by James G. Dow
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 K
evin 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.”
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t, Kevin. You can just tell everyone you were hit by a truck.”
“And not by a truck driver, eh?” said Kevin. “You’re a good sport, Callum. It’s a pity you’re not a Catholic. Father Gallagher would have you teaching self-defence at St Pat’s.”
“You seem like a reasonable man, Kevin. I just don’t understand why Theresa’s father hates me so much.”
“Martin is an old-time Irish Catholic, a real hard-liner. He doesn’t hate Prods as such. After all, he works beside them at the coalface every day and he would put his own life on the line to save them in times of danger. That’s how it is down the pit, but he sees you as a threat to Theresa’s immortal soul. The Catholic family bit comes first with him.”
“I just don’t get it, Kevin. I went to America as a young boy and I guess I’ve never been affected by this religion thing. In a democracy, everybody should be treated equally.”
“I know what you mean, kid. I’m a bit of a backslider myself. Oh, I go to mass and go through the motions but I take it all with a pinch of salt. Mind you, I don’t have a beautiful young daughter like Theresa.”
“Well, what happens now?” said Callum. “Will he send two or three heavies after me?”
“I’ll have a word with him and tell him you’re a decent bloke. I don’t think he’ll try and scare you off again. Just bide your time and see how it turns out.”
The Reverend Gavin Hamilton entered the ward and approached Callum. “Hello, Callum – could I have a word with you, son?”
“Hi, Mr Hamilton – do you know Kevin McCann?”
“Not really, although I’ve seen him in the ring a few times – very useful middleweight. Pleased to meet you, Kevin. Do you mind if I take Callum away for a few minutes? It’s important.”
“It’s about my father, isn’t it, Mr Hamilton?”
“Yes, Callum – it’s bad news, I’m afraid.”
“He’s dead?”
“He had a seizure and passed away an hour ago. Your mother asked me to find you. I’m sorry, son.”
“We’ve been expecting it for a while. It sounds terrible but, in a way, it’s a relief. His quality of life hasn’t been the best. Now he’s gone and the pain is over. We’d better get back and see my mother, Mr Hamilton. See you later, Kevin. Take it easy.”
“I’m sorry about your father, Callum. I hope we can be friends now. If I can help in any way, just let me know.”
’Twas there that we parted in yon shady glen,
By the steep, steep side o’ Ben Lomond.
“Well, Theresa, this will be my last stroll through the glen for a while. It’s a beautiful evening. I’ll miss this place.”
“You don’t have to go, Callum. I don’t want you to leave.”
“We’ve been all through this, love. I just feel that, if I don’t go back to America now, I’ll be stuck here with all this damn religious prejudice. Your father’s never going to change his mind about us. I know I can do well in the States. Then I’ll send you the money to join me. At the most, it’ll take me about six months. Will you leave your family and come to me then, Theresa?”
“I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, Callum.”
“Do you really mean that, Theresa? It’s a big step for a young lass to leave her family and her country.”
“But it’s you that I want, Callum. I can’t imagine life without you. You’ve won my heart completely. Sure, I’ll miss my family and the glen but I’d miss you much more if I gave you up. You do realise, though, that I could never give up my Catholic faith to marry you?”
“I know, Theresa, and I wouldn’t expect you to.”
In the twilight, in a secluded bower among the heather, the young couple consummated their love. Theresa hadn’t meant to go all the way and Callum hadn’t forced her. Rather, it was she who had initiated the passion. As she walked up the street to her house she pondered her action. She had no regrets. Instead she was filled with a great love and a sense that she was now committed body and soul to Callum. She would miss him but she had every faith in his promise to send for her in six months. She had the confidence of youth and, as she walked, she sang softly the traditional Scottish air;
Whistle and I will come tae ye, my lad,
Though faither and mither and a’ will gae mad.
Just whistle and I will come tae ye, my lad.
Theresa was well aware that they would go mad alright if they knew what she had been doing and what her plans were. When she went inside, her father scowled, “You’ve been out with that fellow again, disobeying my orders. I’m telling you, Theresa, if you bring disgrace on this house, I’ll throw you out!”
“You don’t have to worry any more. You’ve finally driven Callum away. He’s leaving for America tomorrow.”
Martin said no more but was pleased that the matter had been resolved. Kevin had sung the praises of young Callum Rutherford and Martin now quietly wished him well, three thousand miles away from Theresa.
Unfortunately for Theresa, the close-knit community did not know of Callum’s intended departure. Anger had been spreading about one of its own young women engaging in an unholy alliance with a Prod. The matter had been discussed openly among the families and the general opinion was that something should be done about it. Four unemployed youths from the estate, hanging around the billiards hall, decided to teach young Theresa a lesson.
One of them had heard his father talk about IRA tactics in Northern Ireland, including punishment for Catholic women befriending British soldiers stationed there.
Theresa, after her evening meal, left the house to go to confession. At the end of the street, the gang of four intercepted her and quickly hustled her into a tin shed adjoining the billiards saloon. The leader, Dan Coyle, produced a cut-throat razor and brandished it in front of Theresa. Now terrified, she screamed, “Pat, don’t cut me – don’t slash me. What have I ever done to you?”
“You’re letting your family down, Theresa. You should stick to your own kind. We’re not gonna slash your face – we’re just gonna cut off your hair. Just hold her down, lads. This won’t take long.”
Her lovely tresses fell to the floor as the razor rough cut took place. Laughing at her appearance, the louts bundled her out of the shed and she ran home as fast as she could, crying in shock.
Her mother caressed her and managed to calm her down. Martin said, “Who did this, Theresa?”
“I don’t know, Father. They were wearing balaclavas.”
“Did they say why they cut your hair off?”
“They said I should stick to my own kind. I was scared, Father – I thought they were going to razor-slash my face, or worse.”
“Theresa, did they harm you in any other way – you know what I mean?”
“No, thank God, they were only kids, by the sound of them.
”
“I’ll ask around and I’ll find out who they are,” said Martin. “I don’t care what their motives were – no bugger’s going to interfere with any of my family.”
When Theresa went to bed, her mother came to her and whispered, “You know who they were, don’t you, Theresa?”
“Yes, it was the Pat Coyle gang but I don’t want father to know. I don’t want to be the cause of any more trouble on the estate. I’m over my fright now and my hair will grow back. Once everyone knows that Callum’s gone, they’ll leave me alone.”
Early next morning, Callum travelled to Glasgow where he signed up as a crew member on a merchant vessel bound for Baltimore. On arrival in America, he jumped ship and rode the rails on a freight train heading for Pittsburg along with hobos and drifters who didn’t have the fare. When he got to the big industrial city, he rented a cheap room, cleaned himself up, and presented himself at Carnegie Steel.
Carnegie Steel had originally been owned by Andrew Carnegie, also a migrant from Scotland. He had worked and saved and single-mindedly dedicated himself to making his fortune. Astute investments had paid off handsomely and, in time he had become a millionaire. He was an enigma. A lot of his money was given to philanthropic projects, such as Carnegie Hall, New York, a centre for the arts, music and ballet. On the other hand, he was a hard taskmaster, demanding his pound of flesh from his employees. On one occasion, he had decreed that the steelworkers’ wages be cut in half. That caused no end of trouble, but the old man had his way.
That was in the bad old days, showing the ugly face of capitalism. These days, the growth of the trade unions had resulted in improvements but, in America, the man who pays the piper still calls the tune.
The foreman took one look at Callum’s physique and hired him on the spot as a labourer on the maintenance team, which performed dirty and dangerous work on a shoestring budget. Nevertheless, the wages were about four times what he had been earning in Scotland and money was now Callum’s whole concern. In the evening, he went to see Maxie Mosquito, his erstwhile trainer at Globe gymnasium.
