Permissible Limits (54 page)

When I asked him if that was the case, he frowned.

‘
I have a lot of money,’ he said guardedly. ‘It’s not necessarily the same thing.’

‘
I don’t understand.’

‘
I buy people, good people. But I don’t have to like them.’

‘
Did I say that?’

‘
You implied it.’

‘
How?’

‘
By including Adam. Adam was a one-off. Adam was a friend.’

I looked at him and nodded. I’d felt that too. Exactly that.

‘
Don’t stop,’ I said. ‘Tell me more.’

He hesitated a moment, twisting his signet ring around his little finger.

‘
I liked the guy a lot. I knew where he was coming from, what was happening inside his head. And I admired his judgement, too.’

‘
Adam was hopeless at business.’

‘
I didn’t mean business.’ He smiled softly. ‘I meant you.’

The confession, coming from Harald, was a huge surprise. This past month or so we’d lashed together a pretty stable little raft. The relationship was close - of course it was - but it was practical as well. It had weathered some of the most intense, challenging flying I could ever have conceived. It had permitted him to be both a friend and a mentor. Why complicate it, so suddenly, like this?

Tomorrow’s flight plan called for an eight o’clock take off. Harald, as far as I knew, never drank and I was stone-cold sober too.

‘
I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,’ I said carefully. ‘And I’m not sure I want you to explain.’

A frown briefly shadowed Harald’s face, then he sat back, almost -I thought - relieved.

‘
You must have wondered about the flight programme, all the stuff we’ve been doing.’

‘
You’re right, I have. In fact I’ve asked you a couple of times, you know, where it all leads.’

‘
OK.’ He nodded. ‘This is where it leads.’

‘
This?’

‘
Sure.’

I looked round. His buddy, Al, was back behind the bar. Was I Pamela-Ann? Was Harald in my six o’clock? His finger on the firing trigger? Me in his sights?

‘
We’re friends,’ I told him. ‘Good friends. I’d do anything for you. You know I would.’

‘
OK.’ He nodded again. ‘Then I want you to become my wingman.’ That could have meant anything and I told him so. Harald frowned. ‘You think I’m some kind of poet? Some candy-ass guy says one thing, means another?’

‘
No.’

‘
Then listen to me. I want to put together a display team. Nine Mustangs. I want to call them the Blue Angels. And I want you to fly as my number two.’

I tried to hide my confusion. Coming from Harald, this was a
far
bigger compliment than I could ever have expected. It meant that he really did rate my flying. There was no way I was up to that standard yet, but he obviously thought it was in me.

‘
You’re sure I could hack it?’

‘
I’m certain.’

‘
OK,’ I said carefully. ‘So tell me more.’

Harald leaned forward across the table. He had a shortlist of pilots. He’d lined up eight machines. He had the makings of a display circuit, the team flying from country to country, continent to continent, performing in front of crowds of hundreds of thousands. Naturally, there’d be business spin-offs. He’d be crazy if he didn’t integrate something like this with his commercial activities. But the heart of it, the
raison d’etre,
was the Mustang itself. What it had done. What it represented. That’s where the raw appeal lay. That’s why I should say yes.

Something was bothering me. I put my hand on his arm.

‘
You said nine aircraft.’

‘
That’s right.’

‘
And then eight.’

‘
Sure. That’s because you own the other one.’

‘
You want our plane as part of this?
Our
Mustang?’

‘
Yes.’ He smiled rather awkwardly. ‘Please.’

‘
But what about…’ I shrugged, ‘… Mapledurcombe? Old Glory?’

‘
You wouldn’t need it.’

‘
I wouldn’t?’

‘
No, you’d be with me, the Blue Angels, full time.’

‘
As what?’

‘
My
wingman.
’

‘
You mean your partner,’ I said quietly. ‘Don’t you?’

There was a long silence. Al had disappeared.

‘
It’s kinda the same thing.’ Harald smiled bleakly. ‘Isn’t it?’

I withdrew my hand. At last I understood why Harald had been so provisional, so uncertain, about my departure date. It wasn’t just the fact that my birthday was coming. It wasn’t the thought that we might squeeze in a couple more days’ flying. It was something infinitely more long-term. Most people would have called it marriage. But Harald Meyler wasn’t most people.

‘
I can’t, Harald.’

I said it as gently as I could. There was something so fatalistic in his face, so resigned, that he didn’t even look disappointed.

‘
I had to ask,’ he murmured at last. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘
Yes.’ I looked at him for a long time. ‘Tell me something.’

‘
What?’

‘
How long have you felt this way?’ ‘Years.’

‘
Years?’
It felt like I’d only known him a couple of months.

‘
Yes, ever since Adam introduced us.’

‘
I see.’ I was trying to remember the occasion but I couldn’t.

‘
It was down in Devon. The Exeter air show. I was flying a Jug.’

Dimly, it began to come back to me. Jug is the American nickname for the P-47 Thunderbolt, a big unbreakable World War II fighter. Harald had pulled off a wonderful display. Adam, who barely knew him at all, had raced across to say well done. I, as ever, was in tow.

‘
You were wearing jeans,’ he said. ‘And you had the loveliest smile.’

‘
I did?’

‘
Yes. The one thing I always knew was that somewhere out there was the person I was going to fall in love with.’ He ducked his head. ‘Just happens it was you.’

‘
But did I ever…’ I did my best to find the right word, ‘… encourage you?’

‘
Never. You couldn’t.’

‘
Couldn’t?’

‘
No, because that’s not the person you are. You were married, happily married. You loved the man, you adored him. Everyone could see that.’

‘
And now?’

‘
Now?’ He shrugged. ‘Now you’re not married.’

‘
And you think that makes a difference?’

‘
Sure. I thought it might.’

Thought. Past tense. He’d made his pitch. We knew where we stood. All I could say, for the second time in two days, was sorry.

My hand went out again, some small comfort. I could feel him trembling.

‘
It was probably my fault,’ I said. ‘I should have made things clearer.’

‘
No problem.’ He produced a long white envelope and slipped it across the table towards me. I recognised the United Airlines logo on the front.

‘
Is this the ticket?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
Thanks.’

‘
That’s OK.’

‘
I mean it, Harald.’ I raised my glass to him. ‘Here’s to tomorrow.’

He studied me for a moment or two, the strangest smile curling one corner of his mouth.

‘
You mean the old guy? Brokenka?’

‘
No, I mean the future, yours and mine. We’ll stay friends. Promise me that.’

‘
Sure.’ He nodded. ‘Oh, sure.’

Next morning, as
planned
, we flew up to Chicago. We landed at another tiny airport - windy and much cooler than down south - and I re-read Ralph’s letter while Harald organised a cab to take us to the nursing home.

Shoreview was one block back from the road that ran beside Lake Michigan. The blooms in the immaculate flowerbeds were nodding in the breeze and the nurse who met us in reception asked us whether we’d prefer tea or coffee.

Karel Brokenka had a room at the front of the building on the second floor. The nurse had warned us that he was still recovering from a minor stroke, but when we met him I was surprised by how fit he looked. He was much smaller than I imagined, and he was completely bald, but as soon as he struggled to his feet and extended a hand, I recognised the lop-sided smile I’d seen in the photo that Ralph had shown me.

He’d obviously been looking forward to our visit because there was a huge stack of papers piled beside his armchair, and I kneeled on the carpet, going through his mementoes one by one, while Harald sat in an armchair by the window, watching us.

He’d said very little all morning. In certain ways he reminded me of someone recovering from a serious accident. Real life took a lot of getting used to. He didn’t want to trip up again.

Karel was telling me about a sortie he’d done in our Mustang a couple of weeks after he’d shot the Messerschmitt down. He kept referring to it as
Little Ceska,
which was a bit confusing at first. The nurse was right about the stroke, because he kept losing the thread.

Harald suddenly bent forward, interrupting him.

‘
Mr Brokenka, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind going through the story again. For my benefit.’ He produced a small cassette recorder and I stared at it, wondering why he hadn’t used it before.

‘
What story?’ The old man was sounding vague again.

‘
The Messerschmitt. The 109.’

‘
Ah… so. You want me to… ?’

‘
Tell me what happened…’ I saw Harald press the Record button,’… again.’

Karel gathered his thoughts a moment, then went through it all a second time. He was flying P-Popsie. P-Popsie was
Little Ceska’s
call sign. His squadron were supplying withdrawal support on a big B-17 raid. It was a lousy day, snow first thing. He remembered the weather because it was 1 January and snow was supposed to be lucky.

‘
Lucky?’ There was a small, cheerless smile on Harald’s face.

‘
Sure, and it was too. We found the bomber stream real quick. That didn’t always happen.’

‘
And the 109s?’

‘
Five of them. Way over in the Ulzen area.’

‘
They were below you?’

‘
Yeah, but hard to spot against those damned trees.’ He offered Harald a gap-toothed grin, warmed by the memory. Harald’s smile had gone.

‘
You bounced them?’ ‘Sure.’

‘
They saw you coming?’ ‘At the end, yes.’

‘
The one you chased, the guy you shot down, he saw you coming?’

‘
Of course.’

Harald nodded, saying nothing. I could hear a slight squeak from the machine. Brokenka was looking blank again.

‘
Go on,’ Harald prompted at last. ‘What happened then?’

‘
He dived, like they all did. I went after him.’

‘
What kind of speed?’

‘
I don’t know. Fast. I was in the dive, remember. Hell, you know…’ he lifted a thin hand and waved it in the air, ‘… four hundred knots? More? I don’t know.’

‘
And the 109?’

‘
Fast, too, and clever.’ The hand began to weave and turn.

‘
A good pilot?’

‘
Yes, oh yes.’

‘
A brave guy? Stuck with it? Didn’t bale out?’