The New Collected Short Stories (79 page)

‘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.

‘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 defence 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 enquire. ‘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 centre 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 1 January 2010, among the knighthoods listed in the New Year’s Honours, was that of Sir Percival Arthur Clarence Forsdyke, awarded the KCMG for further services to the
Foreign and Commonwealth Office.

N
O 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
Encyclopaedia 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.

Liam’s current account at the Allied Irish Bank was just enough in credit for him to be able to afford a package holiday to Magaluf, a resort on the south-west coast of the island, which
for three months of every year is taken over by the British.

Maggie was not impressed when they booked into a one-star hotel and were shown to a room with a double bed. She made it absolutely clear that she might have agreed to come on holiday with Liam,
but that didn’t mean they would be sleeping together. Liam booked himself into a separate room, which he knew would stretch his budget to the limit. Another lesson learned. Before you sign a
contract, check the small print.

The next day Liam was lying next to Maggie on an over-crowded beach in a pair of tight-fitting swimming trunks, becoming redder and redder by the minute. His mother had once told him that the
Irish have the greenest grass and the whitest skins on earth, but he had not, until then, realized the significance of the second part of her statement.

On the second day, Liam, still having failed to make any progress with Maggie, was beginning to wonder why he’d bothered to take her on holiday in the first place. But then he discovered
that the thousand Englishwomen walking up and down the beach had only one thing on their minds – and a handsome young Irishman who would be disappearing back to Cork in two weeks’ time
ticked most of their boxes.

Liam was telling a girl from Doncaster how he’d discovered Riverdance when she said, ‘You’re getting very red.’ So red that he had to lie on his stomach all night, quite
unable to move, which was not at all what the girl from Doncaster had planned.

The next morning Liam smothered himself with factor thirty suncream, put on a long-sleeved shirt and long trousers, ignored the signs to the beach and took a bus into Palma, wondering if it
would turn out to be just another Magaluf.

The medieval capital took him by surprise, with its wide streets lined with palm trees and flower baskets, and the narrow alleys with picturesque pavement restaurants and stylish boutiques. He
could have been in a different country.

As he strolled down the Paseo Maritimo, Liam found himself stopping to look in the estate agents’ windows. He was surprised how cheap the houses were compared to Cork, and even more
surprised to discover that the banks were offering 80, sometimes even 90 per cent mortgages.

He considered entering one of the estate agents’ offices, as he had a hundred questions he wanted answering, but as he couldn’t speak a word of Spanish, he satisfied himself with
looking in the windows and admiring the large colour photographs of properties described as
deseable
,
asequible
,
sensational
. He was thinking of returning to Magaluf when he
spotted a familiar green, white and orange flag flapping in the wind outside a shopfront with a sign which announced, ‘Patrick O’Donovan, International Real Estate Co.’

Liam pushed open the front door without bothering to look in the window. As he stepped into the office, a smartly dressed woman looked up, and an older man, unshaven and wearing soiled jeans and
a T-shirt, swung his feet off a desk and smiled.

‘I was just wondering—’ began Liam.

‘A fellow Irishman!’ exclaimed the man, leaping up. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Patrick O’Donovan.’

‘Liam Casey,’ said Liam, shaking him by the hand.

‘Is it to be business or pleasure, Liam?’ asked O’Donovan.

‘I’m not quite sure,’ Liam replied, ‘but as I’m here on holiday—’

‘Then it’s pleasure,’ said O’Donovan. ‘So let’s begin our relationship as any self-respecting Irishmen should. Maria, if anyone calls, my friend and I can be
found at the Flanagan Arms.’

Without another word, O’Donovan led Liam out of the office, across the road and into a side alley where they entered a pub few tourists would ever come across. The next words
O’Donovan uttered were, ‘Two pints of Guinness’, without asking his new-found friend what he would like.

Liam was able to get through most of his questions while O’Donovan was still sober. He learned that Patrick had been living on the island for over thirty years, and was convinced that
Majorca was about to take off like California at the time of the gold rush. O’Donovan went on to tell Liam that the island was attracting a record number of tourists but, more important, it
had recently become the most popular destination for Brits who wanted to spend their retirement years abroad.

‘When I set up my agency,’ he told Liam between gulps of his third Guinness, ‘it was long before Majorca became fashionable. In those days there were only a dozen of us in the
business; now, everybody on the island thinks they’re an estate agent. I’ve done well, can’t complain, but I only wish I was your age.’