Chapter One
Marsh Cottage stood a little way back from a road that led to a clifftop and then stopped. It had once run out to a headland where therehad been a small village, but the sea had clawed away the softsandy cliff and the houses had long since disappeared. Now, apartfrom Marsh Cottage itself, the road served only a pair of holidaychalets. It was neglected and full of potholes.
On either side of the cottage lay flat countryside, tufty grasslandon the landward side and on the other grazing marsh running a half-miledown to the sea. The house had been flooded several timessince it was built in the early 1930s but more recently the localcouncil had raised the sea defences in an attempt to create an extrabeach or two, and since then it had been safe from the spring tides.
Marsh Cottage looked what it was. The unsuccessful prototypefor an abandoned housing estate. Redbrick walls two storeys highran up to a pitched slate roof. A suburban bay window faced on tothe road with the front door to one side. Beside the house was adetached garage alongside which a passage led round to the back. Inthe seventies a white-painted wood and glass extension had beenadded to the rear of the house and framed the old back door.
On this Thursday morning in early September Marsh Cottagelooked particularly vulnerable as it took a westerly wind full in theface. An unhealthy yellow sky offered worse to come as a bobble-hattedfigure emerged from the garage, wheeling a bicycle. Hesecured the door of the garage behind him, patted the pockets of asky-blue anorak, checked thefastenings on a pannier basket and, mounting the bicycle with care,negotiated the short, bumpy driveway and turned southwards in thedirection of the town of Theston, two miles away. Martin Sproalehad made this journey, on various bicycles, for most of his adult life.He was now thirty-six, a little over six feet tall, with a round, softface and light reddish hair. His skin was pale and prone to rashes,and his hands were long and fine.
Elaine Rudge, who worked at the post office alongside Martin, wasstill at home. She lived in the centre of town and could walk to work,and in any case she didn't have the responsibility of opening up,which brought Martin in on the dot of half past eight. Hair-gripbetween clenched teeth, she was standing before the kitchen mirror,concentrating on herself and a vital quiz question on the DickArthur Breakfast Show.
`The capital of Indonesia is Jakarta, Mombasa or Rio deJaneiro? The capital of Indonesia . . .'
As the voice from the radio came again, Joan Rudge, a trim,energetic woman in a padded nylon housecoat, gave a shortdismissive laugh. `Well, it's not going to be Rio de Janeiro, is it.That's in Brazil.'
Elaine took the grip from her teeth and thrust it into the back ofher head. `Mum, I'm trying to listen.'
`Soft, these questions.'
`You've still got to work out if it's Mombasa or -- what was theother one?' Elaine said, reaching for a piece of paper.
`Jakarta, Mombasa or Rio de Janeiro?' repeated Dick Arthurobligingly.
`Must be Jakarta.'
`Well it'll not be Rio de Janeiro,' her mother said again. `That'sdefinitely in Brazil. That's where Uncle Howard ended up.'
Elaine bit her lower lip for some time and then wrote down`Mombasa'.
She returned to the mirror and stood a little back from it. She'dchosen her clothes with more care than usual this morning, as itwas a Thursday and she and Martin always had a drink at thePheasant on Thursdays. The pink cotton blousewas simple but sophisticated, not figure-hugging but very feminine.She looked in the mirror and flicked the collar up.Then she flicked it down. She wasn't pretty, she knew that. Shewas a hefty, well-proportioned young woman, but on somedays she could look oddly beautiful, the way Ingrid Bergmandid when they photographed her nose right. Her thick head of copper-brownhair needed work but repaid the effort. She'd woken up withan ominous tenderness on her lower lip and was relieved to find oncloser examination that it was nothing more than the tiniest of pimpleswhich she would have no trouble in disguising. Unless of courseMartin was in one of his touching moods. The other evening they'dbeen together down by the beach huts and he'd run his fingers verygently over her face, paying special attention to her lips. Elaine wascurious to know where he'd learnt this, but didn't like to ask. She hadconcluded that it must have been from a magazine, or one of hisbooks. She hadn't liked it much, as the tips of his fingers smelt ofpostal adhesive.
The next question on the Dick Arthur Breakfast Showconcerned nocturnal animals. `That's animals that only come out atnight,' Dick Arthur added helpfully, though most of the question hadbeen obscured by the noise of Frank Rudge's Dormobile pulling intothe yard. Through the window Elaine could see him wince withdiscomfort as he slid the door openand extracted himself gingerly from the driving seat. Thursday wasmarket day at Norwich and he'd been out on the road before dawn.Paul, his latest acquisition from the Youth Training Scheme, checkedhis spiky blond hair in the wing mirror and by the time he'd got down,Elaine's father already had the back open and was reaching forthe first of the long, flat boxes of Spanish lettuce.
*
Theston post office was part of an uncompleted 1930S developmentin the centre of the town. It was the work of Cedric Meadows, theBorough Architect, who had left for Malaya a year later, leavingundisclosed debts. On a good day, when Martin cycled into NorthSquare he saw the redbrick walls, the asymmetric stone-dressedtower, the steeply gabled roof and portentous curved steps up to thebulky oak front door as a rather splendid mess. On a bad day hebarely saw the post office at all, his eye being drawn unwillingly tothe neonbordered, poster-plastered window of the video store on itsleft and the jumble-sale jolliness of the Save the Children shop on itsright.
As he had done every morning, forty-eight weeks a year for thelast sixteen years, Martin cycled around two sides of the square andturned into Echo Passage. If there were no unwelcomely parkedcars he would slowly raise his right leg, transfer his weight to theleft-hand pedal and, braking as he did so, glide balletically intoPhipps' Yard, coming to rest, precisely, alongside the back steps ofthe post office. Ernie Padgett, the current Postmaster, a title he hadprivately refused to relinquish when postmasters had been officiallyrenamed managers four years earlier, lived on the premises. Hewould normally have opened up and had some tea on, but recentlyhe had been unwell and with retirement imminent had seemed to belosing interest in the job. Highly irregularly, he had entrusted hisassistant, Martin, with a set of keys and these Martin had to usetoday.
As Elaine arrived there was already a brace of regulars waitingoutside the main door. At their head was Harold Meredith, a small,sturdy man with a walking stick and a head of closely trimmedwhite hair, more often than not concealed beneath a tweed cap. Hetook care over his appearance and wouldn'tdream of leaving the house in anything less correct than a hound's-toothjacket and an Army Pay Corps tie. His pale, smooth-skinnedcomplexion showed little sign of age, though he was known to beover eighty. Since his wife's death five years earlier, the postoffice had become his adopted home.
`You're up with the lark, Mr Meredith,' Elaine called jauntily,because that was the way he liked it.
`I'm up for a lark any day,' came the ritual reply.
`I'm too old for you, Mr Meredith,' Elaine protested and flutteredher eyelashes as she reached the top of the steps and pressed thedoorbell for Martin to let her in.
Elaine and Martin refrained from any physical contact whilst theywere on post office premises. Even when there were just the two ofthem in the back kitchen they only ever touched accidentally. Elainehad begun to entertain increasingly elaborate fantasies of coffee-breakpassion but Martin remained the complete professional and,once he was inside the building, his sole relationship was with thepublic. No enquiry, however fatuous or ill informed, failed to receivehis full attention, nor was any irrelevant personal information treatedas less than engrossing. Even Mrs Harvey-Wardrell, whom Elainethought the most vile creature imaginable, could not dislodge hismask of professional affability.
Pamela Harvey-Wardrell was the self-appointed queen ofTheston society. She was a snob's snob, a woman of such epic andineffable unselfconsciousness that, if born poor and unwelcome, shemight well have been certified mad, She was another early riser. Akeen ornithologist, she could often be seen on the marshes at dawn,glasses raised, scouring the reedbeds. She was over six feet tall andfrom a distance, in her deer-stalker, Barbour jacket and matchingthigh-length waders, she could easily be taken for a small tree.
Though she could wait for hours on a jacksnipe or a water railshe had no patience for humans and this particular morning herrestlessness was almost tangible as Martin explained slowly andlaboriously to Harold Meredith the intricacies of the PensionIncome Bonds, something which he had to do on more or less aweekly basis. Mr Meredith nodded earnestly as he listened.
`So would you like a leaflet?' Martin asked him.
`Oh, yes please,' he returned, eyes lighting up.
Martin leant down to the cupboard and, flicking it open with hisright foot, withdrew a small pile of them. He detached one andhanded it to Mr Meredith. `Here you are. Pensioners' IncomeBond Booklet, Series 2.'
`D'you want it back?'
`No, you hang on to it, Mr Meredith.'
`How much is it?'
`Oh, for God's sake ...' came quite audibly from behind him.
`Morning, Mrs Harvey-Wardrell.' Martin offered a placatorysmile.
She didn't seem placated.
`I'm in a dreadful hurry.'
`Yes, I'll be with you right away. That should answer all yourquestions, Mr Meredith.'
`How much is it, Martin?'
`Completely free. Compliments of the Post Office.'
Mr Meredith's eyes swam with emotion. `I can remember whenyou could send a letter to Hong Kong for a penny halfpenny,' hesaid somewhat at random.
Mrs Harvey-Wardrell exhaled threateningly. In paisley silkheadscarf, thick-ribbed turtleneck sweater, body-warmer, tweedskirt, lisle stockings and lace-up brogues, she was looking about asfeminine as Martin had ever seen her.
`I could have walked to Hong Kong by now,' she snapped and,using her substantial weight advantage, began to edge Mr Meredithalong the counter. Harold Meredith knew this tactic and had hisown way of dealing with it.
`Thank you, Martin,' he said, deliberately slowly. Hegathered up his various documents, picked up his tweed cap,unhooked his walking stick from the edge of the counter andmoved unhurriedly across the post office to the public writingdesk. Here he set out his papers, then tried to engage JaneCardwell, the doctor's wife, in conversation. Having failed to doso, he reread the latest brochures on Parcel Force rates, liveanimal export regulations and forwarding mail to a private address.
Mrs Harvey-Wardrell began briskly. `What I need,' sheannounced in ringing tones, as if addressing an open-air rally, `istwo postal orders. One for Sebastian who's just got into Eton withone of the highest Common Entrance marks they've ever had atWaterdene and the other for dear Charlie who's nowhere near asbright but I can't leave him out. Have you anything appropriate,Martin?'
`Postal orders are all the same.'
`No. I don't mean postal orders, I mean those sort of giftvoucher things.'
`Well, we've got these.' He withdrew two cards, swiftly andexpertly, from his sliding drawer.
`Those are ghastly,' said Mrs Harvey-Wardrell.
`Well, that's all we have at the moment.'
`They had dozens of them in Cambridge. All sorts of designs.'She looked down disparagingly at the two examples Martin hadlaid out on the counter. `I can't send a boy wrestling with theproblems of adolescence a bunch of pansies.'
`Geraniums, I think,' volunteered Martin.
`And what's this one?'
Martin examined the card. He wasn't too sure himself.
`I think it's a ship in trouble.'
`Artist in trouble, I should say. Who chooses these things?'
`Well, Mr Padgett does the ordering.'
Mrs Harvey-Wardrell lowered her voice to a whisper, whichrang around the post office. `How is he today?'
`Much the same.'
She leant across the counter. There was something damp andmusty on her breath, like the smell of an abandoned house.
`The sooner there's some young blood in here the better, Martin.I'll take two ships in trouble.'
Everyone was waiting for Ernie Padgett's retirement. He had beenPostmaster of Theston for twenty-three years and AssistantPostmaster for twenty years before that. `Padge', as he wasuniversally known, had long been at the centre of Theston life, twiceMayor and, like his friend Frank Rudge, on and off the council for aslong as anyone could remember. Half a dozen years ago, Padge andFrank had laid plans for a property business, a two-man Mafia torevitalise Theston's fortunes after the collapse of the local fishingindustry. Investment was promised but all that was raised wasexpectation and, amidst recriminations, Frank Rudge became agreengrocer and Padge remained a postmaster.
From then on expert Padge-watchers -- and there were many, forthe relationship between post office and community is close andpervasive -- detected the start of a decline. He seemed to withdrawinto himself, indeed on occasions to be downright surly. Hedeveloped a constant bronchial cough. He found the new,computerised systems no match for his voluminous memory, whichhe once boasted could retain the serial number of every new pensionbook issued over a six-month period. He relied more and more onMartin to get him through the last few years until he could retire andclaim a pension for himself. But he was too proud a man ever toadmit this and Martin remained in word, if not in deed, only assistantmanager.
'They're sending three of them,' announced Padge in thelunch-hour.
`Three what?' asked Elaine, glancing up from her cross-word,grateful for a respite from 14 across, `Hebrew prophet (5)'.
`Three from area headquarters.'
`What for?'
Padge tapped the letter he was holding, impatiently.
`For the -- you know -- for the farewell dinner.'
`Dinner now is it, Padge?' asked Martin between mouthfuls ofbread and cold chicken. `I'd heard it was cheese and pickles ... youknow, something lean and mean and ready for privatisation.'
Martin knew there was a dinner. He was the one who'dsuggested it in the first place. Head Office had only offered sherryand a presentation, and now here they were muscling in on anoccasion which was supposed to have been a surprise anyway.Padge took another look at the letter.
`Still, three of them,' he said, with a touch of pride. `Shows theymust consider it an occasion of importance.'
`Penny?'
`What?'
`For your thoughts? What's occupying that big brain of yours?'
Elaine and Martin were sitting together in the beer garden of thePheasant Inn, at Braddenham, a modest village fifteen minutes'drive inland from Theston. Its thatched roof and quaintly angledhalf-timbered facade dated back to the late 1970s when it was rebuiltafter a fire. The beer garden was little more than an outside space, alumpy slab of lawn confined by a quick-growing cypress hedge. Halfa dozen metal tables hugged the wall of the pub for protection. Theylooked out towards swings and a climbing frame which were to RonOakes, the publican, a Kiddies' Grotto, and to most of his regularsanother way of recycling old tractor tyres.
But now autumn was approaching and families with youngchildren came only at weekends. Soon the swing would be chainedand padlocked and the wind and rain would see to the paint onthe climbing frame.
Elaine preferred to sit in the garden if she could. In herexperience, once inside a pub it was hard to keep a man's attention.He would find other men and they would start to argue over thingsthat were of very little interest to her, generally football or fishing orcars or the inexorable decline of standards in almost every areaexcept pub conversation.
Human relationships were what interested Elaine. They weresuch an endlessly rich and fascinating subject, an all-year-roundphenomenon. A twenty-four-hours-a-day, seven-days-a-weekphenomenon. Men could talk about passion and elation and despair ifthey happened within the confines of a league match, but for Elainesuch emotions were too important to be squandered by footballcommentators. She was a romantic. She yearned and felt andsensed with an intensity which she had never yet been able to share.She had had boyfriends and they had said that they loved her, butshe knew they loved go-karting and windsurfing just as much, andshe wanted to be more than just an exciting evening out. Martin wasdifferent from the others. He wasn't gregarious, and he had nointerest in sport.
Though he was still reserved and uncomfortable in talking abouthis feelings, she was convinced that beneath it all Martin felt thesame way she did, which was why she was attracted to him, whyshe persevered with the relationship. At least it was a relationship.Until the Christmas before last it had been two people sitting besideeach other behind a post office counter. Now he touched her faceand sometimes took her hand.
Elaine watched him conduct some private battle with himself. Hethrust his lower lip forward and drew in the muscles tight around hiseyes.
`You're quite pensive.'
`I was thinking about the future,' he said.
`Well, no wonder you were pensive. Which bit?' asked Elaine.
`Which bit?'
`Of the future.'
`Oh ...' He smiled bleakly. `The nearest bit.'
`Am I in it?'
She knew this would irritate him and she was right. He took astudied sip at his beer and set the glass down before answering her.
`As a matter of fact, no. Just me and a large public company.'
`Beginning with P?'
`How did you guess?'
`There aren't many left to choose from,' she said.
Martin smiled ruefully.
`Are you not getting on well together, you and the Post Office?'she asked him.
Martin's frown deepened. A shadow of a breeze came fromsomewhere and ruffled his fine, soft, red hair. `I don't know. That'sthe damn thing. I don't know. Padge is going in a fortnight and noone's written to me or got in touch with me. I mean, you'd thinkthey'd have said something.'
`Well, you know what they're like at Head Office. They've gotlots on.'
`Too much to bother with us?' Martin was indignant. `We work ina Crown office. Who runs it matters.' There was real anger in hisvoice, and it quite aroused Elaine.
`You'll get it. I know,' she said.
`You know, but what do they know? I know my job. There'snothing I don't know about running a post office. But oh no, that'snot enough any more. Now it's all management training stuff. Ihated that seminar in Ipswich. Role-plays. Making business plans.Couldn't think of a word to say.'
To Elaine there was little more exciting than an angry manconfessing a weakness. She grasped the remains of her pina coladadecisively. `Look, let's finish our drink, go back via Omar's, gettwo cod and chips and take them down the harbour. It's a lovelynight.'
She watched Martin for a moment. The hairs in his nose neededclipping.
`Kiss me,' she said.
Martin glanced quickly round the garden.
`Not here.'
`No, here.' She pointed to the soft white skin at the bottom of herneck. `Here.'
She thrust her chin high and pushed herself towards him.
`I still think they should have confirmed it. They would in anyother business.' He leaned across and put his lips lightly on the sideof her neck. It smelt soapy.
Elaine sighed. `Be nice if you could do that without having to lookround first.'
`I've got to be conscious of my public role. Specially when I'mManager.'
`It would be nice to have a drink from our own bar in our ownliving room without having to come out here every Thursday.'
Martin nodded to himself. `I think I'll contact the union. Check thelegal position.'
Elaine reached in her handbag and brought out a bottle ofcologne.
`I'm thirty next year, Martin.'
`There must be prior requirement of notification,' he said.
`You know what I mean.' She dabbed the scent below her earsand around her neck. `Don't you, Martin?'
Martin looked up warily. `You wouldn't want to be married to anAssistant Manager.'
`No, you're right.' She leaned across and kissed his cheek. `But Iwouldn't mind being married to a Manager.'
Continues...
Excerpted from Hemingway's Chairby Michael Palin Copyright © 1999 by Michael Palin. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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