Percy extracted five twenty-pound notes from his wallet and handed them across to the captain, who smiled for the first time since they’d met. ‘Bi stannin’ on the dockside ae Bonnie Belle at five tamorra moarnin’,’ said Campbell as he distributed the cash among his mates. ‘Once I have the ether four hundred, I’ll tak’ ye to your island.’
Percy was standing on the quayside long before five the following morning, an overnight bag, his battered old school trunk and a ten-foot pole at his feet. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, white shirt, his old school tie, and was carrying a rolled umbrella. Standard FCO kit when one is posted to some foreign field. He braced himself against the biting wind as he waited for the captain to appear. He felt both exhilarated and terrified at the same time.
He turned his attention to the little fishing vessel he’d chartered for this expedition, and wondered if it had ever ventured outside territorial waters, let alone into the middle of the North Sea. For a moment he considered returning to his hotel and abandoning the whole exercise, but the vision of his father and grandfather standing on the dock beside him strengthened his resolve.
The captain and his three mates appeared out of the early morning mist at one minute to five. All four of them were dressed in exactly the same clothes they had been wearing the night before, making Percy wonder if they’d come straight from the Fisherman’s Arms. Was it a seafarer’s gait they displayed as they strolled towards him, or had they spent his hundred pounds on what the Scots are most celebrated for?
The captain gave Percy a mock salute, and thrust out his hand. Percy was about to shake it, when he realized that it was being held palm upwards. He handed over four hundred pounds, and Captain Campbell ordered his crew to carry Percy’s luggage on board. Two of the young men were clearly surprised by how heavy the trunk was. Percy followed them up the gangway, clinging on to the pole which never left his side, even when he joined the captain on the bridge.
The captain studied several oceanographic charts before confirming the exact location at which Percy had asked to be abandoned and then gave the order to cast off. ‘Ah think it’ll tak’ us at least a day an’ a night afore wi reach oor destination,’ said the captain, ‘so perhaps, laddie, it might bi wise fur ye tae lay doon. The waves cin bi a wee bit choppy wance wi leave the shelter ae the harbour.’
They had only just passed Wick lighthouse when Percy began to appreciate the true meaning of Captain Campbell’s words, and to regret having had a second helping of porridge that morning. He spent most of the day leaning over the railing, depositing what he’d eaten the previous day into the waves. It wasn’t much different during the night, except that it was dark and the crew couldn’t see him. He declined the captain’s offer to join them for a supper of fish stew.
After thirty hours of Percy wishing the ship would sink, or someone would throw him overboard, the first mate pointed through the mist and hollered, ‘Land ahoy!’ But it was some time before the blurred dot on the horizon finally turned into a piece of land that might just have been described by an assiduous cartographer as an island.
Percy wanted to cheer, but his voice became muffled as the little vessel continued to circle the island in a valiant attempt to find a landing place. All they could see ahead of them were treacherous rocks and unassailable cliffs that didn’t require a ‘no entry’ sign to warn them off. Percy sank down on to the deck, feeling that the whole exercise simply mirrored his career and would end in failure. He bowed his head in despair, so didn’t see the captain pointing to a cove that boasted a small beach.
The crew were experienced at landing far more slippery objects than Percy, and an hour later they left him on the beach along with all his worldly goods. His parting words to the skipper as he climbed back into his small dinghy were, ‘If you return in ninety-one days and take me back to the mainland, I’ll pay you a further thousand pounds.’
He had anticipated the captain’s response, and without waiting to be asked handed over two hundred pounds in cash; but not before he had confirmed the exact date on which the Bonnie Belle was to return.
‘If you turn up even one hour before the ninety-first day,’ he said without explanation, ‘you will not be paid another penny.’
Captain Campbell shrugged his shoulders, as he was past trying to understand the eccentric Englishman, but he did manage another salute once he’d pocketed the cash. The crew then rowed him back to his little fishing vessel so they could go about their normal business on the high seas, though not until they were back within the 150-mile legal limit.
Percy placed his feet wide apart and tried to steady himself, but after thirty hours on the Bonnie Belle it felt as if the whole island was swaying from side to side. He didn’t move until his former companions were out of sight.
He then dragged his belongings up the beach on to higher ground before he went in search of a suitable piece of land on which to pitch his tent. The relentless wind and squalls of rain did not assist his progress.
The flattest piece of land Percy came across during his initial recce turned out to be the highest point on the island, while the most sheltered spot was a large cave nestled in a cliff on the west side. It took him the rest of the day to move all his belongings from the beach to his new home.
After devouring a can of baked beans and a carton of long-life milk, he climbed into his sleeping bag and spent his first night on Forsdyke Island. He missed Horatio.
Most people would find trying to survive for three months on a small, uninhabited island in the North Sea somewhat daunting, but having spent thirty years in the basement of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, Percy Forsdyke was equal to the task. Moreover, he knew that his father and grandfather would regard it as nothing more than character building.
Percy spent his first full day on the island unpacking his trunk and making his new home as comfortable as possible. He stacked all the food at the coldest end of the cave and placed his equipment neatly along the sides.
For some weeks Percy had been planning the routine he’d follow on the island. He would begin the day with a bowl of cornflakes, a boiled egg (until he could bear them no more) and a mug of tea while listening to the Today Programme on Radio Four. This would be followed by a session of digging on the highest point of the island, weather permitting. Lunch, usually spam and baked beans, would be followed by a siesta. Not that Percy was avoiding the heat of the sun, you understand; he was just tired. When he woke, Percy would spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the island until he was familiar with every nook and cranny of his kingdom. Once the sun had set, which was very late at that time of year, he would prepare his dinner: more spam and baked beans. It didn’t take long for Percy to regret his lack of culinary imagination.
After listening to the ten o’clock news and reading some Shakespeare by candlelight, he would climb into his sleeping bag and carry out the last ritual of the day, bringing his diary up to date. He would detail everything he’d done that day, as it would be part of the evidence he would eventually present to the Foreign Office.
Percy had selected his ninety days of isolation carefully. He was able to follow the ball-by-ball commentary of all five Test matches against Australia, as well as the seven One Day Internationals. He also enjoyed thirteen plays of the week, and sixty-four episodes of The Archers, but he stopped listening to Gardeners’ Question Time when he realized it didn’t provide many useful tips for someone living on a small island in the North Sea.
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 23 September 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 favourite speeches from Henry V, while checking his watch every few minutes.
At eleven o’clock, Percy lifted the flagpole on to 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, ploughing determinedly, if slowly, through the waves. Not usually a demonstrative man, Percy leapt 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 25 June 2009, and hadn’t picked him up again until 24 September 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 centre 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 fulfil 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 dishevelled 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 about 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 conv
enience.’
‘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 savoured 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.
The New Collected Short Stories Page 58