Free Hemingway’s Chair by Michael Palin Page B

great
moments of Theston’s history.
    These
had been remarkably few and, though Theston High School’s headmaster had
creatively embellished the record with bogus sea-battles, fires, plagues,
murders and visits from Winston Churchill, much of the historical slack had
been taken up by the big companies. Miss NatWest Bank and the Prudential Story
gratefully plugged any gaps in the historical imagination.
    All
the set pieces were greeted with equal enthusiasm. Proud mothers waved at
children dressed as pirates and embarrassed younger brothers wolf-whistled at
sisters in fishnet tights pretending to be mermaids. It was noisy, chaotic,
bizarre and somehow all very innocent.
    Frank
elbowed his way through the crowd to the door of the Codrington Arms. Here his
way was barred by Gordon Parrish, a long-serving waiter at the Market Hotel. He
was dressed in a long white satin dress, gold sling-backs, false nose and a
shoulder-length wig of sleek black hair.
    ‘My
God, who have we here?’ asked Frank as he pushed by.
    ‘Barbara
Streisand,’ Gordon said icily. The diva.’ He produced a collecting tin.
    ‘Not
the word I’d have used,’ muttered Frank, but he searched in his pocket and
dropped a pound piece into Gordon’s tin.
    ‘It’s
for the sailors,’ said Gordon with a fluttering of eyelashes.
    ‘He
used to be a merchant seaman,’ Frank called to Ruth as they passed on in.
    The
main saloon bar was packed. There were men dressed as carrots and policewomen
in miniskirts and Father Neptune and his six watery cohorts, downing final
pints before climbing aboard the P & O Ferries display.
    The
English pub is one of the glories of this country,’ Frank Rudge intoned as a
body slumped to Ruth’s feet at the end of the bar, but no one could hear him
anyway and he moved them through the crowd into a back bar which was quieter.
    The
first person they saw there was John Parr. He seemed to be the only person in
Theston who was drinking alone. On seeing them he nodded quickly and drained
his glass.
    ‘Well,
well, half the bloody post office is in here,’ Frank observed, adding
mischievously, ‘I haven’t seen Mr Marshall, but I think he prefers the wine
bar. You seen your pal today, Martin?’
    Martin
spread his arms. ‘New boss,’ he explained to Ruth. ‘Doesn’t drink beer.’
    Frank
Rudge turned to her. ‘Should have heard the fuss when he was appointed.’ He
winked at Martin. ‘Now they’re bosom pals.’
    ‘He
could have been worse.’ Martin turned to John Parr, isn’t that true, John?’
    Parr
stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’m off,’ he mumbled.
    ‘Oh
come on, John!’ Martin took him firmly by the arm and led him back to the bar.
‘Day off tomorrow.’ John Parr shook his arm free. He blinked fiercely and
rapidly. ‘I’m not going to be short of days off, thanks, Martin.’
    There
was venom in the delivery and Frank and Ruth both turned.
    Martin
looked hurt, but mainly mystified. ‘What’s the matter, John?’
    John
Parr snorted derisively. ‘You trying to pretend you don’t know?’
    ‘Know
what?’
    John
Parr looked at Martin, narrowing his eyes then laughing grimly. He headed for
the door.
    ‘The
Boy Wonder thinks we’re overstaffed.’ John Parr pulled the door open. The sound
of loud cheers and raucous laughter swept in from the saloon. He reached into
his jacket and produced a letter which bore a familiar heading. He waved it at
Martin.
    ‘At
least they used the Royal Mail to tell me.’

Ten
     
     
     
    The
streets of Theston were swept clean. The carnival floats
stood in car parks and back yards waiting to be dismantled. Only the strands of
coloured lights in North Square remained to be taken down. The town was weary
and mostly still asleep. There were scattered signs of life, early-morning dog
walkers, sea-anglers packing up after the night’s vigil, a visitor or two
collecting the Sunday papers. They were rewarded with an unusually appealing
early winter’s morning. The sun shone low