Permissible Limits (31 page)

‘
No?’

‘
No.’ I reached up and cupped his face in my hands. ‘You’re a lovely boy. We’re lucky to have you. I’m sorry about your mother. Truly. I think I know how much it hurts, if that’s any consolation, and I think I know how other people saying they’re sorry isn’t any use at all. You’re the one who has to work it out, Jamie. There’s no other way.’

He nodded. He’d obviously got this far, and probably a good deal further, all by himself, but now he sensed he’d found a friend. I reached for the ignition key and started the engine. Minutes later, we were pulling up outside Mapledurcombe.

‘
That was nice,’ I said lightly.

‘
Nice?’ The word made him smile. He found a shred of tissue in his jeans pocket and blew his nose. Then he looked at me. ‘You didn’t mind?’

‘
Not in the least. I did most of the talking. Thanks to you.’

‘
That was easy. I like listening to you. The things you both did. The ways you got it together. It’s been brilliant.’

I was looking up at the house. ‘We did our best.’

‘
I meant this afternoon.’

‘
Oh.’ My hand found his again and I gave it a little squeeze. ‘It was a
pleasure.
’

I made to withdraw my hand but he wouldn’t let me.

‘
About the flying,’ he said. ‘Were you serious?’

‘
Absolutely. Tell Ralph. Tell him it’s on. And tell him there’s no question of him paying.’

‘
He won’t stand for it. I know he won’t.’

‘
Too bad. Men can’t have it all their own way.’ I gave his hand a last squeeze, then reached for the door. ‘Just remember that.’

When we got inside the house, Andrea was less than pleased to see us. She wanted to know why we’d been so long, what had kept us. I told her we’d stopped for lunch and that neither of us had been watching the time.

‘
It’s nearly five,’ she said pointedly. ‘Just how hungry were you?’

The question made Jamie giggle. Aware that he’d been drinking, Andrea’s scowl became blacker.

We stared at each other, then Jamie made a move towards the back door. We both watched him leave.

‘
Congratulations,’ Andrea said coldly. ‘Ten pints of lager. Never fails.’

‘
You’re out of your mind.’

‘
Hardly. Have you seen the expression on his face? The way he looks at you? Follows you around? It’s puppy love, Ellie. You ought to buy him a collar and a lead.’

I ignored the sarcasm. I’d certainly been aware that Jamie liked me, liked talking to me, but the rest of it was fantasy. Andrea had never quite got the hang of men. One of the reasons, I suppose, that her marriage had collapsed.

Through the kitchen window, we could both see Jamie clearing up. He piled his gardening tools into the wheelbarrow and disappeared.

‘
I suppose he’ll need a lift home,’ Andrea said resignedly. ‘I was planning to put the supper on.’

‘
He’s got a bike,’ I pointed out.

‘
Yes, but he’s pissed, Ellie, and I expect you’ve been drinking too.
I
can’t just let him ride home. He’ll kill himself.’

The image made me wince. The sight of your mother pulped by a train would stay with you forever.

‘
So what happened?’ she said. ‘You might as well tell me.’

‘
Nothing happened.’

‘
So why do the pair of you look so…’ she scowled,’… happy?’

‘
Do we?’

‘
Yes, it’s all over your face. I know you, Ellie. You can’t hide it.’

There was a noise outside. Jamie stamping the mud off his boots. Then his face appeared round the door. He’d doused his head in cold water. His hair clung wetly to his scalp.

‘
I’m off,’ he said, perfectly normal. ‘See you tomorrow.’

Andrea stepped forward. I’d left the car keys on the table. By the time she’d picked them up Jamie had gone. She looked at his departing back through the kitchen window. When he got on his bike and rode off, there wasn’t the trace of a wobble.

‘
Cow,’ she said softly. ‘You know the way I feel about him.’

I finished filling the kettle. When I’d found the teapot and sorted out a spoonful of Earl Grey, I sat down at the table. Andrea’s copy of
Cosmopolitan
was open at an article about the unsung glories of monogamy.

‘
I don’t know what you’re worried about.’ I turned the page. ‘I’m off to America, aren’t I?’

Ralph invited me to lunch at the end of that same week. We were to meet at a hotel in Bonchurch called The Peacock Vane, and I was twenty minutes late because I’d been talking to Mr Grover. He’d
phoned
me from the AAIB with news of the bag I’d sent him. After exhaustive tests, he’d said, the technical boys had been able to confirm that Adam’s sports holdall had indeed been immersed in seawater for a period of time. This seemed to me to be a statement of the blindingly obvious, but he went on to explain that the real significance of the tests was what they
didn’t
confirm.

‘
I don’t understand,’ I’d told him.

‘
They found no evidence of heat damage.’

‘
Meaning?’

‘
There’s a pretty low likelihood of fire. There was no foreign object damage, either, nothing impacting on the body of the bag. Tiny bits of metal. Anything you’d associate with a catastrophic event.’

‘
Like?’

‘
Like an explosion.’

‘
An
explosion?’
I hadn’t thought about this possibility before, though in his wilder moments I’d often expected Adam to go bang. ‘You really think the plane might have blown up?’

‘
Frankly, no. Though it’s something we have to rule out.’

‘
And the bag lets you do that?’

‘
The state of the bag suggests it’s unlikely.’ Mr Grover had sounded extremely careful. ‘Though naturally we’re keeping an open mind.’

I’d brought the conversation to an end a minute or so later, telling Mr Grover I had an appointment to keep. The impression he’d given me was that the inquiry was winding down. In the absence of any other wreckage, arriving at a firm conclusion was out of the question. The reason for Adam spearing in was a mystery and likely to remain so.

I told Ralph about the conversation. We were sitting in the hotel dining room, an exquisite confection of Victorian furniture, sumptuous food and big double doors opening on to a sweep of ornamental garden. Ralph, as ever, was worried about me.

‘
Doesn’t it disturb you? Not knowing?’

‘
No.’ I shook my head more forcefully than I’d intended. ‘Not in the least. I’ve drawn a line, Ralph. I’ve got a life to lead. I have to get on.’ I paused, wanting to soften what I’d said. ‘Your friend the vicar was right. Knowing why isn’t important. Knowing how doesn’t matter. It’s being thankful, being able to celebrate the best bits, that counts.’

‘
And you can do that?’

I looked him in the eye.

‘
Not at the moment,’ I said. ‘But one day I might.’

He nodded in sympathy, giving me the chance to explain further, and when I didn’t he ducked his head and reached for the menu. Driving across, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t burden him any further with the wreckage of my private life. What had happened over in Jersey was for me to sort out.

‘
Your American chap, Meyler.’ Ralph had his finger anchored halfway down the list of starters. ‘Fascinating man.’

The word ‘your’ threw me for a moment. What had Harald been telling him?

‘
He’s been a good friend,’ I said carefully. ‘I owe him a lot.’

‘
I’m sure. He was quizzing me about my little project, you know, the research. Wanted to know how far I’d got. I told him what I could, of course. He was really interested, knowledgeable too. He seems to have the aircraft pretty well taped.’

I explained about Harald’s passion for our Mustang. Ever since he’d first set eyes on it, way back when Dave Jeffries was still doing the rebuild, it seemed to have held a special fascination for him.

‘
That’s what he was telling me, just exactly that. Seems he’s got a couple back home.’

‘
Yes, and a squadron or two of other stuff.’ I ran through the warbirds in Harald’s private air force. Ralph couldn’t hide his admiration.

‘
Rich man,’ he murmured when I’d finished. ‘Has to be.’

I drew the line at passing on Dennis Wetherall’s gossip about the sources of Harald’s fortune. It was enough, as far as Old Glory was concerned, that Harald had returned us to solvency. I told Ralph about the latest surprise, Harald’s offer of thirty-five-plus hours at the controls of a Mustang.

‘
Thirty-five? That’s serious flying, my dear. With thirty-five hours, you’d have been in a front-line squadron. Probably have had time to win a medal or two.’

‘
Yes, or die.’

‘
Quite. But with your talents? I rather doubt it.’

I grinned at him. Only yesterday I’d been on the phone to one of the pilots I intended to use for Old Glory during the summer. He’d been a good friend of Adam’s. He flew commercial 747s for a living but spent summer weekends displaying Spitfires, Mustangs and Lightnings on the airshow circuit. I’d mentioned Harald’s offer in passing and he - like Ralph - had been impressed. With little more
than thirty-five hours, under
CAA
regulations
,
I
could be checked out
on simple manoeuvres. That meant not only fly-pasts but also a modest repertoire of aerobatics. The thought of doing loops and upward rolls in our Mustang in front of a paying crowd filled me with a very special kind of glee, though I’d laughed when he’d suggested I might even get as far as formation flying.

‘
You can join us at the Fighter Meet,’ he’d joked. ‘Fly as my number two.’

Now, Ralph indulged me even further.

‘
He’s right,’ he said. ‘A woman in a man’s world, it’d be a tremendous attraction.’

I reminded him about the women who’d ferried aircraft around during the war. Not only single-seat fighters but big four-engined bombers like the Lancaster and the Halifax. Wasn’t it logical that a woman could be at the controls? Didn’t flying demand sensitivity, and judgement, and all those other female virtues? Wasn’t it a very male delusion that only blokes could fly high-performance warbirds? Ralph wasn’t having it.

‘
That’s not the point,’ he insisted. ‘Of course women make wonderful pilots. Of course they can handle planes every bit as well as men. But it simply doesn’t happen. Not to the extent it should.’ He covered my hand with his. ‘All I’m saying, my dear, is good luck. You’ll be a natural, I know you will.’

Later, over the most delicious Dover sole I think I’ve ever tasted, Ralph talked me through his latest progress on the book. His conversation with Harald after the memorial service had obviously fired him up because he’d phoned his contact in the German archives in Berlin and asked her to chivvy up the search for the identity of Karl Brokenka’s downed Mei09 pilot. The Berlin people, he said, were as bogged down in paperwork as all the other folk he’d had to deal with, and while he sympathised with the pressures they were under, Harald had been right to point out the importance of imposing some kind of deadline. The longer the book was delayed, the greater the risk that another season would slip by. More sales lost. More veterans leaving Mapledurcombe empty-handed.

I coaxed the last sliver of flesh on to my fork.

‘
Is this German that important?’ I wondered.

‘
That’s exactly what your friend said, Harald. I must say I’m beginning to agree with him, though now we’ve got the photo, it would be nice to have a name to go with it.’

‘
Photo?’ I reached for my napkin.

‘
Didn’t I tell you? It’s the one of the Mei09 going down. The one from Karel’s camera gun.’