Tributes: Lord Mackay of Clashfern

My Lords, it is with a profound sense of sadness, shared across the House, that I pay tribute today to one of the truly monumental figures of our nation’s legal and parliamentary heritage. The news of the passing of the noble and learned Lord, Lord Mackay of Clashfern, shortly before his 100th birthday, is deeply felt by us all. James Mackay was a man of towering intellect, yet he was defined equally by his quiet humility, his deep faith, an unwavering commitment to public service and great generosity of spirit. Born the son of a railway signalman in Edinburgh, his journey to the highest legal offices of state is a testament to his extraordinary talent, rising to become dean of the Faculty of Advocates before serving with distinction as Lord Advocate. His deep grounding in Scottish law brought a rigorous, analytical clarity to everything he did—a perspective that enriched the entire jurisprudence of the United Kingdom. In 1987, Margaret Thatcher broke with centuries of tradition by appointing a Scottish lawyer as Lord Chancellor of Great Britain. For a decade, serving in both the Margaret Thatcher and John Major Governments, Lord Mackay occupied the Woolsack with a quiet, revolutionary authority. He was an historic, modernising Lord Chancellor. He shepherded the Children Act 1989 through this House and on to the statute book. It was a piece of legislation that radically reshaped family law, firmly establishing that a child’s welfare is the courts’ paramount consideration. That has stood the test of time. Although Lord Mackay never sought conflict, he was never afraid of controversy, if he believed it served the public good. He introduced pioneering reforms to the legal profession that expanded access to justice for millions. Yet for all his grand achievements on the national stage, he retained that gentle humanity and his characteristic warmth and friendliness. Whether it was a word in passing in the corridors of your Lordships’ House or pulling up a chair for lunch in the Long Room, you would welcome his company. Like many others, I would listen in admiration, and often awe, when he spoke in the Chamber or in Committee. He would speak without notes, always making insightful and pertinent comments, perfectly crafted—and delightfully concise. When Lord Mackay retired from this House in July 2022, after more than four decades of dedicated service, it said so much about his character that he did not use his final remarks to dwell solely on the great offices of state or the complex legislation he had championed. Instead, he drew our attention to the Prayers that begin our proceedings each day, stating: “I believe that I have been sustained until now by answers to what we pray for at our opening every day ”.—[Official Report, 20/7/22; col. 1984.] That was the essence of James Mackay. He possessed a mind capable of mastering the most intricate complexities of constitutional law, with a heart that saw, valued and respected every individual who contributed to the life of Parliament. Lord Mackay was a giant of the law, a faithful servant of the Crown and a deeply cherished Member of this House. We send our deepest, most heartfelt condolences to his family—his wife Bett and his son and daughters—his friends, his colleagues and all those who knew and loved him. He will be sorely missed.

My Lords, I thank the Lord Privy Seal for her warm tribute to our late beloved friend and colleague, Lord Mackay of Clashfern. When I say “our” beloved colleague, I mean all of us—all here who knew him and heard him for over 40 years as a Member of this House. I can think of few, if any, Peers who were so sincerely liked and admired on all sides as was James Mackay. The noble Baroness set out some of his extraordinary achievements: dean of the Faculty of Advocates, Lord Advocate, a Scottish Law Lord, Lord of Appeal in Ordinary, Lord Chancellor for 10 years, a Knight of the Thistle and latterly honoured by his Queen as Lord Clerk Register of Scotland. Never were such a string of great garlands laid on the brow of a more humble man—not only humble in origin, though he was that, but a man of abiding humility, as our Leader said. Pomposity and pride were utterly alien to him, in the being or seeing of them. The core of Lord Mackay’s life was the Bible and that higher power on which he long and regularly reflected. He observed the Lord’s day. When I was new in No. 10, I remember Switch explaining to me not only that you should not ring the Lord Chancellor on a Sunday but that you could not—the line would stay dead. His deep Christian faith moulded a bedrock of principle. As our Leader said, he never sought conflict, but he did not flinch from difficulties if the cause was just. As she said, as the first member of the Scottish Bar ever to sit on the Woolsack he set out to break restrictive practices in the law and open access to justice to more people. It did not make him popular, but he saw it through. Among his many legislative achievements were not only the Children Act, to which the noble Baroness rightly referred, but the Human Fertilisation and Embryology Act, which brought clarity—like the Children Act—in difficult fields of morality and law. Lord Mackay never intended to be a lawyer. He had the rare distinction of first class degrees in maths from both Edinburgh and Cambridge, where he was the senior wrangler—which was an achievement—and he taught maths before reading for the Bar. This was testament to the extraordinary clarity and precision of James Mackay’s mind, and his unerring ability to discern the truth of arguments and determine solutions: the very essence of a good judge. Yet how lightly he carried his great wisdom and learning, always expressed in the simplest language, spoken softly, as the noble Baroness said, and with the most beguiling humour. He had unimpeachable integrity and a fierce independence of mind which, perhaps, was his highland character. He graced that great office of Lord Chancellor, speaking truth and justice to power in the Cabinet, defending the rule of law and presiding in this House. Lord Mackay was a kindly man, generous in his advice to others, courteous to a fault, with a twinkle in his eye and a quizzical air that made you feel, perhaps, that he was puzzled that others could not see the solutions as swiftly as he did. After he went to the Back Benches, he used to sit on the second row, behind the Minister. When you were at the Dispatch Box and you saw by your shoulder that hand creeping over the back of the Bench to haul himself to his feet, you knew you were in for either the most testing challenge to your arguments from one of your friends, or else the most simple and compelling exposition of the case that you had been floundering for an hour to try to explain to the House. James Mackay was a great parliamentarian, a lover of this place and loved by it. Let us remember our brother as a righteous man. He was never judgmental, but nor was he afraid to judge between good and evil. He was a great reformer and a loving family man, buoyed for 68 years by his remarkable wife and three children, to whom our prayers and sympathy go out. This polity, this House, this United Kingdom will never see the like of Lord Chancellor Mackay again.

My Lords, my noble friend Lord Purvis of Tweed really regrets that he cannot be here for these tributes, as he has been unavoidably detained in Scotland. Much has been said already about Lord Mackay of Clashfern’s professional endeavours and immense achievements. A sense of him as a human being has also come through. He was universally admired, respected and held in deep affection, and I know from others that he was immensely kind to everyone in this place, no matter their experience. Sometimes it is those small gestures that are the most telling. My noble friend Lady Hamwee recounts such an incident when, as a fairly new Peer, she was sitting near the Throne, as we did then, and Lord Mackay was on the Woolsack. He noticed that she had a glass of water on the floor, vulnerable to passing feet, and he asked that the table he was using for his water be moved so that both could use it—a small gesture but an important one, especially to a new Member of this House. We on these Benches salute Lord Mackay’s life and record our thanks for his long and very distinguished service to our country. We offer our condolences to his family and friends, and trust that the tributes paid provide them with some comfort.

My Lords, it is a great privilege to follow three such speeches. The cries of dismay that greeted the Lord Speaker’s sad news of the death of the noble and learned Lord, Lord Mackay of Clashfern, were as loud on our Benches as anywhere else in the House, having, as we do, so many of his friends and colleagues from the legal world, Whitehall, Scotland and the House in general. On his ennoblement in 1979, he chose as his motto “manu justi”: by the hand of a just man. We have heard much of the relevance of this choice so far, and I will return to it. I want to reflect on Lord Mackay’s 15 years as Lord Clerk Register, the oldest remaining great office of state in Scotland. This was originally a post connected with Scotland’s records, and he was therefore one of the four commissioners of the regalia of Scotland. On behalf of the Crown, they were responsible for looking after, among other things, the Stone of Scone. The stone was originally taken from Scone Palace, which is by Perth, in 1296. In 1996, thanks to the efforts of the Lord Speaker, who was then Secretary of State for Scotland, it made it back as far as Edinburgh Castle. Around the time of Covid, the commissioners of the regalia had to consider whether the stone would be moved from Edinburgh to Perth. I was the chairman of the relevant museum in Perth. The four commissioners consisted of three judges and Nicola Sturgeon, and they were in receipt of a tremendous amount of incredibly technical advice concerning security, conditions of light and humidity, historical context and so on—the fog of a difficult case. James stopped me one evening in the House and asked a simple question: how much would it cost to see the stone in Perth? I said it would be free. “It’s rather expensive in Edinburgh at the moment at £17”, he remarked. He had no other questions; he had cleared the fog and, shortly after, the commissioners, under his gentle and persuasive skills, reached their decision. About a year after the stone had arrived at the new museum in Perth, I saw James at an event in Scotland and went to say hello. He immediately asked me what had happened to the stone in its first year. I told him that more than 250,000 people had come: a high multiple over the previous Edinburgh numbers. His eyes naturally sparkled and his smile broadened—an example of “manu justi”.