The Girl Who Made Good in America (2 page)

“So we’re different, right? That’s not a bad thing. I’m ambitious. I like to plan ahead. It’s not a crime, Theresa. There’s one way to shut me up, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Give me a kiss.”

It was after nine o’clock when Theresa got home. Callum had left her at the end of the street. He had protested, “Why can’t I walk you to your door, Theresa? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

“It’s not as easy as that, Callum. This housing estate is a Catholic community and you’re a Protestant. I don’t want my father getting gossip from neighbours.”

“What is this? Are we living in the dark ages here? Why can’t you just introduce me as a friend to your folks? I mean I haven’t got two heads or anything!”

“Just leave it, Callum. They’ll find out soon enough. I’ll see you tomorrow at work.”

Her father was standing at the window in the front room. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Didn’t mother tell you I was working late, Father?”

“Aye, she did, but she was expecting you over an hour ago. Who’s that fellow you were speaking to at the end of the street? He’s not from these parts.”

“He’s one of Mr Duff’s drivers. He was kind enough to see me home in the twilight.”

“What’s his name?”

“Oh, Father, his name is Callum Rutherford.”

“He must be a Protestant with a name like that. I don’t want you hanging around with those people.”

Mary spoke up. “Oh Martin, leave the lass alone. I’m sure the lad was only trying to be helpful. Anyway, she’s 16 now. She’s not your wee girl any longer.”

Martin was angry but he knew better than to get on the wrong side of his wife. He was angry with himself for ‘having shit on the liver.’ He really felt like having a few pints but had passed the pub reluctantly on the way home from the sports ground because he was broke. He’d got a good tip on the greyhounds this evening and had to let it pass. Roll on payday.

The relationship of Theresa and Callum developed quickly. They saw each other at work every day and usually managed to spend some time together at the end of the working day. One Saturday they went to Glasgow by bus and spent the day sightseeing and window-shopping for all the things they would buy when they’d made their fortune. For a penny, you could have unlimited travel on the tramcar. Callum told her about a chap who boarded a tram and said to the conductor, “I’m sorry, I don’t have a penny. I’ve only got a pound note.”

The conductor replied, “Don’t worry about that, Jimmy. You’ll have 239 pennies in a minute!”

“Oh Callum, you’re always trying to make me laugh and I love you for it. Mind you, I don’t believe half of the things you tell me.”

“I love the sound of your laughter, Theresa. More joy to the world – that’s how I feel.”

On their return to Lochside, they arranged to go for a picnic up the glen on Sunday afternoon. After Sunday morning mass, Theresa met Callum and off they went to the glen. On the way they passed Silvertrees Cottage, a picturesque 19th century building flanked by two magnificent silver birches. The garden was ringed with a hedge of wild roses. “I love that place,” said Theresa. “Imagine living there, away from all the prying eyes of the neighbours on the estate.”

“When I’ve made my fortune, I’ll buy it for you,” said Callum.

“Fat chance,” said Theresa, “on a lorry driver’s wage!”

“I won’t be a driver all my life. I mean to have my own business one day. My time in America taught me a lot about grabbing opportunities.”

“Why did your family come back, Callum?”

“My father got sick and couldn’t afford hospital treatment there. You really have to stay healthy in the States.”

“How is he now?”

“Not good,” said Callum. “He doesn’t have long to live. He’s got an inoperable brain tumour which could carry him off at any time. When he goes, my stepmother will go and live with her unmarried sister in Perthshire.”

“And what will you do then?”

“I’ve been thinking of going back to America to try my luck there. Even as a truck driver, I could earn a lot more than I’m getting here. I could save and maybe buy a truck of my own. I don’t know. There are lots of things I could do. Anyway, that’s what I was planning before I met you.”

“Me! What have I got to do with it?”

“I think you know, Theresa. You must know how I feel about you.”

“You’ve never said anything, Callum. I’m not a mind reader. A girl likes to be told, you know.”

“Don’t be so coy. You know I’m crazy about you – how about you, Theresa?”

“Oh Callum, I fell in love with you the day you walked into Duff’s yard.”

When she got home, her father was waiting for her. “I thought I told you to stay clear of that Prod. This is a Catholic household and while you’re under my roof you’ll do as I say. You’ve been seen walking up the glen together. What’s he after? I hope you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

“That’s a rotten thing to say, Father. You shouldn’t judge Callum by your own standards.”

Incensed, Martin gave her a backhander across the face that knocked her to the floor. She lay there, in shock, crying softly. Her mother cradled her in her arms and said, “Martin, go down the pub and cool off.” When he left, Mary said quietly, “You asked for that, Theresa. Your father has faults but womanising is not one of them. Now, go to bed and we’ll talk in the morning.”

When Martin came back from the pub, Mary said, “Violence is not the answer. I don’t want you to raise your hand in anger in this house again.”

“Well, what are we going to do, Mary? I’ve been told things are pretty serious between them.”

“Perhaps Father Gallagher can have a quiet word with her. She’s not going to listen to you now. I’m afraid she’s inherited my Irish stubbornness.”

Father Dermot Gallagher was 35 years of age. He had been in Lochside since Father O’Neil left. He knew of Father O’Neil’s problem. It wasn’t the drink that had caused his obsession with sex. Rather it was his struggle with the vow of celibacy that had led him to drink. Dermot, a young, virile male, also had his demons, and now and again would take himself off to Glasgow to seek physical relief with a ‘high class hostess’. He had no ethical problems with this. He regarded the vow of celibacy as a promise not to get married. It was a pragmatic opinion. Marriage would certainly interfere with his full-time clerical work, that he agreed, but so would a build-up of sexual tension. Remember Father O’Neil! The matter had never been discussed with the old bishop but Dermot was sure that his college Jesuit companions would have been sympathetic. Dermot had been born and raised in County Mayo. His parents owned prime land and were successful breeders of racehorses. They had the money to ensure a first-class education for their only son, culminating in an honours degree in English from Dublin University. He was offered a place at Cambridge to study for his PhD but opted to study for the priesthood, much to the surprise of his father. Dermot’s parents, although Catholic, were part of the upper echelons of society, where religion did not feature highly. Indeed, it was a small group of Jesuit priests at Dublin University who had introduced Dermot to an intellectual appraisal of the church, leading to his decision to take up the calling. He had all the social graces and a few ladies had set their caps at him, only to be disappointed when they heard of his ambition. He had been a top Gaelic footballer, was a low-handicap golfer, and possessed a tenor voice that was often compared to that of the great John McCormack. In a word, he had the world at his feet. The Church could envisage a stellar career for Dermot but decided to start him off in the humble parish of Lochside, a mining town nestling in a beautiful part of the world on the shores of Loch Lomond, in Scotland.

Now he had to deal with Martin McCann’s domestic problem. Young Theresa had fallen for a Prod. Sure, she wasn’t the first and God knows she wouldn’t be the last. It was unavoidable in this part of Scotland. Dermot did not relish the task but the welfare of his flock was his concern. He decided to play it low-key and accidentally encounter Theresa on a social call to his golfing partner, Alex Duff.

“Alex, I was just passing, so I thought I’d drop in and confirm our tee-off time for Thursday.”

Alex looked at him askance. “Same time as always, Gags. Now, tell me, what’s really on your agenda?”

“You know, you and Gavin Hamilton are the only people who call me Gags. Have you no respect for a man of the cloth?”

“What do you mean, Gags? Gavin is a man of the cloth too, or don’t Presbyterian ministers count?”

“Fair enough, Alex. What I really want is a quiet word with young Theresa McCann.”

“I think I know what it’s about, Gags. Just bear in mind that Callum Rutherford is a fine young man. Now, I’m slipping out to see the bank manager, so you can have all the privacy you need.”

Dermot paused by Theresa’s desk. “How are you, Theresa?”

“Just fine, thanks, Father.”

“Now that I’ve caught you, I’d like a wee chat, if it won’t interfere with the fine work you’re doing for Mr Duff.”

“That’s OK, Father. I’m up to date with the books.”

“I’d like to talk to you about young Callum.”

“Did my father send you round here?”

“Well, not exactly, but he’s worried about you. We all are. We’d hate to see you getting in over your head.”

“Father, do you believe that marriages are made in heaven?”

“No, no, that’s just a poetic notion. Forget that nonsense. Now, I’ve been told Callum is a fine, upstanding young man but he’s not of the faith. Sure, there are plenty of eligible young Catholic boys around. If I were you I’d be looking in that direction.”

“There’s only one thing you’re forgetting, Father.”

“What’s that, Theresa?”

“You’re not in love with Callum!”

“Did you manage to convince her, Father?”

“No, Martin, I did not. She’s got a mind of her own, that one.”

“Did you threaten her with hellfire and damnation?”

“No, Martin. I’m sure you’ve already been down that road. I hear you even used violence on the girl. The modern priesthood does not approve of that approach. Instead, we tend to use the psychology we studied in the seminary.”

Martin’s thoughts would not have pleased Father Gallagher. He decided to try a different tack. He went down to the pub where his younger brother, Kevin, worked parttime as barman and chucker-out on weekends. “Kevin, I want you to put the frighteners on a young Prod called Callum Rutherford. He’s been sniffing around our Theresa and I want it stopped. You’ll find him at Duff’s Haulage around 5 o’clock week days.”

“O.K, Martin, I’ll sort him out.”

Kevin was over 6 feet and solidly built, although he had a paunch from beer drinking. He had done a bit of professional boxing and didn’t get many arguments from the pub clientele. He wandered down to Duff’s yard and saw a young fellow sitting in a Dodge truck, filling in his log sheet.

“I’m looking for Callum Rutherford.”

“That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“I’ll tell you what you can do. You can stop pestering Theresa McCann.”

“I didn’t realise I was pestering her. Theresa is a friend of mine.”

“Be that as it may but, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep well away.”

“And just who might you be with all this free advice?”

“I’m her uncle, that’s who, and her father doesn’t want her mixing with the likes of you.”

“Well, when Theresa tells me to stay away I’ll take notice. Until then, you’re wasting your breath.”

“Right, young fella, I’ve given you every chance. Now, if you step down from your lorry, I’ll just have to teach you a lesson.”

Callum looked at the big shoulders and thick forearms and thought that perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew but a glance at the beer belly reassured him and he said, “I think I can accommodate you there.”

“You sound real fancy for a lorry driver. Let’s see if you can fight as well as you talk.”

As soon as Callum’s feet reached the ground, Kevin swung a big right cross. Callum moved his head a couple of inches to the right, stepped forward and planted his left fist in Kevin’s solar plexus. Kevin dropped like a sack of spuds and remained motionless. Alex Duff came running out. “Christ, Callum, I think you’ve killed him.”

“Mr Duff, I only meant to wind him.”

“We’d better get him to the cottage hospital. Callum, the ambulance is just across the street. Run over and tell them what’s happened.”

Theresa came out from the office. “I saw what happened, Callum. You were only defending yourself.”

Kevin was smartly whisked away to the hospital. “I feel very bad about this,” said Callum. “I hope the man will be all right.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Callum. I’ll back you up all the way if there are any repercussions.”

“Thanks, Mr Duff. I appreciate that. How about you, Theresa? After all, he’s your uncle and blood’s thicker than water.”

“I’m with Mr Duff, Callum. You’re completely blameless. I only hope my father didn’t put Uncle Kevin up to this. If he did, then he’s the guilty party.”

Callum, worried sick, walked up to the hospital and asked if he could see Kevin McCann. “Are you a relative, son?”

“No, I’m just concerned about his health.”

“O.K, he’s in the end bed.”

“Hi,” said Callum, “I’m pleased to see you’re alive.”

“No thanks to you, kid. That must have been some punch. I don’t remember a thing.”

“I don’t understand it. I’ve used that solar plexus punch many times in the ring, but never with that effect.”

“Oh, so you’ve done some boxing then?”

“Yeah, I fought as an amateur in the States and reached the finals of the Golden Gloves. Look, I’m sorry about all this, I just tried to knock the wind out of you to stop you making a mess of me.”

“It was my own fault, kid. If I’d known you could box I wouldn’t have fallen for that sucker punch. Anyway, if it makes you feel better, the doctor discovered I’ve got a hiatus hernia, whatever the hell that is, but that explains why I was knocked right out. He says I’ll be all right with a day’s rest. He advised me to give up the fisticuffs and I might just take his advice. Besides, my reputation will be shot when they hear I was flattened by a kid, a Prod, at that.”