by Ian Hamilton
Self-consciousness had parted from us long ago. We resurrected some of the old Jacobite songs and gave new meaning to them, quite unaware that in Scotland almost everyone who could sing was doing the same thing. This was something to sing about. As we passed through village after village our voices drifted out of the window, to the amazement of the stolid English pedestrians, who must have thought we were drunk. We careered up England roaring and singing.
Occasionally we fell silent and talked about Kay, who was our only worry. We had had no news since I had telephoned Bill the previous night, and we were very afraid she had been caught. She had been in the Anglia, the dangerous Anglia, which had been seen outside the Abbey. It seemed inconceivable that she could get through in such a kenspeckle car, and we hoped that she had gone to ground. It would be a hollow victory if she and her part of the Stone had been captured. We wondered, too, what had happened to Gavin, but we felt that he would be quite safe, for there was no reason to believe that he was a suspect.
Then we would fall to singing again, or I would recite ‘Edinbane’, one of the modern ballads of Skye, which I have repeated to myself many times since in lonely travelling. It tells about the happiness of the journey’s end, and it was not inappropriate to us as we drove up England towards home.
I will take the road right gaily,
Heed no storm of wind or rain,
When at journey’s end there’s ceilidh
At the Inn of Edinbane.
Weariness will bring no sorrow,
I’ll be younger every mile,
When I know that ere tomorrow
I’ll be on Cuchullain’s Isle.
Occasionally, when we had tired of verse or song, I would think of Bill Craig, and how he would regret for the rest of his life that he had not come with us.
In more serious moments, we talked about what we had done. The shadow of jail did not fall across our minds, and since we had seen no papers we could not tell what the general reaction was going to be. Anyone interested in history would know the reason for what we had done, but we hoped that our action might find a more general acclaim. But, in truth, we were too wrapped up in the joy of accomplishment to weigh nicely the final result.
We took turns at driving, and although the roads were treacherous we made good speed, since we knew exactly what our car would do. When we came to Stamford we stopped, and I went into the post office to telephone Bill for news. Alan went off to find somewhere we could get breakfast. In a short time he joined me with the grim news that everywhere was closed. It seemed that the natives were celebrating some festival called Boxing Day.
I got on to Bill almost immediately. I could sense his delight when he heard my voice. He must have had an anxious night, wondering where we were, what we were doing, and knowing that he could do nothing to help.
‘How’s Christmas?’ I asked.
‘Fine,’ he said. I could hear the chuckle in his voice. My vociferous contempt and dislike for Christmas was notorious. ‘There’s a big party going on. One of the guests has just arrived. He’s fine. We’re still waiting for his partner.’
Good! That meant that Gavin was home, and that Kay was still safe.
We thought around for other double-talk to confuse any operator who might be whiling away the time by listening in, and finally realised the absurdity of the idea and relapsed into realities.
‘The Border’s closed,’ he said. ‘Everything coming into Scotland’s being searched.’
‘Are the English putting up customs posts at last?’ I asked innocently, and we both laughed.
‘You’d better go to ground.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. It was his job to worry, and my job to refuse advice. Go to ground, indeed! We had no friends like Kay had to hide with, and could only travel on hopefully. When he saw I was adamant, he urged me again, fearing more for the Stone than for us.
‘Well, for God’s sake don’t lose it now. If you’ve hidden it, send me a map.’
On this note of caution he rang off, and I reflected on what he had said. I did not wish to commit the hiding place of the Stone to paper, in case in some unknown way the police had got on to Bill. Yet it was the safest thing to do. Suppose we were captured and sent to prison without getting a chance to disclose where the Stone lay? Or worse still, suppose we were involved in an accident and both killed? These things happened. Was this great relic which had been venerated for thousands of years to pass from history because two boys had had their lives snuffed out in a skidding car? On the back of an envelope I drew a plan. I sealed it in a registered envelope and posted it to Bill at the University Union. That would be safer than his home address. Then I went back and found Alan asleep in the car.
By the time we reached Grantham we were both in need of food. More important than that, the car was beginning to show signs of the ill use it had been put to. There was three inches of play in the steering wheel, and we were not at all sure that it would not come off in our hands at any moment. We were losing power too, but I was certain that a minor adjustment would cure that.
We were too late at the George for breakfast, and too early for lunch, but they fixed us up with parsimonious tea and biscuits. Then I took off my jacket and had a look at the car. I am fond of engines, and it is one of my particular vanities that they run better when I am standing near them. They like me. Furthermore before I had left Glasgow I had bought an expensive wrench. I had hoped to use it on an Abbey door, but the occasion had not arisen.
Now I attacked the carburettor with it, and in a few minutes I had cured it. The steering wheel was, however, quite beyond my compass, and although I poked and pried it was only to impress Alan that I knew what I was doing. We drove off, Alan complaining witheringly that before I had put spanner to car we could have got home in 12 hours, while now we would be lucky if we got home in 24.
We pushed steadily on, one sleeping dreamlessly, the other shouting and singing to keep awake. We stopped for lunch at a roomy hotel called the Bell, which must have been an old coaching inn. It was civilised. We washed with soap and water and, although we were as shabby as our car, they made us welcome, as all inn folk should. There was still Christmas fare on the menu; we ate hugely, and felt that we must indeed be getting nearer home.
When we had passed through Doncaster we knew we were getting into Indian country and could expect police patrols. It was the middle of the afternoon before we were stopped. I was lying dozing on the back seat, when Alan, who had been silent for some time, said quietly:
‘It’s the police, Ian.’
I was awake immediately. We were following close on the bumper of a police car which was travelling slower and slower.
‘Where are we?’ I asked. Not that it mattered.
‘Twenty miles north of Doncaster,’ he replied.
He pulled out to pass the police car, and as we drew level the two constables scrutinised us closely. I gave them a cold incurious stare, and then we were past them. In a moment they put on speed, and were travelling beside us, signalling us to stop. They pulled in front of us and came round to Alan’s window, their notebooks at the ready. We were too tired to be frightened. Arrest now or arrest in a week’s time, what did it matter? Yet it would be nice to win through another adventure and get home again.
They asked for Alan’s driving licence, and as he handed it to them he said laconically, ‘Not again.’
‘What do you mean, “not again”?’ asked one officer.
‘It’s the third time we’ve been stopped in two hours,’ he said, bluffing so calmly I had to look sternly at the police to hide my amusement.
‘Where’ve you been?’ asked the policeman.
‘London,’ replied Alan without a moment’s hesitation.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Home,’ he said in one word.
‘What’s the trouble?’ I asked, leaning forward from the back seat.
‘It’s the Coronation Stone,’ said one of the constables. ‘You haven’t s
een it, have you?’
I could have laughed at the folly of the question. ‘No,’ I cried. ‘But I’ve heard about it. It’s a very good show. Should have been done years ago.’
The constable looked at me sourly. ‘We live on one island, and some people think we should all be one people,’ he said.
‘Aye, maybe,’ I said. ‘But the Scots people don’t think that, and we’re the people who have the edge on you today.’
He looked at me again. I was familiar with that look from my days in the Royal Air Force. It meant, ‘I could run you in so quickly that your feet won’t touch the ground until you hit the back wall of a cell, but I’m not quite sure what to charge you with, so it’s easier to have a quiet life.’
Without a further word he handed Alan back his driving licence and waved us on. We could not believe our luck. It was not the end after all. For the first time we felt secure. If the detective who had taken the number of this very car outside Kay’s hotel had really not handed it in to the inquiry as a suspect car to be checked out, we could bluff our way through all the roadblocks south of the Tweed. We went on our way rejoicing at our good fortune.
Our way brought us to Scotch Corner, just as darkness was beginning to fall. If we cut west, the road over the high moors was likely to be badly ice bound, but it was the shortest route to Glasgow. Kay too would be travelling up the west coast, and there had been so many coincidences that we could play for another and go west to meet her. However, since she might be in hiding, we rejected that and decided to take the easy way north to Newcastle and Edinburgh. But we were still worried about her.
As we approached Newcastle, night had fallen. We had done 100 miles in just under four hours, which was not bad going, but we had been singing less and less and saving our energies to keep the car travelling north. Although we had not been stopped again, we had passed several dozen police cars stationed at strategic intervals all along the road. The whole police force had risen to look for a Ford Anglia, and we were afraid that she might be trying to get through. I talked wildly of giving ourselves up, in the hope that we would draw the police off and let her slip through with her piece of the Stone, but fortunately Alan’s wiser counsel prevailed.
As we drove into Newcastle, a town named by an English king when he built a fortress there to keep his borders against our forefathers, I reflected that it had been of little use against us this Christmas. We were in no mood however for sustained historical reminiscences, as we were yet again starving. We drove up to the station and had a meal in the buffet. While we were eating Alan went to the bookstall and bought the local evening paper in which we saw the headline ‘STONE: SCOTS AWAIT ARRIVAL’. Then we read how a party of Scottish Nationalists was waiting on the Border to convoy the Stone across. We laughed at the fantasy, but we were delighted at the press we were getting.
When we had finished eating, I again telephoned Bill, but he had gone out. Our worry for Kay was now very great. It was 36 hours since she had trundled off with her part of the Stone, and she had not been heard of since. Not all houses had telephones, and she might be all right. On the other hand, if she were playing cat and mouse with the police in the Anglia, we ought to know about it, and perhaps create a diversion. The press were the obvious people to help, so I telephoned the newsroom of the Bulletin. After all, they had started us on our journey by printing that photograph of Wendy Wood 20 years before. They owed me some information.
‘Any news about the Stone?’ I asked.
‘Nothing new,’ replied the reporter.
‘Any arrests?’ I asked.
‘No, none,’ he said.
‘Thank God for that,’ I said, and then heard a flicker of interest in his voice.
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘It’s one of the crew who took it,’ I told him. ‘I’m phoning from Newcastle station.’
The man was excited, and questioned me about the whereabouts of the Stone. ‘You don’t expect me to answer that!’ I asked indignantly, but I told him that it was safe in Scotland, having left Newcastle six hours earlier. Then I rang off.
From my knowledge of the press, I thought that they might print the story, but it was unlikely that they would tell the police beforehand. If they had something, they would not want to share it with anyone, and we would be across the Border before the police could concentrate all their people on the east side, perhaps giving Kay the chance to slip through on the west. The Bulletin did print the story. They said that I spoke without trace of an accent. Since I speak broad Paisley, and there is only one broader in all Scotland, and that’s Barrhead, I can guess where yon reporter came from.
We put as much distance between us and Newcastle station as we could, since we felt certain that the police would take some action on our call, even if it was later rather than sooner. Whatever action they took, if any, was not apparent to us. Perhaps they were beginning to see the futility of getting anything other than abuse and laughter from any Scots they stopped. North of Morpeth we did not see a single police patrol, and Berwick, the Border town, seemed empty of police as we drove through.
We crossed the Border about ten o’clock with a marvellous feeling of relief. The very trees and hedges seemed more friendly, and we knew that if we were ever hard pressed we would only have to knock on a door and a friend would open it. All Scotland was our fireside, and every Scotsman was our kin. Idly I thought of the last verses of ‘Edinbane’, and wondered if I would ever travel to Scotland and meet with closed doors and sour faces. I quoted to myself:
Though I know that time must sever
Every friendship, every tie,
Yet I’m sure the years will never
Change my welcoming in Skye.
Must a day come long hereafter
When I’ll travel sure in vain,
When I’ll hear no lilt of laughter
From the Inn at Edinbane?
That night the whole of Scotland was Edinbane and we could sense the warmth and laughter.
Chapter Seventeen
This was Scotland, but it was not home. Fifty-seven miles lay between us and Edinburgh; Glasgow was 47 miles beyond that. Our feeling of security that we were back across the Border was a false one, but it was comforting nonetheless. Scotland has its own system of law, and its criminal law is quite different from England’s. I assured Alan that now we were in Scotland we would have the whole resources of Scottish Law to assist us against England. Alan doubted my knowledge of the law. I had doubts about it myself. Still, if anyone ever thinks that we are not two separate countries, let him have a pint in Coldstream, and then walk across the bridge over the Tweed and have another in Cornhill. It’s not just the beer that’s different.
The excitement of being back from a different country quickly died. It is a beautiful road from Berwick to Edinburgh, but it was black dark and icy so we could not appreciate it. Shortly after midnight we arrived in Edinburgh. A thin freezing rain was falling and the streets gleamed wickedly. We were tired again, almost beyond speech. Our words fell slowly from slack lips, and we stared for many seconds before our senses perceived anything, yet we felt some quickening of the spirit as we came to Princes Street. The gardens were dark on our left, but high above them hung quivering, mysterious and unbodied the great bulk of the Castle. Down the High Street, crowded gable upon gable, were the ancient houses of the capital of Scotland. It was an empty capital waiting for the clash and clamour of the glory of life to be breathed back into it, but it was our capital nonetheless.
Up there on the hill the Scottish Estates had met and passed legislation far in advance of its time. The General Assemblies had convened and dethroned a queen, and made a king, and driven out an invader. John Knox had walked these very streets shouting for reform. ‘There shall be a school in every parish, and everyone shall have the right to a university education,’ he had thundered. It took 50 years for that dream to come true, but it was three centuries ahead of any other country nonetheless. Up there Montrose had gone quietl
y to his death in the shadow of buildings which still stood. The Covenant of 1638 had been signed in the Greyfriars Churchyard on the other side of the hill, and the Covenant of 1949 had been launched in the Assembly Hall which I could see as I drove along Princes Street. As I looked up at that close mass of Scottish history, I hoped that we too might have played our part, however small.
We wondered what our fellow countrymen were thinking about, and paused to buy the papers to see. We sat under a lamp post reading the early morning street editions of the papers. We were still full front page headline, and would remain there for weeks. The reports were not hostile, and we were delighted with them. English officialdom had risen to the bait and was very indignant. There was much talk of sacrilege. Did they still hang people for sacrilege? It was obvious that there was a great deal of ruffled ermine at Westminster. That would be a favour to them. Complacency is bad for the arteries. The Dean’s Christmas had been ruined. That was a pity, but it would teach him to be more careful when he meddled with stolen goods. We put away the papers and drove on. Things were simmering nicely.
Alan drove out of Edinburgh, and as we went through Corstorphine I again felt on the verge of collapse.
‘Look out! Swerve! Swerve!’ I suddenly shouted at him. I had a vivid hallucination that an old woman was hiding behind a lamp post waiting to throw herself under the car. The fright wakened us a little. Occasionally I sank into a dream and came near to the long foreshore of sleep, where nothing matters; occasionally we would talk, but each word had to be formed separately. Driving was an automatic chain of reactions, which sometimes went wrong, but never badly wrong. We were aiming for Alan’s home on the outskirts of Barrhead.