The Girl Who Made Good in America (7 page)

“Really!” said Kevin. “Do you keep in touch with him?”

“No, I’m afraid he’s gone to God, too.”

Alex Duff joined them and said, “It’s been a lovely evening, Theresa, but I want to get back home to relieve the carer.”

“Thank you, Alex, for being the godfather. I know Callum would approve.”

“It is my privilege.”

“Mr Hamilton,” said Theresa, “Father Gallagher tells me you know everything that happened in Pittsburg. Truth to tell, you probably know more than I do. I appreciate your silence on the matter but I’m curious to know why you bothered to find it all out.”

“Firstly, it was sheer chance that I saw the newspaper article with Callum’s photograph but, as I delved further in, I realised what a great story it was and I couldn’t stop until I got the lot.”

“A great story?” said Theresa. “Surely not, it’s only about two working-class kids who really weren’t in control of their lives.”

“Theresa, believe me, to an outsider looking in, this is not only a great story, but a wonderful love story. Somebody will make a film about it one day but, first, the book has to be written.”

“Oh, Mr Hamilton, I wouldn’t want my name in print. Besides, who would want to write it?”

“I would, Theresa. I have a little secret too. I’ve published a few novels using a nom de plume, which I won’t divulge. The profits go to my parish, so Gags, I mean Father Gallagher, doesn’t have it all his own way. He makes records and helps the Micks while I write books to help the Prods. To be honest, I’ve already started writing your story but I’ve changed the names of the characters. When it’s finished, you’ll be the first to read it and, if it meets with your approval, we’ll get it published. It’ll be better as a work of fiction, because I can change a few things to dramatise it more. What do you think?”

“I can see you’re a man of many parts, Mr Hamilton. Your secret is safe with me and I’ll look forward to reading the book. By the way, what will be the title?”

“I thought I’d call it Forbidden Love.”

Left on her own, Theresa pondered over that. “Our Mr Hamilton is a deep one, right enough.”

Gavin Hamilton was a quiet, unassuming gentleman, beloved by his parishioners in Lochside. They knew little about him, except that he had taken over St Andrew’s Presbyterian Church from The Reverend Donald Leishman, who had been minister for 25 years, preaching fire and brimstone. Mr Leishman had hated Catholicism, calling the Catholic Church the ‘Scarlet Woman of Rome’. This approach had done little to foster good relations in Lochside. By contrast, Gavin became a personal friend of ‘Gags’ Gallagher, playing golf with him weekly. He had been a brilliant student, graduating from Glasgow University with a first-class degree in English. With no real idea of his goal in life, he had gone down to London, working as a journalist for the Times. He drank a lot of whisky and played jazz piano till all hours of the morning in Soho clubs. One Sunday morning, he woke up in bed with a strange woman in a sleazy Paddington flat. Badly hungover, he left quietly and wandered the London streets aimlessly. Tired and dispirited, he entered a church and sat down. There was a young minister in the pulpit giving a sermon on brotherly love. The logical reasoning and the poetic language appealed to Gavin rather than the subject matter and he left that chapel with an idea about his future path. He had been a keen boxer at university. He started going to the gym again and gave up the alcohol. When he was back to peak fitness, he gave notice at the Times and went back to Scotland. He went to Edinburgh and obtained a journalist’s interview with the Moderator of the Church of Scotland. It became obvious to the Moderator that the questions were more personal than those for a normal newspaper article. “Why are you really here, Mr Hamilton?”

“I’m sorry, sir. Is it that obvious?” Gavin then told him about his cathartic experience in London. “I think I want to be a minister but I’m not sure. I don’t really know enough about it. I thought if I talked to the top man I might find the answer. I’m sorry if I’ve misled you.”

The Moderator smiled. “Mr Hamilton, I’ve been a minister for 45 years and there’s not a day passes without me doubting my decision. I’m afraid I can’t make up your mind for you, but I’ll tell you what I can do. We run a school in Togo, West Africa. The minister in charge there is severely overworked. There’s a job there as his assistant. We can’t pay much but the experience may just prove to be your ‘road to Damascus’. A year there, then you either become one of us or resume your journalism with no hard feelings. What do you say?”

That was 10 years ago. The year in Africa convinced him to become a man of the cloth. He came home to Glasgow, married his childhood sweetheart and was duly posted to Lochside. Gags and he had many discussions about the relative merits about their respective religions. “When a group of Catholic priests get together at a seminar,” said Gags, “they are all of one mind on matters of theology. Not so with you Presbyterians – the arguments would go on for ever if your Moderator didn’t call a halt.”

“That’s true, Gags, but I think that’s healthy. Ours is a democracy, with all its failings. Truth to tell, I really don’t worry much about that side of things, as long as we fulfil our mission, which, of course, is to help people, preferably in the way of the Lord, but not necessarily. Maybe one day, we’ll all be united as a brotherhood of man. After all, my grandfather used to say that we were all Jock Thomson’s bairns.”

“I think I prefer to say we are all God’s creatures, Gavin.”

“Mr Hamilton, can I get you a whisky?” said Theresa. “You’ve earned one as much as Father Gallagher with your lovely piano playing.”

“Thank you, Theresa, but no – I don’t drink.”

“Oh, is it against your religion?”

“No, lass, it’s just a health thing. I don’t need it. I’d sooner sit here and play some Cole Porter jazz to help the party along.”

Six months later, Mrs Duff died. “I’m sorry, Alex,” said Theresa, “I know what you’re going through.”

“Actually, Theresa, it’s a huge relief. It’s been painful to watch an intelligent woman deteriorate into a vegetable. She’s better off now.”

Alex threw himself into his work developing new business, growing close to Theresa through his obvious affection for young Martin, who crawled after him all over the office. “You’d better watch yourself, Alex. He’ll be thinking you’re his daddy.”

“I wouldn’t mind that one bit, Theresa – how about you?”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Theresa’s mother. “Hello, Theresa. Mr Duff, I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”

“Certainly not, Mrs McCann – you can drop in any time you like. I’m just going downstairs to see Will Mowbray. Sit down and have a chat to Theresa and young Martin.”

“Is anything wrong, Mother?”

“Yes, I’m afraid your father’s not the best. He’s been coughing up phlegm for a while. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer and sent him to see Dr Blair. The doctor put him in hospital for a few days for a check-up. The X-rays show that he’s got silicosis.”

“What’s that, Mother?”

“It’s what we common folk call the miner’s complaint, caused by a lifetime of inhaling coal dust into the lungs.”

“How bad is it?”

“Well, he’ll never work again. Young Kevin insists on getting a job to help out but the pit’s the only work here and I don’t want him down there. It’s a shame. As you know, he’s just won a scholarship to the university.”

“Mother, I can help. I don’t want you to worry about money. I’ll open an account in your name at the Bank of Scotland. There will be enough money in there every week to replace father’s wages. Don’t tell him, though. His pride wouldn’t let you accept it. Send young Kevin here to see me. I’ll make sure he accepts that scholarship.”

“But, Theresa, I can’t be taking money from this company. It wouldn’t be fair on Mr Duff.”

“It’s not company funds, Mother. It’s my own money and what better use for it than helping out my own family.”

“My, but you’re a good daughter. I only wish your father would see sense and make it up with you.”

“It’ll happen one day. Don’t worry. By the way, young Joe will be leaving school shortly. What does he want to do?”

“Oh, he’s football mad. He’s pretty good, too. You know he’s playing for Lochside Rovers and he’s their leading goalscorer. He’s not a good scholar like Kevin. He’s set his sights on being a professional footballer, but we’ll see. Speak o’ the devil, here’s young Joe coming up the stair.”

“Mam, Theresa, I saw Mr Duff in the street and he told me you were here. I’m that excited I can hardly talk.”

“Sit down, Joe. Here’s a glass of water. Now then, what’s your news?”

“The Glasgow Celtic scout saw me playing on Saturday and Mr Kelly, the manager, has been to see Dad. He wants to sign me up and he’s offered me a job on the ground staff. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

“What did your dad say?”

“He said it was all right with him but you’d have to agree, Mam. Please say yes!”

“Simmer down, son. Of course you can go but you realise you’ll have to live in Glasgow.”

“Mr Kelly said he can fix me up with digs.”

“Well, that’s great. You might have company. Kevin will be leaving home too, to study at the uni. Maybe Mr Kelly can get him digs with you.”

“That would be terrific. I feel as if all my Christmases have come at once. Well, tata – I’ll go back and tell Dad.” With that, he rushed off.

“This will work out well, Mother. If Father asks where your cash is coming from, just say it’s courtesy of Celtic. They won’t be paying young Joe much to start with, so you’ll still need a wee bit help from me.”

“My God, all of a sudden there will only be Megan and the old man at home. Luckily, he’s taken to walking in the countryside. Dr Blair says the fresh air will be good for him.”

The winter set in and Martin was virtually housebound. The countryside was snowed under and walking was out of the question. He struggled to mass every Sunday morning. Mary gave him a few shillings on Saturdays to have a pint or two. His gambling days were over. His wife was a wizard with the meagre sum coming in. He didn’t know how she managed. The two boys came to visit every month and he was always delighted to hear their news. Kevin was doing well at his engineering course. He must have inherited his mother’s brains. Young Joe had filled out with the weightlifting and proper diet. Mr Kelly, who lived in nearby Balmaha, dropped in now and then to bring them up to date on the boy’s progress. “The way he’s going, Mr McCann, he’ll be getting a game in the first team in the coming season. You should be very proud of him.”

“Oh, but I am, Mr Kelly. I’m trying to get fit myself so that I’ll be able to come and see him kick the winning goal against the Rangers.”

Mr Kelly laughed. “When that game comes along, I’ll send a car for you and you can sit in the box with me. That’s a promise!”

Spring arrived and Martin resumed his walks. He was only 41 but felt like an old man. Those years down the pit had really taken their toll on his body. Nevertheless, he was thankful to escape from the house and get out in God’s garden. He’d forgotten just how beautiful it was. His shortness of breath prevented him from walking too far or climbing the hills. He’d found an old pair of binoculars. When he stopped for a rest he used them to scan up the glen. He spied a pair of golden eagles circling above as they effortlessly glided higher on the thermal current. At the foot of King’s Linn waterfall there was a young deer quenching its thirst before scampering up the hill. The winter snows were melting and the burn was flowing swiftly over the rocks, with the white foam flying in the breeze. For the first time in years, Martin felt at peace with the world. There was a time in his youth when he’d thought about joining the priesthood but his first glimpse of Mary Malone had put paid to that idea. He knew, from that moment, that he could not live without her. He was married at the age of 20, as soon as Mary turned 16. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and 21 years later, he still thought so. He rose and headed back towards the town. He normally cut across the golf course if it wasn’t busy. This was Thursday afternoon and the fairways were deserted. As he rounded the clubhouse, a toddler came running after a ball, collided with Martin’s knees, and fell heavily to the ground. Martin picked the boy up, “Are ye all right, son?”

“Bring him over here, Martin.”

He looked up and saw Father Gallagher sitting at an outside table with Mr Hamilton, that Protestant minister. He carried the wee boy over to the table. “Is this one of yours, Mr Hamilton?”

“No, he’s one of yours, Mr McCann.”

Martin looked round to see Mr Duff bearing a tray of drinks. “Say hello to your only grandson, Mr McCann. It’s high time you met your namesake. Just look at him. He’s the spitting image of you. Allow me to introduce Martin Michael Rutherford.”

Martin McCann looked at the golden hair and the big, blue, innocent eyes of the child and he felt his heart melting. For the life of him he couldn’t put the boy down. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Marty.”

“Sit down, Martin. The kid’s heavy. Put him on your knee and I’ll get you a cool pint of McEwan’s finest,” said Father Gallagher.

“Are you my Gran’pa?”

“That I am, Marty.”

“Then where have you been?”

Martin glanced at Father Gallagher and said softly, “I’ve been lost, son, but I’m back now and I’ll never go away again.”

“That’s good to hear, Martin,” said Father Gallagher. “Now, Mr Hamilton and I have some hospital visiting to do, so we’ll leave you with young Marty and Alex Duff. You can get acquainted.”

“Call me Alex. We’ve never met but I know the rest of your family.”

Martin reached over and shook hands. “Call me Martin. I know how good you’ve been to Theresa. It looks like you’ve made a friend in Marty.”

“He’s a grand wee laddie, Martin. I’m glad you’ve finally met him.”

“I’ve been such a silly bugger, Alex. Now that I’m on my last legs, with a lot of time to think, I realise the mistakes I’ve made. I know it doesn’t help much but I regret the things I’ve said and done to Theresa.”

“Well, Martin, it’s never too late. I’ve got to get the lad home to his mother. Hop in the car, put Marty on your knee, and we’ll go to Silvertrees.”