The Girl Who Made Good in America (6 page)

A week later, Theresa announced, “The books are in order now, Mr Duff.”

“How’s the balance sheet looking, Theresa?”

“Mr Duff, you know as well as I do that you run a very profitable business here. It just keeps growing.”

“I’m glad you said that because it makes my next question a lot easier. How would you like to be a full working partner?”

“Who, me?” said Theresa. “I’m only 17 and I’m not a businesswoman.”

“You showed some business acumen when you bought Silvertrees. Not many other kids of 17 have your knowledge or experience.”

“Buying Silvertrees was easy, thanks to old Mr Pottinger. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I’ve had a lot of experience all right, in the past year – most of it bad, but it’s generous of you to make the offer.”

“Listen, Theresa, generosity doesn’t come into this. I’m a businessman. Look, you told me how much money you’ve come into. Half of that will buy you a full partnership. Now, I could go to the bank and take out an overdraft to buy the new trucks I need but I’d rather give you the chance to put your cash in what you already know is a safe and profitable investment. Another reason for my offer is that my wife has inoperable cancer. It’s affecting her brain – most of the time she doesn’t recognise me. I’ve got a carer minding her during the day, so that I can run the business. My wife has only a few months at most and I want to spend as much time with her as I can. That means I need you to run this place virtually on your own for a while. Will Mowbray, the foreman, can handle the drivers and the yard maintenance. We can get the auditors to assess the business before you commit yourself, while you consult a solicitor for your own peace of mind.”

Theresa paused, deep in thought, before replying, “Mr Duff, the auditors can’t tell me anything I don’t already know and I don’t need a solicitor. I would trust you with my last penny. I’ll be delighted to accept right now. I’m sorry about your wife. She’ll get great comfort from your presence at home. As for me, I can spend most of my time here. It will do me good to keep as busy as possible. Luckily, young Martin is a good baby. When he’s not feeding, he’s sleeping. So go, and do what you’ve got to do, Mr Duff.”

He reached across and shook her hand. “In that case, you’d better start calling me Alex. Besides, I’m not an old man to be addressed so formally. I’m only 30.”

When she got home, there was another letter. This time, the message read TRAITOR. She laughed and put it with the first letter. She wondered who could hate her so much but finally realised it could be just about anyone in her old community.

She received a letter daily for the rest of the week. By then, it was no laughing matter. The last one was a direct threat against her baby.

“Why do we not see you at Sunday morning mass, Theresa?” said Father Gallagher. “I’m not complaining, though. You never miss Sunday evening.”

“It’s more convenient, Father. I’m here in the office seven days a week and I go to church in the evening on my way home to Silvertrees.”

“You wouldn’t be trying to avoid your father, would you?”

“Well, I don’t want to see him, that’s true. I thought that when my mother told him the whole story, he would have come and apologised for the horrible things he said.”

“You know your father still doesn’t believe you were married in the faith.”

“And you, Father, do you believe me?”

“Yes, Theresa, I do.”

“Don’t you find it strange that you accept my word and yet my own flesh and blood father thinks I am a liar?”

“Oh, he’s a stubborn creature is Martin McCann. He would have to see the marriage certificate to be convinced, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’ve got the same Irish stubbornness. I’ve got the certificate right here but I’m not going to show it to you, or him, or anybody else.”

“OK, lass, don’t get your dander up with me. Anyway, I’m here at your request. What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry, Father, I shouldn’t be lumbering you with my family problems. I want you to baptise my baby. You say you believe my story, so here’s a chance to prove it, or does the church hierarchy need written evidence, just like my father?”

“That won’t be necessary in this case, Theresa. I’ll be delighted to baptise the child.”

“That’s a great relief, Father, but what do you mean, in this case? What’s special about my circumstances?”

“The fact is that I have absolute corroboration of your story, from a most unlikely source. This morning, I played golf with my good friend, Reverend Gavin Hamilton. Afterwards, I had lunch with him in the manse and he told me about his recent trip to America. The Presbyterian synod convened last week in Pittsburg and he was in attendance. Gavin was a class amateur boxer before he became a minister. He retains a keen interest in the sport and happened to read an article about Mickey Ford, with an accompanying photograph. He recognised Callum and investigated the story. His enthusiasm led him to Maxie Mosquito, Red Callander, and Father Zalkowski. He’s brought back old issues of newspapers with details of all Callum’s fights and his unfortunate demise. So you see, Theresa, I know it all now but I’ve asked Gavin to keep the information under wraps until you are ready to release it, because I am sensitive to your family situation.”

“It’s a small world, right enough, Father. I appreciate what you and Mr Hamilton are doing but I want my father to accept my bairn and me for all the right reasons and not because of a scrap of paper. I suppose you think I’m a silly young girl.”

“Indeed, I do not. Don’t forget I’m a stubborn Irishman too. Let’s say we have the baptism Friday afternoon and then we can wet the baby’s head all evening at the party at Silvertrees. You’ll no doubt be inviting your family. If old Martin declines, that’ll be his loss. Who else do you want there?”

“I’ll ask Alex Duff to be the baby’s godfather. He’s Catholic, so that’s no problem, and my uncle Kevin. I’m sure he’ll want to be there. Callum only met him briefly but he made a big impact.”

“That’s an understatement, if I ever heard one,” said Father Gallagher, laughing heartily. “Do you mind if Gavin Hamilton comes along? He plays a mean piano and I know there’s one at Silvertrees. He can accompany me while I sing a few songs from my recordings.”

“You’ve made records, Father?”

“Yes, Theresa, and the proceeds all go to our own parish church.”

“Changing the subject, Father – I haven’t told anyone but I’ve been getting hate mail regularly, calling me a whore and my baby a bastard. Obviously, it’s not just my father who thinks the worst of me. I can’t keep it to myself any longer. I’m terrified they’re going to harm the child. They’re making all kinds of threats now.” Theresa’s voice broke and she couldn’t continue.

“I don’t suppose the letters were signed, Theresa?”

“Defender of the True Faith – that’s the only information on the letters.”

“How long has this been going on, lass?”

“Ever since I came to Silvertrees, Father.”

“I wish you’d told me this earlier, Theresa. I’m pretty sure I know the perpetrator.”

“You do?” cried Theresa. “Can you stop it?”

“When you left for America, your father discovered on the grapevine who had cut off your hair. He paid a visit to Sean Coyle, young Pat’s father. It seems Pat’s gang had done the deed. Sean comes from County Antrim and was a member of the IRA. There are many fine people in the IRA but he’s not one of them. He was a thug and a bully and was expelled from the organisation. He came to Scotland and he still mouths off about his so-called rebel heroics.”

“What happened then, Father?”

“Your father confronted him with the information about young Pat and his cohorts and asked what he intended to do about it. Sean laughed and praised his son for his initiative.”

“That would be like waving a red rag to a bull,” said Theresa, “I know my father’s temper.”

“Yes, I’m afraid your father smacked him around and, like all bullies, Sean capitulated, pleading your father to stop, asking what he wanted from him.”

“And just what did my father want?”

“He ordered Sean to get Pat to report to me at the presbytery so that I could put him to work for our community. Since then, Pat and his little gang of miscreants have been helping your father at the sports ground. Furthermore, they seem to be enjoying it. That’s the good news – the bad news is that Sean bears a grudge against your father for humiliating him. My guess is that he’s exacting revenge by these letters.”

“I see,” said Theresa, “that makes sense, so what do I do, Father?”

“Give the letters to me, lass. I’ll fix it.”

Martin Michael Rutherford was baptised in St Patrick’s Church and all adjourned to Silvertrees. Theresa had hired Dawson’s Catering to supply plenty of food and ordered the liquid refreshments through her uncle Kevin. Her father had not attended the baptismal service. He was working a double shift to pay off the bookies. A ‘sure thing’ at the races had run last. Eddie Waters, his shiftmate, had a greyhound called Wee Rose. “It can’t lose, Martin. It’s the class dog in the field.”

Round the last bend, Wee Rose, in the lead, drifted off the track and finished stone motherless last. “I’m sorry, Martin. We’ve done our dough.”

“Don’t worry, Eddie. The problem’s easily fixed. The dog just needs balancing.”

“Balancing!” said Eddie. “What the hell are ye talkin’ about?”

“The dog drifts right, so we balance by inserting a little bit of lead in its left ear.”

“How do we do that, Martin?”

“With a bloody 303 rifle!” retorted an irate Martin.

Father Gallagher did his best to get Martin to come and wet his only grandson’s head but, to no avail. “I’m surprised that a Catholic priest can bring himself to baptise a child who is illegitimate in the eyes of the Church.”

“Martin, Martin, there is no such thing as an illegitimate child, only illegitimate parents, and I’m sure young Theresa is not one of those. Are you without sin, Martin? Will you cast the first stone? Have you no compassion, man, for your first-born?”

Martin shook his head and walked away. This matter had soured his relationship with the priest. Father O’Neil would have taken the correct line. He would never have condoned fornication. Father Gallagher looked after him and reflected about the sign outside Gavin’s church proclaiming, “This church is not full of hypocrites. There is always room for more.”

He’d suggested something similar outside St Pat’s but the bishop deemed it unnecessary, “We always have a full house, Dermot. It’s a mortal sin to miss mass, as you well know.”

“I’m real sorry your father isn’t here, Theresa. He’ll not listen to reason, at all, at all.”

“Don’t worry about it, Father. One day, he’ll relent, I’m sure. Now, will you favour the company with a song? My mother tells me you’re a big success.”

“I was invited to record a selection of Scottish and Irish airs and I’m glad to say they’ve been very popular with the public. I’ll sing the song about our own Lochside – Gavin, the key of F, if you please.”

By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes
,

Where the sun shines bright on loch Lomon’
,

Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae

On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomon
.

‘Twas there that we parted in yon shady glen
,

On the steep, steep sides o’ Ben Lomon’
,

Where in purple hue the Hieland hills we view
,

An’ the moon comin’ out in the gloamin’
.

O ye’ll tak’ the high road and I’ll tak’ the low road
,

An’ I’ll be in Scotland afore ye;

But me and my true love will never meet again

On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomon’
.

The sweet tenor voice lingered over the final coda from the piano. You could have heard a pin drop before the spontaneous applause. “I think I deserve a drink”, said Father Gallagher, wandering over to the sideboard to pour himself a wee dram.

“A penny for you thoughts, Theresa,” said Gavin, “you’re miles away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Hamilton. That song got me thinking. I thought Callum was delirious, talking gibberish on his deathbed. Now, I’m not so sure. His final words were about the high road and low road, and he’d be waiting for me at Silvertrees. That’s why I bought the cottage on the spur of the moment. What does the song mean?”

“That’s very interesting, lass. It dates back to the old Scottish belief that the dead followed the ‘low road’, that is, the spirit path, through the underworld, arriving back in Scotland instantaneously. It dates back to a Jacobite Highlander who was captured in England after the 1745 rising and sentenced to death. The verse is his mournful elegy to a comrade who had been set free to walk back to Scotland.”

“Do you think that the old belief could be true, Mr Hamilton? I want it to be true, because I really sense that Callum is here and I feel at peace.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy,” mused Gavin, softly.

“What was that, Mr Hamilton?”

“Sorry, Theresa, I was just quoting a bit of Shakespeare to myself. What I should have said is that there are a lot of things we don’t understand, especially here in old Scotland. Far be it from me to say it’s not true. After all, as Christians, we believe in the supernatural. How else can we justify the New Testament miracles or the resurrection of Jesus? All I can say is that Callum must have loved you very much. Take comfort in that, lass, and get on with life. You are a fine, young lady with a lot more to achieve yet.”

“Thank you, Mr Hamilton. You’ve been a great help. I feel that I can talk to you about matters I couldn’t raise with Father Gallagher. Does that make me a bad Catholic?”

“Of course not, lassie,” said Gavin. “We all need a special friend to confide in now and then. Feel free to come and talk to me anytime.”

Kevin approached and said, “Where did the bairn get the middle name of Michael from, Theresa? There are no Michaels in our family, although Mr Hamilton might say that we’re all Micks.”

Theresa glanced at Gavin and said, “It was the name of Callum’s best friend in America. He was a great help to us there and I thought it would be a nice way to remember him.”