Inkerman Writers - Marsha Woollard

THE LOTTERY WINNER

The day I won the lottery my life changed completely. 'Not surprising' I hear you say.

But think about it for a moment. Most people who win say, when they are interviewed, that they do not intent to change. They will keep their job, just paying off the mortgage, and perhaps giving something to their ageing Mum, but basically intend to go on just as before. I have often thought what I would do if I had windfall, but, like most people, I thought it was just a fantasy.

One of the things I was going to do was to get a hairdresser coming in every day, and a manicurist. No more housework; I would employ a firm rather than recruit one cleaner. They would be more reliable. The skirtings would always be clean, and the picture rails. I would change the flooring every year so that it would not show any signs of wear, and the house would be redecorated by reliable builders when I went on my annual holiday. Perhaps I should get a personal trainer as well; I could equip a complete gym - yes and a swimming pool, and a Jacuzzi, and a steam room.

Why not? And as to clothes, I would give up shopping, and have my own fashion designer who would make clothes which were a mixture of the latest trends, with things that suited only me. Yes I would be a trend setter, and would generously 'lend' her to my friends who envied my particular style.

Better still - I would get a young designer straight from college, and make their name. I wouldn't lord it over them, but generously share my good fortune. They could bring their families to use my pool, and I would have a special kitchen for guests where they could make tea and coffee, and snacks.

I never calculated what this would cost, I just enjoyed running the ideas round my mind when I was on the bus, or doing chores.

When it actually happened none of this came to mind. I was so shocked my mind just went blank. It was almost as if I had received bad news, instead of the answer to every body's dreams. The girl on the phone was very gentle. She has to ask the same question three times before I could collect myself enough to answer. Would I be willing to go to London to receive the cheque, and did I mind if the press were there? I think she said something about it was my decision, but that the company would appreciate it if I would let it go in the papers, but of course my address would not be published.

My first thought was to ask who would pay for the Hotel. As soon as I had said it I realised how stupid that was. Even if I had to pay it would hardly make a dent in £45 million. Oh, didn't I tell you the amount? Yes 45 Million - Pounds, not Dollars. I don't even know how to write it down in figures. How many Noughts? Is it 6, or is that only for 1 million?

Anyway, you know what I mean. And all mine to do what I liked with. I remember being shocked when I watched those Hotel makeover programmes withrooms costing £100 a night. I wouldn't pay that in a week for a holiday.

Anyway, cheap B & Bs are much friendlier. But now I could buy the whole Hotel, let alone pay for a suite.

Anyway, as I said, the girl was very nice, and said it would be better to put off any major decisions until I had been and collected the award, and spoken to the financial advisors they recommend. What would happen if I lost the cheque? I asked. She said that doesn't usually happen, but if I was worried they would drive me to the bank, and anyway they could put a stop on it.

But I didn't want to talk about that, I just want to tell you what happened afterwards. I will just say that the Ceremony went very well;

Everyone congratulated me, and the Journalists were quite polite, but I had taken the precaution of booking a cottage in Dorset with my Mum and not telling any one except the financial chap, and he promised to keep Shtum.

It was raining when we got there, but I didn't mind, because really all I wanted to do was talk to Mum, and think what I should do with the money. I didn't tell her how much it was. She bought her house in 1945 for £300, so even 1 Million seems vast to her. I just told her I had won some money, but didn't say how much. On the train she kept saying,

"Is it enough to get a new coat? Or a car?"

I just said, "Yes Mum, even a house, so don't worry."

"Have you seen what houses cost these days?" she went on.

So I just repeated, "Yes Mum, I just want a few days to think, and then I'll see what you would like me to get you."

"I don't want to deprive you." She said.

"Don't worry, you won't"

Well three days later I still hadn't made a decision. Then one day when I went to the village shop to get a paper, I was reading it on the way home when I bumped into a man in the lane. I mean, I literally bumped into him, because I was looking at the paper, and not where I was going. He dropped his eggs, and I apologised, and offered to replace them, and he said he wouldn't dream of it, and the upshot was that he ended up coming back with me for a cup of tea. I had got some shortbread from the shop as well, so I offered him some with his tea, and he seemed to enjoy them. If Mum disapproved she didn't show it .

At the end of the week there seemed no reason why we should go home, so we stayed on another week. It was low season, so no one else had booked the cottage, and though I didn't like to admit it, I quite enjoyed the man's company. I should mention that he was staying nearby for a month. He said he had recently left the Army, and was looking for somewhere to invest his gratuity. I told him that I knew a financial advisor, and that he was coming down to see us, and would he like to talk to him as well. But I didn't tell him any more than that, I'm not silly. I just hinted that my Dad had left a bit of money. Well he had, it wasn't a lie. Mum put it in the building society. For a rainy day. I told him that the man was coming at 2 o'clock.

Really he was coming at 11, but I wanted to talk to him alone before Bob came. I forgot to say that Bob had started dropping in every day for a chat, and sometimes we went for a walk, and once he even got me and Mum into the pub, and insisted on paying, so I just had a shandy, and some crisps, although I would have liked a gin and tonic, but I didn't want to be greedy.

Mum had a bitter lemon.

Well I needn't have worried, because Bob never turned up. I had a good chat with the financial adviser, and he said he would send me a list of good investments. Some of them would be safe, and others more risky, but might bring a better return. He suggested that I put one or two million in my current account with easy access, and I did that straight away.

Bob turned up said he had been dealing with some important business, and besides he thought he knew what he would do with the gratuity. The Guest House he was staying at was on the market, and he was thinking of buying it, if he could get a partner to help him run it. He said he had always wanted to live by the sea, and this was a chance which might not come again. We were having a cup of tea, when he asked me, casual like, if I wanted to go into the Hotel business. I told him I would think about it and tell him in a few days.

When he had gone, I asked Mum if she would like to stay living by the sea side, because I had enough money to buy the Guest House down the road. She was over the moon.

She said we could run it together.

I knew Bob always went to the Pub after tea, so at about 6 o'clock I went down there, and had a chat with the lady owner. She wanted to retire and live with her sister in Yorkshire.

So I wrote her a cheque on the spot. It was a lovely feeling. The only thing, I asked her, was not to let Bob know that I had bought it, and she promised she wouldn't.

We went home early next morning, to put Mum's house on the market, and pack up our things. I didn't leave Bob our address.

As I said before, I'm not silly.

Foxed

Every morning, she took a cup of tea up to her room, not willing to admit yet that the day had started and that soon she would have to get dressed. This was the best part of the day. Her bed ran alongside the window, facing East where the sun rose. She thought she must always have a house where the bedroom faced East, to wake her in the morning, and the living room faced West to catch the evening sun. That morning the garden was full of light. There were tree shaped shadows on the grass. Malcolm, her next door neighbour had taken his grandson to school. He was proud of the fact that he had taught him to ride a two-wheeler bike when he was only four. His own sons had been poorly at birth, and were bullied at school, so he was determined to build on the strengths of his first grandchild, who he adored. Stella his wife left soon after him to for her part time job, cleaning the Doctor's house.

Kneeling up on the bed, with her tea cup on the window sill she looked across the lawn to the hedge which divided her garden from the one at the far end. Ever since she had moved there she had thought of it as her magic house; perfect like a child's drawing, with four windows, one in each corner, the front door in the middle, and cherry tree at the back. Then something caught her eye; it was a shape in the middle of the lawn which had not been there before..

At first she thought it was a cat, but it was too big. She reached for her glasses to see more clearly. Surely it couldn't be - but yes - it was a fox. It must have crossed ten gardens to get there. It was lying on the grass in full view of all the windows. Its once rust red coat had faded, and looked rough, and bald in places. Was it alive? She tapped the glass experimentally, but it did not move. She tied her dressing gown more tightly around her, and sipped her tea. Why would a fox would be so careless if its own safety? She knew they came at night to raid the dustbins. If by chance the lid was not on straight she would find scattered traces of paper bags and wrapping , and chicken bones all around that it had pulled out to get at the discarded food.

She tapped on the window again. Once again it did not move, but one ear twitched to show it was alive. It was just stretched out enjoying the warm sun on its ragged coat.

When she told Malcolm about it later he said that it was often there early in the morning, but usually slipped away when it heard him coming out to walk around before breakfast. She felt uneasy about going out and leaving it there. It was a wild animal after all. Was it so old that it had lost all sense of danger?

She went out at about eleven, hoping that the fox would be gone before she came back. She didn't want to go into the garden when he was there. Like many town dwellers she didn't approve of fox hunting, but the thought of this alien creature in her garden disturbed her. What if it brought a dead rabbit into the garden, or dug holes in the flower beds to bury its prey, or worse still, attacked a neighbour's cat? Should she ring the R.S.P.C.A? Hopefully it would just disappear and she wouldn't have to deal with it.

She took longer than necessary coming home, finding excuses to go to one shop after another, looking at clothes and shoes, and calling on various friends who might not be at work. But eventually she had to go home. She went straight up to her room to look out. The fox had gone.

Earlier that day Malcolm had returned and seen the fox lying dead in her garden. He found an old potato sack and wrapped it round the animal, hiding it in the shed till he had time to dig a grave for it. He didn't want to tell Stella, or the neighbour, what he was doing. He had watched it in the morning for several weeks. Foxes were vermin, but he had secretly, to his embarrassment, become quite attached to it.

When she asked him about the fox later, he simply replied,

"Oh yes, it often used to come in the garden. Perhaps it's found a new hunting ground.".

******************************************************************************** **************

He lay there, on his side, avoiding the shadows cast by the trees, flat as a rug, basking in the sun in the middle of the lawn. He heard the tapping on the window, but he felt too old and too tired to react, and no longer feared danger. He had come early in the morning, as every morning, and licked the dew from the grass. He could smell food; was it from the bins or from the houses? People were cooking bacon, and he could hear voices drifting through the open windows. He was comfortable, and saw no reason to move.

Long ago there had been vixens and cubs, and bright mornings, and long cold nights, and he was young and strong, and cunning, and slunk like shadow silently between the houses and the bins. But now the sun shone on him and there was warmth , and the warmth filled him, and he was warm, and the warmth was him. He was one with the sun and the grass, and the smells, and was content.

Then he was a cub, romping with his brothers under the trees.

And then he shut his eyes.

And then there was nothing.

FINIS

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The Story of Max

Stanley had a dog called Max. He was always there. When Stanley was a baby Max would lie down next to his cot, and sometimes he would look at Stanley to see if he was all right. When Stanley could crawl, Max used to walk along beside him to keep him safe.

Max was not a beautiful dog. In fact he was quite ugly. But Stanley loved him, because he had always been there, like his Mum.

Sometimes Stanley would pull Max’s tail, but Max never bit him. When he was learning to walk he would pull himself up on Max, and Max would stand still so that Stanley would not fall over. He loved Max, and Max loved him.

One day Stanley and his mum went shopping in the supermarket. When they came out Max had run away. Stanley and his Mum looked for him everywhere. They looked round all the car park, and inside the Supermarket, and in the toilets, but he was not there. Stanley was very sad, and began to cry. Soon it began to get dark, and they had to go home.

Before they went home, Stanley’s mum spoke to a man who was wheeling all the trolleys back to the Supermarket.

"Our dog has run away", she said. "Will you telephone me if he comes back?"

"Yes," said the man. "Give us your number, and I’ll ask all the staff to look out for him."

Stanley was very sad when he went to bed, because he missed Max lying on the floor next to him.

The next morning when Stanley woke up, he ran to his Mum. "Has Max come back yet?" He asked.

At that moment the telephone rang. Mum answered it. Stanley heard her saying ‘Thank you very much, we’ll come at once.’

Mum turned to Stanley with a big smile. "They found Max waiting by the door this morning. We’ll go and get him straight away. You can eat a banana in the car, and have a proper breakfast when we come back."

Stanley was very excited in the car. It took a long time to get to the Supermarket, and Stanley was worried that Max would run away again. But when they got there they saw Max standing next to the trolley man. He was very cold, and the trolley man had put his own jacket on him to keep him warm. As soon as he saw Stanley he ran up and licked him. Stanley smiled and smiled. He was so happy to see Max again. Then they all went home, and Stanley had his breakfast. Max had his breakfast too. A long time after that Stanley started school, and Max always went with him to the gate, and he was there with Stanley’s Mum when it was home time.

But one day Stanley came out of school, and Max was not there.

"Where’s My Max?" Stanley asked.

"Poor Max is not very well, " said his Mum. "His back legs do not work, and he just wants to lie down. So I left him at home."

When they got home Stanley ran up to Max and hugged him. Max licked Stanley’s face. He tried to get up, but his legs would not work, and he fell down again.

Stanley was very sad. "Why can’t Max walk?" He asked Mum.

Mum put her arms round Stanley. "Max is a very old dog now, " she said. I had him for a long time before you were born, and he has got older and older. He is 15, which is the same as 95 in dog years. That is even older than your Grandpa. We shall take him to the vet, and see if there is any medicine we can give him."

At the vet’s there were lots of other people with their pets. There were all different kinds of dogs, and some cats in cat baskets, and rabbits in boxes with holes in and even some birds in cages. When it was Max’s turn Mum picked him up and carried him in to see the vet. Stanley went too.

The vet put Max on a table, and felt his legs, and took his temperature. Then he washed his hands, and looked at Stanley. "This is a very old dog, " he said. "I can give him an injection, and it will make his legs stronger for a few weeks, but he will not get better for very long. Bring him back in four weeks, and we will see how he is getting on."

The next day Stanley ran out of school . He couldn’t wait to see if Max was there. And he was! There he was by the gate with Mum, as usual. Stanley smiled and smiled.

After that Max came to the school gate every day, and Stanley forgot all about the vet.

But one morning when he got up, Max was lying on the floor and could not get up again. Stanley knelt down and stroked him. "Get up Max." he said. Max tried to get up but he fell down again. Stanley began to cry. Then Mum came in. She saw Max lying down, and she saw Stanley crying.

"Can we take him back to the vet, Mum?" Asked Stanley. "Yes, we’ll take him after school." Said Mum.

Stanley ran out after school, and saw Max in the back of the car. He sat next to him and stroked him.

"Don’t worry, Max, the vet will make you better." He said.

When they got to the vet they waited again with all the other people and animals. When it came to Max’s turn, Mum said to Stanley,

"Just wait here a minute will you. I won’t be long."

A lady with a cat in a basket said,

"I’ll keep and eye on him."

"Thank you," said Mum, and carried Max into the vet’s office. A few minutes later she came out again, looking sad.

She took Stanley into the vet’s room. Max was lying on the table. When he saw Stanley he looked up and wagged his tail. Stanley went up to him and stroked him.

"Are you going to give him an injection again to make him walk?" He asked the vet. The vet squatted down on the floor so that he could speak to Stanley.

"I want you to be a very brave boy. I have to tell you something. Max is very old, and he will never be able to walk again. His legs hurt too much, and he will not be happy if he can’t walk. We can give him a special injection which will put him to sleep, and then he won’t feel his bad legs any more. Will you let me do that?"

"When will he wake up?" asked Stanley.

The vet looked at Mum. She bent down and put her arms round Stanley.

"He won’t wake up my darling. We have to say good bye to him now. Would you like to do that?"

"No." shouted Stanley. I don’t want to say good bye. I want to take him home like we did before."

"You could take him home, " said the vet. ", But he will never be able to walk again and he won’t be happy . It is better for Max to go quietly to sleep now. He has had a happy life, and now it is time for him to go. I promise you it is the kindest thing to do."

So Stanley put his arms round Max’s neck, and Max licked his face.

"Good bye my Max. I love you." said Stanley.

The Vet gave Max an injection, and suddenly Max stopped licking his face, and went very quiet and still. Stanley cried and cried, and Mum cried too.

"You are a VERY BRAVE BOY" said the vet. "You will always remember Max and the fun you had together. You are sad now, but later on you will stop being sad, and just remember the good times. "

So Stanley’s Mum carried Max home in a blanket. When Dad came home he dug a grave in the back garden and they put Max in it, and covered him up with earth.

Stanley was very sad to see Max put in the hole.

"I know." said Mum. "Why don’t you draw a picture of you and Max playing, and we will put on his grave."

So Stanley drew a lovely picture using lots of colours, and Mum put it in a plastic sandwich bag so it would not get wet, and laid it on top of Max’s grave.

The next Saturday Mum and Dad took Stanley to the garden centre, and told Stanley he could choose any bush he liked to plant on top of Max so that he could remember him. Mum wanted some lovely roses , but Stanley saw a holly bush which made him think of Christmas.

"I want to get that holly, Mum", he said, "then we can have it in the house at Christmas, and it will make me think of Max."

So Mum bought the Holly bush, and they planted it on top of Max. After that every Christmas it grew lovely berries, and every Christmas they cut the Holly, and decorated the house, and put a sprig on the Christmas pudding, and Stanley always remembered the good times he had with Max.

And the holly bush grew bigger and bigger, and Stanley grew bigger and bigger, till one day he was a grown man, and had a house of his own, and another dog.. But every time he came to see his parents he went out into the garden and looked at the holly bush, and remembered Max, his first dog, and his first best friend.

The End

A tale of blind prejudice and how its practitioners receive their come-uppance…

The New Rector

It was hard to leave St. Peter's after all these years. After all, I had been baptised and confirmed there. I had done the flowers, cleaned the silver and even kept it safe in my house so that the P.C.C didn ’t have to pay the insurance. I like to think that the Rector and his wife regarded me as a friend, almost part of the family. I had a key to the Rectory, and would often sit with them in the kitchen having coffee. I felt privileged not being shown into the drawing room like a stranger.

I was the first member of the P.C.C. to learn that they were retiring. It came as a shock, although I should have realised that they were coming up to that age. In fact, they had stayed on longer because it was so convenient having the Granny flat for Mrs Rector ’s mother. When she passed on, I understood that a five-bedroom house was too large for them. As the Rector explained, it was time to give a chance to a younger man, with a family, who could use all the rooms.

Although they treated me as a friend, we never used Christian names in the modern way. I was always ‘Miss Taylor’, and they were ‘Dear Rector’, and ‘Mrs Rector’, to me.

I wasn’t the only one to worry about who might replace them. The world had changed beyond recognition in 25 years,. There was a danger of the Bishop sending us a woman, or worse still, what they call a Gay, Rector. Such a pity to spoil a good word with a new less attractive meaning. The Captain came right out with it,

"We’re not having one of those bloody pansies", he said, glaring round at us. I would not have put it so crudely, but I felt that everyone agreed with him. Twenty years ago there would have been no question, but nowadays nothing seems sacred anymore. The new man at St. Chad's, well one doesn ’t like to say anything, but it is quite obvious........ and I wouldn’t really like a lady. Not that I think women are inferior, after all, my grandmother was a suffragette, it doesn ’t seem natural somehow, a woman in a dog collar. I fear that the bishop has more liberal views, but I do hope he would not impose them on us.

The chairman put my mind at rest.

"We shall ask for a family man", he said. "We can offer the size of the Rectory as an excuse. Then no one can accuse us of prejudice."

Well, six months went by and none of the Bishop’s candidates accepted the living. Much against our better judgement we were forced to advertise. The entry in the Church Times was quite short. A more detailed profile was sent out with the application form. We said we were looking for a family man, of moderate churchmanship, stressing the proximity of excellent schools. A love of the outdoors was desirable. This last point was put in by Mrs Dixon, head of our W.I.. She was tired of leading our Bank Holiday rambles.

We sent out 26 application forms, but only five were returned by the stated date. A month after the advertisement came out we reconvened to discuss the replies.

The first was from a woman, married to an engineer, who needed a large house for her four children, and 2 dogs. She was immediately rejected.

Then a retired man, who had taken Holy Orders after a career in teaching, culminating in then years as Headmaster of a Church School. He and his wife hope to use the extra rooms to provide shelter for the homeless. The committee was torn between wanting to seem to be doing their duty as Christians, and horror at the thought of the sort of undesirables that would be attracted to the Parish. To my great relief this letter was put on one side until the other applications were read.

The next was more promising. James Grey, aged 40, with his wife Claire, and three children, a boy of 11, and twin girls aged nine. He described himself as a devotee of the King James prayer book, and hoped to introduce a monthly Youth Service, run on informal lines. He was a naturalist, fond of fresh air and country walks. He sounded ideal, but in fairness to the other candidates the chairman, always a gentleman, insisted on considering the other two candidates.

One was a single man who hoped to introduce ‘ the colour and richness of catholic worship’. He sounded suspicious and no discussion was needed to put him on the ‘rejected’ pile.

Lastly Thomas Pond and his disabled wife. She needed a wheelchair and would benefit from the downstairs Granny Flat, leaving room for a carer in an upstairs bedroom. Their children had grown up, and often brought the grandchildren to stay. They were the obvious second choice.

"Well, I think we’re all agreed", the chairman looked around . "We write to the Greys inviting them for interview, and put the Ponds on hold until we have seen them".

So the letter was sent. The interview went well. The couple were charming, and fulfilled all our expectations. Claire did not work outside the home and so was free to take on parish duties. Mr and Mrs Grey were sent a formal letter inviting them in the warmest terms to take up the living at St. Peter ’s, Charleswood. Mr Grey replied by return stating that he, his wife, and children were delighted to accept .All being well they would move into the Rectory in the middle of August, and looked forward to leading the Bank Holiday ramble. He kindly offered to book a coach, and would take us to a location he knew well, which boasted an open air cafe where the elderly and frail parishioners could wait if the walk proved to strenuous.

We left the family alone to settle in. Naturally, Mrs.Dixon and I made the Rectory as welcoming as possible, putting flowers in every room and a home made cake on the kitchen table, with a note to Claire asking her to contact us if she needed any help.

On the day of the ramble we all met outside the Church. I for one was pleased to see that Mr Grey was wearing his dog collar. The coach entered the gates of a large Country Park, and stopped outside a long hut, like a cricket pavilion, with doors at each end marked ’Ladies’ and ‘Gentlemen’.

"You can leave your things in the hut", said the Rector, "They will be quite safe, the gate keeper will keep an eye".

As we left the coach I noticed that the driver was grinning. It was rather disconcerting, but I assumed that he was hoping for a tip. I made a mental note to ask the Captain, as treasurer, to organise a discreet collection on the return journey.

Despite the Rector’s assurances I kept my coat and handbag. I feel naked without them. I waited on a bench outside the cloakrooms. After a few minutes the Rector ’s children came running out. To my amazement they had taken all their clothes off.

"Their parents will have something to say about this," I thought to myself, averting my eyes. Shortly afterwards the Captain emerged, red in the face, closely followed by the Rector. What I saw was so unexpected that I could hardly believe my eyes. The Rector was naked, except for his dog collar and walking boots. I thought I had taken leave of my senses. I looked desperately at the captain, who fortunately was fully clothed. At that moment Claire emerged, also naked. Behind her were the other parishioners, some laughing, some looking confused.

"Damn fella’s a nudist," spluttered the captain, "this park is a nudist colony."

"We told you on our form that we were naturists," said Claire, who didn’t look in the least ashamed of her self.

"Couldn’t read your writing," muttered the captain. "It looked like ‘naturalist."

Of course I had to stay on the coach. The Captain and some others joined me, and we spent a tedious few hours waiting to return home. I didn ’t go back to St. Peter's again. I couldn’t look, well, look the Rector in the face.

I go to St Chad’s now. The Vicar there is very polite, in spite of what people say about him. And very complementary about my flower arrangements. He says he doesn ’t know what he ever did without me.

When everything is not as it seems....

The Castaway

"We now come to this week's edition of Desert Island Disks. Our presenter this week is Mary Chambers, in the absence of Sue Lawley, who is on holiday. I now hand you over to Mary Chambers - Mary."

Mary took her cue, and began,

"Our Castaway today is well known both in the fields of music, and politics. After 20 years as lead singer with the Plastic Fish, he successfully fought a by-election in his home town of Sandridge, and now serves as MP for that constituency. In his Manifesto he said, 'Too many people have lost interest in politics, because politicians do not speak their language. I want to bring politics back to the people. I am a local lad, who went to local schools, and still live among the people I represent. As a performer I learned how to get my message across, and know what it is like to spend long hours on the road, without loosing my enthusiasm.' Already he has drawn attention to himself by his fresh approach to many subjects, cutting across party lines. Father of two, he spends his free time gardening and listening to music. He is..... Pete, now Peter, Pollard. Peter, welcome to Desert Island Discs."

"Thank you Mary. This is a new challenge, and I am looking forward to it. Its a first for both of us, and I hope I live up to your expectations."

"Let's start straight away with your first record."

"Well, Mary, this one might surprise you, as it in a different style from my own songs. But I started my singing career in a school choir, and was actually runner up for the Choirboy of the Year when I was 11. This was my first solo, at a Christmas Concert, 'Walking in the Air' from the Snowman. It always conjures for me the magic of clear winter nights, when it has snowed, and you can see the stars in the black sky."

As the music was playing, and their microphones were turned off, Mary turned to Peter, and said, "You don't remember me, do you?"

Peter crinkled his eyes in a way he always found appealed to women.

"I'm afraid not, but looking at you now, I can see that is my loss."

Mary did not reply, and they sipped their coffee in silence.

The music stopped, and the producer signalled that they were back on air.

"To go back the beginning. Where were you born? "

"Just yards from where I live now, at Sandridge General Hospital. My father was an estate agent, and as he was never home on Saturdays my mother would take me to music and dancing lessons. I soon dropped the dancing, but I loved singing. Then on Sundays I would help my father in the garden."

"Well, we'll come back to that later," said Mary. "When did you start singing professionally?"

"It happened gradually, really. I never thought about it as a career, although I carried on singing, even after my voice broke, which is the end for many Choir boys. I sang in various musicals which we put on at school, but the music started to bore me, until one day I heard a band playing in my local pub, and realised that their sound was what I had been looking for."

"What happened then?"

"Well, they were not too happy with their vocalist, so one day I asked if I could sing with them. They were in a good mood, and handed me the mike, and I've never looked back."

The programme continued following the usual formula, of the Castaway's choice of music, alternating with brief references to his career, and family life. Peter's choice of music reflected a mixture of childhood memories, his own first hit single, a couple of classical orchestral pieces to impress the intellectuals in his constituency, and the theme from 'Match of the Day', to bring the football fans on board.

As the final record faded out, Mary continued with the standard questions that were always included in the programme.

"Now, tell me, Pete - Peter, how would you manage to look after yourself on this Island? Would you be able to forage for food? Can you fish?"

"Well, I hope I'd be able to rescue some food from the wreck, and the sea is always a good source of food. But as you know, my father gave me a love of gardening, growing things, and provided I had some seeds, and some tools, and fishing gear, I believe I could survive for years."

"Could you build a shelter?"

"Now that would be a problem, I haven't had much time for that sort of thing, but if I had a tarpaulin, a saw, some nails and a hammer I reckon I could rig up some sort of shelter."

"So, if you had all these things, and fishing tackle, tools, a tarpaulin, and seeds, you are sure you could manage?"

"Oh, certainly," he smiled, " Give me the tools, and I'll finish the job".

"Isn't that a politician's answer?" insisted Mary. "Have you actually had any practice at D.I.Y and growing vegetables, apart from pottering around after your father in the garden, 30 years ago?"

Peter felt slightly annoyed. Wasn't Mary driving the point home rather hard? It was just a game after all. Was he really supposed to reveal to potential voters how impractical he was?

Still, he told himself, it was her first time as presenter, and probably the last, so he should make allowances. He glanced at the producer behind the glass screen for help, but he was looking down at the desk, and did not appear to think anything was amiss.

"Well, Mary," he said in his most charming electioneering voice," let's hope I am not put to the test, but whatever challenges life brings me, I believe I would make the best of it."

"So, let's move on", continued Mary, "You are allowed one luxury, and one book, as well as the Bible and Shakespeare. First of all, what book would you choose, to keep you interested for long days, or even years?"

"Oh, Hansard, definitely. It would be fascinating to look over previous Parliamentary debates, to see how things have worked in the past, and apply those lessons to my future career, when I return."

"If you return.....would you try to escape?"

"Not if you were there with me. Can I have you as my luxury?"

"I'm afraid not, it has to be an inanimate object."

"Well, in that case. Mary, it would have to be a solar-powered mobile phone, so that I could talk to you, and my friends, and constituents!"

"Well, if it's on the market we'll supply it. Otherwise we will drop one by parachute when it is finally produced. Thank you very much for appearing on Desert Island Discs."

"No, thank you. Its been a pleasure to talk to you."

The theme music came on, then faded, and the producer signalled that they were off the air. Gathering up her papers, Mary turned to Peter and asked, "Before you go, would you be interested if we did a follow up programme on television?"

"That's unusual, isn't it?"

"Yes, it would be a first. But the idea was, to take you, with a crew, to a real island, stage a fake shipwreck, have you swimming ashore, and setting up camp with what you could salvage. You are already well known in some circles, and it would widen your audience, as it were."

"Sounds good. I'd have to run it past my agent..."

"Oh, we've already done that, he's agreed. Any time in the next two months, during the recess".

Once again, Peter felt irritated. She really was a bit high-handed. He was not used to people deciding things for him.

"In that case, fine, just let me know when."

So it was that two weeks later Pete was waiting at Shoreham Airport for Mary and the film crew who were taking a privately chartered plane to a mystery destination.

"It would spoil the effect if you were forewarned," explained Mary. "It can't be a complete surprise but you have to look apprehensive as you wade ashore, so the less you know in advance, the better."

"Wade ashore?" queried Peter, "aren't we going to land on the island?"

"Not as such. We land on a larger adjoining island, and get a dinghy the rest of the way. The heavy equipment has been sent ahead by boat."

Fifteen hours and several refuelling stops later, the plane, guided by beacons landed in a small airport. A large truck was waiting to take them to the shore. There was no one else in sight who might have given a clue as to what country they were in by their appearance or language. Not the sort of welcome that Peter was expecting. His legs were stiff from sitting so long in one position, but Mary looked surprisingly fresh, and cheerful, with an expression that Peter could not quite fathom. She seemed to be restraining herself, but he could not make out why. The early morning air was chilly, so he climbed into the front of the truck to wait. Mary climbed in next to him, while the crew loaded up the gear they had brought with them. She leaned back and shut her eyes. Soon one of the crew got into the driver ’s seat, and they set off. It was a long bumpy ride as they drove into the dawn, towards the sunrise. Gradually the light increased, and eventually the truck stopped at the edge of a beach, where two large dinghies were waiting about ten yards from the water's edge. There was nothing to indicate where they were. The Island was flat, and in the distance Peter could see sheep. The vegetation was sparse, but definitely not tropical.

The crew clearly knew what they were doing, because they loaded the dinghies with a minimum of conversation, and then told Mary and Peter that they were ready to set off. Peter was tired, and made no effort to turn on his usual charm. That had all evaporated during the long flight, and Mary also seemed disinclined to talk. He supposed she was keeping it for the filming. All he could think of was that when the day was over there would be another long journey back, and he bitterly regretted ever agreeing to this hairbrained scheme. His agent should have protected him, he would have something to say when he saw him again.

All the same, when the craft was pushed out, he joined the others in removing his shoes, and paddling out to the deeper water where they could float, and climbed in, trying unsuccessfully to avoid splashing water over the seats. If Mary could do it, so could he.

Mary was not exaggerating when she said they would have to wade ashore. When they reached the other island there were too many rocks to get close the beach, so the crew pulled and lifted the dinghies as near as possible, then secured them to the rocks, and carried their gear the rest on the way.

The beach was empty when they arrived. It appeared very much like the larger island, except that Peter could not see any sheep. There were no buildings or people in sight, but an area of woodland cut off the view of the rest of the Island. The sun was high by now, but it still felt chilly.

"Let's make a fire, while the crew set up, " said Mary, "Then we can dry off, before they shoot you wading ashore again."

"What with?"

"I've got matches, they can film you collecting firewood over there, and edit in your arrival afterwards."

Reluctantly, Peter trekked over to the trees, and picked up an armful of sticks. He pricked his hands several times, regretting more and more his acceptance of this scheme. The cameraman followed him, often asking him to repeat an action so that he could take it from a different angle. The other men just stood around, and did not offer to help. This was definitely not the treatment Peter was used to. Eventually, when he could carry no more, they allowed him to take his bundle back to where Mary was waiting, and he dumped the wood unceremoniously on the ground. Mary had collected a pile of stones.

"There", she said, "never say I don't help you. Make a circle with these, and pile the sticks in the middle. Then pretend to rub to sticks together to make a flame. We'll stop the cameras and use the matches, so don't worry."

This went on for some time, and the filming went on. Peter cooking fish, which they had brought in a cool bag. Peter looking out to sea. Peter reading Hansard. Peter drying his shirt in front of the fire. Peter playing his records on a wind up gramophone.

"Sorry we couldn't find a solar-powered mobile," said Mary, "but we'll drop one for you when they get invented."

"Yeah, right, " said Peter, "meanwhile I'll just shout".

He was feeling happier now as the day was drawing to a close, and in spite of the long flight ahead he was looking forward to going home. Now that the ordeal was coming to an end, Peter was in a more co-operative mood, and even helped the crew pack their gear into the dinghies.

"What shall we do about these big boxes?" he asked." We didn't use them after all. Why did they bring them?"

"Oh, spares, I expect," said Mary vaguely, "I'm sorry, but I think I left my digital camera by those trees, I don't suppose you could go and look could you?"

"OK, I'll just run up there now. I won't be long."

"Take your time, it's not dark for another couple of hours."

Peter ran towards the trees. He thought he heard Mary laughing, but he couldn't be sure. When he got there, he found the camera, and an envelope next to it. He picked them both up, and began to walk back. The sinking sun dazzled him for a while, and he was quite near the spot where he had left the others, before he realised that they were not there. He looked towards the water, and saw to his alarm that both dinghies were pulling away fast. They were clear of the rocks, and the people in them were already too small to see clearly. Was that someone waving? He couldn't be sure. He began to panic, till he saw the large packing cases still clustered together near the rocks. That was all right. They would obviously came back for them, but it would be dark soon. Surely they weren't going to leave him all night? Walking over to the packing cases, he saw that one of them had been wrenched open, and a hammer left on the top. Next to it was a packet of sandwiches, and a bottle of water. He tasted a sandwich. It was stale. He felt confused. What was going on?

He decided to look inside the open packing case. It seemed to be filled with something rubbery. Pulling it out with difficulty, he unfolded a large tarpaulin. What on earth? He ran to the next box, and using the claw of the hammer, he forced it open. Underneath layers of crumpled newspaper he found a number of small paper packets. They were seeds. Vegetable seeds. Dozens of them. Scrambling down further he felt something hard. There, individually wrapped, was every kind of gardening tool.

A terrible thought tried to surface, but he pushed it back. He opened another box. It contained a saw, and lots of tools that he supposed, from his limited knowledge of D.I.Y were for carpentry.

This must be a joke. But they had gone to a lot of trouble. Why? Then he remembered the envelope.. Maybe Mary had left a note. He opened it slowly, fearful of what it might contain. There was no note, only a black and white photograph of a group of people. He took it over to the firelight to see it more clearly. Turning it here and there to catch the light, he saw to his surprise that it was his band, Plastic Fish. There they all were, with their 70s hair cuts, standing on a small stage. In front of the group, holding a microphone, stood a girl, probably the singer. Her face looked familiar. He turned the picture over. In the fading light from the fire he could just make out the words; 'Do you remember me now? Mary.'

So that's why he was supposed to remember her, the bitch! Was all this palaver to make him feel uncomfortable because he was a better singer than her? It was the band's decision, not his.

He'd certainly have it out with her when she came back for him. But how ridiculous to buy all those seeds and tools just to make a point. Obviously they would come back in the morning.

They would, wouldn't they?