The Girl Who Made Good in America (3 page)

“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
.

“
W
ell, 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.

“Well, well, look who’s here. Mickey Rutherford, the kid who coulda bin a champion. What happened to you? Where the hell have you bin?”

“Hi, Maxie – I’m sorry I ran out on you after all the work you put in on me.” Callum told Maxie the whole story about his father and the hurried return to Scotland.

“Well, now you’re back, Mickey. Are you gonna have another shot at the Golden Gloves?”

“I’ve never known why you call me Mickey.”

“Because, kid, you’re the nearest fighter I’ve seen to Mickey Walker, the old welterweight champ. You’re a natural southpaw like him and you have a killer left hook, just like he had.”

“While we’re on names, why do they call you Maxie Mosquito?”

“My real name is Moisewicz. We came from Poland. When I was fighting, nobody could spell it or pronounce it. One sports writer came up with Mosquito, because I crept up on you and drew blood – neat, huh? Now, enough with the questions already; what’s cookin?”

“You say I fight like Mickey Walker but am I good enough to turn pro?”

“Kid, if you’re as fit as you look, I could have you on the bill at the stadium on Saturday night. Chic Raines has had to pull out with a wrist injury. Yep, you could be up against Joe Solomon. He’s pretty useful, but not in your class. Whadya say?”

“Fix it up, Maxie. I need to make some money.”

“Leave it to me. By the way, your name’s too long. From now on, you’re Mickey Ford.”

At Steeler Stadium, on Saturday night, Mickey Ford sent Joe Solomon to the canvas with a left hook to the solar plexus in 61 seconds. The following Saturday, Callum faced Art Blake, a tough slogger from the Bronx. Callum, on Maxie’s advice, boxed him cleverly, taking no chances but, in the third round, saw an opportunity and put him away for the full count with another left hook.

Now, the journalists were badgering Maxie about his new sensation.

“He’s fresh out from Ireland and he’s gonna be the new Mickey Walker. Another few fights and we’ll be looking for a shot at the title. I tell you, this kid’s goin’ places.”

“Why did you tell them I was from Ireland, Maxie?”

“They love the fighting Irish here. It’s good for publicity. Just keep your mouth shut and do what I tell you. Stick with me, kid, and you’ll be wearing diamonds.”

In two months, Mickey Ford was topping the bill at the stadium and was hailed by all the sports writers as a comer. He’d won seven fights and had boxed only fourteen rounds. The locals were starting to talk about his opponents as members of ‘the bum of the week club.’

Financially, things were coming along nicely for Callum. By his calculations, in another four months, he should have made enough money for a bond on a nice apartment in a decent part of town, with enough left over for Theresa’s boat fare.

A letter from Theresa shattered his plans. “Callum, I have to tell you I’m pregnant. I’m at my wit’s end and don’t know what to do. My father will throw me out when he finds out. I’ll start to show in a month or so. Please write straightaway to me at Duff’s Haulage.”

Callum sent a telegram immediately telling Theresa not to worry, that he would be sending money soon. He went straight to Maxie. “I need more money right away. I know you’ve been looking after me, picking opponents I can beat, but it’s too slow now. My girl in Scotland is pregnant and I’ve got to find enough cash to get her here and find a decent place to live. She can’t live in the rat hole I’m renting. I’ve got to find a fight that will pay me big money. Then I can give boxing away. I hate it. She doesn’t know I’m a fighter. Besides, I haven’t got the killer instinct. I hate knocking people down. Once more, and I’m finished. What do you suggest?”

“You don’t have the killer instinct? Kid, you coulda fooled me! But if that’s true and your heart’s not in it, then you’ll never beat the top guys, so maybe you should get out. OK, here’s what we’ll do. You’re up against Henry Wills on Saturday. He’s a smart boxer but doesn’t have much punching power. You’re odds-on to win but, if you bet your savings on him, you can triple your dough. Will that get you and your girl outta trouble?”

“You’re suggesting I take a dive, Maxie? I don’t like the idea.”

“Kid, from what you’ve told me, you don’t have much choice. You’ll have to be clever, though, and make it look good. Can you manage that? You won’t be on your own. I’ll back him too! Just give me your dough and leave the details to old Maxie.”