touch of the air from the sea promises how the day will
be. It’s the best time to write.’
    Shirley
was aware of disapproving faces behind the rope. ‘What is it you wanted,
Martin?’
    He
sighed heavily. ‘I want the same as anybody else, daughter. I want to know that
I’ve taken care of the big things. Like love and hate and fear. And that I
haven’t done too bad at the small ones either. And when the time comes to make
my peace — ’
    She
interrupted. ‘D’you want stamps or anything?’ Martin stopped and looked sharply
across at her. She felt a strong intimation of hostility. ‘I want to see
Geraldine please,’ said Martin.
    ‘Well
she’s at the end there. She’s occupied.’
    ‘Will
you tell her I’m here?’
    Shirley
had recovered her composure by now. She fingered the brooch at her throat.
‘Look Martin, there are a lot of people waiting in that queue.
    ‘I
don’t care how many people are waiting in the queue,’ Martin replied quietly.
He leaned closer. ‘Get off your goddamn ass, go down that goddamn counter and
tell Miss Cotton to get the fuck down here. Fast!’
    Ever
since she had started work at the new office, Shirley Barker had been longing
for an excuse to press the security alarm button. In her imagination she had
always seen it magically producing two or three burly ex-marines abseiling down
from the roof to rescue her. She was considerably disappointed that security
appeared, after a short delay and a little nervously, in the shape of Alan
Randall, sporting a new leather sports coat and a spotted bow-tie.
    Martin
felt a tight grip on his elbow. ‘Come on now, Martin. Let’s talk about this
outside.’
    Martin
turned angrily and pulled his elbow sharply away. ‘Do you mind!’ he shouted.
‘I’ve come here for postal services. I don’t want sweeties. I don’t want dirty
magazines. I want to talk to one of the employees of the Post Office service of
this country.’
    ‘We
are running a business here, Martin,’ said Randall firmly. ‘You will be dealt
with in strict rotation.’
    Alan
Randall was a confectioner and abhorred physical violence, so when Martin hit
him it was a completely new and unfamiliar sensation. One moment he was the
voice of reason, the next he was lying flat on the floor. He didn’t feel
anything other than faintly ridiculous, and the fact that Hettie Loyle, a woman
half his size and with an artificial hip, should be helping him up only made
things worse. He rubbed his jaw as he had seen them do on television and
assured all and sundry he would survive.
     
    ‘What
was that all about