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FRANK CRUSOE (With apologies to Tom Hanks) Frank Peterson wasn't enjoying his first company 'jolly'. His company chairman had not long promoted him to the board at the age of twenty three, the youngest director they'd ever had. They'd just had a team building stay on a small island in the Caribbean, discussing the future direction the conglomerate should take and a chance for the older members to get to know their new colleague. It was a complete change from their offices, situated in a small town in the West Country of England but with fingers in many parts of the world. During the week they'd been more or less isolated, albeit in the lap of luxury in the island retreat which claimed not one but two Michelin starred chefs, Frank had earned his place as the blue eyed boy in the view of the chairman. He was aware that this hadn't gone down as well as it might have done, indeed some of his fellow directors were almost as put out as the year before when two women had been appointed to the board. When it was time to return to the outside world, the nine of them, the two women included, had only left him the seat at the very back of the company jet, almost in the tail and lacking any window to look out of. It was for this reason that when it all went wrong, only about twenty or twenty five minutes into the flight, he had no idea what was happening. All he was aware of was a loud explosion and the aircraft spinning so violently that he passed out. He was woken by pain all over his body and by water up to his waist. As quickly as he was able he released his lap strap that he hadn't bothered with after takeoff and took in the situation. The tail of the aircraft had obviously broken off and at first his view was of the open ocean, but when he rounded the side of the broken fuselage he saw that the rest of the wreckage was mangled and twisted and on fire. With some difficulty he made his way through rock pools and over slippery seaweed to get as close as he could, but there was nothing he could do for the occupants. The passenger compartment had already burned to a shell and he could barely see any remains of his former colleagues, he hoped that perhaps some were thrown out and survived, or at least they were killed by the impact. The remains were at the base of a high cliff, but to his right was a sandy beach which he made his way over to, looking for a path through the undergrowth behind. He couldn't see one, but he could work his way back to his left where their wasn't much plant growth and make his way up to the high point of the cliff behind the aircraft. From this height, probably a hundred or so feet, he was able to look over the rest of the island. He could see no signs of habitation so immediately his thoughts turned to working out what he should do. It was then he realised that the tide was coming in, they must have crashed when it was low, so he hurried back down the hill and out onto the beach, to the plane tail to see if there was anything salvageable. Behind where he was sitting he knew there was a baggage compartment but when he got back he saw that it had been torn open and only one suitcase was left and he knew it wasn't his. As it would soon be underwater he grabbed it, an empty plastic water bottle and a tool box that were with it and now with some difficulty waded his way back to the beach. Once these were safely stowed in the undergrowth above the tide line he decided that his first job would be to find out if it really was an uninhabited island. He walked along the beach away from the cliff and an hour and a half later found he was looking up at the hill behind the cliff from the other side. While he was disappointed that indeed, there was no one else there, he made a very important discovery. At the foot of the hill there, a very tiny spring produced a trickle of fresh water. He quenched his immediate thirst, then laboriously went up the hill a way in order to go back down onto the original stretch of beach. By this time all the aircraft wreckage was completely covered by the tide. This didn't unduly worry him, he assumed that the flight he was on had been followed by air traffic control somewhere but in any case, the pilot would have logged his flight plan, so although it might take a while, he was confident that someone would soon find him. He knew that his company chairman had asked the pilot to detour somewhat in order for him to view another holiday island where he was thinking of buying a house. What he didn't know was that it was a couple of hundred miles south, in the opposite direction to their original flight path and because he wanted to see as much as he could of the island, the plane had never climbed high enough to be seen on the area's patchy radar coverage. As well as that, the plane crash was at low water during an exceptional level of spring tide. After a couple of days, the wreckage would not appear above the water line for months. On top of that, the aircraft wasn't fitted with the well known 'black box' flight recorder. To fill his time before he was rescued, Frank took everything out of the toolbox and suitcase to find out what he had available. Apart from spanners and other tools he would have no need of, he noted that there were two knives and a sharpening block, screwdrivers, some twine and a cigarette lighter, all of which he laid out on a large flat leaf to dry. The suitcase turned out to be the property of one of the women. Now most men would have been disappointed in this, but Frank wasn't most men. Before he married his wife June, the year before, he had to confess his little 'hobby' to her. Ever since he was a young child he'd been fascinated by the feel of women's clothes, first his mother's, then his sister's and both of them were happy to help him play dress up. He wasn't tall and had a skinny build so actually looked quite girly and had gone out with them when dressed up several times and then they called him 'Fiona'. Once he'd gone to university he purchased his own things but dumped them when he realised that the relationship with June was getting serious. June was more than understanding. She actually found she enjoyed having a girl and boy friend rolled into one and immediately started to call him Fiona when he was dressed. They not only replaced the clothes that he'd disposed of, they replaced them all plus some costumes that they used to role play with, so he also had a nurse's and a maid's uniforms, although rather more revealing than the real thing. They bought a house overlooking the marina at Ilfracombe, not a long commute for him and they delighted in their surroundings. June even encouraged him to have laser depilation of his arms, legs, body and face, so he had a feminine looking body. He had promised her that as he would be back from his trip to the Caribbean before she got home from work, she would have a maid to serve her dinner that night. He had been looking forward to that treat for them both, now it would be delayed. Thinking that it wouldn't be many hours before rescue arrived, he took the clothing out of the case and draped it over low plant growth for it all to dry. He saw that it obviously belonged to Antonia Hunt, the younger and very much the slimmer of the two women who had been on board. His mouth almost watered at the selection of items that he unpacked and laid out. However, he was above all a clever man and he realised that the first thing he had to do was to light a fire, now that the fuselage was under water, and he also should think of something to eat, just in case rescue took a day or even more. The fire would not only provide a marker for any rescue planes but also give him a cooking facility. He'd noticed a piece of driftwood just down the beach, so he retrieved that so that he could use it to dig a fire pit in the sand, it was handily tapered at one end so was ideal. More driftwood, dried seaweed and dead plants and trees from behind him provided ample kindling and firewood. He lashed a screwdriver to the end of a long straight stick of wood, not unlike a broom handle, gave him something to fish with. He'd noticed a large crayfish, or perhaps it was a lobster, between the aircraft tail and the shore in the clear water the last time he'd crossed the area and hoped it might still be there. In that respect he was in luck, it was not only there, a whole lot of his friends had come to join him. The first time he attacked it his improvised spear slid off its back, but the second time it went through its shell like a knife through butter. It made him a little sick to kill the beautiful creature, but he realised that it was something he'd have to do if he wasn't to go hungry. It didn't take long to get the fire going and, after he made sure it was really dead, he tossed the crayfish onto the flames. It wasn't exactly cordon bleu cooking but he had a pretty good idea of what he was doing and it wasn't long before he had found a fallen coconut, drilled into the end with help from the tool box, and had delicious crayfish meat with coconut milk to wash it down. After he'd eaten he made his way back to the spring with his plastic container and spent quite a long time filling it. He would have found it more practical to camp near the water supply, but he wouldn't have been able to light a fire without the danger of setting the whole island ablaze. As he returned he spotted a familiar looking flower and realised it was from quite a large area of sweet potato plants, so he knew he had yet another resource. He also found an area of fallen trees and was able to pick up a couple of large pieces of a hardwood that would keep his fire alight for some time. He was aware that the lighter would only work so many times, after that he might be rubbing two pieces of wood together. That last thought he dismissed, there was no way he wouldn't be found in more than a few days. He made a couple more journeys back to collect some more of the substantial wood by which time it was getting dark. He looked at one of the nightdresses from the suitcase and temptation got the better of him. As he settled down to sleep for the night he could smell the remnants of Antonia's perfume on the material that enveloped his body. As he went to sleep he noted that the only sound he could hear was that of the waves. There had been a little bird song during the day, but now there was nothing; reassuring him that there were no predators on the island. The next day at low tide, after a sparse breakfast of coconut, he went to the remains of the aircraft to see if there was anything useful he could salvage. A few pieces of the bodywork he realised were shaped almost like cooking utensils, a frying pan or pots and pans in varying sizes could be formed with just a little brute force and some steel netting that would make a grill. With the spanners that he thought he wouldn't use, he undid his seat from the tail and took it back to shore. With some difficulty he was able to manhandle some large sections of aluminium sheets, from the wings he assumed, which he thought might be useful if he needed a shelter, with the added attraction that it would be seen and recognised from a distance. For that reason he built it up right on the edge of the sand and undergrowth margins where it would be partially sheltered from the wind but still visible. He was very proud of himself when he was able to spear a large fish which he gutted and then put on his grill that he supported with some pieces of aluminium each side. It was accompanied by a jacket potato although he would have given anything for some butter. He found some leaves that would make his fire very smoky, so he put a stock of them nearby, to signal his rescuers, using some to flavour the fish. He was very pleased that he'd learned to cook when he was younger. He ate his meal in what was obviously a very expensive designer evening dress then changed for bed into his nightie. The third day he returned to the aircraft but noticed that it didn't emerge from the sea as far as it had before. He recovered some more of the sheeting from the seabed and then found a storage place under the passenger cabin from where he recovered three more plastic containers, some very large plastic bags and another toolbox. His great prize though, was to discover the cool compartment containing drinks appeared undamaged on the inside, so he was able to liberate half a dozen bottles of Champagne, a few other wines and several bottles of spirits and mixers. It took several trips back and forth to unload it all. He then steeled himself and placed as many of his fellow travellers body parts as he could identify in the bags, realising that if he didn't, they might get swept away and their family would have nothing to bury. He spent several hours on this grizzly task as several of the remains had become dislodged by succeeding tides. He noticed that quite a few crayfish had been attracted to the area, something he didn't let his mind dwell on as he placed all the individual bags in the largest one. He finished the day with another crayfish, caught well away from the wreckage. The fourth day was at least one longer than he'd thought he'd be there and he spent time staring at the horizon in the hope of seeing someone. Rather depressed he took a long time topping up all his plastic bottles then collected a good store of firewood of all sorts before going fishing. For the first time he wore the liberated clothes all day, remembering not to wear the bikini top without a blouse, tan marks from that would take some explaining. He told himself it was so that he could wash his own clothes, but a large part of him wanted cheering up and to that end he cooled a bottle of Champagne in the sea to have with his meal. The next morning he woke up with a hangover. He accepted that Champagne wasn't supposed to give a hangover, but it may have been something to do with the brandies he'd had afterwards. He was sure that this would be the day a rescue plane or ship would spot him. He was very wrong. Three months later he had long given up the idea that rescue would come for him. Day after day he scanned the horizon, occasionally spotting a ship in the far distance when he would put leaves onto the fire, but there was no result. One night he heard a plane in the distance but it was gone before he could get his fire really bright. He had added berries to his diet, but not sure if any were poisonous, he had taken the merest nibble out of each one, a day apart. Then he had gone back to each, taking a slightly larger bite, only one of the berries seemed to give him a touch of diarrhoea, so he steered clear of that, progressively persevering with the others, a little more each time. By this rather dangerous method he was able to eat all the berries that grew on the island, except that one. He used the same method to test a number of the leaf plants in order to add variety to his diet. He was very successful with a plant that looked and tasted much like spinach, adding it to his cooking with a sense of pride out of all proportion to what he had really been able to achieve. Much of the day he had started to walk and work naked, too afraid that he would wear out the clothes he had, although he always dressed for dinner. He kept one bottle of Champagne that he vowed he would keep to drink with his wife June and also retained some of the spirits he had found in the plane, worried that at some stage he might need them to disinfect an injury. He was constantly worried about this as he had no first aid kit. He had returned to the plane's shell several times at first, recovering bits and pieces, but soon afterwards it wasn't even uncovered at low tide. A really bad day happened when he'd been on the island seven months. A storm blew up the like of which he'd never seen. It lasted for twelve hours and at the end of it the sheets he'd used to make a hut had blown away, everything he valued was dispersed, he was soaking wet and exhausted. It took him a day to recover most of his belongings but one of the sheets of aluminium he never found, so he had to make a wooden floor to his hut and use his flooring to replace the roof section. The worst thing was that a plane passed over while he was half way across the island and there was no way they would have been able to see him under the cover of the trees and of course his fire was out. He sat down and cried. Later that day he realised that his watch had stopped. He was lower than he had ever been in his life. He seriously thought of ending it all, drinking what was left of the Champagne and spirits and jumping off the cliff at low tide but it was the thought of that Champagne, that he would drink it with June, that kept him going. Instead of ending it he started a calendar of his own, marking the days off on a tree starting with the day after shown by his watch. A full year went by. The monotony was only broken by the odd event. Twice he found a turtle swimming off the shore when he went fishing and each time he brought it up onto the beach, dressed in his finest evening dress and treated the turtle as his companion for the evening. Unfortunately both times the turtle got bored and tried to wander off, and after the third or forth attempt he had to accept the necessity for the animal to return to the water, and gave it it's freedom. Christmases and his birthdays passed like every other day, except he had a small nip of his precious spirits, whiskey each time, to celebrate the day. He had given up all hope of ever being rescued as it passed the second year on the island. He couldn't understand how, in this overcrowded planet he could possibly be overlooked. Then, a couple of months after that, he was wandering back along his beach with some fresh water, when he saw a strange object. He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him again, so many times in the past he had been sure he's seen a boat approaching, but this time it looked different. The white hulled sailing boat was steering at his beach, people on board were taking down the sail, and shouting to each other. He ran down the beach to meet them, unsure all the time that his eyes were telling him the truth. It was a French couple, taking a voyage round the Caribbean for their honeymoon who first thought he was a native, tanned as he was. The wife spoke some English and he had some French, so between them they were able to understand what had happened to him. He asked to be able to use their radio, but the woman, Martine Leclerc, explained that it wasn't working and they had only stopped at the island for a last swim before returning to Europe. He encouraged them to continue and do that, showing them the sparse remains of the aircraft under the water. They reluctantly agreed to carry him with the remains of the other passengers and crew in their hold back to England. He carried his very tatty male clothes that had survived the crash, the hurricane and nearly two and a half years on the island, with his passport in the pocket, ready to change into when they arrived back. Claude, Martine's husband loaned him sufficient clothes, mainly tracksuits, to be decent on the voyage back. He repaid his ticket by acting as night time lookout while they spent their nights in each other's arm and for this they told him they would take him straight back to his home port of Ilfracombe. It was a strange sensation to recognise that they were sailing just to the north of Cornwall, the county on the extreme south west of England. Familiar landmarks passed by as they made their way into Ilfracombe harbour. His passport at the ready, he made his way to the Harbour Master's office with his sad remains, only to find a note in his window to the effect that there was no one there to report to. That left a quandary, he asked Claude and Martine up to his house but having been away so long, they were anxious to get going, so with an exchange of details, he bid them his undying thanks and said goodbye. He made his way through what to him was a babble of people, up to his house, the home he had so longed to return to and had started to think it wouldn't happen. He used his key to open the door and it was all so incredibly familiar when he turned off the sophisticated alarm system, relieved that June hadn't changed to code. He looked at the time; two thirty, his wife would still be at work so a mischievous plan came to mind. He went straight to the smallest bedroom where, after all this time, his 'Fiona' clothes were all still there as if he'd never left. He looked at himself in the mirror. Apart from the badly worn suit that he had put on again, his skin was dark and his light brown hair bleached more like blond and it was down way passed his shoulders. He returned downstairs and placed the plastic bag of remains in the back of their garage then checked the kitchen store cupboard, freezer and fridge. While there was not much in the fridge, the freezer was well stocked, so he decided that as there was going to be a night of passion ahead, he would do exactly as he'd promised all that time ago before he'd left. He returned to the bedroom and worked on his hair with the curling tongs he had, then did the best job of make up he could remember. Everything looked so much more exotic with his darker skin and he was able to use heavier cosmetics than he used to. He dressed in his maid's outfit, no longer tight as it was in the past, put on his three inch high heels, he realised that his five inch ones would be difficult after so long. He loved being able to use his gaff and falsies after so long. Once he was satisfied with his appearance he returned to the kitchen and got on with preparing a romantic dinner for two. He took great delight in placing his prised bottle of Champagne in the fridge. At just after five, a little earlier than he had expected, he heard the front door open and someone come in. He walked out to the hallway and was shocked to see his wife with a tall man who was putting keys in his pocket, so presumably was the one who had opened the door. He was the first to look up and see him, caught like a rabbit in headlights. "What are you doing her so soon?" he asked. "The maid service wasn't supposed to start until next week." His mouth moved but words wouldn't come out. "Never mind, it's just as well, we're back earlier than we expected," he continued. "I hope you can speak English better than your predecessor, what's your name?" "Err..Fiona," he replied, blushing and looking for a reaction from June. There was barely any at all, but she spoke to the man. "I'm going upstairs to change Brian, will you organise drinks?" she said and went straight up the stairs. "Someone must have known we were coming back early," he told her. The man followed him back into the kitchen, rather too closely. As they entered he jumped as he felt the man's hand cup one of his buttocks. "Don't pretend you don't like that girl," he said. "I'm paying your wages and I've signed your immigration application so any fuss and you're straight out of the country, do you understand?" "Yes Sir," he mumbled. "I'm sorry but I don't remember your names Sir." "My name is Mr Jones and that's my wife but we're just Sir and Madam to you, and I hope you can remember your proper place in my house girl." He slapped the maid's bottom. "Now take some ice into the lounge and pour two gin and tonics and don't forget the lemon slices." He was in a daze as he looked in the bottom of the fridge and found two elderly lemons, found the insulated tub they used for ice and filled it, then took them, plus a knife and their small chopping board into the lounge. He poured the gin over an ice cube in each glass, placed a lemon slice in each and was just pouring tonics in as June entered the room. He looked at her but she showed no sign of recognition as she took her drink with a polite 'thank you' and sat down in an armchair. He knew her so well and could see that something was wrong. "Is something wrong Madam?" he asked. She looked up blankly but Jones returned before she could answer. "If something is or isn't wrong is nothing to do with you girl, get out," he ordered. "She's only being polite and efficient Brian," she told her new husband. "She's being nosey," he retorted. "I don't like nosey servants." He carried on, doing as he was told, then tried to think of what he could do. If only he hadn't been so stupid to change into his costume before he'd seen her, then he could have at least explained to her, if not actually claim her back. He didn't think she was happy, something was bothering her but was it serious, or a minor problem that she was thinking out? That was something she did. He did the only thing he could think of; get on with preparing their meal and try to find an opportunity to sort it out later. He served June the romantic meal he'd dreamed about so many of those lonely nights, but it wasn't him that shared it with her. He was close to tears, but he couldn't stand the thought of the humiliation for both himself and June if he revealed himself. At the first opportunity however, he removed the Champagne and hid it behind some bottles in the larder. Otherwise he acted as the perfect maid, hiding the abject misery he was in. Not only had June remarried, the man was a pig. Was that the reason for her unhappiness? He wondered. With two gin and tonics before and most of two bottles of wine, Jones got more and more mouthy during the meal and as soon as she'd finished eating June excused herself, saying that she was going to bed as she had a headache. Fearing being left alone with the drunken man, he nevertheless decided that he wanted to archive the actions he looked as if he would carry out. In order to do that he took the simple step of turning on the movement sensitive security cameras linked to the alarm system, without setting the alarm to go off. He'd only just done that, when the oaf came to find him. "Come here girl," he told him, "my wife's got another of her headaches, it's time for you to show me what a good maid you are." "Sir, I don't know what you mean," he lied. "Come with me girl and I'll show you your most important duty." He took the maid by the hand and led him back into the lounge where he sat in an armchair. "Down on your knees girl," he ordered, pulling him down between his legs. "Your choice is to do it or I'll beat the life out of you and then send what's left of you back to where you came from." "What about your wife Sir?" he was aware of the recording taking place. "What about her? If I can't get it from her I'm entitled to make my own arrangements, anyway, what's it to you girl?" he hit his maid across his ear. "Get on with it." He grabbed Fiona's ears and pulled him into his now exposed and rampant penis and try how he might to avoid it, Jones twisted his ears until he was forced to take him in his mouth. The man was pumping by moving the maid's face backwards and forwards but suddenly they were both aware of the door opening. "When you two have finished playing, don't wake me up when you come to bed, use a spare bedroom, have that slut make up the bed for you," June told them. With a twist of his head that nearly cost him an ear, Fiona broke free and with tears flowing freely, pleaded with June. "Please stop him Madam." He was punched in the face for his pains. "Lying cow, she came on to me," Jones claimed. "Leave her alone you thug, you can use the spare bedroom anyway," she shouted at him. "Get out!" Jones left the room with the metaphorical tail between his legs. "Are you alright?" she asked Fiona but not with the softness in her voice that her real husband had expected. "Thank you Madam." He realised that it might be the time to say who he was, but he needed longer to work out how to go about it. If she believed him she might say something loud enough to stir the interest in the thug and he couldn't bear to have humiliation of him find out his true identity. He locked his bedroom door that night, but wasn't disturbed. He was surprised to realise that the next morning Jones was behaving as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Even June seemed to just be treating him the same way as before, although he hadn't thought of it as cold, but now he realised that she seemed distant in a way, towards her new husband. They both went out at lunchtime, him to the pub, her to check in at her office. Meanwhile the maid formulated a simple plan. The meal he prepared was purposefully lacking in carbohydrates, he hoped that would mean the wine would have more of an effect on Jones. To that end he also chose a strong full bodied Rhone wine, at least fifteen percent alcohol and put a bottle of a very good Cognac on the side in the dining room, very visible. At about half past three Jones came in, a little the worse for wear, so went straight up to their bedroom and was soon snoring. June got back about half past five, the same time as the recumbent man woke up. Fiona served them gin and tonic, an especially large one for him. The meal went off without further incident, if you don't count Jones getting drunk very quickly as an incident, he again drank most of two bottles of wine. Then he saw off almost half a bottle of the Cognac. Fiona did nothing to discourage him, ignoring June's comments that he really shouldn't have any more, he waived the decanter in front of the revolting man, so all he had to do was say yes. By the time the evening was done, Jones had passed out in an armchair. June left him and went up to their bedroom. This was his chance. "Don't you recognise your Fiona Madam?" he asked. She looked at the swarthy skinned maid with blond hair, puzzled. "I'm afraid I got rather a deep tan on my island," he gave her a clue. She looked at him more closely, she squinted, then her eyes opened so wide he was reminded of the expression of someone's eyes popping out. "Fran...," she started to say his name but fainted. He was just able to deflect her body onto the bed, then he went into their en suite and got her a glass of water. She came round and started to cry. "You were dead, everyone was certain, what happened? Where have you been? How are you still alive?" the questions poured from her mouth. "Slow down my darling," he told her, "everyone else was killed but by a miracle I survived but no one turned up to rescue me. "We must get out of here," she said, "before that oaf wakes up." "Just give me a few minutes to change," he replied, judging the time not right for either of them to go into explanations. He went to the small bedroom and used pads to remove the make up he'd so carefully put on only a few short hours before. Then he put on his old, damaged suit, he'd already established that none of his male clothes had been kept, then he joined June, who had packed an overnight bag, to creep downstairs. He picked up a carrier bag from the kitchen larder on the way. Out in the garage he told her that unfortunately he had some extra luggage for the authorities, putting the large plastic bag in the boot of her Jaguar, and they set off. He told her that he would probably have to report to the police as the first stop, so suggested they went the other end of the county to Exeter, where the headquarter police station was situated. It was also the city that housed the offices of a solicitor they both knew but the first thing they did was to book into a hotel for the night. "Are you sure you still want me after I'd given up on you and remarried?" she asked. He hugged her to him and kissed her. "Is that your answer?" he laughed. They booked in under their real names of Mr and Mrs Peterson. They made long gentle love for hours, but were still awake early the next morning when the first stop was their solicitor. "Are you telling me that after all the trouble we had having you declared dead, it now turns out you're alive?" he asked, reasonably enough. "I appear to be Bill," the dead man answered. "But I'm afraid it's going to be doubly complicated. Not only did June remarry, I've got the earthly remains of eleven people in the back of her car." Frank went through his story in a fair amount of detail, then suggested that Bill contact the police and the Aviation Authority and have them together when he went through it again as a formal statement. The lawyer agreed and a meeting was arranged for two in the afternoon, which gave them time for lunch. He started the ball rolling by preparing annulment papers and a restraining order for Brian Jones, who June had said was likely to turn violent. She told them both that the man had been sweetness and light, holding her hand during a period of extreme trauma for her, but once they were married, all he seemed interested in was spending her money. First he'd signed a brief statement for Bill to present to the courts, to establish that his declaration of presumed death, signed less than three weeks earlier, had been mistaken so June's immediate marriage to Jones had therefore been invalid. After that, June had to have him write to the insurance company where Frank had a life policy, to tell them that she wouldn't, after all, be proceeding with the claim on the policy. Then they both did a quick trip to the shops to buy him some new clothes. He found that being away from life for so long made the presence of so many people crowded round quite unnerving. He was almost a nervous wreck by the time they found a quiet place to lunch. He wasn't popular with the police when he presented them with the plastic bags, but he pointed out that there would be nothing left if he hadn't done something and at the time he thought rescue would be imminent so he didn't think that burial was appropriate. At least he considered that his late colleagues' next of kin, with the pilot and co-pilot's family would have a proper identification and perhaps be able to get closure. It was to that end he made certain to get at least something from each of the bodies. From his French rescuers' GPS at the time, he was able to give the exact location of the island, if there was an interest in finding out if anything of the aircraft remained after the sea had taken its toll. He was told that there'd never been a completed inquest on the group in the plane, as it had just been opened and adjourned, so now it could be completed. As far as the cause of the explosion and the subsequent crash, he wasn't able to be of any help. He didn't even know where in the plane the explosion had occurred. He was asked to give a formal statement and warned that he would be needed at the inquest when it was continued. With that he was done as far as the formalities were concerned. June and he stayed in Exeter until they heard from Jones's solicitor that he had left the house, then they made there way back home. Until then they were like honeymooners as Frank was uncomfortable whenever he left the hotel room. He didn't ask June about the reason she and Jones had been away, returning early, but of course he knew that she had in fact been on their honeymoon, tempted though he was to make a remark that no one had two honeymoons so closely together he was afraid it was in bad taste. June realised the trouble her husband was having with mixing with people, he had been comfortable enough with Brian, their solicitor, but otherwise he was quite withdrawn. While they were still in the hotel she had discussed with him his view of going back to work and wasn't surprised to find that he wasn't looking forward to it. "Frank, while you've been away I sunk myself in work, you know that my business was more or less a hobby before you left, well now I employ thirty people and we're still expanding. Do you think that for a while at least you could look after me at home?" she smiled at him. "You gathered that I had a housekeeping and maid service which I suspended while we were away, I could cancel them and you could use the time to get back into the real world, we certainly don't need your salary." He agreed that he wasn't looking forward to rejoining his company and they discussed the situation with Bill. He pointed out that it was only at the meeting with the police he realised that his company chairman diverted the plane so far that it was the cause of him not being found. He promptly put in a claim to the business for his full salary and bonuses for the time he was stuck, plus hefty damages for his ordeal. Later on they agreed a very large sum out of court and even provided him with an index linked pension because of his mental state. The result of this was that Fiona the maid was re-employed in the Peterson household, serving his wife and sometimes clients of her business, in his impeccable manner. His cooking ability, in the past a hobby, became the talk of his wife's table, along with his service. What they didn't realise was that the maid no longer used the smallest bedroom, rather he accompanied his mistress to her room and became her husband whenever either of them wanted.