We have recently marked the end of a noble life: the passing of an outstanding public servant, and a splendid human being.
James Mackay was the son of a Scottish railwayman. In those days, Scots prided themselves on their education system. After all, Scotland had four universities when England had only two, which largely functioned as finishing schools for young aristocrats.
At a lower level in Scotland, good schools were accessible to lads - and lasses - o'pairts from humble backgrounds. Young James won a bursary to George Heriot's in Edinburgh, one of the merchant schools which adorned Scottish cities. (Today, until the malign influence of socialists and nationalists, educational standards have steadily fallen; a thorough-going disgrace.) From the outset, young master Mackay rocketed through the ranks. An outstanding mathematician, he could have had a stellar career in that subject, but instead, he chose the law. More rocketry ensued. He rapidly won plaudits and advancement. Within a few years, he also solved a problem for Margaret Thatcher.
The Lord Advocate, a political appointment, is the senior Scottish law officer. As 1979 approached, the incoming Tory government would have to find a candidate. That was the problem. One Scottish Tory MP was a prominent advocate: the Scots term for barrister. This fellow had a considerable reputation as a criminal lawyer and often boasted about the number of acquittals he had secured. But Nicky Fairbairn was a flamboyant character. He could function surprisingly well when half-seas over, but in the higher reaches of the Scottish legal establishment, he was not regarded as respectable: anything but. Worse still: in those days, a Lord Advocate could appoint himself to the Scottish supreme court. Almost every judge regarded this as a horrifying prospect. A delegation called on Mrs Thatcher. If she decided to make Nicky her Lord Advocate, there would be mass resignations.
Fortunately, there was an alternative. Although James Mackay had no background in politics, he was held in the highest esteem by his Scottish colleagues, and Mrs Thatcher quickly agreed. At that time, the two English law officers were Michael Havers and Ian Percival: good fellows, but neither of them was regarded as a major legal intellect. So when legal opinions were needed on European matters, they would arrive on the PM's desk, signed 'James Mackay.' A few years passed. Though Michael Havers did become Lord Chancellor in succession to Lord Hailsham, his health broke down. It is said that Quintin Hailsham sat by his phone, hoping to be recalled, but events had moved on. Lord Mackay, as he now was, took over.
Around that time, I had a difficulty. I was asked to write a profile of James. He was obviously a legal giant but I felt that there ought to be some tiny spot of cloud in all the firmament of brilliance. There was no cloud: not a speck. David Hope, a future Law Lord who himself had a mighty reputation in legal circles, more or less said that if all the laws of Great Britain somehow disappeared, James would rewrite them all from memory. I even called Nicky Fairbairn, not possessed of much of a bump of reverence. His veneration for Lord Mackay was equal to David Hope's.
In one respect, James Mackay was possibly unique. He combined massive intellectual ability with a gentle manner and a sweet nature. Yet the gentleness never impeded rigour. William Waldegrave, himself exceptionally clever, served with James in Cabinet. He said that when James intervened, he always took a modest tone: 'I probably shouldn't say anything on this subject because it is not really my field, but...' According to William, what followed after the 'but' would be an intellectual assegai, flung with irresistible velocity and skewering the previous argument - but all softly spoken.
Not that he eschewed controversy. Lord Mackay concluded that the English bar was burdened by too many restrictive practices, especially when it came to allowing solicitors the right of audience. A fair number of English barristers thought that a Scottish lawyer had no business changing English arrangements. Those who negotiated with James on the matter said that he was always so polite as to be disarming. They only realised afterwards that they had won no concessions. Thirty years later, it is impossible to remember what the fuss was about. It was a necessary reform.
James was a deeply religious man. Brought up as a 'Wee Free', the Free Presbyterian Church, he was a committed Sabbatarian. But he fell out with the Wee Frees, because he attended a memorial service in a Roman Catholic Church. He insisted that this did not affect his faith, but that in similar circumstances, he would do the same again. The silly so-and-so's expelled him. We need another Burns to produce a new version of Holy Willie's Prayer.
James lived to be 99 and died full of honours, including the Knighthood of the Thistle. He loved his country, he revered the law, his domestic life brought him all the happiness that he earned and deserved. Above all he was a man of faith. He would never have regarded his Christianity as a matter for pride, but it was at the core of his being. He would never have claimed to be a good man: far too humble for that. But everyone who knew him testifies to his goodness and simplicity. If there is a Heaven, the trumpets will have welcomed him home. Well done, thou good and faithful servant.