Stone of Destiny (2 page)

Most, but not all, of the action takes place in an abbey. This might be described as the desecration of altars, something the English were quick to point out, although it was they who burned our fine Border abbeys. I am now an agnostic, and I was once a Presbyterian. Presbyterians know no altars, but I respect their veneration in others. I remind my Roman Catholic friends that Westminster Abbey is in the hands of the Anglican heresy. Roman Catholics should not therefore be offended by our actions. As for Anglicans themselves. Hmmmmm! When you use your
churches to reset stolen property you’ve got it coming to you. This story is about how it came to you.

In any writing the political opinion of the writer may show through. I have tried to avoid this. I am not political in any true sense. I learned about my country from two strange sources. First was from my father’s love for the writings of Rudyard Kipling. Second, I was a wartime schoolboy. Five words of Winston Churchill are ever with me: ‘We shall defend our island.’ I fancy I heard them said. I sense a sort of forlorn quality to them. It was against all odds. As he willed us to defend our island, so we who took the Stone willed our people to defend our country. We were idealists. We were grievously young. I have never changed.

But the story of the Stone of Destiny should tell itself. This is it.

The Stone of Destiny had always been in my mind as a symbol of the continued existence of the Scottish nation. How I first learned about it is a strange story. Cranks, eccentrics and like subversives might well be encouraged by this story. These are the people who can only hope to cause ripples on the smooth surface of any society, but ripples on a pool can reach a far shore. That far and unlikely shore was our four-room semi-detached house in a Paisley suburb. I was born in one of the rooms of that house, and I grew up in it.

To that house came every day except Sunday two newspapers. One was called the
Bulletin
, and the other the
Glasgow Herald
. The
Bulletin
was the sister paper of the
Herald
, and it was directed at the sisters and wives of the
Herald
readership, so my mother read it. I was a child, newly able to read, and there were many pictures in it. What with looking at the pictures, and spelling out the text, I developed an interest in the
Bulletin
. It was edited by a secret and private Scottish patriot called J.M. Reid. He did what he could in his quiet way to keep his readers informed of Scotland, and of Scottish history. History is written by the usurpers and suppressed by them also. Even as I revise this work in December 2007 history is still not taught in our schools. I understand that there are plans to make it part of the Higher education syllabus, yet few infant and primary teachers
have the knowledge to pass it on to our children at the age I learned it at my mother’s knee. To this day, therefore, little is known by the ordinary Scot about our country’s history. Its teaching is quietly discouraged. Once it was more than quietly discouraged. It was suppressed. Any time England invaded Scotland, the invaders sought out every scrap of paper that contained the records of our country and, when they were driven back, took them south, wiping their bloody noses on our parchments. Nevertheless some of these records survived, even if they were kept in London.

To London, with their hats off, and meek words in their mouths, went some Scottish historians in the 1930s. ‘Please,’ they said, ‘could we have some of our records back?’ and, because for many years things had been quiet in Scotland, London relented. Some of the records were returned. I am not quite sure what they were. I think they were mediaeval Treasury Accounts. Whatever they were, their generous return caused a flutter of interest. We were beginning to have a history again. This is where the eccentrics and subversives come in.

Wendy Wood was one of these eccentrics. She lived her life for Scotland, and often paraded the streets as a walking billboard, announcing her views. When the Treasury Records came back, she paraded in the Royal Mile with a sandwich board, and she was photographed. The sandwich board read ‘
ENGLAND DISGORGES SOME OF THE LOOT, BUT WHERE IS THE STONE OF DESTINY
?’ J.M. Reid printed that photograph in the
Bulletin
, and I remember the big black scrawly writing to this day. I was a small boy when I saw it and I asked my mother about it.

Mothers are difficult when it comes to stamping out a nation’s history. Mothers have a race memory. My own mother never read a history book in her life, yet she had a fund of stories, and from the time I was too old to be crooned over, the stories she told were of the old Scottish folk heroes. These stories must have been passed down to her from her own mother, and so back to the roots
of time. For that simple woman, history had passed into legend, and she told me these legends. I was familiar with that sallow, smiling, thoughtful throat-slitter the Good Lord James before I could read, and Black Agnes of Dunbar seemed like some relative, not all that long dead. I can still picture her, with her black wind-blown hair and her sparkling dark eyes as she drove the English off by waving a contemptuous duster at them from her castle walls. The old Scotland lives on in many a mother’s memory. To my mother, then, I took this picture of Wendy Wood, and demanded an explanation. What was the Stone of Destiny?

She told me the story. When my brother and I fenced with our toy swords, we fought between us as to who should be Wallace, and who should be Bruce, so I understood what she said. The story she told fitted into my mind. I knew the background. I knew of the Wars of Independence. What I found difficult to understand was where London came in.

She told me how the Stone had been taken to London during these wars and never returned. She told me the older stories of how it had been brought to Argyll before the time of Saint Columba, and how since then every King of Scotland had been crowned sitting on it, until it was carried south during Edward I’s invasion of 1296. ‘And there have been among us 110 kings, and not one foreign born among them,’ she said, quoting unconsciously and accurately from the Declaration of Arbroath of 1320.

‘And why is it in London?’ the child asked.

And before it was brought to Scotland, the story went on, ignoring the question, the Scottish peoples had carried it with them as they migrated across Europe. All migrations take place westward, she said, and the Celtic peoples thought so much of the Stone that they carried it with them as the symbol of their nationality wherever they went.

‘But why,’ the question continued, ‘is it in London, and not here among the Scots?’

She swerved round the question, obviously determined that I should know the whole story, and told me that it was supposed to be Jacob’s pillow, on which he rested his head when he had the dream of the angels ascending and descending their heavenly ladder. And then she told me the ancient story from the Gaelic, in a rhyme which has remained ever with me,

‘But why . . .?’ I continued.

And then she told me that when the English had been driven out, and the battles won, and the people’s homes made secure, the English had promised to return the Stone, and had broken their promise.

A promise is sacred to a child; and a broken promise a terrible thing, long to be remembered. I remembered that broken promise all through my childhood. Something should be done to redress that old wrong.

I was little more than a child when war broke out in 1939. Yet it lasted long enough for me to grow into young manhood. I still had dreams of Scotland, and the dreams I dreamed were of a new Scotland, alive, full of ideas, and above all, full of self-confident young people unashamed of their birthright; not trying to be a subspecies of the English, but being themselves. I dreamed of a people once more fulfilling its old role as the powerhouse of ideas for the world. We had done it before, and I knew we could do it again. I had many a tussle at school to assert these principles, and then one morning, after much heart-searching, I put these ideas into an attic of my mind, and went into a recruiting office and signed up. I wanted to be a fighter pilot, and it seemed to me that this was a just war. I have never regretted the decision.

I was still a schoolboy and underage, but I was accepted for training as a pilot. Before I could be trained the war ended and my services as a pilot were no longer needed. Nevertheless, I was detained for nearly three years in the Royal Air Force, servicing aeroplanes for other people to fly. It was a bitter, lonely time, but still the dream of Scotland persisted, and when I was demobilised in 1948, the dream was still with me. I enrolled at Glasgow University, but when I tried to formulate my thoughts and convert others, I found that everyone saw Scotland only in terms of Westminster government, and what could be got from there. I wanted a Scotland which would reject Westminster utterly, but I could find no sympathisers, so I modified my ideas, and went along with the crowd. The welfare state was being created. I have never wavered in my support for the welfare state. A people who do not look after their dispossessed is a race of savages. Yet the welfare state I saw being created was a cold chill thing, run by bureaucrats, administered from London. This was nothing like what the Scots could do by themselves. I was ashamed.

Shame was what characterised the mid twentieth-century Scot. The shame was that we were not English. We had lost our sense of community. English customs, English pronunciations, English table manners were the mark of success. You were nothing if you did not speak proper, and proper was to speak with a south of England accent, or as near to it as the inherited muscles of the Scottish lips and tongue could manage. People even tried to think as the English did, and if there is one thing a people cannot do, it is to use the thought processes of another people. Most Scots thought of themselves as a sort of second-class English.

Well, I didn’t. Screw them. I would show them. Fellow Scots and English as well, I would show them. I would show the world, for that matter. There was no enmity towards the English in this and no hatred. I have sometimes made snide remarks about the English that were as unworthy of me as they were of them. These remarks concealed an admiration, which never needed concealment.
The English take their love of liberty with them wherever they go. Tom Paine made England too hot to hold him, and emigrated to the United States, where he invented the name they now bear. As in America so also in Scotland. When they come to live among us they very soon become Scots, a nationality which is open to all. But gang warily if you get under an Englishman’s skin. They are a proud people.

I had no intention in these days of ganging warily. I tripped when I tried. I still do. The only place where I can open my mouth without once again ruining my career is in the dentist’s chair. In 1950, though, I was lucky enough to meet a man after my own heart, who helped to canalise my thoughts, and who set my mind to work in a more practical fashion. He was John MacDonald MacCormick, Lord Rector of Glasgow University, an honorary office. Election to it is by the student body. He was Chairman of the Scottish Covenant Association. The Scottish Covenant of 1948, which was promoted by him, had been signed by two million Scots. It asserted the right of Scotland to a Scottish Parliament for Scottish affairs. I went along with this. I took part. Yet my ambition went far beyond any reform in our political institutions. Scotland is only a small part of the earth’s surface, and reform of our government will be just another shuffle round of the people who hold power. It is reform in our attitude that is necessary. Whatever form of government we had, I wanted us to be a nation once again.

In the community of the world, nations are the individuals. Unless each nation makes its own separate and distinct contribution, humanity will fall into one amorphous mass, degenerate, indistinct, inactive. Variety is the ideal of nature, and we Scots were losing our distinctive variety. In the Scotland of the 1940s the official address was not Scotland but North Britain. Scotland was sleeping, and ignoring the great abilities that it had always possessed, and over which we had been put on sacred guard. The soul of a nation is in its people’s keeping, and we no longer
worried about our nation’s soul. A person’s soul is a trifle. A person who spends his life worrying about his salvation is not one I greatly admire. But a nation is a different thing. When we give away our soul, we have nothing left to give.

Now these are brave words, but as a young man I had the qualifications to utter them. My prime qualification was that I did not know my place. I never have. So many Scots, forgetting that one of the great features of our history is the mobility between the classes, have lapsed into the English habit of thought best expressed in the words ‘I wouldn’t presume. I hope I know my place.’ I always presume. I have never known my place. I am the second son of a tailor from Paisley, one of Scotland’s provincial towns. Paisley will not easily forgive me for calling it that, for Paisley believes that it is the centre of the universe. Maybe it is. Certainly it was in Paisley, and in my father’s house there, that I first read Disraeli’s great words, ‘Learn to aspire.’