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 onto 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 onto 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 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.