Read Hemingway’s Chair for Free Online Page B

like us because
we talk to them. There’d be no shortage of customers.’
    ‘You
mean, give up the post office?’
    ‘Why
not? If it’s giving you up.’
    Martin
frowned and flicked again at the door to the glove compartment.
    ‘I
can’t walk away. I can’t have people saying I’ve no loyalty.’
    Elaine
was incredulous. ‘After what they’ve done to you?’
    Martin
nodded. ‘I can’t let them down, can I?’ Elaine took a deep breath. It had taken
a lot out of her to say what she said. She tried to sound unconcerned at the
outcome.
    ‘Well,
think about it, that’s all I say. Think about it. And leave that bloody glove
compartment alone!’

Five
     
     
     
    October
the first came, as it had to, and the staff of Theston
post office — Martin, Elaine, Arthur Gillis, John Parr and Shirley Barker the
part-time helper — all assembled in the cavernous, empty room that had been a
postal sorting office until the Royal Mail separated from Counter Services. Now
it was a staff room. There was a kitchen and a lavatory, and a table to eat
lunch from. It was here they were to meet their new Manager. It was half past
eight on a Monday morning. The office was due to open at nine.
    At
fifty-five years old, Arthur Gillis was the oldest among them. He was
well-built and a little overweight besides, with a big square head, a florid
complexion and tight wavy dark hair that was now turned mostly grey. He had
joined the Post Office straight from twenty-five years’ service in the Ordnance
Corps. He’d travelled and let you know it, and his abrupt manner with the
public had taken some getting used to, but he was conscientious, efficient and
had never been known to have a day’s illness. John Parr, on the other hand, was
a quick, nervous young man who wore his long fair hair tied in a ponytail. He had
a severe and uncontrollable blink. In order, perhaps, to cope with this he had
developed an unrelentingly flippant persona. A constant stream of stories,
jokes and fantasies poured forth, mostly concerning his huge and long-suffering
wife, Cheryl, famous also for being Theston’s first traffic warden. Parr’s
presence was a considerable strain on all of them, but particularly on Shirley
Barker, a prim and humourless woman in her early fifties, who appeared to draw
all the satisfaction she needed out of life from looking after a dog and two
elderly parents. She came in only on Saturday mornings and busy days at
Christmas and in the summer.
    On
this particular morning Elaine had just made coffee and the sound of stirring
spoons tinkled softly in the high, empty room.
    ‘Z)o
you know...’ began Parr, but no one ever did, for at that moment Nick Marshall
bounded in, like an over-eager family pet that had just learnt to open doors on
its own. His face had a ruddy glow, his neatly brushed thatch of rich blond
hair bore tell-tale traces of a recent washing. His face was a little too broad
to be classically handsome but his features were well shaped and pleasing. Nose
straight and strong, mouth wide and purposeful, big round cornflower blue eyes
set just too close to each other. He groaned in mock horror and flicked a hand
up into his hair.
    ‘•So
sorry, everyone, so sorry. Late on my first day!’ Martin glanced up at the
clock. It was less than a minute after half past.
    Marshall
rubbed his hands together as if it were cold, which it wasn’t. ‘Have I missed
the coffee?’
    Elaine,
to her own intense surprise, felt herself colouring. She pushed herself quickly
away from the table she was leaning on, giving an unintentional •oppression of
brusqueness. ‘I’ll do another one.’
    ‘Lost
my way on the heath,’ Marshall explained as Elaine passed him.
    ‘Cycling?’
asked Martin.
    ‘Running.’
    So
that was it. He was a runner. Martin knew there was some reason why he had
experienced more than just routine resentment on seeing him. Martin had been a
runner too but in the cold winter four years ago he gave it up and never