Free Hemingway’s Chair by Michael Palin Page A

somebody?’
    ‘Me?
Oh... er... no, I just have to take something to those friends over there.’
    ‘Well,
look, don’t let me hold you up.’
    Ruth
smiled, broke eye contact and turned away. This seemed to precipitate him into
some sort of decision. He took a deep breath.
    ‘I
saw an address on your envelope.’
    Ruth
turned. She felt a rising of the defences.
    ‘I
couldn’t help noticing the name,’ he explained.
    ‘The
name?’
    ‘I
know it’s unprofessional and all that, but it caught my eye.’
    ‘Well,
it may be an odd name in England, but it’s pretty common in America.’
    ‘No...
no... not your name.’
    At
that moment a short, wiry man wearing an old woollen cap approached from across
the square, calling out as he came, ‘How about that coffee, Martin? I’ve been
out here since eight.’
    The
younger man leapt as if stung. ‘Coming, Frank.’ He darted away into the shop.
The older man eyed Ruth with unapologetic interest and held out his hand.
    ‘Frank
Rudge.’
    His
hand was powerful. His fingers were thick and his skin was rough and hard as
the bark of a tree. ‘Ruth Kohler,’ she said.
    ‘American?’
    She
nodded.
    ‘On
holiday?’
    ‘Working
over here for a year.’
    ‘In Theston ?'
    ‘Not
far away. I’ve taken a cottage at Everend Farm.’
    ‘Whatever
for?’
    ‘I’ve
a book to write.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t want any distractions.’
    ‘What
sort of book is it?’
    ‘It’s
about Ernest Hemingway.’
    Rudge
frowned.
    ‘The
writer,’ she added. ‘And the women in his life.’
    A
sudden, wide grin broke across Frank Rudge’s face, sending his lined and
leathery skin in a mass of directions.
    ‘Should
write about me next.’ He laughed, though there was a hint of seriousness in
there somewhere.
    At
that moment the man Ruth had been talking to emerged from the crowded cafe
clutching two polystyrene cups.
    ‘Sorry,
Frank.’
    Frank
smiled benevolently. ‘You needn’t have hurried.’
    He
nodded towards Ruth. ‘Ruth’s living at Everend for a year. Come over here to
write a book about Hemingway and his women. I’ll take the coffees.’
    Despite
her protest Martin also bought a coffee for Ruth. As she seemed lost, he took
her across North Square to see the Rudges’ stall and he introduced her to the
family.
    The
friendship between the Sproales and the Rudges had begun nineteen years ago
when Martin’s father died. At that time Frank Rudge was running the Theston
branch of the Suffolk Eagles, a charitable organisation which raised money for
local projects. They had been generous with help and support for the family and
Frank still saw it as his business to keep an eye on Kathleen and Martin. He’d
always had a soft spot for Martin’s mother. He had tried to persuade her to
move back into Theston, but now he knew her better he respected her wish to be
left alone.
    Elaine
had known Martin since she was eleven and, though he would never admit it,
Frank took quiet pleasure in the fact that they were now seeing each other.
    Martin
introduced Ruth, a little awkwardly. Joan Rudge was the way she was with
everybody — direct and blunt and unconcealed. She said she’d never heard of
Ernest Hemingway, and asked if he was a golfer. She then embarked on the story
of her best friend’s holiday in Florida, which Frank interrupted with brutal
swiftness. He pointed out that the last thing Ruth wanted to hear about was the
country she’d just left, and what she needed to know a little more about was
Britain’s glorious heritage.
    The
inside of a typical English pub seemed to him the perfect place to start
learning. Leaving his wife and daughter to mind the stall, he led Ruth and
Martin down Market Street in the direction of the Codrington Arms.
    It
was midday by now and the carnival procession had begun to wend its way through
the town. To cross the road Frank, Ruth and Martin were obliged to dodge in and
out of slowly moving floats upon which shaky tableaux portrayed the