Read Hemingway’s Chair for Free Online Page A

face was flushed,
and he stood awkwardly in front of his old typewriter as if trying to conceal
something.
    ‘Were
you writing?’
    Martin
shrugged. ‘Nothing much.’
    There
was a glass beside the typewriter. The sight of it brought back uncomfortable
memories. Indeed the whole room seemed oppressive.
    ‘D’you
want to go for a drive?’ Elaine asked him, as nonchalantly as she could.
    ‘A
drive?’ he repeated.
    ‘The
rain’s stopped. Looks like a nice evening.’
     
    She
drove them north along the coast, in her old and fast-corroding Fiat Uno. The
heavy rain had emptied the usual beauty spots and when they parked up at the
Point, midway between Theston and Hopton, they were entirely alone. They sat in
the car in silence.
    The
slate grey clouds had drifted out to sea leaving a jagged, messy,
storm-streaked sky. Elaine watched it for a while until she felt it impossible
not to say something.
    ‘I
had to get you on your own. Just to know what you were thinking.’
    Martin
was glad he’d taken vodka, rather than scotch or tequila. There was no trace on
the breath.
    Elaine
didn’t hurry him. She knew he’d been drinking. Probably vodka as there was no
trace on his breath.
    ‘Why
didn’t you let me talk to you?’ she asked.
    Martin
stared at the sea. He reached forward and flicked open the glove compartment.
There were some very old Opal Fruits in there. So old that Elaine didn’t offer
him one. Eventually Martin spoke, gruffly and reluctantly. ‘Nothing to say. I
should have got the job. I didn’t get the job. It’s not the end of the world.’
    ‘It’s
a rotten thing for them to do.’
    ‘It’s
happening,’ he said, it’s part of a process, you see. We’ve got to move with
the new technology. All of us, not just me.’
    ‘But
this man Marshall. They say he’s good.’
    ‘He’s
probably bloody good. As an undertaker.’
    ‘Meaning
what?’
    ‘Oh,
come on, Elaine, you know what they’re doing all over the country. Licensing
off post offices, closing post offices, getting out of expensive premises.
Slimming down for privatisation. All that talk about new eras. They’re selling
out. The days are over when the post office had to have the best place in town.
Look at Atcham, they’ve got an insurance company in the old post office
building and the post office franchised out to a sports shop.’
    Martin
snapped the door of the glove compartment open and shut as he spoke. ‘Perhaps
we’d better start thinking where we'd like to be for the rest of our
working lives. How about the back of Brownjohn’s, they could squeeze us in
between the fertiliser and the plastic buckets? Or maybe round at Omar’s. Cod,
chips and child benefits.’
    ‘You
know . . Elaine, pleased to hear him angry, chose her moment carefully. ‘There
is an alternative.’ Martin grunted scornfully. ‘Street cleaning?’
    A
car sped past, tyres hissing on the shiny wet road. ‘You know that Dad wants to
retire,’ she said. ‘Good for him. I’m thinking about it myself.’
    A
pair of seagulls screeched low over the car, landed on the railings and started
to set about each other.
    ‘The
point is,’ Elaine persisted, ‘that he wants the business to stay in the family
and, as I’m the only child….’
    Martin
nodded and stayed looking forward, through the rain-spotted windscreen, to the
colourless sea.
    ‘The
point is...’ Elaine turned to him and took his hand firmly, as one might take
that of an elderly relative, in need of reassurance.
    ‘The
point is that his business is mine for the asking. It’s not worth a fortune but
it’s a lot better than working in a post office and... and I would like
to run it, but...’ Elaine turned to look out of the side window, away from
Martin. ‘...it really needs a couple.’
    There
was a silence.
    ‘Well?’
She waited.
    ‘Well...’
    ‘It
could be a... sort of... answer to a lot of problems. I mean we’d have to
relearn a bit but, you and me, we’re good with people. People