If Percy had one regret, it was that he hadn’t been able to bring his ginger cat with him. Not that Horatio would have appreciated exchanging his warm kitchen for a cold cave. He had left clear instructions with his housekeeper that she should feed him every morning, and before she left at night.
Percy had more than enough food and drink to survive for ninety days, and was determined to revisit the Complete Works of Shakespeare, all 37 plays and 154 sonnets, by the time he returned to the mainland.
By the end of the first month, Percy felt he was well qualified to appear on Desert Island Discs, even though that nice Mr. Plomley was no longer in charge.
On a more practical level, Percy learned to catch a fish with a sharpened stick. To be accurate, he speared his first fish on the thirty-ninth day, by which time he considered himself a fully domiciled resident.
On the sixty-third day, he completed digging a five-foot hole at the highest point of the island. One of the problems Percy hadn’t anticipated was that whenever he visited his hole each morning, it would be full of water, as hardly a day went by when it didn’t rain. It took Percy about an hour to scoop out yesterday’s water with his plastic mug before he could start digging again, sometimes longer, if it was still raining. He then roamed the island searching for large stones, which he lugged back and deposited by the side of the hole.
On the morning of the eighty-ninth day, Percy dragged his pole slowly up to the summit of the island, some 227 feet above sea level, and dumped it unceremoniously by the hole. He then returned to the cave and listened to Woman’s Hour on Radio Four before having lunch. He’d learned a great deal about women during the past three months. He spent the afternoon shining his shoes, washing his shirt, and rehearsing the speech he would deliver on behalf of Her Majesty.
He retired to bed early, aware that he needed to be at his best for the ceremony he would be performing the following day.
Percy rose with the sun on September 23, 2009, and ate a light breakfast consisting of a bowl of cornflakes and an apple while he listened to Jim Naughtie discuss with Mr. Cameron whether the three party leaders should take part in a television debate before the election. Percy didn’t care for the idea: not at all British.
At nine o’clock he shaved, cutting himself in several places, then put on a white shirt, now not quite so white, his three-piece suit, old school tie, and shining black shoes, none of which he’d worn for the past three months.
When Percy emerged from the cave carrying his radio, he had a pleasant surprise awaiting him on this, the most important day of his life. The sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky, and what a blue. When he reached the top of his hill, there was not a drop of water in the hole. God clearly was an Englishman.
He checked his watch: ten twenty-six. Too early to begin proceedings if he intended to keep to the letter of the law. He sat on the ground and recited his favorite speeches from Henry V, while checking his watch every few minutes.
At eleven o’clock, Percy lifted the flagpole onto his shoulder and lowered one end into the hole. He then spent forty minutes selecting the stones that would secure it firmly in place. Having completed the task he sat down on the ground, exhausted. Once he’d got his breath back he turned on the radio and still had to wait for some time before Big Ben struck twelve times and the sun reached its highest point. At one minute past twelve, Percy stood to attention, slowly raised the Union Jack up the flagpole and delivered the exact words required by the Territories Settlement Act of 1762: “I claim this sovereign territory in the name of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, to whom I swear my allegiance.” He then sang the “National Anthem,” and ended with three rousing cheers.
The ceremony completed, Percy fell to his knees and thanked God, and all his ancestors, that like them he had been able to serve the British Empire.
He then picked up his telescope and began to search the high seas for a bobbing fishing vessel. As each hour passed, he became more and more anxious as to where the Bonnie Belle, Captain Campbell, and his three shipmates might be. He feared they were in the Fisherman’s Arms, spending his money.
Once the sun had set on this part of the British Empire, Percy restricted himself to half-rations before spending a sleepless night wondering if he was destined to spend the rest of his days on Forsdyke Island, having fulfilled his mission, but without anyone realizing what he had achieved.
He rose early the following morning, skipped breakfast, missed the Today Programme, and climbed back up to the highest point on the island, where he was delighted to see the Union Jack still fluttering in the breeze.
He picked up his telescope, swung it slowly through 180 degrees, and there she was, plowing determinedly, if slowly, through the waves. Not usually a demonstrative man, Percy leaped up and down, shouting with joy. He ran back to his cave, packed his overnight bag with all the evidence he needed to support his claim, then made his way down to the beach. He left everything else in the cave, including his trunk, in case anyone should require more proof that he really had been a resident for ninety days.
Percy waited patiently on the beach, but it was another three hours before the little dinghy came ashore to collect the unappointed ambassador who wished to be transported back to the mainland, having served his tour of duty.
Captain Campbell showed no interest in why Mr. Forsdyke had wished to spend ninety-one days on a deserted island, and left him in his cabin to rest. Although Percy was just as sick on the voyage back to Wick as he had been on the way to Forsdyke Island, his heart was full of joy.
Once the captain, the three crew members, and their passenger had disembarked from the Bonnie Belle they all went to the nearest bank, where Percy withdrew eight hundred pounds. But he didn’t hand over the cash until Captain Campbell and his first mate had signed a one-page document confirming that they had taken him to Forsdyke Island on June 25, 2009, and hadn’t picked him up again until September 24, 2009, when they had accompanied him back to the mainland. The local bank manager witnessed both signatures.
A taxi took Percy to Wick station, from where he began the slow journey back along the coast to Inverness before boarding the overnight train to London. He found his first-class bunk bed uncomfortable, while the clattering wheels kept him awake most of the night, and the fish served for breakfast had unquestionably left the North Sea some days before he had. He arrived at Euston more tired and hungry than he’d been for the past three months, and then had to hang about in a long taxi queue before he was driven back to his home in Pimlico.
Once he’d let himself in he went straight to his study, unlocked the center drawer of his desk, and retrieved the unsealed envelope containing his detailed memorandum and the copy of the 1762 Territories Settlement Act. He placed Captain Campbell’s sworn affidavit in the envelope along with two maps and a diary, then sealed the envelope and wrote on the front, in capital letters, FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
Despite his impatience to fulfill his dream, Percy didn’t leave the house until he’d checked that his one-eyed, three-legged cat was sound asleep on the kitchen boiler. “I did it, Horatio, I did it,” whispered Percy as he left the kitchen. Once he’d locked the front door, he hailed a passing taxi.
“The Foreign Office,” said Percy as he climbed into the back seat.
When the taxi drew up outside the King Charles Street entrance, Percy said, “Please wait, cabbie, I’ll only be a minute.”
The security guard at the FCO was about to prevent the disheveled tramp from entering the building when he realized it was Mr. Forsdyke.
“Please deliver this to Sir Nigel Henderson immediately,” said Percy, handing over the bulky envelope.
“Yes, Mr. Forsdyke,” said the duty clerk, giving him a salute.
Percy sat in the cab on the way back home chanting the “Nunc Dimittis.”
The first thing Percy did on returning to Pimlico was to feed the cat. He then fed himself and watched the early evening news on television. It was too early for any announcement abo
ut his triumph, although he did wonder if it would be the Foreign Secretary or perhaps even the Prime Minister who would be standing at the dispatch box in the House of Commons to deliver an unscheduled announcement. He climbed into bed at ten, and quickly fell into a deep sleep.
Percy wasn’t surprised to receive a call from Sir Nigel the following afternoon, but he was surprised by the Permanent Secretary’s request. “Good afternoon, Percy,” said Sir Nigel. “The Foreign Secretary wonders if you could spare the time to drop in and have a chat with him at your earliest convenience.”
“Of course,” said Percy.
“Good,” said Sir Nigel. “Would eleven tomorrow morning suit you?”
“Of course,” repeated Percy.
“Excellent. I’ll send a car. And Percy, can I just check that no one else has seen any of the documents you sent me?”
“That is correct, Sir Nigel. You’ll note that everything is handwritten, so you are in possession of the only copies.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Sir Nigel without explanation, and the phone went dead.
A staff car picked up Percy at ten-thirty the following morning, and drove him to the Foreign Office in Whitehall. He was dressed in his only other Savile Row suit, a fresh white shirt, and a new, old school tie, in anticipation of his triumph.
Percy always enjoyed entering the FCO, but even he was flattered to find a clerk waiting to escort him to the Foreign Secretary’s office. He savored every moment as they walked slowly up the broad marble staircase, past the full-length portraits of Castlereagh, Canning, Palmerston, Salisbury, and Curzon, before continuing down a long, wide corridor where photographs of Stewart, Douglas-Home, Callaghan, Carrington, Hurd, and Cook adorned the walls.
When they reached the Foreign Secretary’s office, the clerk tapped lightly on the door before opening it. Percy was ushered into a room large enough to hold a ball, to find the Foreign Secretary and the head of the Foreign Service awaiting him at the far end.
“Welcome back, Percy,” said the Foreign Secretary as if he were greeting an old chum, although he had only met him once before, at his retirement party. “Come and join myself and Sir Nigel by the fire. There are one or two things I think we need to have a chat about. Didn’t we do well to win the Ashes?” he added as he sat down. “Although I suppose you missed the entire series, remembering that—”
“I was able to follow the ball-by-ball commentary on Radio Four,” Percy assured the Foreign Secretary, “and it was indeed a magnificent series.” Percy relaxed back in his chair, and was served with a coffee.
“That must have helped kill the time,” said Sir Nigel, who waited until the coffee lady had left the room before he addressed the subject that was on all their minds.
“I read your report yesterday morning, Percy. Quite brilliant,” said Sir Nigel. “And I must congratulate you on identifying an anomaly in the 1762 Act that we’d all previously overlooked.”
“For well over two hundred years,” chipped in the Foreign Secretary. “After Sir Nigel had read your memorandum, he phoned me at home and briefed me. I went straight to Number Ten and had a private meeting with the PM, at which I was able to tell him what you’ve been up to since leaving the FCO. He was most impressed. Most impressed,” repeated the Foreign Secretary. Percy beamed with delight. “He asked me to send you his congratulations, and best wishes.”
“Thank you,” said Percy, and only just stopped himself from saying, “And please return mine.”
“The PM also asked me to let him know,” continued the Foreign Secretary, “what decision you’d come to.”
“What decision I’d come to?” repeated Percy, no longer sounding quite so relaxed.
“Yes,” said Sir Nigel. “You see, a problem has arisen that we felt we ought to share with you.”
Percy was prepared to answer any queries relating to treaty rights, sovereign status, or the relevance of the Territories Settlement Act of 1762.
“Percy,” continued Sir Nigel, giving his former colleague a warm smile, “you’ll be pleased to know that the Lord Chancellor has confirmed that your claim on behalf of the Sovereign is valid, and would stand up in any international court.” Percy began to relax again. “And indeed, should you press your suit, Forsdyke Island would become part of Her Majesty’s Overseas Territories. You were quite correct in your assessment that if you occupied the island for ninety days, without any other person or government making a claim on it, it would become the sole possession of the occupier, and would be governed by the laws of whichever country the occupier is a citizen of, as long as that claim is ratified within six months—if I remember the words of the 1762 Act correctly?”
Almost word perfect, thought Percy. “Which means,” he said, turning to the Foreign Secretary, “that we can lay claim not only to the fishing rights, but also to the oil reserves within a radius of one hundred and fifty miles, not to mention the obvious strategic advantage its location gives to our defense forces.”
“And thereby hangs a tale,” said the Permanent Secretary.
Percy wondered which of four possible Shakespeare plays Sir Nigel was quoting from, but decided this wasn’t the time to inquire. “I am also confident,” continued Percy, “that should you present our case to a plenary session of the United Nations, it would have no choice but to ratify my claim on behalf of the British Government.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Percy,” said Sir Nigel, “but it is the responsibility of the Foreign Office to look at the wider picture and consider all the implications.” As if on cue, both men rose from their places. Percy followed them to the center of the room, where they halted before a vast globe.
Sir Nigel gave the globe a spin. When it stopped, he pointed to a tiny speck in the Pacific Ocean. “If the Russians were to lay claim to that island, it could turn out to be a bigger problem for the Americans than Cuba.”
He spun the globe again and when it stopped he pointed to another apparently unnamed island, this time in the middle of the South China Sea. “If either country laid claim to this, you could end up with a war between Japan and China.”
He spun the globe a third time and, when it stopped, he placed a finger on the Dead Sea. “Let us pray that the Israelis never get to hear about the Territories Settlement Act of 1762, because that would be the end of any Middle East peace process.”
Percy was speechless. All he had wanted was to prove himself worthy of his father and grandfather, and emulate the contribution they had made to the Foreign Office but, once again, all he’d achieved was to bring embarrassment to the family name and to the country he loved more than life itself.
The Foreign Secretary placed his arm round Percy’s shoulder. “If you felt able to allow us to file your submission in the archives, and to leave this meeting unrecorded, I know that the PM, and I suspect Her Majesty, would be eternally grateful.”
“Of course, Foreign Secretary,” said Percy, his head bowed.
He slipped out of the Foreign Office a few minutes later, and never mentioned the subject of Forsdyke Island again to anyone other than Horatio. But should anyone ever find themselves lost in the North Sea and come across a fluttering Union Jack . . .
On January 1, 2010, among the knighthoods listed in the New Year’s Honors, was that of Sir Percival Arthur Clarence Forsdyke, awarded the KCMG for further services to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.
THE LUCK OF THE IRISH*
11
No one would believe this tale unless they were told that an Irishman was involved.
Liam Casey was born in Cork, the son of a tinker. One of many things he learned from his shrewd father was that while a wise man can spend all day making a few bob, a foolish one can lose them in a few minutes.
During Liam’s lifetime, he made over a hundred million “few bobs,” but despite his father’s advice, he still managed to lose them all in a few minutes.
After Liam left school, he didn’t consider going to university, explaining to his friends
that he wanted to join the real world. Liam quickly discovered that you also had to graduate from the University of Life before you could place your foot on the first rung of the ladder to fortune. After a few false starts, as a petrol pump attendant, bus conductor, and door-to-door Encyclopedia Britannica salesman, Liam ended up as a trainee with Hamptons, an established English estate agent that had branches all over Ireland.
He spent the next three years learning about the value of property, commercial and residential, the setting and collecting of rents, and how to close a deal on terms that ensured you made a profit but didn’t lose a customer. The average person will move house five times during their lifetime, the English manager informed Liam, so you need to retain their confidence.
“I wish I’d been James Joyce’s estate agent,” was all Liam had to say on the subject.
“Why?” asked the Englishman, sounding puzzled.
“He moved house over a hundred times during his lifetime.” It was about the only thing Liam could remember about James Joyce.
Working for an English company, Liam quickly discovered that if you have a gentle Irish brogue and are graced with enough charm, the invaders have a tendency to underestimate you—a mistake the English have made for over a thousand years.
Another important lesson he learned, and one they certainly don’t teach you at any university, was that the only difference between a tinker and a merchant banker is the sum of money that changes hands. However, Liam couldn’t work out how to take advantage of this knowledge until he met Maggie McBride.
Maggie didn’t consider the tinker’s son from Cork to be much of a catch, even if he was good-looking and fun to be with, but when he invited her to join him for a holiday in Majorca, she began to show a little more interest.