Permissible Limits

by Hurley, Graham

‘What’s this place called?’

  Jamie named a nursery up near Newport. I had an account there, though we hadn’t bought anything for months.

  ‘Boss says you ought to come with me.’

  ‘Why can’t she go?’

  ‘You’ll need to sign. Plus she’s expecting a delivery. Beds or something.’

  I smiled, stretching on the full-length chaise. Andrea had seen a couple of antique beds in a gallery in Cowes. It spoke volumes about the new balance of power at Mapledurcombe that she’d bought them without even consulting me.

  ‘I hope they’re OK,’ I said. ‘Otherwise, they’re going back.’

  I drove Jamie to the nursery. The azaleas were part of a big display in a cavernous growing house around the back, and he left me to make my choice while he inspected a stand of young saplings in the yard outside. Having a tree surgeon at Mapledurcombe was already proving an unexpected bonus. Not only had Jamie pruned our modest stock of fruit trees but he also had plans for something exotic to soften the view as our guests turned in at the front gate. In this respect, Jamie was an odd mixture - enormously capable, fearlessly hands-on, yet sensitive as well, with an almost feminine eye for colour and texture. To find such delicacy in someone so young was, in my experience, practically unheard of, though Andrea - as usual -had a blunter way of putting it. ‘He’s a hunk,’ she said. ‘He’s practically bloody edible.’

  While I signed the bill and gossiped with the woman who ran the nursery, Jamie carried the trays of azaleas to the estate car. It was lunchtime, still gloriously sunny, and I was starving.

  ‘Let’s have a pub lunch,’ I suggested. ‘My treat.’

  We went to a place I knew near Arreton. We ordered salads at the bar and sat outside at one of the garden tables. The tables were hard up against the back wall of the pub and I could feel the warmth of the bricks through my T-shirt. We talked about Mapledurcombe for a bit and Jamie told me how much he was enjoying it. Early on, he’d tested the relationship between myself and Andrea and he knew he could trust me with the odd indiscretion. Like the afternoon Andrea had suggested they both try out the newly filled swimming pool, only to insist on a lengthy back rub in the gazebo afterwards. Given that Andrea was nearly twice his age, Jamie could easily have been quite unkind about her but he brought a wry sense of affection to the telling of each tale, and I liked that. He had immense patience, as well as a thousand and one other virtues, and when he departed for another round of drinks I found myself marvelling at how much he resembled his grandfather.

  Ralph, oddly enough, was the name on his lips when he came back. He passed me my orange split. He was on Stella.

  ‘He asked me to give you a message,’ he said. ‘I think it’s to do with that money he sent you.’

  I felt a rush of instant guilt. I’d been meaning to return the cheque he’d sent over. I was eternally grateful for the gesture but just now money was the least of my problems. He must have the £5,000 back.

  ‘He won’t take it.’ Jamie shook his head. ‘I know he won’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, that’s the point really. I don’t quite know how to put this.’

  For once, he looked embarrassed. I sipped my drink, letting him take his time, only too aware of how little I’d seen of Ralph recently. He’d come to the memorial service, of course, and back to the house afterwards, but most of the time he’d been locked in conversation with Harald and I hadn’t had the chance for a proper chat. One of the things I badly wanted to say was thank you. His introduction to Douglas, the miracle vicar, had been invaluable.

  ‘It’s about flying,’ Jamie ventured at last. ‘He seems to think it might interest me.’

  I looked at Jamie. We were sitting side by side on the wooden bench.

  ‘And is he right?’

  ‘Yes, definitely.’

  ‘And?’

  Jamie was blushing now, or at least I think he was. He had a wonderful complexion, weather-roughened, bursting with vitality, and it was hard to tell.

  ‘Well…’ he began to trace the grain of the table with his forefinger, ‘… he thought that if you had no better use for the money, then maybe…’ he glanced sideways, ‘… you might teach me how to fly. He seemed to think that might make it easier for you. You know, tendering a service and all that.’

  I nodded. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? Why had it taken this gentle, unassuming youth to voice something that - God knows -Ralph might have intended all along?

  ‘I’m thick,’ I said. ‘I’m really stupid. Of course I’ll teach you to fly.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Yes, it’ll be a pleasure. Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to, but no one need know. My first pupil. When do you want to start?’

  Jamie was grinning now. I could see the child in him, the young kid waking up on Christmas Day to a sackful of presents.

  ‘You mean that?’

  ‘Of course I do. We’ll have to use the Moth but that’s no problem. In fact it’s a bonus. Real pilots learn on tail-draggers. Spam cans are for wimps.’

  ‘Spam cans?’

  ‘Modern planes. Nose-wheel jobs. Tomahawks. Cessnas. I picked up the phrase from Adam, actually. He’s the one who taught me.’

  ‘To fly?’

  ‘Yes. And we used the Moth. Not mine. That came later. He borrowed one from someone or other, and just told me to get on with it.’

  ‘And what was it like?’

  ‘Brilliant. Wonderful. Life wasn’t so great at the time and it was just what I needed. Clever man, my husband.’

  I found myself telling Jamie about our time up in Aberdeen, and those dark, cold, everlasting months when Adam flew away to Africa. He was a good listener, one of Ralph’s gifts again, and at his prompting I carried the story forward to our early days on the Isle of Wight and the tumbledown manor house that was to become Mapledurcombe. The list of things we’d had to do, first to the house and then to Adam’s precious aeroplanes, fascinated Jamie. He wanted to know more. He wanted details. How had we fixed the roof? Why hadn’t we gone for solar heating? Whose idea had it been to terrace the garden? I fed his curiosity as best I could, salting the raw information with little anecdotes, and the longer the conversation went on, the stranger the experience became.

  It was like opening the door to a long-forgotten boxroom, somewhere way up in the eaves, somewhere remote and unvisited and somehow no longer part of me. One or two of the memories I was sharing with Jamie were - at most - a couple of years old, but already they seemed to belong to another life. The events of the last month or so - Adam’s death, the visits to Jersey, Steve Liddell and Michelle La Page - had fenced me off from the marriage that had kept me so secure. I was someone else now. I was out on my own. The past, though busy and colourful and full of incident, was no longer of the slightest relevance.

  It was late afternoon by the time we left the pub. On the long valley road down to Shorwell, Jamie touched me lightly on the arm. He’d had at least four pints of Stella.

  ‘Do you mind me asking you something?’ he said.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Do you regret not having children, you know, now Adam’s gone?’

  I thought hard about the question. In reality, of course, having kids was a non-starter. But say I hadn’t had a problem? Say I was as fertile as the next woman? What then?

  ‘I’d have loved children,’ I said. ‘And so would Adam.’

  ‘But it never happened?’

  ‘No.’ I glanced across at him. ‘We tried and tried but you’re right. It never happened. There was a reason. I won’t bore you.’ Jamie shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It was none of my business.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ I was still thinking of the countless monthly waits, the endless disappointments. ‘We might have adopted but I don’t think it would have been the same somehow. Adam wasn’t the adopting kind. Neither was I. We were too selfish, I suppose. And in too deep.’

  ‘Into w
hat?’

  ‘The house. The business. Each other. And the planes, of course. They all take time. And energy…’ I trailed off. Jamie was still looking at me, still waiting.

  ‘But you loved him,’ he said at last.

  It was more a statement than a question. I sensed he wanted me to say yes. I sensed he wanted whatever image he had of us as a couple to be confirmed. It seemed to matter to him. A lot.

  ‘Adam’s dead,’ I said simply.

  ‘But you loved him.’

  ‘Yes, I loved him.’

  ‘And he loved you back.’

  The phrase made me smile. It was so sweet, so innocent. Who knows, I thought, maybe he’s right. Maybe Adam really had loved me back. Maybe the other adventures - Michelle, God knows who else - belonged in some other bit of his body, not in his heart at all. Maybe he was one of those emotional junkies you read about in magazines, addicted to risk, determined to pile all their chips ever so briefly on a single number. Not because it matters, or because there’s any real affection, but simply for the thrill of it. Thrills had certainly figured near the top of Adam’s list of priorities. Of that, I was absolutely certain.

  Jamie was talking about his own mother. Her name was Ruth. His father’s name was Gordon. He’d been the only child. The marriage, superficially so calm, so stable, had been shattered one winter afternoon by the arrival at the front door of another woman, a gypsy-looking creature, dark-skinned, vivacious and very, very angry. With her was a child, a little girl. She’d had long blonde curls, Jamie said, and he remembered the badge pinned to the chest of her dungarees. Comic Relief.

  ‘So who was she? This child?’ I was still thinking about Adam.

  ‘My sister.’ He corrected himself. ‘My half-sister. Her name was Angelika.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘My father’s mistress. They lived about a mile away. I must have passed the house a million times on my way to school. My dad was a travelling salesman. He repped for a pharmaceuticals company. He was always on the road.’

  ‘And you never knew?’

  ‘Never had a clue. He’d been leading two lives all the time. One with us. One with them.’

  ‘So how old were you? When all this happened?’ ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Sixteen? As recent as that?’ Jamie forced a smile.

  ‘It seems yonks ago,’ he said. ‘Some other life. Do you know what I mean?’

  He looked across at me, plaintive, and I nodded, only too aware of the tricks a sudden shock like this can play with time. Then I thought about Ralph and the story he’d told me about his own wife. The American flyer she’d lost in the B-17 crash and the affair she’d had with another American much later. Betrayal’s a gene, I thought, passed down from generation to generation.

  I could see the turning for Mapledurcombe way up ahead. I slowed the car.

  ‘What happened to your mother?’ I asked.

  ‘She committed suicide.’

  ‘She killed herself?’

  ‘Yes. She said she was going to London. I remember her leaving for the station. It was raining that morning. Tipping it down.’

  He shuddered and I pulled the car to a halt. Minutes later, in my arms, he was still crying. At length, I gave him a tissue and he dried his eyes. I was half-expecting embarrassment, some kind of apology, but he just sat bolt upright in the passenger seat, staring ahead.

  ‘Funny,’ he said at last, ‘I half-thought Grandad might have told you.’

  ‘He didn’t.’ I took his hand, squeezing it softly. Jamie cleared his throat and then shook his head several times as if he was trying to dislodge the memories.

  ‘She jumped in front of the train,’ he said, ‘She was in pieces.’

  ‘You had to identify her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where was your father?’

  ‘He’d left. He’d run away. He couldn’t cope.’ I could hear the bitterness, the raw anger, in his voice. ‘Bastard sneaked back months later for his suits and his pipe. Can you believe that?’

  ‘What about the other woman? And the little girl?’

  ‘He left them, too.’ He nodded slowly, his mouth a thin, tight line across his face.

  I wound down the window. I could hear skylarks and - much further away - the drone of a circling aircraft.

  ‘And you were sixteen,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Yeah, going on six.’ He looked at me at last, then down at his hand as if it didn’t belong to him. His fingers tightened between mine.

  ‘I’ve never told anyone that. That’s a first. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘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?’