Clan Wallace

The sun was going doon when Gran-da pointed doon a lane and told me to park up. I was surprised and a wee bit sad to see a cemetery; surprised because I’d driven along that road many times and didnae know there was a cemetery here. A well-kept one at that, not like they ones you often see scattered around the country looking like forgotten middens with their slanted headstones rubbed by time. No, this one was like one they ones in America, well-spaced white gravestones which looked new, neatly mown grass, a tall white cross in the centre radiating out like a sun, yew trees that looked old and wise.

‘This way,’ Gran-da said, using his stick to help him crunch up the gravel path.

I followed him through the gate and past a sign that read ‘War Graves’. It was sort of official looking but sort of not. I scanned a few of the headstones, names like MacDonald and Strachan, the usual dates of the fallen; 1942, 1916. Then some plaques with dates which are only significant to some of us; 1715, 1547. Flags hung limp by some of the graves, fresh flowers on others.

Like I said, I was a wee bit sad, thinking Gran-da was going to point out a plot he wanted. He was still vigorous with the Party, mind, even at 90 he gave as good as he got, but we’d all noticed him slowing doon, albeit with that glint in his eye that oor family hid hid for at least a millennium. He was up ahead on the path, leading as he’d always done, and motioned for me to catch up.

‘When they caught Sir William, you’ll remember, they lashed his ankle to a cart, dragged him off, bumping him through Berwick and the like, to howls and jeers, all the way doon tae London!’

Beyond the trees the sun was setting, the air was full of summer. We were following the path which orbited the cross in the middle. I wondered what it looked like from above, this graveyard, a large eye perhaps.

‘And despite their kangaroo court, and more mocking and jeering and hanging Sir William, long after his being drawn and quartered, and splaying his remains for all to see, in their haste and excitement and stupidity, they forgot something.’

I was well familiar with Gran-da’s story, renditions of it usually came oot at our family gatherings, the ones behind closed doors, amidst howls and whisky fumes. But it was odd Gran-da was bringing it up now, in the light of day, or at least the fading summer light of day. Rooted in the past but acting in the present; that was Gran-da’s motto, and normally he was as pragmatic as the rest of them, whether it was policy on broadband roll out or equal rights.

‘Ah know Gran-da, they didnae create a shrine they created a legend instead,’ I smiled, putting my arm around him.

‘Aye, something they forget though,’ Gran-da was looking around now. We were alone in the cemetery, only the rush of cars back on the main road and evening tweets from the trees. On the other side of the fence, I think, a path ran away into the dark woods. The squat tombstones cast long shadows, and Gran-da seemed to measure the spot where he stopped, pulling me towards him and facing inward towards the cross. ‘That day in their excitement to get their noose round Sir William’s ankle, their fists in his face, their hands on his clathes,’ Gran-da’s grip tightened around my shoulder, ‘they forgot his sword.’

I nodded. It was true. ‘Shame it never turned up, but,’ thinking of the precious little we had of that time. I went to move on but Gran-da’s grip was strong and suddenly I felt under the yoke not of an old man, but a powerful clan.

‘It was found,’ he said, ‘been kept it in the Wallace family ever since, and you know what they say, if you want tae hide something, leave it plain sight.’

He held me there angled towards the sculpted crucifix and though he’d released me, his footsteps crunching away, I was rooted to that spot staring at the cross’s inner etching which was not an etching at all, but a huge war sword set proud, right in the heart of this place.