Unbearable Lightness of Scones

74. The Jacobite Rally

The Braid Hills Hotel, of course, was more than a mere hotel – it was a symbol. Perched on the brow of a hill, it looked down over the rooftops of Morningside to the city and the hills of Fife beyond. It was solid, imperturbable, reassuring – always there, as was the Castle itself in the distance, and it spoke of the values that created the city that lay before it. Like the Dominion Cinema, it had not changed much – a fact that was much appreciated by those who used it. There was far too much change in the world, and fantoosh hotels and glitzy cinemas would come and go. What people wanted was places that had always been there, places they could trust, places that had become deeply embedded in the folk memory.

It had been the scene of many important events over the years: weddings, funeral teas, Rotary Club dinners and so on; and many people had individual memories of these occasions which would be triggered as they looked up at the hotel from the road below. For Betty Dunbarton, for instance, relict of the late Ramsey Dunbarton WS, the glimpse of the Braid Hills Hotel afforded her as she drove out each Friday to lunch with her friend Peggy Feggie, in Fairmilehead, reminded her of the evening when she and Ramsey had dined there after the last performance of The Gondoliers at the Church Hill Theatre. Ramsey had played the role of the Duke of Plaza-Toro with great distinction and had ordered a bottle of champagne to mark the end of the run. And then, just as they embarked on their meal, the doors of the dining room had opened to admit the rest of the cast, who had decided to have their last-night dinner in the same place. Ramsey had looked surprised, and then embarrassed, and she had said, “But my dear, did you not know that there would be a cast party?” Without hesitation he had replied, “Of course I did, my dear, But I chose to dine with you instead.”

Later that evening, as they returned home, he had said, “I have to tell you, my dear, that I have lied to you. I did not know that there was to be a party. They did not invite me. I did not want you to be hurt.”

It was only the second time he had lied to his wife – and on both occasions he had done so to avoid causing her hurt or embarrassment. The first occasion had been when they were engaged and they had gone for a walk down at Cramond. They had seen the Gardyloo, the boat then used to take sewage out to sea, and she had asked, “What is that odd-looking boat carrying, Ramsey?” And he had told her that it must be gravel, going over to Fife, in order that he should not have to tell her its true mission. Two white lies – both of which had been confessed, and both forgiven.

But the occasion to which the Braid Hills Hotel was now unwittingly playing host was of a very different nature. As Angus and Matthew arrived in the bar with Big Lou, a small group of Jacobites were already there. Lou recognised some of them as friends of Robbie, and nodded a greeting, but did not join them. Angus glanced at them with interest: strange specimens, he thought – that character Michael and his ridiculous spotty acolyte who hung on his every word; the odd woman who claimed to be able to trace her ancestry back to the sixth century or whenever; they were a very motley group.

“I must say this is a very peculiar occasion,” said Angus to Big Lou. “Where’s the Pretender?”

“He’s going to arrive with Robbie,” explained Lou. “Then they’re going to set off from the car park. There’ll be a piper, apparently.”

A few more Jacobites had now joined the other party, which had swollen to about thirty. They all had glasses of whisky in their hands and were toasting one another enthusiastically. There was a hubbub of noise, and it was growing louder when, from outside in the car park, there arose the wail of pipes. Clutching their whisky glasses, the Jacobites all headed for the door, followed by Angus, Matthew and Big Lou.

The Pretender arrived in the side-car of an old motorbike driven by Robbie. As it made its way up the hotel drive, the Jacobites all gave a roar of welcome. Saltires were unfurled and waved above heads, as were standards bearing the lion rampant. Several home-made flags appeared with a white rose stitched upon them. The pipes continued to wail.

As the motorbike came to a halt, the top of the side-car slid back and the Pretender gingerly rose to his feet. He was wearing a tartan jacket and trews, a great white ruff around his throat, and red shoes topped with large silver buckles. When he stood up, his supporters gave a great throaty roar which sounded as if it came from a hundred throats, rather than thirty. Then the Pretender opened his mouth and shouted something, but his words were snatched away by the stiff breeze that had blown up. Some of the Jacobites leaned forward, trying to make out what he said, others merely punched the air and shouted back. Then the Pretender sat down, gave a signal to Robbie, and half closed the top of the side-car. At this point, Robbie waved to Lou, and she waved back.

The piper began to play “Will Ye No Come Back Again?” and the crowd took up the singing of the words: “Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa’…” and the motorbike moved off slowly, followed by several Jacobite children and an extraordinary tartan dog, who had appeared from nowhere. The tartan dog barked, and made a spirited attempt to bite the Pretender’s arm, now waving out of the side-car. But he was pulled away by one of the children, and the Pretender made his exit unharmed.

They did not go back into the hotel with the Jacobites, but walked slowly back to Matthew’s car, which he had parked near the end of the drive.

Angus glanced at Big Lou. “You’ll miss Robbie,” he said gently. “How long will he be away?”

She shrugged. “He hasn’t told me,” she said. “And aye, I’ll miss him.”

Matthew said nothing. He was thinking of what he had just seen. Was it real? Could such goings-on happen in a country other than Scotland? The answer was yes and no.