Джеффри Арчер - And Thereby Hangs a Tale

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.

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 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.’