The Girl Who Made Good in America (5 page)

Theresa turned to the doctor, “He’s delirious, doctor.”

“That’s quite possible, Mrs Rutherford. We’ve given him morphine for the pain. His spinal column’s broken. It’s not good.”

As he spoke, the nurse turned towards them, “He’s gone, Doctor.”

Theresa began to wail like a banshee and the eerie sound echoed round the ward. The Teamster shop steward, Red Callander, led her away. They were joined by Zelda who embraced Theresa and managed to quieten her down. They took her home and Red said he was there to help. Theresa shook her head in anguish, “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve got a young baby and now there will be no money coming in. I just can’t think straight. I’ve lost my man – Oh God, Oh God.”

“Listen, Mrs Rutherford, the union will look after the finances. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Thanks, Mr Callander. You’ve been very kind.”

“Call me Red. May I call you Theresa? I was a big fan of Mickey Ford and saw all his fights. Now remember, you’ll have no money worries.”

“Thanks, Red. Of course you can call me Theresa.”

Zelda remained with her to support her in her grief.

Red Callander called a special meeting of the Teamster’s Union. “Now, you all know that management has been tightening the purse strings for a long time now. They’ve been lax in safety requirements all over the steelworks. It was just a matter of time before someone got killed or maimed. Well, now it’s happened and, by Christ, we’re gonna make ’em pay! Are you with me?”

The loud response in the affirmative was all Red needed to face the bosses.

“Gentlemen, you can choose the headlines you want to see in tomorrow’s papers.”

“What are you talking about, Red. We don’t print the news.”

“No, but I do. I’ll give you the choice. ‘An unfortunate accident resulted in the death of Mr Callum Rutherford at Carnegie Steel. Mr Rutherford leaves a young wife and new baby. Management has promised to compensate Mrs Rutherford with a generous financial package.’ Do you like that one? The alternative goes like this; ‘Gross negligence by Carnegie Steel led to the death of Mr Callum Rutherford. Inadequate safety measures caused the premature demise of this young hero who sacrificed his life to save a fellow worker. Management has denied all responsibility for the incident and will reject any claim by the union for compensation.’ Gentlemen, which do you prefer?”

By the time the meeting closed, Red had written promises from management to pay funeral expenses and give Theresa compensation which far exceeded Red’s expectations, on condition that the terms remained confidential. A joint working party was set up to improve work safety, headed by Red Callander. Needless to say, the first option appeared in the morning papers. Red and his wife, Jean, visited Theresa to tell her the news. Tom McPhail, the company finance manager, accompanied them to present the cheque and get Theresa’s signature on the confidentiality agreement. Theresa was bewildered and looked to Red for advice.

“Sign it, Theresa. It’s a good deal. I told you the union would look after you.”

“That’s right, Red,” said Tom, “but the managing director has chucked in a bit extra. He’s a keen fight fan and had followed Mickey Ford’s career with great interest, ignorant of the fact that Mickey was Callum Rutherford, one of his employees. He called Maxie Mosquito on the quiet and got the whole story of Theresa’s circumstances. So, there you are, we’re not heartless sons of bitches all the time.”

Theresa broke down in tears, “I can’t thank you all enough. Apart from Zelda and Maxie, you are the only people I know in America.”

“What’s your plan now, Theresa?” said Red.

“I’ve been very homesick for my family. I want to take little Martin home to my mother in Scotland. I can’t think beyond that at the moment and I thank you all for making it possible.”

“That’s very understandable, Theresa,” said Jean Callander, “but, if you ever decide to come back to the USA, you’ll be most welcome to stay with Red and me for as long as you like.”

But me and my true love will never meet again,
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond
.

T
heresa and the baby left New York on the Queen Mary bound for Southhampton. The boat train transported them to London where they caught the Royal Scot to Glasgow. The final stage of their journey was by bus to Lochside. As Theresa walked towards her family home, she met her father coming home from the pit. “Hello, Father.”

“You are no daughter of mine. Turn around and take your bastard bairn with you! You will never be welcome in my household.”

Theresa was shocked at such a violent outburst. She burst into tears and hurried from the scene. She plodded on with her babe in arms and ultimately found herself outside Silvertrees Cottage. There was an elderly gentleman fixing a ‘For Sale’ sign at the front. Immediately, she recalled Callum’s delirious dying words about waiting for her at Silvertrees. Surely this was an omen. She felt an inner calm as she approached. “Good afternoon. Could I speak to you about this cottage?”

The elderly Mr Pottinger peered over his glasses at this slip of a girl with the baby. Surely she could not have the means to buy a property. “Yes, the cottage is part of a deceased estate and the asking price is £600, including the furniture.”

Theresa was pleasantly surprised that her dream house should be so cheap. Perhaps it was falling to bits. After all, it was pretty old. She was tempted to buy the place immediately but Mr Pottinger, noting her hesitation, said, “You will, of course, want to inspect the property, Miss … um?”

“My name is Mrs Rutherford. Yes, when can I see through it?”

“Right now, if that’s convenient.”

Mr Pottinger sensed that this girl was not a time waster. There was something in her demeanour which intrigued him. She seemed sad but her eyes revealed a steely determination, unusual in one so young. Mr Pottinger had spent a lifetime studying human nature and he would dearly love to know more about this girl. “He said, “May I ask why you are interested in this house, Mrs Rutherford? Most young people with the means to purchase usually go for something modern.”

Theresa sensed that the old gentleman was genuinely interested in her. She warmed to him. He wasn’t the pushy salesman she expected an estate agent to be. Of course, he was the only agent she had ever spoken to. The only person she knew in Lochside who owned his own home was Mr Duff. “It’s a long story, Mr Pottinger. Before I was married, my boyfriend and I used to wander past Silvertrees quite often. I always liked the look of it and the location. My boyfriend joked about buying it for me when he’d made his fortune.” The tears welled up in her eyes and she sobbed.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Rutherford. I can see my questioning has upset you. Please forgive me. I’m just a nosy old man.”

“No, no, Mr Pottinger, it’s not your fault. You weren’t to know. My husband was recently killed in America. I’ve just arrived back from there and when I saw the house was available, it seemed as if it was waiting for me to buy it.”

“I see. Well, let me show you through.”

The cottage seemed to be in excellent repair and was fully furnished. It was in original condition, apart from the old gas lighting, which had been replaced with electric. A buyer could move in straightaway. There was even an upright piano in the living room. “Mr Pottinger, maybe it’s not in my best interests to ask, but why is it so cheap?”

“That is an unusual question, right enough, Mrs Rutherford. Most people would say it’s a bit expensive and try to beat me down. I admire your forthrightness, so I’ll give you an honest answer. Lochside is a working-class town. Most folk rent from the council, quite cheaply, around five shillings a week. They have not got the money or the incentive to buy a house. I could have sold Silvertrees a couple of times to builders and developers from Balloch but they wanted to knock the old place down and erect three modern bungalows on the site. I’m looking for someone who wants to live in the cottage. I take it from what you’ve told me that you would occupy the old place yourself. Is that right?”

“That’s true, Mr Pottinger, but why should you care what happens to the old place once it’s sold?”

“I was born and raised here in this cottage. When I got married I moved to Canada for a while. My parents died and left the house to my only sister. She never married and lived here all her life. When I returned from Canada, I started up as an estate agent in Lochside and bought one of those mansions on the Balloch Road. My sister willed Silvertrees to me. She had a heart attack recently and never recovered. I put it on the market, reluctantly, but I haven’t got the time or the will to look after the old place properly. I’m waiting for the right buyer. Is it you, Mrs Rutherford?”

“When did your sister pass away, Mr Pottinger?”

“Why, it was on 4th July,” said Mr Pottinger, visibly surprised at her question.

“American Independence Day, the same day my Callum died. I think you’ve found the right buyer, Mr Pottinger.”

“That’s grand. There’s one condition of sale, though. Should you ever decide to sell Silvertrees, I want first option to buy it back!”

“Agreed, with all my heart,” said Theresa.

Mr Pottinger drove her back to town and, after the sale formalities had been completed, she called into Duff’s Haulage. Alexander Duff was delighted to see her and welcomed her into the office. She told him the whole story. He was saddened by Callum’s passing, incensed at her father’s attitude, and bemused by her hasty decision to buy Silvertrees. “I’m dying to see my mother and my sister and wee brothers. Could you get word to my mother? Perhaps they could come and see me in my new residence.”

That day, Theresa took up residence in Silvertrees. The serenity she was experiencing convinced her that Callum’s spirit pervaded the place. Naturally, she missed his physical presence, but she felt at home in the cottage, as if it was all pre-ordained. Her grieving would be a lot easier now.

Mr Duff’s car pulled up and out came her mother with the other children. “Theresa, Theresa, my, it’s wonderful to see you,” said Mary McCann. “There hasn’t been a day go by without me thinking about you.”

Megan had already lifted the baby and was showing him to Kevin and Joe. “What’s his name, Theresa?”

“Callum wanted him to be called Martin, after our father. As soon as I get settled, I’ll get Father Gallagher to baptise him.”

“So you’ve kept the faith then, Theresa?” said her mother.

“I’ve never lost it, Mother. Callum and I were married in St Ignatius Catholic Church in Pittsburg. He had everything organised before I got to America.”

“Your father will be pleased to hear that, lass.”

“He could have heard it the other day if he’d given me the chance to tell him. Instead, he disowned me and called my bairn a bastard. Now, it’s too late. I’ll never forgive him for that.”

“I’ll read the riot act to him when we get home. Will ye not come home with us now, Theresa? Mr Duff’s waiting outside for us.”

“This is my home now, Mother. You’re welcome here any time. Next time, get a taxi. I’ll pay for it. I know you can’t walk too far now. Now, I’ll come and see Mr Duff off. He’s a very busy man. My God, it’s Thursday. He must have given up his game of golf to help us.”

Alexander Duff, puffing on his pipe, beamed at Theresa. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Theresa. Don’t be late. There’s a lot of bookkeeping to be done. Bring young Martin with you. You can look after him there and work at the same time.” With those parting instructions, he backed out the driveway in his old Rover car before Theresa had the chance to object.

Mary McCann was aware of a big change in Theresa, no longer a young girl. Indeed, she was now a self-possessed young woman, widowed at seventeen, with a young baby. “That husband of mine will get the rounds of the house when I get home,” she thought. “He’s a stubborn bugger though. Maybe young Martin will bring them together, that is if he ever gets to see the bairn.”

The following morning, Theresa wrapped the baby in a shawl in the traditional working-class tradition and set off. As she reached the gate, the postman arrived and handed her a letter, addressed to Miss Theresa McCann. Curious, she turned the envelope over but there were no details of the sender. She quickly opened the envelope to find one page inside. In large print was scrawled one word, WHORE. At the bottom of the page, she read ‘from Defender of the True Faith’. Shaken, she walked to Duff’s Haulage. By the time she arrived, she had regained her composure, regarding the letter as the work of a bigoted crank. For one fleeting moment, she had wondered if it was from her father but had quickly dismissed that idea. He would never have been so cowardly.

“There’s a bassinet in the corner, Theresa. My wife bought it years ago when she was pregnant but a miscarriage and subsequent hysterectomy means she’ll never need it. I need you to take your old job back. It’s been a shambles since you left. Besides, it’ll be good for you rather than being in the cottage on your own. What do you say?”

“Well, Mr Duff, when you put it like that, how can I refuse? We’ll give it a go for a few weeks. I should have your accounts up to scratch by then, and then we’ll see.”