Permissible Limits (16 page)

‘
She did?’

I was staring at him, ashamed that I hadn’t asked about the baby.

‘
Yes.’ He nodded. ‘She’d been married before, of course. I don’t know whether I ever mentioned it. She’d had one of those wartime marriages. He was an American airman, as a matter of fact. Navigator on a B-17.’

‘
What happened to him?’

‘
He was killed in a landing accident. To tell you the truth, I don’t think Sally ever got over it.’ He lifted the glass to his lips, sipping the rum. ‘Years later, she took up with another American, a businessman this time. It was months before I twigged what was going on.’

‘
She admitted it?’

‘
She told me about him. The night before she left.’

‘
Left?

‘
Yes.’

‘
With the kids?’

‘
Kid. We only had one at the time. Jamie’s mother, Ruth. No.’ He shook his head. ‘Ruthie stayed.’

‘
And your wife came back?’

‘
Yes, in the end she did. But it wasn’t right. Not then. Not ever, really. Not if you want the truth.’

He broke off, plucking helplessly at the crease in his trousers, and I felt suddenly swamped with sympathy, a raw, hot feeling that threatened to overwhelm both of us. I got up and perched myself on the arm of his chair. When I covered his hands with mine, I could feel them trembling.

‘
What are you saying, Ralph?’

He looked up at me. His eyes were a milky blue.

‘
I’m saying you should be thankful for what you had. It’s rare, Ellie. If it felt good, it was good. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘
But -’

He reached up, sealing my lips with his long, bony forefinger.

‘
I
mean
it. Sally and I, bless her,
were never
right and
we knew
it. Knowing it and admitting it are two different things but at my age life finds you out. In the end there’s no pretending, no make-believe. You
know
what it was really like.’

‘
And Adam?’

‘
He loved you. I’m certain of it.’

I left Ralph’s an hour or so later. Jamie had returned from his run, pinked with exertion, and the sound of him singing in the bathroom shower had broken the spell between us. I was more grateful than I could ever say to Ralph. I knew how much he’d risked by trying to help me and the fact that he’d succeeded was a tribute to his courage as well as his kindness.

Before I left, he showed me the latest progress on the Mustang book. A month before the end of the war, Karel Brokenka - the Czech pilot who’d downed the Me 109 - had force-landed the plane in Sweden after a coolant failure. Years later, the Swedes had sold it on to the Israeli Air Force. After action in the Suez affair, Ralph said, the old warhorse had been bought by a Maltese entrepreneur and put out to grass. Quite what happened next wasn’t entirely clear but Ralph was still writing letters and sooner or later he was confident of pinning down the rest of the story. To me, our little fighter’s history sounded hopelessly complicated and I admitted as much as I stood on the doorstep, saying goodbye. Ralph put a hand on my arm.

‘
Relax,’ he said. ‘You’re in a spin but it’s perfectly recoverable. Just take your hands off the controls and let the damn thing sort itself out.’

I was still trying to find my car keys.

‘
You’re talking about Old Glory?’

‘
No.’ Ralph kissed me on the forehead. ‘I’m talking about you.’

Harald turned up again next day. He phoned from the airfield and I invited him over for lunch. We had pasta and a salad at the kitchen table while he told me about his trip to the north. The BMW dealer had gone up for a spin in the Yak and bought two on the spot. Harald had phoned Steve Liddell with the good news and sent various faxes to his contact in Romania. With luck, Steve should be spannering again within the week.

‘
You’re still with him?’

‘
Sure. Someone has to be.’

‘
After everything that’s happened?’

‘
You mean Harvey’s Spit?’

I looked at him a moment, wondering whether to update him on developments, then decided against it. It was a lovely day. The pasta, to my delight, was delicious. Why let the face in the photo spoil it?

‘
Yes,’ I said lightly. ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

Harald ducked his head and reached for a napkin, wiping his mouth. He confessed a soft spot for young Steve. He said he’d decided to try and help him back on his feet. I said that sounded a pretty Christian thing to do and we were still talking about the Yak when I heard a knock on the front door.

It was Jamie, Ralph’s grandson. He was wearing jeans and a lovely cotton shirt. He had a dark-green pullover draped over his shoulders, the arms knotted loosely around his neck. There was something familiar about his face, the way he smiled, but for the moment I couldn’t quite place it.

‘
Did you run here?’

‘
Afraid not.’

He indicated a battered mountain bike propped against one of the garage doors. The frame was caked in mud, just like it should be.

‘
You rode over?’

He nodded, grinning. ‘Twenty minutes, door to door.’

I invited him in but he shook his head. He had something for me. From Ralph.

He gave me a brown Jiffy bag, standing uncertainly on the doorstep.

‘
You want me to open it now?’

‘
No, of course not.’

‘
You’re sure you don’t want to come in?’

‘
No thanks.’

We looked at each other for a moment and it suddenly hit me who he looked like. Way back, in the Falklands, I’d had a boyfriend called Paul. Paul, at sixteen, was the image of Jamie. Same wild hair. Same white, almost milky skin. Same appetite for exercise and laughter.

We said goodbye and I watched him slip his feet into the pedal grips before giving me a cheery wave and heading off back down the drive. As I turned into the house, I glimpsed Harald at the kitchen window.

‘
Who was that?’

I told him about Ralph and his grandson. We resumed our seats at the kitchen table. I felt the Jiffy bag, trying to guess what might be inside.

‘
You mind if I open this?’

‘
Go ahead.’

While Harald picked at the remains of his salad, I prised out the
staples in the
Jiffy
bag. Inside, wrapped in cotton wool, was a small

diecast model of a Mustang. I held it up, showing it to Harald.

‘
Sweet,’ I said.

I landed it beside Harald’s plate, a perfect three-pointer. Harald didn’t seem the least impressed. With the Mustang was a Get Well card. When I opened it, a folded cheque fell out. I left the cheque on the table, reading the card. Ralph’s handwriting was impeccable, perfect copperplate. He felt the urge, he said, to cheer me up. The Mustang might do the trick and if it didn’t, the cheque might help. I was to spend it on anything I liked. If I wanted to treat it as a loan, so be it. If I preferred to think of it as a present, nothing would give him greater pleasure. He’d recently cashed in some old share certificates. The proceeds had gone to myself and Jamie. Equal shares.

I picked up the cheque. It was for £5,000. I folded it again and slipped it into the pocket of my shirt, overwhelmed by the gesture.

Harald was examining the Mustang. He looked, if anything, slightly glum.

‘
I’ve been thinking,’ he said, ‘about your financial situation.’

‘
Don’t.’

I began to collect the empty plates, carrying them across to the sink.

‘
You need money, Ellie,’ Harald called, ‘and I’m happy to help.’

‘
I’m fine,’ I insisted. ‘You take it black, don’t you?’

I turned round to find Harald looking at me, his face twisted in a tight little smile. Convinced I’d offended him, I returned to the table.

‘
It’s not that I’m ungrateful,’ I said. ‘It’s just that things are hard. To tell you the truth, things are bloody awful. But just now, just exactly now, I feel pretty good and… well… that’s about it.’

I picked up the Get Well card and propped it on the dresser. In the lunatic world of classic aircraft, £5,000 was small change but that wasn’t the point. To Ralph, and I expect to Jamie, it was probably a fortune.

Harald’s eyes followed me everywhere.

‘
You’re sure about the Mustang? Five-fifty thousand bucks?’

‘
Yes, I’m sure.’

‘
You don’t want to sell it?’

‘
I don’t want to part with it.’

‘
What about some kind of leaseback?’

‘
What does that mean?’

‘
I pay you the money, then I own it. You pay me some kind of nominal fee and keep using it. That way you get to unlock the value without having to kiss the plane goodbye.’

I thought about it for a second. More small print. More contracts. More room for expensive mistakes.

‘
No thank you,’ I said.

‘
OK.’ Harald shrugged, reaching for the little diecast model. ‘Let’s say we do it another way.’

‘
What other way?’

‘
Let’s say we talk about the Harvard.’

‘
The
Harvard?’

I paused, en route to the kettle. Back home, in Florida, this man had a small air force packed with really sexy aeroplanes. Harvards were two a penny, especially in the States. Why should he be interested in ours?

Harald was looking thoughtful and I wondered what was coming next.

‘
I’ll buy the Harvard,’ he said. ‘It’ll belong to me but you can keep it here.’

‘
But why? Why do you want it?’ He began to drum his fingers on the wooden table top.

‘
Two hundred and fifty thousand,’ he said softly. ‘A quarter of a
million?’

‘
Dollars.’ He nodded. ‘In one hit. Just say the word, I’ll sort out the paperwork.’

I was still trying to do the sums: $250,000 was around £160,000, more than double the Harvard’s market value.

‘
But why?’ I asked again. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘
It’s a nice plane, one of the first I ever flew. Put it down to sentiment, Ellie. And just say yes.’

This was beginning to sound like charity but I wasn’t sure that made much difference. Just now I was in deep, deep trouble and £160,000 was a bloody good start to getting out of it.

‘
The Harvard stays here?’ I asked guardedly.

‘
Sure.’

‘
And who pays the running costs?’

Harald hesitated for a fraction of a second, long enough for me to realise that he hadn’t begun to think this thing through.

‘
I do.’ He smiled. ‘My plane. My tab.’

‘
So you own it?’

‘
Sure. And I maintain it, borrow it from time to time, prior warning of course, and you get to bank the cheque.’ His fingers strayed to the little Mustang. ‘Does that sound like robbery?’

‘
Not at all.’

‘
So is there a problem?’ ‘I’m not sure.’

I was looking at the proposal from all sides, trying to spot the angles I’d missed. One of them was the tricky issue of just who owned the plane. Technically, half of it still belonged to Adam, and if DC Perry was right about having to freeze our assets for a year, then the Harvard wasn’t mine to sell. Dennis should be here, I thought. He’d find a solution in seconds.

‘
I need time,’ I said, ‘to think about it.’

‘
Sure.’

‘
You don’t mind?’ ‘Not at all.’