by James G. Dow
“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.”
“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 There
sa 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.”