An Ancient Strife

by Michael Phillips

  Kirk Luddington of BBC 2, even more determined to be the first journalist to uncover the real story since the incident with Rawlings in their editor’s office, had spent a small fortune on informants in the attempt to trace Trentham’s steps, but with only sketchy results.

  Most of Trentham’s parliamentary associates did not believe the reports and innuendoes that were mounting hourly in one tabloid after another. Yet it could truthfully be said that a good many of them did wonder what was going on inside the Cumbrian MP’s head.

  Those closest to the situation rigorously denied any allegations in the directions of scandal, mysticism, stress, lunacy, or religion. Yet none were absolutely sure quite what was going on with the LibDem leader. And Fraser-Smythe had admitted off the record that, yes, there were peculiarities he had noticed lately. Trentham had behaved with a certain detachment, saying odd things, quoting poetry, dropping enigmatic historical references to ancient men and women, most of whom he had never heard of.

  And now, with the second reading, debate, and division imminent, the Honorable Gentleman from Cumbria seemed to have disappeared from London without a trace, exacerbating rumor and speculation to greatly heightened levels. Could a second LibDem leader be doomed to the same fate as Eagon Hamilton? suggested one of the seamier rags. Was a new parliamentary scandal brewing? Or had perhaps Trentham been more involved in the previous affair than was known at the time?

  Not only was the critical approaching vote newsworthy in its own right, a genuine uncertainty existed concerning the outcome: The critical block of deciding votes was held by an MP no one had seen hide nor hair of in five days!

  Most of the vote on the matter was well established by now and had been running in the papers and television broadcasts all week. Labour was solidly together with the Scottish Nationalists, with but a handful of defections, but the Ulster MPs were against the bill, along with all but five of the Conservatives. The four Welsh Plaid Cymru members seemed to be leaning toward dividing on the Labour side, and the three votes of the SDL seemed a solid yea, while the Democratic Unionists would clearly be against the measure. The aye votes appeared to stand, therefore, between 310 and 315, and the nays between 292 and 297. Both sides were well short of the 326 needed for a majority.

  Home rule for Scotland would therefore indeed be decided by the Liberal Democrats, as would the future of Richard Barraclough’s government.

  But still no one had seen the Liberal Democrat leader.

  No one even knew for certain if he was back in London, although it was being circulated through the chamber that he had been heard from and was on his way toward the city.

  Three

  The hour at which the House of Commons was to convene for the day approached.

  It was five minutes before the two-thirty stroke of Big Ben atop the famed tower overlooking Westminster. Inside, the noisy hubbub of men and women gradually began to gravitate and jostle toward their respective seats on the two sides of the hall. Most of the two front benches were already full with the cabinet and its shadow, while the multitude of backbenchers on both sides moved toward their positions.

  At precisely one minute before the half hour, as if the moment had been chosen for maximum impact—though in actual fact it was the traffic on London’s snarled Great Northern Circle and a last-minute telephone call that were responsible for the climactic moment of high drama—suddenly the doors opened, and in strode the Honorable Andrew Gordon Trentham.

  A hush of stunned disbelief spread through the six hundred fifty men and women present.

  The Liberal Democratic leader was fully adorned with the blue-and-green kilt of the dress Gordon tartan reaching to the middle of his kneecap, knee-high wool stockings holding a jewel-cased sgian-dubh against his right calf, and a leather sporran with hanging horsetail hair swinging from the front of his kilt as he walked, dress Argyle jacket of solid light green wool and silver buttons, and a matching Glengarry bonnet atop his head.

  For a moment time seemed to stand still. Every man and woman in the chamber was spellbound.

  Andrew strode purposefully forward, the cadence of his step the only sound, nodded respectfully toward the speaker, the prime minister, and Archibald Craye of the opposition, then finally proceeded to take his seat with his Liberal Democratic colleagues.

  The palpable silence lasted but a few seconds.

  Suddenly Dugald MacKinnon of the SNP was on his feet. His prophecy had been fulfilled. Their new hero had come!

  He burst into applause. His small contingent of Scottish Nationalists now stood with him. A clapping of hands erupted, followed by their cheers. More MPs entered into the ovation, joined now by spectators from the public gallery.

  Bedlam broke out.

  A great scurrying from the reporters’ gallery above the speaker’s seat gave indication that the biggest news story in all Europe, perhaps all the world, had just exploded wide open.

  One look at Andrew Trentham’s face told all. It had been almost three centuries since the Act of Union between England and Scotland in 1707.

  And now the Scots were about to have their independence again!

  Four

  Far to the north, in a small Highland village known by the name Ballochallater, a breeze had recently sprung up, signaling that the afternoon was on the wane.

  It was not the weather that was on the mind of a certain Finlaggan Gordon, however, but the astonishing news to which he was listening on the telephone from a friend in Edinburgh at that very moment.

  “But there canna weel be time,” he now said.

  The voice at the other end of the line, talking excitedly and hurriedly, replied. Gordon glanced to his right at the clock on the wall as he listened.

  The voice completed its plea. Gordon was silent a moment, thinking.

  “Weel,” he said at length, “we’ll see aboot it—ye say he’s leaving from Auld Reekie at six?”

  The caller spoke a brief clarification.

  “Ay—six sharp. Gien we come, we winna be late.”

  Gordon hung up the phone and hastened immediately in search of wife, daughter, and son.

  “Ye winna believe what I hae t’ tell ye,” he said the moment he saw Ginny. “’Twas Angus MacLeod on the telephone, an’ jist as I’ve been tellin’ ye, it seems ye might hae been a bit hard in yer jeedgment o’ oor frien’ frae last year wha called himsel’ Trent.”

  “What is it, Papa?” asked Ginny. She knew from the tone of her father’s voice that the call had been serious.

  “Sit ye all doon,” he replied, glancing about as now his wife and Shorty also approached. “I’ll tell ye. But we got t’ make it fast, ’cause Angus has a frien’ wha has a plane fuelin’ in the reekin’ city as we speak, an’ gien ony o’ ye’re gaein’ wi’ me, we haena a second t’ spare.”

  “Papa, what are ye talkin’ aboot?” persisted Ginny.

  “Kennin’ that ye’re a mite more darin’ ahind the wheel than me or Shorty,” said the laird, “I’m askin’ ye, Ginny, gien ye’re finally ready t’ put away the nonsense o’ yer anger aboot Andrew Trentham, an’ then hoo fast ye can drive us t’ Edinburgh—an’ git us there in one piece!”

  Five

  Frantically Paddy Rawlings fumbled with her earring. But her fingers were too sweaty and trembling to make the tiny thing behave.

  There!—she had it.

  Now for a last check of her makeup and outfit.

  She looked herself over in the mirror, up and down from head to feet. She had worn this navy blue suit only once before. She was so flustered she could hardly get the jacket on. She had to stop perspiring, or her blouse would cling. She couldn’t wipe the beads of moisture from her forehead or she would smear her foundation.

  “Bill . . . Bill, come in here,” she called out. “—How do I look . . . is everything okay?”

  “Smashing—you’ll knock ’em dead,” replied Rawlings, walking in and glancing over her shoulder into the mirror. “Just don’t let anyone see that you’re nervo
us.”

  “Yeah, right . . . thanks for nothing!”

  “Come on, Paddy—you look terrific,” he added, kissing the back of her neck.

  “I wish I felt terrific,” she sighed.

  Paddy turned her attention again to the mirror for a last check. They would make her face over, of course, before she stepped in front of the lights and the camera, but she wanted to arrive on the scene looking as much the part as possible.

  She had hardly believed her ears when she answered the phone at her desk four and a half hours ago—a few minutes after two earlier in the day.

  “Paddy,” said the familiar voice she knew in an instant, “—it’s Andrew Trentham. Do you still want that story I promised you last year?”

  “Why . . . why—yes, of course, Andrew,” she answered. “What’s up? Where are you?”

  “All I can say is, stay near your phone. Today’s the day.”

  “What should I do?” she asked, unable to hide her excitement.

  “Just be around. I’ll try to get word to you,” he said. “But if I can’t . . . well, as I said, just be around.”

  Paddy hung up the receiver with shaking hand. For the remainder of the afternoon she was unable to concentrate on her duties with any attention at all and remained altogether oblivious to the commotion, phone calls, and comings and goings around Edward Pilkington’s office. The fact that she did not see Kirk Luddington all afternoon scarcely occurred to her.

  By five forty-five, still having heard nothing further from Andrew, she began to grow anxious.

  She rose and walked toward Pilkington’s office. For one of the few times in this extraordinarily busy day, her boss was alone and awaiting the six o’clock news hour, hoping nothing would happen now that would be too late to make the early broadcast.

  “What is it, Rawlings?” he asked.

  “That story I told you about several months ago,” she said, “it could be anytime, maybe even later this evening.”

  “What story?”

  “On Andrew Trentham—the up close and personal inside look.”

  “I’m afraid you’re too late,” he said with a smile of sympathetic irony.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “That’s everyone’s story now,” he replied. “Every journalist in London is waiting for it to break.”

  “I don’t . . .” said Paddy in a confused voice, “—what do . . . I don’t understand you.”

  “Don’t you know what’s going on, Rawlings?”

  “No, I don’t suppose I do.”

  “The whole country’s flocking to Westminster.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Because of your friend Trentham. The thing’s about to explode wide open. Commons is debating right now, and the vote will come sometime this evening.”

  “You promised to give me a chance on camera.”

  “I gave you that shot in November with the announcement of Ramsey’s arrest. Besides, what I said when we first discussed it was that I would put you on camera if you brought me something no one else had,” rejoined Pilkington. “Everyone’s going to have this Trentham story before the night’s out.”

  As the truth began to dawn on her that she was waiting at the wrong place, Paddy half turned to go. Then she caught herself. She would not give up so easily.

  “But this is my story,” she said. “Mr. Trentham said he would give me an exclusive.”

  “When did he tell you that?” asked Pilkington, leaning forward imperceptibly with suddenly heightened interest.

  “Earlier this afternoon—about two.”

  “Today?”

  Paddy nodded.

  The newsman sat back, screwing his face into an expression of hurried mental regrouping. This was a twist he hadn’t expected. “All right,” he said after a pause, “maybe you will get another chance in front of the lights after all.”

  “Is a cameraman ready?” asked Paddy, her mind jumping into action.

  “Our whole film crew is already over there, Rawlings. Don’t you understand? This thing has been building for hours.”

  “Then I’m on my way!” she said, spinning the rest of the way around and taking several quick strides toward the door.

  “Not so fast, Rawlings,” called out Pilkington behind her. “You’re not going in front of any camera of mine looking like that. Get yourself to your flat, take a cold shower, calm down, and then put on your best. If you’re on the level with what you’ve told me, the whole world will be watching. If you’re lucky, the climax will wait for you.”

  “You’ll notify them that the story’s mine?”

  Pilkington nodded.

  “You just get over to Parliament Square within an hour—Kirk is already there. If it breaks before you get there, I won’t be able to keep him from doing the lead.”

  “I’ll be there,” she said. “Just remember—the personal interview is mine.”

  Six

  If the scene in the chamber of the House of Commons was laden with significance when, to the incredulity of his fellows, the Honorable kilt-clad member of Parliament had walked so briskly and confidently through its doors, the spectacle in Parliament Square when Parliament dismissed some seven hours later could be described as nothing less than a pandemonium the likes of which British politics had not seen since the end of the Second World War.

  Every television station in Great Britain—and cameramen from at least fifty stations in the States—was represented. Reporters and photographers were on hand from every nation in Europe. Writers and photojournalists from newspapers and magazines of stature stood alongside those from sleazy tabloids.

  They had all expected news today—but no one had anticipated this!

  Even the highly competitive Kirk Luddington was in rare form, joking and laughing and sharing exaggerated experiences with colleagues he might have avoided on other occasions.

  Though the debate lasted only about six hours, it was time enough for news of Trentham’s dramatic entry to spread throughout London to Scotland and around the world. From his kilted appearance, no doubt remained as to how he intended to cast his vote!

  All afternoon and evening, therefore, Scots had been gathering. Through London a firestorm of rumor had spread through the Scottish community—from Scotch House in Knightsbridge and on Regent’s Street to the Scottish Travel Bureau off Trafalgar Square to Scottish gift shops and grocers and thence to Scottish country dance groups and congregations of Scottish Presbyterians. Wherever there were Scots, the news spread quickly.

  Old Robert the Bruce might well have invaded for all their excitement! By the thousands they prepared to join in the march or celebration or whatever was going to happen—like the onlookers at Bannockburn who wrapped their scarves around sticks and branches and joined Bruce’s charge. No one wanted to miss out on this!

  Musty kilts and tartans, long in disuse, were dug from boxes and dusted off. . . . Scarves, sweaters, old pins and brooches and caps—anything Scottish—were brought out for the occasion. And the rest of the senses were brought into the celebration too. Bagpipes and pennywhistles began to be heard throughout the city. Oatcakes and shortbread, twelve-year-old Glenfiddich and ran Mór and Columba Cream flowed off the shelves of markets in a flood as Scots made ready to unleash their festive mood.

  About the dinner hour they began to descend upon the center of Westminster and continued to fill the underground and buses and taxis in greater and greater numbers as the evening progressed.

  The London regiment of the 144th Division of the Royal Highlanders had been notified and was on hand in full regalia, as were the 98th Pipe and Drum Corp and the Southern England Highlanders and nearly every Scottish organization in the south of England, from a regiment of the Gordon Highlanders to the pipe band of the Royal Scots Guard. The musicians Alistair MacDonald, the Alexander Brothers, and Valerie Dunbar had all flown in and were strumming and singing and entertaining the crowd.

  Though the vast majority of those gathering were Lon
don Scots, across the nation phone and fax lines were operating at full capacity. Shortly after news broke of Trentham’s entry into Parliament, therefore, great crowds began flying, driving, and riding on buses and trains down from the north. Every available flight from all major and minor Scottish airports was full, and tremendous standby lines clogged the terminals. The situation was the same at train and bus stations, though most of those travelers could not hope now to get to London before evening.

  Everyone with a drop of blood—real or imaginary—linking them to the most insignificant scion of the Scottish royal house or to the chieftainship of any clan sought means to get themselves to the city, that their presence might do its part to seal and sanction the great cause of Scotland. Not a private plane or charter was left on the ground north of the Solway or the Tweed after about seven o’clock that evening.

  The single message melting the telephone lines to the north was a simple one: Come to London however you can get here! Bannockburn is about to happen all over again!

  At least five hundred bagpipers from across Britain, representing nearly a hundred clans and septs, had joined together, clad in their multicolored kilts, prepared to sound out to the strains of “Scotland the Brave” with such vigor that they would be heard up and down the Thames, maybe all the way to St. Paul’s.

  Certainly they would be heard by the thousands of Scots who now filled the grounds of St. Margaret’s and Westminster Abbey and lined the sidewalks all the way across both sides of Westminster Bridge, down Parliament and Whitehall Streets to Downing Street, and spreading along Great George Street as far as St. James’s Park. What unsuspecting tourists happened to be out were soon overwhelmed by the colorful, boisterous throng.