Matty Doolin (13 page)

The clouds, low on the hill, gave warning of a storm to come as Mr Walsh put the last wriggling sheep into the back of the lorry and heaved Willie and Joe up, to act as their nursemaids – Mr Walsh’s own term for them. Lastly, he ordered Prince up. Then looking towards the sky, he said, ‘I reckon we’ve missed that lot; it’s rolling hard towards the coast’; adding quickly, ‘Let’s get going.’ He kissed his wife and Jessica. But before he mounted the cab he turned slowly and looked at Matty, where he was standing next to Mr Funnell. He looked at him with that deep penetrating stare of his, and said with a half smile, ‘Well, it’s all yours. I’m leaving you in charge.’

Matty cast a swift glance at Mr Funnell thinking that remark must apply to him; then, digging his thumb in his chest, he said, ‘You mean me?’

‘Yes, of course, I mean you. You said you wanted to stay behind and work, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

‘Well then, get on with it. And you’ll be answerable to me when I get back if anything goes wrong.’ He was laughing now. It was a joke, and Matty laughed too. And Willie and Joe laughed, their voices rising above the bleating of the sheep. And Mrs Walsh laughed, and Jessica laughed . . . but Mr Funnell didn’t laugh. As the engine started and he reached one hand toward the door of the cab to take his seat beside the farmer, he turned to Matty and said quickly, ‘Act as if that was an order. Understand?’

Matty blinked, then nodded. But he wasn’t quite sure in his own mind what he had to understand at this particular point. Then Mr Funnell added, ‘Remember what I told you earlier on. Remember?’

Again Matty nodded.

‘Goodbye then, and the best of luck, Matty.’

‘Goodbye, sir, and the same to you.’ Matty was smiling warmly at the master. It was the first time Mr Funnell had called him by his Christian name, and as the lorry rolled away down the hill and Mrs Walsh and Jessica leant against each other and laughed at the antics of Willie and Joe as they held their noses and stared at the sheep in mock disgust, Matty was remembering what Mr Funnell had said. ‘Talk,’ he had said. ‘Open out to Mr Walsh. Let him see what you are made of. Don’t give him the impression that you’re surly. And remember, if you want anything in this life you’ve got to go after it, and you’ve got to show you care about it. Do you understand?’

He had understood that all right, but he couldn’t say to Mr Funnell that he didn’t think that he’d ever be able to show Mr Walsh he cared, not about the particular subject they were both discussing, the unnamed subject. They might have gone into it more fully if they’d had any time alone, but there’d been Willie and Joe milling about all the time, or Jessica. Still he’d known what the master was hinting at all right. And now he was asking himself why Mr Walsh had said, ‘I’m leaving you in charge.’ Probably the farmer was pulling his leg. Even if Mr Funnell had put him in the picture and said, ‘Matty Doolin has a way with animals,’ Mr Walsh would never pick on him, for the simple reason that he didn’t cotton on to him. Now if it had been Willie, or even Joe, something might have come of it, but not him. And all because he couldn’t make his tongue wag. ‘Tell him. Talk!’ Mr Funnell had said. It was all right for people to say that who could talk themselves, whose tongues could ‘clip clouts’ as the saying went. Not that Mr Funnell was a great talker; but still he was never lost for words. At this moment it appeared to Matty that he was the only one in the world who was lost for words, the right words.

‘I bet they’ll be glad when they get to Hexham; what do you think?’

‘Oh, aye, Mrs Walsh. I bet they will.’ Matty dragged his attention to her.

‘They’ll be mixed up with the sheep before they’re at the bottom of the hill . . . poor sheep.’ As Jessica finished speaking she turned to Matty and added, ‘If you had gone there’d have been less room still. You’d have had to nurse one on your knees. You wouldn’t have liked that.’

‘Go on with you.’ Her mother pushed her. Then turning to Matty, she said, ‘Well now, where are we going to start first?’

‘Wherever you like, Mrs Walsh,’ he said, patting Betsy as he spoke.

‘No, it’s wherever you like. Take your choice. There’s the byres to be sluiced, feed to carry, and there’s the pigsties to be cleaned. I think that’s enough to be going on with. For me I’m going to see to my chickens, and then I’m going to get up some butter. After that, there’s the dinner to see to, and then I’ve got some baking to do. That’ll carry me on to the milking, so my day’s planned.’

‘I’ll start on the cow byres first.’

‘Whatever you like . . . Your mother won’t recognise those shorts when you get home.’

‘Aw, it won’t matter. I don’t suppose I’ll be wearing them again; you can’t go around the docks in shorts.’

She gave him a long intense look, very like her husband’s, then said, ‘No, you’re right there. You can’t go around the docks in shorts, yet’ – she laughed now – ‘when I was young I used to see the coolies coming out of the gates at Tyne Dock and going up the Station Bank, one after the other, wearing only a singlet and short pants, so I suppose you could go into the docks in shorts?’ Matty laughed with her now.

When they reached the farmyard he gave her a nod and, saying no more, went into the cowshed.

The swilling of the cowsheds would have been a very pleasurable occupation if it hadn’t been for Jessica. The carrying of the grain and the hay from the main barn to the storeroom would have been equally pleasant, if it hadn’t been for Jessica. The cleaning of the pigsties, not a pleasant job at any time, but one that he didn’t really mind, would have been got through in half the time if it hadn’t been for Jessica . . . and her questions. Where did he live? What was it like? How old was his mother? What was his father called besides Doolin? Were they old? What was his best subject at school? This was a difficult one. Did he like Mr Funnell? Mr Funnell was all right, he said. Did he know that Mr Funnell liked him? He gave no answer to this. Did he know that her mother liked him? All he could say to this was, ‘Oh?’ How much money would he get when he started working in the docks? Perhaps six or seven pounds a week to start with. This seemed to shatter her. Why that was nearly twice as much as any boy would get who started on a farm. What would he do with all that money?

He had answered her questions without looking at her, until she asked, ‘Have you got a girl?’

‘A girl!’ He turned his head disdainfully. ‘No, I haven’t got a girl. What do I want with a girl?’

‘Willie has,’ she said.

‘Willie would have,’ he replied, ‘if he got the chance, but he’s kidding you.’

‘He wasn’t kidding me. Why are you always grumpy?’

‘I’m not always grumpy.’

‘You have been since you’ve been here.’

He stared at her for a moment, then said brusquely, ‘Get out of my road, or you’ll get splashed.’

Jessica moved out of his way, then stood surveying him for some time before saying, in a very small voice, ‘You never say anything nice to anybody, do you?’

Matty slowly straightened himself and stared at her as she walked away. He wanted to call her back but he knew he hadn’t the words; it was no good.

It was around three o’clock when Matty, who was working in the big barn trying to bring some order into the jumble of old machine parts, realised that at least this time Mr Walsh was wrong with regard to the weather, for the storm hadn’t blown itself to the coast but was bursting in the hills inland. Although a good distance away, the roll of the thunder came to him every now and again, and he thought that if it looked like being a wet night he’d ask Mr Walsh if they could kip in the barn.

‘Matty! Matty!’ As he heard his name called he ran from the barn into the yard and saw Mrs Walsh standing outside the kitchen door, and as she waved to him he went towards her, still running. There was a man with her and she said quickly, ‘This is my brother, Mr Reid, Matty. He’s come to take me down to Slaggyford; our other brother is very ill. Have you seen Jessica?’

‘No, Mrs Walsh. Not since dinner time.’

‘She’ll be gone up the hump. She had her airs about something at dinner time. I could see that. Likely because her father didn’t take her into Hexham. When she gets in a huff she always goes up there. Look, Matty, if she’s not back within fifteen minutes send Betsy for her. Just say to her, “Fetch . . . Fetch, Jessica.” Go to the far gate, the one that’s in the wall running round the bottom of the hill. You know, over there.’ She pointed. ‘And just say that to her and point towards the fells, and she’ll find her.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that, Mrs Walsh.’

‘I don’t suppose I’ll be back before my husband now, but he’ll be in time for the milking. It can’t be helped if it’s a little late. The cows may kick up a row, but take no notice. He won’t be all that late. I’ll leave a note for him anyway . . . Tell Jessica that she’s got to make your teas. I’m sorry I’ve got to go off like this, Matty.’

‘Oh, it’s all right, Mrs Walsh, I’ll see to things; at least the things I can do. If Mr Walsh isn’t back when it’s time, shall I bring the cows in?’

‘Yes, you could do that, Matty. That would be a help.’

He nodded brightly at her.

‘I’ll get my things.’ Mrs Walsh nodded at her brother before going into the house, and he, looking at Matty said, ‘You one of the boys camping here?’

‘Yes,’ said Matty.

‘Like it?’

‘Oh, yes. Very much.’

‘Yes, you will for a time. But you’d soon get tired of it. Farming isn’t everybody’s game. It’s all right now, but in the winter . . . Eeh! By gum, I’ve seen my brother-in-law with icicles hanging off his nose, and I’m not funnin’.’

Mrs Walsh now came out of the house, pulling on her coat, and she looked up to the sky, saying, ‘Oh dear me, I do hope it doesn’t come this way. Look, Matty, I tell you what you’d better do. Go up to the foot of the hill there now and call her. Shout her name . . . like this.’ She cupped her hands over her mouth, making a funnel. ‘And send the dog off at the same time. You’ll do that?’

‘Yes, Mrs Walsh, straight away. I’ll go now. Come on, Betsy.’ The dog, who was lying on the mat to the side of the kitchen door, sprang up immediately and followed him.

When he reached the far wall, Matty could just see the outline of the foothills, and, bending down to the dog, he said slowly, ‘Fetch. Fetch Jessica, Betsy.’ Immediately Betsy answered the command and bounded towards the hills. The next minute she was lost in a swirling mass of mist.

Putting his hands to his mouth he called, ‘Jes-si-ca. Oo! Oo! Jes-si-ca.’

Now the mist was rolling swiftly towards him, and with it came an icy wind. The atmosphere had suddenly become so cold that he shivered and hugged himself with his crossed arms. Again he called, ‘Jes-si-ca! Jes-si-ca!’ And yet again. But now his voice seemed to come back at him as if it was rebounding softly off the wall of mist. Within minutes the mist had enveloped him and the whole of the farm, and when he turned round he could just make out the dim shapes of the buildings.

When he shouted now it was like speaking into a blanket. He wished, oh, how he wished Mrs Walsh hadn’t gone away. If only there was someone on the farm.

He knew he’d have to get a coat; he was shivering. He went now, at a groping trot, towards the farm, through the yard and down the road to the field, and when he passed through the gate it was as if he had walked into another world, for here, strangely, there was no mist. It was dull, and cold, but quite clear. Hurrying now, he made for the tent, grabbed up a thick pullover and pulled it on over his thin shirt, and, taking up his mack, put that on too, then pelted back to the farm.

He came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the yard, and watched, fascinated, the mist rolling back like a curtain over the roof of the farmhouse. Thank goodness. It was just a temporary thing. The mist scared him more than the storm, far more. It had an eerie sort of feeling, the mist. He ran on to the far wall and, again looking towards the hills, he began to call. He called until his throat was sore, and he watched the mist covering and uncovering the hills as if someone was playing a game with giant curtains.

Half an hour later, Matty stood in the farm kitchen looking at the clock, and he was frightened. The dog had not returned, nor had Jessica. That dog could go miles within half an hour. If only somebody would come; he didn’t mind who, if only somebody. At that moment he felt the whole weight of the farm on his shoulders, but even more he felt the responsibility for Jessica.

He knew that if the dog had found Jessica and she was all right, the dog would have brought her back . . . If the dog had found Jessica and she wasn’t all right, then the dog would have come back on her own for help. So, if the dog hadn’t come back, both of them were in trouble.

He set off for the hump.

As he drew nearer to it he made out, from the parts he could see, that it was a very large hill, or as Mr Walsh would have said, a young mountain. The nearer he approached to it the steeper it appeared; and its sides looked dark green, smooth and shiny.

Before he started the ascent up the narrow winding path he put his hands to his mouth and called again; then listened. Again he called, and again he listened, but no sound came to him. Now, added to the odd feeling that was drawing him on, was an eeriness that was almost tangible. He felt alone in a terrifying way, as if there never had been, nor ever would be, anyone in this place but himself.

He did not know how long he had been climbing but he could see that he had reached a good height. For want of breath he stopped, and when he tried, once again, to call, he made very little sound. The top of the hump seemed only a short distance away and he now quickened his scrambling to reach it. It looked flat from where he had last viewed it.

Finally, when with an effort he pulled himself up an almost vertical rock onto what he thought was the top of this young mountain, he stood gasping.