by James G. Dow
“My, but you’re a good daughter. I only wish your father would see sense and make it up with you.”
“It’ll happen one day. Don’t worry. By the way, young Joe will be leaving school shortly. What does he want to do?”
“Oh, he’s football mad. He’s pretty good, too. You know he’s playing for Lochside Rovers and he’s their leading goalscorer. He’s not a good scholar like Kevin. He’s set his sights on being a professional footballer, but we’ll see. Speak o’ the devil, here’s young Joe coming up the stair.”
“Mam, Theresa, I saw Mr Duff in the street and he told me you were here. I’m that excited I can hardly talk.”
“Sit down, Joe. Here’s a glass of water. Now then, what’s your news?”
“The Glasgow Celtic scout saw me playing on Saturday and Mr Kelly, the manager, has been to see Dad. He wants to sign me up and he’s offered me a job on the ground staff. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
“What did your dad say?”
“He said it was all right with him but you’d have to agree, Mam. Please say yes!”
“Simmer down, son. Of course you can go but you realise you’ll have to live in Glasgow.”
“Mr Kelly said he can fix me up with digs.”
“Well, that’s great. You might have company. Kevin will be leaving home too, to study at the uni. Maybe Mr Kelly can get him digs with you.”
“That would be terrific. I feel as if all my Christmases have come at once. Well, tata – I’ll go back and tell Dad.” With that, he rushed off.
“This will work out well, Mother. If Father asks where your cash is coming from, just say it’s courtesy of Celtic. They won’t be paying young Joe much to start with, so you’ll still need a wee bit help from me.”
“My God, all of a sudden there will only be Megan and the old man at home. Luckily, he’s taken to walking in the countryside. Dr Blair says the fresh air will be good for him.”
The winter set in and Martin was virtually housebound. The countryside was snowed under and walking was out of the question. He struggled to mass every Sunday morning. Mary gave him a few shillings on Saturdays to have a pint or two. His gambling days were over. His wife was a wizard with the meagre sum coming in. He didn’t know how she managed. The two boys came to visit every month and he was always delighted to hear their news. Kevin was doing well at his engineering course. He must have inherited his mother’s brains. Young Joe had filled out with the weightlifting and proper diet. Mr Kelly, who lived in nearby Balmaha, dropped in now and then to bring them up to date on the boy’s progress. “The way he’s going, Mr McCann, he’ll be getting a game in the first team in the coming season. You should be very proud of him.”
“Oh, but I am, Mr Kelly. I’m trying to get fit myself so that I’ll be able to come and see him kick the winning goal against the Rangers.”
Mr Kelly laughed. “When that game comes along, I’ll send a car for you and you can sit in the box with me. That’s a promise!”
Spring arrived and Martin resumed his walks. He was only 41 but felt like an old man. Those years down the pit had really taken their toll on his body. Nevertheless, he was thankful to escape from the house and get out in God’s garden. He’d forgotten just how beautiful it was. His shortness of breath prevented him from walking too far or climbing the hills. He’d found an old pair of binoculars. When he stopped for a rest he used them to scan up the glen. He spied a pair of golden eagles circling above as they effortlessly glided higher on the thermal current. At the foot of King’s Linn waterfall there was a young deer quenching its thirst before scampering up the hill. The winter snows were melting and the burn was flowing swiftly over the rocks, with the white foam flying in the breeze. For the first time in years, Martin felt at peace with the world. There was a time in his youth when he’d thought about joining the priesthood but his first glimpse of Mary Malone had put paid to that idea. He knew, from that moment, that he could not live without her. He was married at the age of 20, as soon as Mary turned 16. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and 21 years later, he still thought so. He rose and headed back towards the town. He normally cut across the golf course if it wasn’t busy. This was Thursday afternoon and the fairways were deserted. As he rounded the clubhouse, a toddler came running after a ball, collided with Martin’s knees, and fell heavily to the ground. Martin picked the boy up, “Are ye all right, son?”
“Bring him over here, Martin.”
He looked up and saw Father Gallagher sitting at an outside table with Mr Hamilton, that Protestant minister. He carried the wee boy over to the table. “Is this one of yours, Mr Hamilton?”
“No, he’s one of yours, Mr McCann.”
Martin looked round to see Mr Duff bearing a tray of drinks. “Say hello to your only grandson, Mr McCann. It’s high time you met your namesake. Just look at him. He’s the spitting image of you. Allow me to introduce Martin Michael Rutherford.”
Martin McCann looked at the golden hair and the big, blue, innocent eyes of the child and he felt his heart melting. For the life of him he couldn’t put the boy down. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Marty.”
“Sit down, Martin. The kid’s heavy. Put him on your knee and I’ll get you a cool pint of McEwan’s finest,” said Father Gallagher.
“Are you my Gran’pa?”
“That I am, Marty.”
“Then where have you been?”
Martin glanced at Father Gallagher and said softly, “I’ve been lost, son, but I’m back now and I’ll never go away again.”
“That’s good to hear, Martin,” said Father Gallagher. “Now, Mr Hamilton and I have some hospital visiting to do, so we’ll leave you with young Marty and Alex Duff. You can get acquainted.”
“Call me Alex. We’ve never met but I know the rest of your family.”
Martin reached over and shook hands. “Call me Martin. I know how good you’ve been to Theresa. It looks like you’ve made a friend in Marty.”
“He’s a grand wee laddie, Martin. I’m glad you’ve finally met him.”
“I’ve been such a silly bugger, Alex. Now that I’m on my last legs, with a lot of time to think, I realise the mistakes I’ve made. I know it doesn’t help much but I regret the things I’ve said and done to Theresa.”
“Well, Martin, it’s never too late. I’ve got to get the lad home to his mother. Hop in the car, put Marty on your knee, and we’ll go to Silvertrees.”
When they arrived, Alex said, “You go in first with Marty. I’ll give you some time to make your peace. When you’re ready, I’ll drive you home to your wife. She’ll be wondering where you are.”
Marty ran inside. “Mammy, Mammy, I’ve found my gran’pa.”
Theresa looked up as her father came through the door. She was speechless with mixed emotions. Martin stammered, “Theresa, I don’t know how to start …”
Theresa threw her arms about him. “Daddy, oh Daddy, there’s no need to say anything. Oh, how I’ve missed you,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.
Young Marty was distressed. “What are you crying about, Mammy? Gran’pa’s not lost now. I found him.”
Martin scooped the boy into his arms. “It’s all right, son. Your mammy’s fine. She’s just crying because she’s happy.”
Alex came in after eavesdropping on the veranda. “It’ll be dark soon, Martin. I’d better take you home. Mary will be worried about you.”
“That’s right, Alex.” He turned to Theresa. “You know you’ll never get rid of me now. I want to see young Marty every day.”
“Come to the yard tomorrow, Father. You can take him for a walk.”
As they left, Alex said, “Well, that was easy now, wasn’t it?”
“Thanks to Theresa – she made it easy for me. I tell you, I’m going to make it up to her for all my cruelty – yes, that’s what it was. There’s no use pretending otherwise.”
As the car wound through the long valley and turned into Lochside Road, Martin said, �
�Pull over here for a moment, Alex.”
“Something wrong, Martin?”
“No, but just look at that sunset – isn’t that something?
The peak o’ Ben Lomond is girdled with fire,
as the evening falls gently on St Patrick’s spire.”
“I didn’t know you were so poetic, Martin. Where did that spring from?”
“Oh, it must be from something I read once. I just changed the second line.”
“Well, it was real nice, although I have to point out that the evening falls gently on St Andrew’s steeple as well.”
“Let the Prods write their own poetry,” said Martin, chuckling softly.
As they resumed their short journey, the entire scene before them turned pastel pink, all the way down to, and including the water in the loch.
“How could you be an atheist, Alex, when you see the wonder of God’s world like this?”
“I’m not an atheist, Martin. I just had doubts for a while.”
“But you don’t go to church, man.”
“I’m working on that at the moment, Martin. I’ll be talking to Gags soon about it.”
“Who’s Gags?”
“Father Gallagher. I’ve always known him as Gags Gallagher.”
Theresa started attending Sunday morning mass with the rest of the family. Martin took great pride in showing off his grandson to such an extent that his mates started to take evasive action when he approached. He was blissfully unaware of this, so besotted was he with the boy. He made paper and string footballs which were kicked to shreds daily on their parkland walks. Alex remarked to Theresa that his role as honorary daddy had been stolen. He suggested that the only way he could spend time with young Marty would be to marry his mother. Theresa smiled coyly but refrained from comment.
“Gags, I want to come back to the Church. How would you feel about that?”
“I didn’t realise you had been excommunicated, Alex.”
“Well, I sort of excommunicated myself.”
“Technically, you can’t do that, Alex. You have to be chucked out. Maybe you’d better explain.”
“Right! – here goes,” said Alex. “When Franco and his gang of fascists overthrew the elected Spanish government, civil war broke out. What angered me was the fact that the Catholic Church backed the anti-government forces. It seemed that a communist government could not be tolerated even though it was the people’s choice. I stopped attending church from then on.”
“Believe me, Alex, many of us were concerned at that time, even in Catholic Ireland. I’ve heard that a number of Lochside coal miners felt strongly enough about the situation to go and fight with the International Brigade. They weren’t all reds, either. There were good Catholics in their number. Why have you changed your mind over time?”
“Well, I’ve come to realise that the Church is made up of people who are not responsible for the political manoeuvres of the hierarchy. We’ve had popes who were poisoners. There was even a time when we had 3 popes simultaneously, each claiming to be God’s representative on earth. Still the Church survived. Why should I deny myself the right to worship in the faith of our fathers because of human errors or weaknesses at the top?”
“Your argument is undeniably logical. You remind me of the Jesuit friends of my youth, but is there any other reason for your change of heart, Alex?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. Stop smiling, Gags. I want to marry Theresa with the full blessing of Mother Church. Now, when you’ve finished making fun of me, what do I have to do?”
“Alex, Alex, all you have to do is make confession. You remember that bit? You’ve been entertaining evil thoughts, or should I say, they’ve been entertaining you?”
“Gags, stop it. Are you sure you’re a real priest and not one of those comics at the workers’ club?”
“I’m sorry, Alex. Look, I think you should go down to Balloch to make your confession. I couldn’t possibly hear it. I wouldn’t be able to stop laughing! You are a close friend, but if you told me something real juicy in the box, I might be tempted to remind you about it when you’re sweating over a 3-foot putt to win the money on Thursday. By the way, Gavin and I have been wondering how long it was going to take you to pop the question.”
“Well, for your information, I haven’t asked her yet. I just wanted to make sure that I’d prepared the way first.”
Two months later, Alexander Duff and Theresa were married in St Pat’s. Alex was delighted to adopt young Martin and said, at the reception at Silvertrees, that he hoped to provide him with some playmates.
Gags asked the guests to give a warm welcome to the Reverend Gavin Hamilton. “Would you care to say a few words, Gavin – perhaps a suitable quotation from your friend Will Shakespeare?”
“Let joy be unconfined,” said Gavin sitting down at the piano.
“He means, let’s have a good old knees-up,” said Father Gallagher, leading the way in a chorus of Roll out the Barrel’’
Later, Gavin provided Theresa with a draft copy of Forbidden Love. She read it avidly but questioned the bit about throwing the fight for money. “Callum would never have done that, Mr Hamilton!”
“Theresa, we’re not talking about Callum. It’s the character Mickey Ford who took a dive. I told you I was going to change a few things. It’s called dramatic licence. Similarly, your character is Terry Ford.”
“Oh, I get it. OK, go ahead and publish it and I hope it makes some money for your cause.”
“Theresa, it’s your story too. Any profits will be put into a trust account and you and I together will administer the funds.”
“Mr Hamilton, I really should tell Alex about this book. He’s my husband now. I shouldn’t have any secrets. Do you mind?”
“That’s fine, Theresa. This one, I’ve written under my own name, so my little secret about the other books and my nom de plume is safe.”
Two months on, Theresa informed Alex that he was a man of his word. “In what way?” said Alex.
“You remember what you said at our wedding reception about providing a playmate for young Marty? Well, it’s come to pass. I’m pregnant.”
“Alex was speechless for a moment, then followed a torrent of questions. “Are you sure? Do you feel OK? Have you seen the doctor? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes, yes, and yes. This time I won’t be rushing off to America, though, but I do want to go somewhere.”
“What do you mean?” said Alex, looking worried.
“I think we should move from Silvertrees to your house in the town. If we’re going to have a big family, this place is too small.”
“I think it’s a great idea. So are you going to sell Silvertrees?”
“No, I thought I’d ask my parents if they would like to live there. Mother loves the place and it would be good for father’s health, away from that smoky estate.”
“Would that be convenient for young Megan? It’s a fair walk to school from there.”
“Megan will be starting as a trainee nurse shortly. She’s been accepted by Glasgow Royal Infirmary and she’ll be living there in the nurses’ quarters.”
“Well, lassie, you seem to have everything worked out. I’m delighted. You’ve made me a very happy man. Me – a father! I just can’t get my head round that.”
“Alex, you’ve been a terrific father to young Martin for a while now. He’s your boy in every way that matters, and I know you’ll always love him.”
“Thanks, lass – that’s true. Now, are there any more surprises?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. I went to see old Mr Pottinger last week to tell him about my plans for Silvertrees, a courtesy I felt was his due. He has now retired to tend his garden and I’ve bought his Rover 75 car. Will Mowbray has been giving me driving lessons on the quiet and I’ve already got my licence. I’ll be too big to walk everywhere soon but with the car I can visit mother everyday if I want. Are you pleased?”
“Goodness, Theresa, is there no end to your t
alent? I’m pleased and very proud of you.”
Six months passed. Martin and Mary enjoyed the vast change in their environment but the onset of a harsh winter took a toll on Martin’s health. He wasn’t able to go to see the big New Year’s Day clash between Celtic and Rangers. He wouldn’t have enjoyed it much as Rangers won. However, Mr Kelly told him later that Joe had played well and had consolidated his place in the team. Martin was taken to hospital with pleurisy on the same day that Theresa went into labour. He died just hours before Theresa gave birth to a baby girl.
A requiem mass was held for Martin McCann in recognition of his years of devoted service to the Church and particularly to the youth of St Patrick’s School. Father Gallagher gave the eulogy and confirmed that Martin had been his right hand man since arriving in Lochside.
Theresa pulled Father Gallagher to one side at the first opportunity. I’ve been meaning to ask you for some time now, Father – what did you do with those hate mail letters?”
“You never received any more, did you, Theresa?”
“No, but I’m curious to know how you worked the miracle.”
“There’s no miracle, Theresa – I simply posted them back to Sean Coyle with a note signed, ‘A real defender of the faith’.”
One month later, the baby was baptised Patricia Mary. Theresa’s uncle, Kevin, was an enthusiastic godfather. A big party was held at Dawson’s Reception Rooms. No expense was spared. Theresa was determined that her baby daughter’s entry into society would be a memorable one. A cousin queried if such a splash was appropriate so soon after her father’s passing. Theresa firmly retorted that life is for the living.
Hector Thomson’s Bluebirds provided music for dancing but Gavin Hamilton had a spell on piano to belt out a few jazz classics. The Lochside Chronicle reporter and photographer were in attendance. There were no surprises in the next edition. As the caption in the time-honoured tradition stated, ‘a good time was had by all.’
Gavin Hamilton called into the Duff household the following evening. “The novel’s been selling like hot cakes. As Theresa’s told you, Alex, we have opened up a trust fund, which is now earning interest. There’s no hurry but, sometime in the future, we can put the money to good use. At the moment I have no idea what that might be. I’m open to suggestions.”