The Ned Wood Archive

All of the strange things circulating round

So, my trip back home. Back from the South Atlantic. It was slow and a bit self indulgent. After touring a couple of South American dictatorships and sailing between them looking at rocks – actually mud rather than rock – I got back to Blighty. Chile was stuck with the fascists for a few more years, but Brazil was moving in the right direction. I like to think that I did my bit to end military rule by waving my Botafogo flag at the Maracanã and shouting “Thatcher Out” from the top of Corcovado. Guess I just didn’t do enough on San Cristobal in Santiago.

I got back to the UK just in time to see the mighty Joy Division at the Lyceum in the fair city of London at the end of February. Strange to look back and think that I just rocked up at the door and paid my way in. You’d have to pay a tout more than a few hundred quid to see Joy Division these days. I resisted the temptation to raid London’s record shops for all the albums that had been released since I’d left; however, I did spend a couple of pleasant days wandering round the metropolis with one of my brother’s more attractive flatmates. Other than that, I slept, getting over jet lag that weekend. I completely failed to go to Southampton on the Monday as I’d arranged so left Jo and the gang kicking their heels in the coffee bar wondering where I’d got to. I slept in. Something I still haven’t heard the end of. If it’s any consolation, Jo, I also contrived to miss the European Cup Quarter Final on my journey north. Forest lost 1-0 … so not quite as good as the previous year.

I’d also arranged to see Elsa in Manchester and Dusty in Preston as they were both on the way, more or less. Els took me to see Peter Gabriel at the Apollo one night and Bette Midler in “The Rose” the next. Or maybe the other way round. The Rose is apparently based on Elsa’s own life spent sinning in various clubs, dives, nightspots, and speakeasies. Sorry, Els, I meant singing in various clubs, dives, and so on. A typo, duck! Honest. And Dusty threw a party that lasted all night just for my benefit and everybody drank a lot of something nice. In my case, plenty of tea.

I must have got back to Edinburgh on the Friday. On the Saturday, a very excited Gavin Buchanan caught me at breakfast in the kitchen and told me I absolutely had to see what he’d found. And, no it couldn’t wait. However, I insisted on having my second slice of toast and my second cup of tea before I agreed to follow him out to examine his treasure. Apparently, he’d been exploring while I was away and had stumbled across something Very Important. Also, something he didn’t want to share with Pete yet.

Did I tell you Pete moved out while I was away? It appears he upped and left one weekend. I’ll get on to that.

Anyway, Gav drags me across the Meadows, through George Square, over to Teviot, and into the library. That was a great place, that library. Like a secret place for us. I couldn’t understand why no-one else went there. It was so cool. All those big old books to read and those big old leather chairs to curl up in and so quiet, you could just sit and read all night of you wanted to. If only they had a kettle and a teapot.

“I came in here one evening and was just nosing around, looking at various books, when I found this one old volume that you need to have a look at,” he tells me.

There are books in shelves all around the library, plus cases full of them up on the mezzanine. I look at him to get an idea of where this precious book of his was located.

“It was in a wee room, just off to the side. Not really a room, more like a large press… I thought it was on this wall.”

I look at each wall in turn, upstairs and downstairs, but can’t see anything. I mean, no openings, no doors concealing hidden openings, no hidden shelves, no presses, nothing. Just books. Gav walks round looking at each of the bookcases. Most of them glass fronted, really fancy bookcases. I can’t remember ever actually reading any of the books in the library myself. Could you even get hold of them or were the cases locked? I know that in the libraries back in Southampton and Imperial you could help yourself to any book in the library and walk out with it, especially in the department libraries, so I merely assumed you could do the same at Teviot. I never tried it though. And now Gav is trying to tell me that there is a book here I need to see, if only he can find it. I can see his brain working underneath that curly red mop of his. He’s looking in each direction, his right forefinger pointing backwards and forwards, mentally crossing each set of books off his list of possibilities. He goes up to a couple of the fireplaces and pushes at the wooden panelling as if he expects it to give way. He gives me an embarrassed half smile.

“I’ll remember where it is in a minute…”

But he doesn’t. We sit down on the leather chairs and I ask him to tell me a bit about it.

“There was this beautifully bound book. About this big,” he tells me, holding his palms to indicate the size: about one foot three wide and nearly two foot high. Big enough that you’d have to put it on a table to read.

“So you had to lay it down to read it, then?” I ask, hoping this’ll help him remember where he laid it down.

“Yeah, I put it on the stand – you know: lectern or whatever, next to the shelf.”

We both look around and confirm to ourselves that there is no stand, no lectern, no podium or support of any kind. Only a couple of small tables. I raise an eyebrow as if to say ‘are you sure?’ My Spock look.

“It was leather bound. Deep, dark red leather. Written in latin. Of course I don’t know latin. Only a few words. You can work out some of the meaning though.

“But it was illustrated. Painted. Like those old bibles. Or the Book of Kells. D’ye ken the Book of Kells?

“The key thing is, there was this picture of a king with all of his robes and sceptres and paraphernalia. And he was sitting on a solid chair or throne that looked like it could actually be a lump of rock. And that lump of rock had the image of a stone on the front. As clear as day.

“I remember the words “gladius lapis” or something. In other words “sword stone” or “stone of the sword” or “sword on the stone” or something. You need to check the grammar and all that to know exactly. And also “lapis super mare” which means stone on the sea or something.”

“I know – like Weston Super Mare down near Bristol.”

“Same meaning. And something about it being extraneous – not from round here. I wrote it down somewhere…”

“So that’s your old myth right there. About the Stone of Scone coming from Ireland with the Scots. This book of yours is repeating the old story. Or maybe that’s the book that invented the story. It doesn’t add anything. And ‘super mare’ is ‘on sea’: Weston-on-Sea.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s not just repeating the story. What it adds is the sword. The stone has a sword on it. Which is where you get your King Arthur myth. Pete’s going to be so disappointed when we tell him.”

Well, he never did find that book. Did I believe him? Truth is, Gav couldn’t make something like that up. He wasn’t that sort of person. I mean, he could make stuff up, but he couldn’t carry off a wind up or a joke for that long. Even when he told a simple joke in the flat, he’d end up giggling that short hesitant half giggle of his that sounded like a two stroke engine dying and give himself away. He hadn’t got the self confidence to see it through. Second thing is, he was desperate to put something over on Pete, but he could only do that with proof. Now Pete could wind up anyone and he could carry on that wind up all weekend or even from week to week if need be. That continuous reinvention of himself and the world around him was how Pete dealt with his own self confidence issues. Putting on a big brave front. Making himself believe it. I could see through it but Gav couldn’t. Poor old Gav took everything Pete said personally which only encouraged Pete. I mean, I liked Pete. I thought he was basically OK, but I wished he’d row back on the jesting sometimes.

So I was sworn to secrecy about the book as far as talking to Pete was concerned, at least until Gav could find it again.

That evening, I got Gav to show me the notes he’d copied down from the book, to try and keep him happy. He’d written out what he could decipher of the latin phrases he’d told me and he’d done a quick sketch of that picture with the stone under the throne. Truth is, he was no better an artist than I am, so his sketch was just a stick man sitting in a chair; however, Gav had put a wee bit more effort into drawing the stone. He’d drawn it between the lower legs of the stick man, like a rectangular box. On the front was clearly a sword, handle to the left, “hilt” if you want to be pedantic, blade to the right, the sword slightly off the horizontal, maybe tilted at 15 degrees up at the right, the long blade pointing towards the bloke’s left knee.

“See, here,” says Gav, “the blade is wider than the hilt and the cross guard between blade and hilt is fairly small, but definitely there. It’s clearly a sword not some other decoration or part of the throne.”

“Well, Gav,” I tell him, “I’m looking forward to seeing this book. I’m sure it’ll be there waiting next time I go to Teviot.”

“Och, don’t laugh, Ned,” he replied. “It was there, right enough.”

As it turned out, we didn’t have long to wait before putting our vow of silence with regard to Pete to the test. Like a bad penny, he turned up one evening soon afterwards. He was singing about ice and snow and midnight sun and hot springs flowing. Turns out he’s discovered his viking ancestry. Or, possibly, invented his own viking ancestry. Whichever. He’d even invented a new name for himself. Or, rather, a new way of writing his name. It looks like a broken down disused wooden fence like the one round the old sports ground with the slats at an angle or completely missing that you could crawl through when you wanted a kickabout. Pete says, no, it isn’t a fence and that isn’t a gate. It’s a sequence of runes.

“So, you’re a Viking come to rape and pillage now, are you?” We ask. Actually, I do the asking. Gav is silent. I’m asking on Gav’s behalf. “Did King Arthur banish you from the old round table? What was it: not sufficiently gallant in the presence of gentle women?”

“No. Both Vikings and King Arthur’s knights were noble, valiant men; but the truth is, those of us blessed with Yorkshire heritage are obviously more likely to be descended from vikings rather than ancient Brits.”

So, he’d left the lady in the lake and the sword in the stone and all that jazz behind him.

But we hadn’t. At least that irksome stone hadn’t left us alone. A couple of weeks or so later, I was on my way back from a ramble down town, walking along George IV Bridge, past those magnificent library buildings. I may have gone into the classical record shop on the right. Not something I did that often, but I did once or twice buy a couple of LPs there. Sibelius, that sort of jazz. Just sauntering along, not aiming to get anything much done. If I recall, there was a stationery shop or something similar as well. And those old churches on both sides. One thing you need to remember in Edinburgh is always to look up. Some of the architecture along that road is wonderful. Some of it. But, then there’s the vacant lot on Chambers Street. Someone is waiting for inspiration, no doubt.

However, I haven’t got as far as that patch of scrubland or the wee brass dog opposite, when I notice a new place. Not as in newly built, but new as in I hadn’t spotted it before. Which was a bit weird seeing as I must have been passed a few times. Ten times, maybe fifteen times by then? It looked like someone’s entrance hall. Looking around, there were a couple of tall potted plants standing on a tiled floor. Small, clean, black and white tiles, so it wasn’t just any entrance hall. There were a couple of bookcases there too. It was a second hand book shop, so I really should have noticed it before. A magnificent second hand book shop. Three floors of pokey rooms with old books in them. And the landing on each floor was tiled in the same black and white way, and had as many tall green plants. Heaven. Worth spending a good couple of hours in.

So I do spend some time in there, nosing round each room. Just looking at old books. Paperbacks. Picture books. Sports books. Novels. History books. Music books. Dusty books. Even a couple of cobwebbed books. No one else is around, so I take my time, pulling books off various shelves, browsing. Going up the stairs, the floorboards creaking is the only noise. There’s a room with an armchair in it and sets of old novels. Dickens, Scott, Trollope, and more. Bound in different styles. Golden browns. Deep dark greens. Rich maroons. One day, I’ll get myself a place with my own library so I can fill it with books like these. A library with glass fronted bookcases and a mezzanine. Just like the one in Teviot Row.

On the next floor up, the ceilings aren’t as high and the rooms feel more cramped. The books aren’t stacked or shelved as neatly, so it seems no-one comes up here much. The windows are smaller too. I’m thinking that there won’t be that much of use up here, but, as I’m checking the last room on the left, I notice a couple of massive volumes laying flat on a table and I remember what Gav was saying and the book he supposedly found. These two are about the size he’d said his was. They’re bound in a light brown leather with four or five ribs across the spine like ropes to bind the books closed so that their secrets don’t get out. Dark lettering between a couple of the ribs that’s faded and falling off as if the author is embarrassed to be identified. But you can guess the title from combining the two sets of letters. “Wentworth’s History of England”, Volumes I and II.

I open the top one and there’s a piece of paper telling me I can own the pair for the princely sum of 52 pounds and 10 shillings. When I look through the contents, I start to wish I did carry around that sort of money with me, including the shillings. There is a section on Anglo Saxon monuments. Crosses built out of stone. There’s one at Eyam and another at Bewcastle and a couple at Sandbach and something called the Gosforth Viking Anglo-Saxon Cross which is either Viking or Anglo-Saxon, but surely not both. Most of these crosses are decorated with runes or those Anglo Saxon swirls and whorls, but one or two have drawings. Angels on one and a crucifixion scene on another. And then there is one in a small village churchyard in the Peak District that shows a king being crowned. And it really does look like the king is sitting on a stone. And, because I know you and you will already have guessed what comes next, but that stone really does have a sword pictured on it. And the sword is at about 15 degrees off the horizontal, rising up to the right hand side of the image.

I close the book, lodging the fifty pound (and fifty bob) price tag in the book to mark the picture, and put the pair on a shelf behind the door thinking this will reduce the chances of anyone moving or (worse) buying them before I’ve had a chance to bring Gav back to see what I’ve found. I plan to fetch him as quickly as possible, so I hastily walk out of the room and head for what I think is the staircase. But, as I go down, I start to suspect that I’m in a new part of the building because I don’t recognise the old paintings, drawings, posters, and stuff on the walls. There are a couple of doors that I go through, but nothing looks familiar, so I go round once more and up and down stairs, but still don’t recognize anything. Then, through one last door, I find myself outside, at the top of a fire escape. I reckon this’ll take me down to Grassmarket or Candlemaker Row. Strange thing is though, when I get to the bottom of the fire escape there is more green in front of me than I expected. A patch of grass. A hedge. Trees. Tennis courts. A playground. Then I recognize where I am. I’ve come out at the back end of the meadows, at the Royal Dick end. How did that happen?

And I probably don’t need to tell you that I never found that bookshop again. And Gav never believed me when I told him about it.