by Cathy Lamb
Bridget and I pulled on red ruffled skirts that fell to our knees.
“I remember how I loved wearing this skirt,” I said.
“Me too.” Bridget’s voice was wistful.
“Way too tight,” I squeaked out, as I pulled it up over my jeans.
Pherson and Toran pulled on plastic, gold-sprayed armor. It was too small for those monster-sized men, and it had us all bent over, laughing.
“It might stop a spider,” Toran said.
We all picked up our four plastic swords, then stood in a circle. We automatically put our fists in.
“Clan TorBridgePherLotte,” we shouted. “Activate our powers! Make us mighty, make us strong!”
We left in Toran’s truck, but not before Pherson accidentally broke his sword. “I have been emasculated,” he intoned. “A man without a sword is not a man.”
“You’re still my man,” Bridget told him.
“Alas, fair lady, thank you for that.”
“You can have my sword,” she generously offered.
“Aha! I am a man again,” Pherson announced, taking it. “Come along and I’ll rescue you, Bridget!”
“You’re my Prince Charming,” I told Toran.
“And you’re my Princess Charming,” Toran drawled.
“Don’t forget I’m a Princess Charming who is independent and a feminist.”
“I shall not. As long as you remember to let me be the rescuing knight.”
“As long as I get to fight the dragons now and then, I’ll agree.”
“Done.” He kissed me.
That day, the sun shining down like liquid gold, the wind crisp, fall leaves swirling, we fought the enemy, The Dragon Foes, who were part human, part dragon.
We spied on the highland knights.
Bridget and I allowed ourselves to put aside our feminist leanings and let Toran and Pherson rescue us after we had been captured by the Evil Phantom, Fang.
I pretended to faint as Toran carried me away. I will admit that I enjoyed it.
Bridget was protected by Pherson, who shouted, “Away, my princess, away!” He picked her up and spun her around.
The four of us activated our powers, flipped back our capes, declared ourselves victors, and laughed so hard we could hardly stand.
We righted our crowns, tied our shiny gold belts, and chanted, our fists in a circle, “Nothing shall defeat Clan TorBridgePherLotte, not man, not monster!”
Then we went home and had turkey sandwiches and beer.
“I like your sword,” I whispered to Toran, eyeing his crotch.
“Ah, my lady,” he whispered back. “My sword will offer your maidenhood my eternal protection.”
“I don’t think I want protection.” I kissed his cheek and he laughed.
Bridget stayed mostly in bed the next few days but said, “Clan TorBridgePherLotte Day was one of the best days of my life. I’m glad I gave it a go.” She ached and we gave her pain killers. She couldn’t eat.
I saw the puff of steam in the sky from the train. It had grown.
And there it was, the whistle.
I went to the grocery store to pick up some ingredients for meals I thought Bridget might like. At the end of the aisle I saw Lorna and Laddy. They did not see me. When I heard them mention Bridget’s name, I immediately scrunched down behind a stack of canned corn and leaned in to hear what they had to say. Nothing like spying on the enemy. Lorna was speaking, her voice pitchy.
“Laddy, some people signed my petition so that Bridget would not be allowed to ever come to the village again, including Mr. Coddler, Mrs. Thurston, and Mrs. Golling, who lives in the old folks’ home down on Brighton Street.
“Did you know Mrs. Golling is over ninety now? She said she would look at my petition because she liked apple pie, and when I told her about the AIDS and that it stood for All I Did Was Drugs and Sex, she signed it because she said she is tired of not having sex.
“One old man, Mr. Galing, said he would sign nothing that had anything to do with bigotry. He said he had been Bridget’s and Toran’s teacher one year at school and would do nothing to hurt those fine people. Fine people! My arse!
“I was offended! A few of those old biddies, well, many, perhaps most, all, then refused to sign the petition. Mr. Galing followed me around and told them his side of the story, after I gave my speech—he often interrupted me—and what he thought of my petition.
“Remember Jamilyn Hoover? She told me I was an old bat and I didn’t know the first thing about AIDS, and she told me that what the town had to fear was me—me—far more than we had to fear Bridget. She accused me of being a busybody and a gossip.
“I told her we could get AIDS from Bridget, and she interrupted me, too, and said that we couldn’t get AIDS from Bridget unless we had sex with her or did cocaine together. She said, ‘I am not a lesbian, and I do not do drugs, so therefore I am safe. Are you a lesbian, Lorna? I’ve wondered over the years. Do you like women? Your haircut indicates you do.’
“I almost fainted! Mrs. Hoover held her head up high as if I were nothing but a slug and said, ‘LaRhodia, ask Mrs. Lester to leave,’ and LaRhodia, you know that dark black woman from Africa, she asked me to leave. A black woman! Asking me to leave! I was aghast.... What do you think of all this. . . .”
I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep my laugher muffled.
Then Laddy spoke, equally aggrieved. “I went to the library for signatures. I saw Alyce Mosher there. She told me I was like a cuckoo clock, repetitive and annoying. She actually said that, and her father’s a vicar!
“I shouldn’t have been surprised, though, with Alyce having those wild years in school, then she went off and became a biologist and stopped going to church! I went right to her father and said I was disappointed in his daughter’s inexcusable behavior, and Harold told me he was disappointed in my inexcusable behavior and he would be happy to sit down and explain Jesus’s love to me and how Jesus cared for the sick, including the lepers, and he would care for anyone with AIDS, too.
“Some people don’t seem to understand the gravity of this situation. Jestin, the butcher, took my petition when I asked him to sign it and used a butcher knife to cut it in half, then he put it through the meat grinder. He told me Toran was one of his best friends and he would never do anything to hurt Toran or Bridget. He told me to get out and not shop there again. Now where will I get my roasts?”
I laughed behind the corn, then scuttled on out of there.
Dear Charlotte,
I understand you had an altercation with Mr. Coddler yesterday in the village square.
He said that you put your leg behind his, gave him the old one-two push, and he fell on his arse. He said, “My buttocks are now injured.” He did admit to saying to you that Bridget was “a fearsome wart on the town of St. Ambrose,” and I could imagine why that would have struck your temper. He also admitted that he said that I should arrest Bridget and keep her in her home, like you would “another leper.”
Obviously, this was a poor conversation, and I told Mr. Coddler his behavior was reprehensible and that if he approaches you or Bridget again I will arrest him for harassment and he will stay in jail until I am in a better mood.
I wanted to rest any concerns of yours about Mr. Coddler’s unpleasant behavior.
Sincerely,
Chief Constable Ben Harris
A friend of your parents.
Your father knew all the songs and stories of Scotland. He taught me after I arrived, as a boy, lucky to have escaped from the Nazis in Germany. I was a broken soul, grieving the loss of my mother, petrified. He was the one who welcomed me here and taught me how to be a proper Scotsman. I shall never forget him. I shall continue to do my best to protect his daughter and her friends.
17
ST. AMBROSE DAILY NEWS
MY INTERVIEW WITH BRIDGET RAMSAY
By Carston Chit, Reporter
I recently met with Bridget Ramsay. I have been attempting to meet with Miss Ramsay si
nce she returned home and was found to be infected with the AIDS virus.
I thought I was being called to her and her brother’s, Toran Ramsay’s, home to discuss AIDS and the town’s reaction to her diagnosis, about which I have written previously.
We did talk about her AIDS diagnosis, but first, and at length, we talked about Father Angus Cruickshank.
This is her story.
For those of you who may not believe Ramsay’s story, I will add that her story does not differ from others that I have heard, on multiple occasions, all involving criminal behavior by the missing Father Angus Cruickshank, which will be printed at a later date....
I read the article aloud to Toran, Pherson, and Bridget as we drank tea on Sunday morning.
“I know that part of the reason Father Cruickshank targeted me was because he knew my father, a Catholic fanatic, wouldn’t believe me, even if I told him what happened,” Bridget was quoted as saying. “He knew I would do anything to protect my brother. I was vulnerable and scared. He took advantage of that.”
She talked about the attacks, the threat against Toran, losing her baby, being committed to an insane asylum by Cruickshank, the abandonment by her parents, and the downward spiral that followed.
“I didn’t kill Angus Cruickshank,” she said. “But I hope that someone did. What he did to me, and what I know he was doing to other girls at St. Cecilia’s, was criminal.”
As for the baby that was taken from her?
“I have missed her all my life. Every day I have thought of her, and now it’s too late. I will never see her again.”
Finally, why did she tell her story? “So that there’s a record. I want other girls, women now, who were abused by Angus Cruickshank to come forward to get help. If he’s ever found, I also need to leave my voice here to help prosecute him.”
When told that there were complaints from parents about Father Cruickshank, before his stint at St. Cecilia’s, Bridget said, “The priests who knew, the bishops, cardinals, the archbishop, the Vatican, anyone in the church who knew that Angus Cruickshank was raping girls and who looked away, who didn’t call the police, who then sent him to other parishes so he could attack again, all of them should be arrested for aiding and abetting in the rape and molestation of children.
“They hid the criminals amidst them at the expense of children’s safety, so they could protect the reputation of the Church. And they call themselves men of God? Servants of Christ? Christ would not have done that. God would not condone it.”
Carston Chit also included in the article two damning letters written from Bishop O’Callahan to Father Cruickshank.
October 15, 1973
To my dear friend, Angus,
I was much distressed to receive your letter about Sister Margaret O’Diehl, poor woman. It seems she has lost her mind. I could not believe it when you said she tried to cook a live chicken in the oven and danced naked in the woods several months ago.
As you know, when she came to see me recently, she was quite upset, in a rage about you. She told Cardinal Donovan and me that you had attacked and impregnated Bridget Ramsay and two other girls. I was shocked by her accusations, as I am well aware of your impeccable reputation as a Godly, prayerful man. I told her, as gently as I could, that sometimes when women go through the changes at midlife, they become slightly delusional.
She told me that I was the one who was delusional and blind to the crimes being committed at St. Cecilia’s by you.
I forgave her immediately for her intemperance, and explained to her what was going on in her body that would cause these delusions to surface. When women get older they have mental upsets based in their innate weakness as females. Women are naturally less resilient than men, as you know, through your devoted service—their thoughts ruled by emotion instead of reason. I also told her that at her age, some dementia was to be expected.
She did not respond well.
As a side note, my own mother became so enraged at my father one day when he was in his cups that she threw a plate at his head and wounded him. He rightfully slapped her down. She left after I left home and moved back in with her elderly mother, where she remains today. She says she’s happier without my father, but without a male influence in the house, I doubt this.
You were visiting your brother at the time, but the cardinal and I went to St. Cecilia’s and took Sister Margaret to St. Maria’s Care Home for Nuns. We had to tell her she was going to talk to the archbishop about her claims, or she would not have gotten in the car.
She had served the Lord well by teaching young Catholic girls for years. I know she was a popular teacher, but now it was time for her to relax and work in the kitchen serving nuns older than herself their daily meals. They put her in charge of the potatoes, sweet and white.
Sister Margaret threw a potato at me, then another one, and a third and fourth. Twice with both hands. It was embarrassing for her, for all of us that day. We were mortified, but it did back up what you said about her declining and deteriorating mental health. She did continue her accusations against you and said she would be going to the police.
I prayed over her and she threw yet another potato, so Cardinal Donovan and I decided to leave. I told her that God would forgive her her lies if she confessed and repented. She said that I needed to confess to being a “blooming idiot.”
Poor woman. They do seem to lose their faculties when they’re older.
Yours in the love of Christ,
Bishop O’Callahan
October 25, 1973
To my dear friend, Angus,
I have been contacted by the police, my friend, as I know you have, too, because of Sister Margaret’s absurd accusations, poor woman. In fact, it was a pleasurable experience for me. One of the constables, Bill, is the brother of Father Mick Magnuson, with whom I attended seminary. I was able to hear all about Father Magnuson, a devout follower of our Lord, and his flock.
I told them to be gentle with Sister Margaret, as she was suffering from women’s hysteria and delusions. It was my pleasure to quote the Bible with these fine men about the spirits entering the body and taking over, which is exactly what has happened here. They did admit that she was very upset, ranting, when they talked to her. Her age was a factor, too, being sixty-five.
Sister Margaret’s outrageous complaints against you were dismissed. We are sorry that she attempted to besmirch your stellar reputation. Serving in the Lord has many challenges, does it not? With his grace, we persevere.
On another note, it seems that Sister Margaret has left the order. She will no longer be serving the other nuns at St. Maria’s Care Home for Nuns. Perhaps that is for the best. We cannot have her throwing potatoes again.
Yours in the love of Christ, (and looking forward to our next fishing trip!)
Bishop O’Callahan
My final note: Bishop Cameron O’Callahan, Cardinal Owen Donovan, Archbishop Dougal Quigley, Constable Bill Magnuson, and Constable Paul Riordan were all contacted for this article. They all refused to speak to me. It should also be noted that Chief Constable Ben Harris was in training in Scotland Yard at the time, for another assignment, and was not then the Chief Constable of St. Ambrose. The late Larry Halloren was in that position.
When I was done, we sat in silence for another minute, then Toran turned to Bridget and said, “You are the bravest woman I have ever met.”
Pherson said, “Bridget, you are my hero, honey.”
I said to her, “I love you, Bridget. Always have, always will.”
Bridget said, “We should celebrate.”
“What?” Pherson said.
“Celebrate revenge. The Catholic Church has finally heard my voice.”
“Aha!” I said. “Revenge is sweet. I’ll make Loch Ness monster chocolate squares with icing.”
“And I will, yet again, pledge to kill Angus Cruickshank if he ever surfaces,” Toran said.
“Friend, I will be beside you when you do,” Pherson said.
We pla
yed poker. Toran won.
Poor Bridget. She doesn’t have a poker face. She smiles, she cackles, she frowns. She went back to studying her poker book.
The next day Toran and I went on a long walk, holding hands.
We didn’t say much. We were at that place in a relationship where silence was soft, like a hug.
Carston Chit’s interview of Bridget had a huge impact. As Ben Harris told me later, through his contacts on police forces throughout Great Britain and Ireland, the calls came streaming in from women, many who were girls at the time, who were victims of Angus Cruickshank.
What also came to Chief Harris’s attention, as it had to Carston Chit, was that there were letters written, complaints made, by victims, by their mothers, their fathers, to the parishes, to the archbishops, to the Vatican, all outraged about Angus, for years.
Nothing was done.
Father Angus Cruickshank was given a slap on the wrist and moved to another parish, to rape and abuse again. Until he disappeared from St. Cecilia’s.
The Catholic Church clearly went into denial mode.
They buried the information. They minimalized, dismissed, intimidated, denied.
And the attacks continued.
In America and Ireland, the reports were coming in, too, mostly assaults against boys. The Church had refused to prosecute. They shuffled the criminals to a new parish. Ta-da! Here’s your new priest! He likes children, in a bad way, but we won’t tell you that.
Rapists can come in any form at all.
They may wear jeans.
They may wear tuxedos.
They may wear crosses.
There were no more bricks. No more slashed tires. No fires.
