Stone of Destiny (17 page)

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 seen 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:

That night the whole of Scotland was Edinbane and we could sense the warmth and laughter.

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 quietly 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.

We telephoned there from Harthill, and to our intense delight Kay had been there only a few hours previously, before leaving to go to her home in Wester Ross. Overjoyed we tumbled back into the car. We were the last to make it, and despite fog, frost and ice, Alan made good time to Glasgow.

The city was like a pleasant dream. We knew it was true, but felt its unreality. I was preparing to say goodbye to Alan because I had expected to go up to my melancholy little room near Charing Cross. The bed would be unmade, there would be no fire, and the remains of my last meal would still be on the table. I was not looking forward to it. I lived like a pig, even if I preferred to grunt in comfort. I was grateful when Alan insisted that I should go out to Barrhead to spend the night at his home. We paused only to collect all the morning papers from the newsboy at the corner of Hope Street and Argyll Street. We could not read enough about ourselves.

Alan went forward to ring the bell with a great deal of fear. Here was no prodigal returned, but a criminal for whom Scotland Yard were consulting telepathists. He had wasted not his substance but his career. And no Scots father thinks lightly of his son’s career. At any moment the police might descend on the house. In at least one view of the situation he had turned a happy home into a den of thieves, where each knock on the door might be the police. Alan rang the doorbell, while I waited in the shadows ready to run away. We need not have worried. When the door opened, and the welcome of the home had fallen across
the threshold towards us, we were sucked into the security of the family, and the warmth of their happiness was wrapped like a blanket around us.