Matty Doolin (11 page)

It was around eleven in the morning when Mr Walsh, accompanied by Jessica, paid them a visit. Would they, he wanted to know, like to come and see the dogs at work? Before the others could even think of a reply, Matty exclaimed excitedly, ‘Oh yes, please. I’d love that.’

‘But what about the things?’ put in Joe. ‘They’re not dry yet. And what if it comes on to rain?’

‘Oh, it won’t rain until we get back. I can assure you of that,’ said Mr Walsh.

‘Well, I’m not going,’ said Jessica, ‘so if it starts to spot I can get them down for you . . . ’

Before she had finished speaking Willie put in, stammering now, ‘O-oh, there’s no ne . . . need cause I c . . . can’t do a long trek. Not with me heel. It isn’t quite better yet. You two go on.’

There was a quick exchange of glances between Joe and Matty. Then Mr Walsh said in his impatient way, ‘Well, come on, whoever’s coming. Get your boots on; we want no more sore heels.’

Joe was now wearing his own shorts, which were more or less dry, but when, after pulling off his plimsolls, he tried to get into his shoes he found they were still soaking wet, and most comfortable. ‘You can’t walk far in those,’ said Mr Walsh, looking down on him as he struggled to push a stockinged foot into the shoes. ‘That’s you out an’ all. What about you?’ Mr Walsh had turned to Matty.

‘Oh, these boots are all right, Mr Walsh; I had them in me case.’

‘Well, let’s get going.’ Mr Walsh led the way, and Matty, after one quizzical look at Willie, and a quick wink at Joe, hurried after the farmer.

Matty came up with Mr Walsh at the gate, and he dropped into step with him but did not speak. Nor did Mr Walsh open a conversation, but what he did was to whistle. It was a long, low sustained note. They had passed the farm and were on the road that was new to Matty when he saw the answer to Mr Walsh’s call, for there, bounding down the foothills beyond the farm, came racing the two dogs. After they had circled their master and Matty once, Betsy, taking the lead, fell in just behind Mr Walsh, walking to his left heel, while Prince came just behind her.

Matty kept glancing back towards the two dogs, and it was when Betsy veered away from her master’s side just a trifle that Mr Walsh growled, ‘Steady. Steady.’ Then without looking at Matty he said, ‘Don’t do that. Never try to distract a dog’s attention from its work.’

When they reached a path where the ground levelled out before rising again, Mr Walsh stopped, and the dogs slowly lowered themselves to the grass and sat with tongues lolling, while Matty stood looking around him in awed wonder. Then more to himself than to the farmer, he said, ‘I didn’t know there were so many hills in the world.’

‘Don’t insult them, lad; they don’t like to be called hills; they like to be called mountains, or rocks.’

‘Rocks?’ repeated Matty.

‘Aye, mud rocks . . . slate rocks . . . volcanic rocks. Skiddaw, the Newlands Fells, and the fells about Whinlatter Pass are all slate. And there are many others. These, they say, were left by the sea. Then there are the Scafell rocks under the Coniston and the Helvellyn range. These, they say, are the result of volcanoes, and some of the volcanic slates are green.’

‘Green!’ said Matty questioningly. ‘With grass?’

‘No. No. Just green . . . And see. Right over there towards the coast, you cannot see it from here, lies Coniston. Have you heard of Shap granite?’

Matty shook his head.

‘They make street flags with it. Some of London is paved with it, they tell me. It’s a fine sight to see it in its natural setting, layer upon layer of natural white limestone. But you’ve got to go to the Pennines to see that . . . Well, come on.’ He turned abruptly. ‘My sheep know nothing about mud rocks or Shap granite, they only know about grass. And you’ll see grass up here as smooth as a cat’s back.’

They were climbing again . . . up . . . up . . . up to the top of the world Matty thought, and although he was hot, even sweating, he realised that the air was cooler here. At one point, he saw a great shining stretch of water, but he hadn’t the breath to ask Mr Walsh which lake it was, for they were going down the other side of the mountain now, and Mr Walsh was skipping like a young boy down the narrow twisting path.

When they were at last on comparatively level ground, Matty saw before him a long funnel-like valley with gentle slopes rising at each side of it. But to the immediate right of them lay a wide expanse of green, and dotting it like buttons were a large number of black-faced sheep.

And now Matty saw, and heard, what to him was an amazing thing, Mr Walsh giving orders to Betsy, and she obeying them implicitly. First, the farmer pointed his stick in the direction of a path that seemed to lead around the foot of the mountain they had just come over, and said, ‘Away, girl.’

As Betsy streaked towards the sheep, Prince now moved up close to Mr Walsh’s side. The dog’s whole body was visibly trembling, and Mr Walsh, without looking at him, said sharply, ‘Steady, boy. Wait.’

Betsy was now rounding the herd, running, then dropping on all fours; waiting; then up again. When one sheep slipped from the group the dog was after it and brought it into line, and for the first time Matty heard her bark, just one sharp bark, like an order.

Matty was following Mr Walsh and Prince now, but keeping a distance behind him in case he inadvertently did something to distract the dog. Matty never heard the farmer’s order to the younger dog, but he saw it suddenly streak away to the flank of the close-packed moving sheep.

Mr Walsh now whistled again, and this brought the two dogs to a dead stop. It also halted the sheep; and with leisurely, but measured tread, the farmer went round the foot of a hill, and going towards a roughly made gate he lifted it off its hinges, placed it against the wall, then moved a short distance away, before giving another order to the dogs.

Within minutes the sheep were all through the gap and into the next field. At least, Matty thought it was a field, until he was at the other side of the drystone wall. Then he saw it was just another great stretch of low fells.

The dogs did not keep to heel, but frolicked here and there along the path. And when the older dog came bounding back, and right to Matty’s legs, he put his hand down swiftly and patted its head. But when Betsy stayed at his side, as he made his way behind Mr Walsh, he became uneasy, in case of another reprimand.

They were returning to the farm by a different, and not half so arduous, way as that by which they had come. During the journey Matty found the silence something of a test, but it wasn’t in him to open a conversation. It wasn’t until the farm came almost into view that Mr Walsh said abruptly, ‘What are you going into?’

‘Going into?’ repeated Matty hastily. ‘You mean . . . ?’

‘I mean, what are you going to work at?’ Mr Walsh’s voice sounded high, and impatient, and this caused Matty’s reply to become stilted. ‘The docks.’

‘Why are you going in the docks?’

‘Well.’ He hesitated; then went on slowly, ‘That’s all I can do. And me dad wants me to go in.’

‘The others tell me they’re going to be apprenticed; why couldn’t you do the same?’

Not for the life of him could Matty tell the farmer the truth, and say, I don’t want to go in the docks, not in any capacity, I want to work with animals, because, he imagined, it would bring a hoot of derision from this brusque man. Didn’t every boy who visited a farm say he wanted to become a farmer? This desire was too near to him, too real, too painful to stand derision of any kind, without causing him to lose his temper. And he was well aware that it wouldn’t pay anyone to lose their temper with a man like Mr Walsh.

‘Aye. Well, you know where the money lies and I suppose that counts for something these days. You can’t have it all ways. Well now, have you enjoyed what you’ve seen?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes.’ Somehow Matty couldn’t get into his voice the enthusiasm which he felt. He had been thrilled and excited with the journey over the mountain, and he realised now, since they had come back this comparatively easy way, that the farmer had purposely taken the stiff climb to reach the far valley simply to point out the magnificence of the hills . . . or rocks. Oh aye! Matty smiled to himself. He mustn’t forget that the big ones didn’t like to be called hills.

This touch of humour coming into his thinking, decided Matty that he must in some way convey the pleasure he had experienced during the past two hours to Mr Walsh. The decision made, the words gathered swiftly in his mouth, and he was actually about to open the conversation, when the farmer, pointing to a stone wall around which they were walking, said, ‘If you jump that and cross the field you’ll come to your camp behind the next wall.’

Matty paused, then stopped. The spontaneity sank in him. ‘Thanks. Thanks, Mr Walsh. I . . . I’ve enjoyed it.’ Again he sounded hesitant.

Mr Walsh slanted his glance towards him, a half smile on his face. Then saying, ‘I . . . I believe you, lad,’ he strode away, leaving Matty knowing full well that he didn’t believe him, and feeling that he wanted to punch himself for not being able to convince the farmer of the truth of his statement.

When he reached the wall he was surprised to see his two pals sitting aimlessly whittling pieces of wood, and as he jumped the wall they got to their feet immediately and questioned him about his walk.

‘Oh, it was fine, fine. Hard going at first.’ His voice sounded airy. ‘Boy, didn’t we climb! But it was worth it, man. I’ve never seen anything like it. We’ll have to go there afore we go home.’ He looked from one to the other, then asked, ‘What’s the matter with you two?’

‘Nowt,’ said Willie quickly.

But Joe, his head lowered, said, ‘We’re a bit fed up.’

‘Fed up?’ Matty’s jaw actually dropped. ‘What you fed up about? We’ve hardly got here. We’ve done nothing yet.’

‘That’s it,’ said Willie. ‘You can’t get anywhere unless you walk miles.’

‘Well, we can take the bus. We were going to Blanchland today, and round about there, weren’t we?’

‘Aye.’ Willie nodded slowly. ‘But you’ve got to walk all down that blooming road, then back up. It took us forty minutes the other mornin’. That’s when we were fresh. And Jessica says the bus only passes the bottom every two hours.’

‘But we didn’t come to use buses, we came to camp, and walk.’ Matty thrust his head out towards Willie now.

‘Oh, aye, man, I know. I was just sayin’. But anyway, Joe thinks like me. Don’t you, Joe?’

‘I do a bit, Matty.’ Joe looked shamefaced as he made this statement. ‘There isn’t much to do.’

Matty sat slowly down on a large stone. He was deeply perplexed. The others sat down, and after an uncomfortable silence, Joe said, ‘We were goin’ for a walk. Jessica was goin’ to take us down to the part where you can swim . . . show us the easiest way to get there, then her mother came for her. Do you know somethin’, Matty? She’s clever. Isn’t she, Willie?’

Willie merely nodded to this. And Joe went on, ‘She told us all about a writer called Beatrix Potter, who lived round here, a place called Coniston, on a farm the name of . . . Eeh. Eeh, I’ve forgotten.’

‘Tilberthwaite Farm,’ put in Matty quickly. ‘Aye, I know all about Beatrix Potter.’

‘Oh!’ Joe raised his eyebrows. Then not to be outdone, he went on, ‘She was learning us to count in a different language; her grandfather used to count like it. Yan, tan, tether. What’s the other, Willie? How does it go?’

‘Pimp something,’ said Willie.

‘No, pimp is five, I know that. She said it’s Scandinavian counting.’

‘Why didn’t you go on and find the pool by yourselves?’ said Matty now.

‘Oh!’ Willie jerked his head backwards. ‘There seemed no point, man. We’ve seen the stream, it all looks alike.’

‘Oh, godfathers!’ Matty punched his brow with his closed fist. ‘You’ve seen nothing yet. I tell you we’ve just come; we’ve hardly settled in.’

‘Well,’ said Joe, getting to his feet quickly, ‘don’t get your rag out, Matty. Let’s get some grub up and then go to that Blanchland place.’

After a moment Matty got to his feet and set about getting the meal ready, but he did it silently, for he was disturbed. They had come on Saturday, and this was Tuesday of the first week, and his pals were bored. He couldn’t understand it; he just couldn’t understand it.

By the time Saturday came around it had become absolutely plain to Matty that the camping holiday was not a success. Willie and Joe had had enough. They both agreed that camping would have been fine if the farm had been near a town, or a village where there were houses to look at, and people to see, but this wild, isolated spot held no attraction for them in any form.

It was Willie who actually proposed breaking up the camp and returning home. On Thursday he had said, what was the good of staying on if the weather was going to change. It had been dull on Thursday. But Friday had been gloriously warm. Now it was bright and warm too, but Joe and Willie, sitting on the bank of the stream idly aiming pebbles at a jutting rock were talking about, of all things, the splendours of their home town. Never before had they realised that South Shields was such a wonderful place, and never had two boys more wholeheartedly longed to be back in its bustling workaday world.

But next minute everything changed as Mr Walsh, with pipe in mouth, and the dogs at his heels, came round the hill and shouted to them, ‘We’re away into town. Anybody like to take the trip into Hexham?’

‘Oh, yes! Yes!’ Joe and Willie were scrambling towards him. Matty came up more slowly.

‘Well then, get yourselves ready, and be quick about it. I’ll be there all day, mind.’

‘Oh, it suits us,’ cried Willie, excited now as he raced up the field.

Mr Walsh was standing looking at Matty now, and he said one word to him, ‘Well?’ It had a big question mark attached to it, and Matty said, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay here.’

‘Please yourself. Please yourself.’ Mr Walsh glanced away quickly then asked, ‘You broke?’

‘Oh no! No. I’ve got a couple of quid left.’ He smiled now. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to go into the town; I’ll have enough of it next week.’

Mr Walsh looked back at him appraisingly. ‘You’re a funny boy,’ he said, and on this he turned abruptly away and left Matty standing staring after him.

Ten minutes later, Matty, standing beside Mrs Walsh, watched Jessica climb up into the cab beside her father, then his pals get into the back of the lorry. He watched Mr Walsh securing the bolts in the back flap; he watched him kiss his wife – a slight embarrassment this, for he had never seen his dad kiss his mother – then, when the lorry started up, they all waved back and forth to each other until it disappeared from view.

‘Well, there now.’ Mrs Walsh drew in a deep breath, then said, ‘What are you going to do with yourself?’

‘Oh, just knock about. I’ll go for a tramp this afternoon.’

She nodded at him, saying, ‘Yes, you want to take advantage of the weather when it’s fine.’

‘Mrs Walsh.’ He paused. ‘Do you think I could take the dogs with me? Or one of them?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. They would love it.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ He jerked his head at her, then asked hastily, ‘Is . . . is there anything I can do for you? I mean on the farm.’

‘No, I don’t think so. I think Mr Walsh saw to everything before he left.’

‘What I meant was, mucking anything out, like turning the manure again.’

Mrs Walsh laughed now, a high pleasant laugh, and she said teasingly, ‘You don’t want to turn the manure. Now, do you?’

‘Oh.’ Matty’s face was quite straight. ‘Oh, Mrs Walsh, I don’t mind, not really. I quite liked doing it.’

She was staring at him, her own face straight. Then she said softly, ‘I think you mean it.’

‘I do, Mrs Walsh. I’d help swill the cow byres out. Or anything.’ He became bold now. ‘Who has to do it when Mr Walsh is away? You?’

‘Yes. Who else? The cows must be milked, and there’s only the two of us.’

‘Well then, there’s bound to be jobs I can do.’

‘But I thought you wanted to go for a walk.’

‘Oh, that was only to fill in the time.’ He was smiling now, and she was smiling. ‘Come and have a cup of coffee with me, and then we’ll get going,’ she said.

For many years after Matty was to remember his first real day on the farm, and as he inhaled the different smells, some sweet, and some far from sweet, he told himself that he was storing them up against his first day in the docks.

He spent an hour on the manure heap, then cleaned out the pigs; then, on an invitation to take ‘a bite to eat’ with Mrs Walsh, he cleaned himself up, and as he sat at the corner of the white scrubbed kitchen table, partly covered with a cloth, and ate his first real meal since he left home, he experienced a new pleasure. He couldn’t put a name to it; it was just that he felt sort of happy in this kitchen, and strangely at ease sitting opposite this compact, nice-looking little woman.

The feeling of comfort stayed with him all afternoon as he fetched and carried while Mrs Walsh did the milking, as he unfastened the cows from their boxes and watched them one after the other go out into the yard and make their way back to the field. After this he hosed the byres down, and playfully rubbed at each little nameplate attached to the supporting posts: Dolly, Jean, Maisie, Kitty, Bett, Rosie and Lulu. He laughed at the last name. Fancy calling a cow Lulu. And already he could distinguish Lulu from the rest of them, for she was frisky, and inclined to use her back legs. And so the afternoon passed, one pleasure adding to another, not the least of them when he sat down once again opposite Mrs Walsh to a wonderful tea of new bread, thick butter and home-made jam, and, added to this, dollops of fresh cream.

When, at half past six, the sun disappeared and a mist came rolling in from the hills, he ran to the camp and quickly got the bedding from the wall and into the tents. He had just finished doing this when he heard the lorry stopping at the gate. The next minute Willie and Joe were in the field, yelling their greeting to him. They came up, both talking at once.

‘Eeh! You should have come, man. It was grand. We went everywhere. Hexham is grand. The market an’ all. And we went to the pictures.’

‘The pictures?’

‘Well, Jessica doesn’t often get to the pictures, and she said she would like to go. And her dad said it was all right, and he picked us up after and gave us a tea. Didn’t he, Joe?’

‘Aye.’ Joe nodded quickly. ‘A slap-up one, an’ all. I had sausage and eggs, and Willie had fish and chips . . . What have you been doin’ with yourself?’

‘Oh, just knockin’ about.’ Matty smiled.

‘Did you go for a walk?’ asked Willie.

‘No.’ Matty shook his head. ‘I’ve been on the farm all day, doing bits here and there.’

‘Not on the muck heap?’ Joe laughed.

‘Aye. Yes, I did an hour on there.’

‘You’re barmy . . . Here!’ Willie threw a paper bag towards him, and when Matty caught it and opened it, and saw three sticks of chewing gum, a Mars bar, a Crunchie and a slab of toffee, he looked at Willie and, grinning widely, said, ‘Thanks, man.’

‘We bought it atween us,’ said Joe.

‘Thanks, Joe.’

‘An’ look. I bought this for me mother.’ Joe held out a card, to which was pinned a glittering brooch.

‘That’s nice,’ said Matty.

‘Paid four and six for it.’

‘Go on. It looks worth more than that.’

‘Aye. That’s what I thought.’

‘Coo! I’m hungry.’ Willie looked towards the fireplace.

‘But I thought you said you’d had your tea?’

‘That’s ages ago, man. Let’s have a cook-up. I bought some sausage and black and white puddin’.’

‘An’ we’ve got some brawn for the morrow, and pigs’ trotters,’ put in Joe. ‘Eeh! Them trotters.’ Joe covered his face with his hands. ‘Do you know what Willie said when we bought the trotters and the man said is there anything more you want? Do you know what he said? Eeh! And the way he said it.’ Joe could hardly go on for laughing. ‘When the man said, “Is there anything else you want?” he said, “Aye, the pig that went with the trotters. Where you hidin’ him? Come on now, where you hidin’ him?” You should have seen the man’s face. He didn’t think it was funny.’

They were all laughing now and they laughed as they cooked the meal. Later, even from their sleeping bags they went on laughing. It had been a grand day for all of them.

But Sunday brought dullness in the weather and dullness of spirits. After the chores were done Willie took on the self-appointed task of going to the farm for the milk; but he was soon back, Mr Walsh having given him the milk, as Mrs Walsh had gone down to Slaggyford to see her brother who was still ill. Jessica had gone with her. So Willie lay in his tent most of the morning, and only under protest did he don a mack and go for a walk in the afternoon. Most of the time he discussed with Joe the plot of the picture they had seen the day before.

Monday the sun shone, but the weather was cool. They went down to the stream and threw pebbles, and it was while they were sitting on the bank that Betsy paid them a visit. But it was evident from the beginning that the dog had come to see one person only, for when she could disengage herself from the patting and stroking of Willie and Joe, she settled herself down by Matty’s side, and Matty, putting his arm about her, gently pressed her to him.

‘It’s funny about dogs and you,’ said Joe; ‘they always make for you.’

‘It’s his bark,’ said Willie; ‘he’s nearly one of them.’

This was a reference to an altercation Willie and Matty had had earlier over half-washed pans. Willie had left as much dirt on the inside of the pans as was on the outside by the time he had finished with them and Matty had gone for him. But now Matty did not take it up. He went on fondling the dog, content because Betsy had singled him out.

The boredom reached its height that evening when a drizzle set in. For a time the three of them sat crushed together in the tent and exhausted their repertoire of songs, Willie accompanying in a sketchy fashion on his mouth organ. But when the time came to go out into the drizzle and coax the fire, or wait for the slow process of the Primus if they wanted a drink, Willie suddenly exclaimed, ‘Aw, man, I’ve had a bellyful. Come on, Matty; let’s go home the morrow.’

‘Look, Willie.’ Matty kept his voice low but his tone was definite as he said, ‘You can do as you like, but me, I’m staying until Saturday. This holiday is goin’ to have to last me a long time, and I’m making the most of it.’

‘You call it a holiday? I don’t understand you, man. We’ve done nothing but loaf about.’

‘That’s your fault.’ Matty shook his head at him. But still keeping his tone low, he went on, ‘Now tomorrow, whether you like it or not, and whether it’s rain or shine, I’m going for a long tramp.’ He turned to Joe now. ‘What d’you say, Joe?’

‘Well.’ Joe pulled his knees up and leant his elbows on them. Then looking down, he said, ‘I think Willie’s right, Matty. I can’t help it.’

As Matty looked at his pal he felt no anger, only a touch of sadness, and a keen sense of disappointment. ‘I thought you were looking forward to going to Hexham with Mr Walsh again,’ he said quietly.

‘Aye, but that isn’t until Wednesday.’

Matty got slowly up and went out of the tent. He brought some dried wood he had left under cover and, putting it on the still hot embers, he gradually blew them into a blaze. He made the cocoa and took the steaming mugs into the tent, and apart from Joe and Willie saying ‘Ta’, there was no exchange of any kind.

They were all in their sleeping bags before it was quite dark, and, except for muttered goodnights, they had nothing to say to each other. As Matty lay staring upwards, he knew that the other two weren’t asleep. Joe made this evident by tossing and turning, and there was a sound of distant rustling from Willie’s tent.

Then, at the same instant he and Joe were sitting up peering at each other as they heard Mr Walsh’s voice shouting from a distance, ‘Hi, there!’

Matty, pulling himself out of his bag, scrambled on hands and knees to the tent flap and stuck his head out, there to see Willie in the same position.

‘Do you want us, Mr Walsh?’ called Matty.

‘Yes, I want you.’ The voice was nearer now. ‘What did I tell you about shutting gates?’

‘I’ve never left the gate open,’ said Matty under his breath, turning his head to Joe who was at his side now.

‘Come along here and close it.’

‘But we’re in bed, Mr Walsh.’ It was Willie who answered the farmer, and Mr Walsh’s voice came rapping back at him, ‘Well, get out of bed and come and close this gate. That’ll teach you a lesson.’

Matty scrambled into his boots and tucked the tops of his pyjama legs into them; then grabbing up his waterproof mack that was lying by his bed, he pulled it on as he went out into the darkness.

The dim outline of Mr Walsh was visible now and his voice came at Matty harsh and angry. ‘I told you, didn’t I, about the gate. I made a point of it.’

‘But I closed the gate, Mr Walsh. It wasn’t me.’

‘I don’t care who it was. You’re responsible and you should see to these things last thing at night before you turn in. Now you can take a trip and close it after I’ve gone out. That’ll teach you a lesson.’ At this he stalked away, and Matty followed him slowly, guided by his angry voice, saying, ‘I stopped letting the field years ago, and I’ll do it again. I told you about the pigs first thing in the morning. Scatterbrained, the lot of you; no sense of responsibility.’

When Matty reached the gate it was wide open. He lifted it into place and slipped the steel spoke through the chain, then stood, for a moment, listening to Mr Walsh’s footsteps fading away as he went towards the farm. He felt mad with the farmer. Every time he had used the gate he had seen it was firmly closed. Yet it didn’t matter who left the gate open, as Mr Walsh had said, he was going to be held responsible. It wasn’t fair. It was bloomin’ unjust, and that was putting it mildly.