Matty Doolin (6 page)

But it would appear that this was a day of miracles, because half an hour later, when his father came into the house, he brought with him a brown-paper parcel, and, throwing it nonchalantly onto the easy chair to the side of the fireplace, he looked from his wife’s averted face to Joe’s grinning countenance, and lastly he met the straight gaze of his son. Then rubbing his hand over his bristled chin, he exclaimed, ‘Aye, well, you all look like a kitchen full of liver-fed cats.’ Being Mr Doolin, he couldn’t help adding, ‘And that’s a change, I’m sure.’

‘Now come, sit yourselves down,’ said Mrs Doolin, still without looking at her husband. And as Mr Doolin went to his seat, Matty, who had not moved his eyes from his father’s face, said quietly, ‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘Aw!’ Mr Doolin’s response was immediate. ‘So you’ve seen it all, have you?’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘Grand. Everything’s grand; it couldn’t be better.’

‘Aye, well, although I say it meself I haven’t forgotten what’s needed to go campin’. Although mind’ – he jabbed his finger towards his son – ‘don’t think we had that lot when we slept out. Aw, no. A groundsheet and a blanket was our lot, and frozen toes, and your eyelashes with icicles on them.’

‘Well, those days are gone, and thank goodness. Sit up, Joe,’ put in Mrs Doolin briskly.

‘Thanks, Mrs Doolin. Aw, thanks.’

‘By the way’ – Mrs Doolin turned her gaze towards the armchair – ‘what have you got in there?’

Mr Doolin now looked towards the parcel, and in a tone that suggested he had forgotten all about it, said, ‘Oh, that . . . Oh, aye. Well.’ He cast a sidelong glance towards Matty now. ‘You’d better open it and see, hadn’t you?’

‘Me, Dad?’ Matty scraped his chair back from the table.

‘Well, I’m sure your mother won’t be wantin’ them.’

Somewhat mystified, Matty picked up the parcel and, tearing off the brown paper, revealed a bright green canvas bucket, together with its matching basin. The first thought that came into his mind was, some more things to carry, but, glancing towards his father and seeing the warm pride in his mother’s face brought there by his father’s generosity, he rose to the occasion and exclaimed, ‘Coo! Talk about doing things in style.’ He held the bucket swinging by its rope handle. ‘Look at this, Joe.’ Again he paused and looked at his father and said, with sincerity. ‘Thanks a lot, Dad,’ for he realised that his father’s gift put a final stamp on this day as a day of miracles.

‘Aw, you shouldn’t be thankin’ me, it’s your mother you should be thankin’. She put the idea into me head. Scared stiff you wouldn’t keep your neck clean. You know how to use the basin, don’t you? Look.’ Mr Doolin rose hastily from the table and, going to the fireplace, took up the poker, the tongs, and a long hearth brush, and criss-crossing them demonstrated as he exclaimed, ‘Three sticks like that, you see. Good firm ones lashed together; then just hook your basin on it an’ you’re set up . . . hot and cold,’ he added on a deep laugh.

‘Will you sit down and get your tea! Everything will be ruined.’

When they were seated once more and were busy with their eating, there came a slight lull in the excited conversation. Then Matty, his mind still on the transporting of the growing camping equipment, looked at his mother and said, ‘I’ll have to dip into me savings, Mam, to get a big rucksack.’

‘You’ve got your dad’s old knapsack; isn’t that good enough?’

‘Oh, it won’t hold half the stuff. I’ll want something bigger so’s I can put the tent roll on the top and get it on me back.’

‘On your back!’ Mrs Doolin’s voice ended up in a high squeak. ‘You don’t think you’re carrying that lot on your back, do you? It’s going by train.’

‘By train?’

‘That’s what I said, by train. Willie’s dad, as you know, is on the railway and he’s going to have everything sent on together.’

Matty was silent for a moment, and his face dropped into set lines as he said, ‘But . . . but it’ll mean us stopping in one place.’

‘Yes . . . yes, I’m afraid it’ll mean just that.’ Mrs Doolin’s manner was prim again. ‘Mr Styles heard of a farm . . . and it’s on the fells, so don’t worry, miles from anywhere he assures me, and that should suit you, and he’s written to the farmer and everything’s settled . . . There’s one thing you’re not going to do, and that is jaunt around the countryside and me not knowin’ where you are.’

‘Your mother’s right.’ Mr Doolin was nodding stiffly at his son, but his tone on this occasion wasn’t convincing.

In the silence that returned to the tea table Matty put his left hand down by the side of his chair – it was an unconscious movement – and when his fingers found no answering touch the memory of Nelson returned to him, and he was swept with a feeling of remorse, and guilt. He had completely forgotten about Nelson during the last hour. He had no need to ask himself how this had come about; it was only too evident. His mother had achieved her purpose.

The knowledge that things could happen to you that could take away the feeling of loss wasn’t pleasant knowledge, Matty decided, for he did not want to forget Nelson – ever.

In a state of high excitement they arrived at Hexham. They were hot, thirsty, hungry and tired, but so excited they weren’t aware of their discomfort.

‘We’re nearly there. Look, we’re running in.’ Joe was bouncing up and down like a cork at the corridor window, and Willie, leaning over him, pushed his head out of the window, saying, ‘It seems years since we left Tyne Dock.’

Matty, no less excited, pulled their cases from the rack. There were four cases, and the two largest belonged to him and one of them was full of food. That was his mother’s doing. Aw well. He smiled to himself, then shouted to his pals, ‘Here you! Get your stuff.’

Like jack-in-the-boxes, the boys bounced into the carriage and grabbed up their luggage, and before the train had pulled itself to a stop Willie was on the platform and almost on his face as he missed his footing.

Matty held Joe by the collar until the train was absolutely still, and when they alighted Matty went for Willie, saying, ‘It would have served you right if you’d landed up on the track. Now I’ve told you, Willie.’ He wagged his finger in the taller boy’s face. Any of your daft antics and we break it up.’

‘Aw, all right, Matty man, I just wanted to get off. I’m so hot I feel fried. I want a drink.’ He looked around, and Matty said, ‘You’ve got to get your things out of the van, we’re not seeing to them. You can have a drink after, so come on.’

When finally their luggage stood in a pile outside the station, they looked about them. Where was Mr Walsh? What was he like? Would he have a car? A Land Rover or a lorry? They didn’t know. Mr Styles had said that Mr Walsh would know them by their number, and this Matty pointed out to Willie when he was once again on the point of leaving them to get a drink. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘if he just sees two of us he won’t think it’s us, he’ll think we’re some other blokes going campin’.’

To this confusing but apparently, to Willie, lucid statement, he replied, ‘But, Matty, man, I’m chokin’.’

‘Well, you go on chokin’.’ Matty nodded at him briskly. ‘And when you peg out we’ll bury you.’ Again they were laughing, Willie included. He didn’t mind if the joke was against himself. Matty was in fine form. Oh, they were going to have a spanking time . . . But if only he could have a drink.

Ten minutes later, all three were still standing outside the station. The cars had thinned out considerably, and so had the people, and what was very evident was that nobody was rushing round looking for three boys with camping equipment.

It was when they had been waiting for half an hour and Matty was really beginning to worry that a small dilapidated-looking lorry drew to a stop in front of them, and a man, getting down from the cab, surveyed them for a moment in silence. Then he said, ‘Well, you’ve arrived then.’

‘You Mr Walsh?’ asked Matty.

‘Yes, I’m Mr Walsh.’

‘We’ve been waiting for half an hour.’ Willie smiled as he gave Mr Walsh this information. And Mr Walsh, looking from the crown of Willie’s damp hair to his dusty shoes, then up again, replied, ‘In that case you’ve had plenty of time to cool down, haven’t you? Well, what are you waiting for? Get your stuff on.’

He let down the back of the lorry and stood aside while they loaded their gear, and when it was all on, he commanded, ‘Get yourselves up now.’

‘We ridin’ in the back?’ This was the first time Joe had spoken, and Mr Walsh gave him the same treatment as he had given Willie; he let his eyes rove over him before he said, ‘Yes, little ’un, you’re riding in the back. Did you think you were going to travel underneath her?’

‘Eeh, no!’ Joe’s face was one broad grin. ‘I thought we’d go up front.’

‘You did, did you?’ Mr Walsh’s thick eyebrows moved upwards. ‘Well, one of the things we’ve got to learn in this life is that every day brings its disappointments. Up with you!’ His hand came so quickly under Joe’s buttocks and hoisted him so rapidly from the ground into the truck that Joe gasped with surprise as he fell forward among the baggage.

Neither Willie nor Matty needed to be told what to do. They pulled themselves up smartly into the lorry, and Mr Walsh, after clipping the back into place, looked into their wide-eyed, somewhat startled faces, and remarked caustically, ‘If you want to arrive safely, keep your seats.’

Matty’s eyes followed Mr Walsh as he went round the lorry and into the cab. He hadn’t met anyone like him before. He had heard the term ‘Brook no nonsense’, and that apparently described Mr Walsh. Yet he was nothing to look at. He wasn’t as big as his dad, nor as broad. But his body looked hard and knotty. A dig in the ribs from Joe brought his head down to his pal’s level.

‘He’s a funny bloke.’ Joe screwed his face up. ‘Keep your seats, he says, and there’s no seats. Coo! I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him. Did you see the way he hoisted me up? Eeh! I felt like the man on the flying trapeze.’

Soon they were outside the town, and, whereas Mr Walsh’s thirty miles an hour had appeared to them like sixty, they would have sworn his fifty miles an hour was nothing less than a hundred.

They passed places called Elrington, Langley, Staward, Allendale, and Whitfield. After the last place the truck turned off the main road, and now, although the speed lessened, they found the going much more uncomfortable. At one point, when Joe ended up across Matty’s legs and Matty loosened his hold on the side of the lorry to steady him, he found himself in the midst of their shifting baggage. When they sorted themselves they were again laughing, but not so heartily now.

It was as they were going round a bend on a rough road that Matty, looking at Willie, saw his face stretch in amazement. Looking over the back of the truck, his own eyes stretched, for what had made Willie’s face pale was the fact that from the edge of the narrow road the hillside dropped almost sheer down to a valley far below.

The truck was going downhill now, bumping, jolting, its speed increasing as the road became smoother. For a minute they were carried from the bright sunshine into the dimness of a piece of woodland. It surprised them, so that they all looked upwards. It was as if the lorry had run into a shed. The next minute they were out again into the sunshine, and a short while later the lorry stopped with a jerk, and they sat in their contorted positions speechless, looking about them.

‘Well, enjoyed it?’ Mr Walsh was gazing at them from the roadway.

They gave him no answer, and when he let down the back of the truck they descended like drunken men to the ground and stood gazing about them. To the left of them lay fields, all marked out by stone walls. To the right of them, beyond another field, stood a house. It was built of big blocks of stone, which in the bright sunshine appeared white, so white it didn’t look real to the boys. And to the right of it again lay the actual farm, low buildings forming three sides of a square.

‘Well now, there’s your field.’ Mr Walsh pointed to a gate just off the road. ‘Come on, get your stuff in, and I’ll tell you the rules.’ He opened the gate for them and stood aside as they humped the cases, rucksacks and kitbags into the field. Then closing the gate, he walked quickly past them, saying, ‘Bring what you can and follow me.’

Again they did as he bade them, but they couldn’t keep up with him for their feet kept slipping into ruts in the uneven ground.

When he stopped, Matty was first to reach him and Mr Walsh stamped the ground, saying, ‘I would pitch your tent here. It’s level, and the view’s good. Well now.’ He looked from Willie to Joe as they came up, then let his gaze rest on Matty. ‘You the eldest?’

‘No.’ Matty pointed to Willie. ‘Willie’s older than me.’

‘Is he the boss of your outfit?’

‘No. No, he isn’t.’ It was Joe’s piping voice now. ‘Matty here is.’

To this Willie amicably conceded. His long face grinning, he said, ‘Aye, Matty’s the boss.’

‘Well,’ said Mr Walsh, staring straight at Matty, ‘I’ll hold you responsible.’

‘Eh?’ Matty screwed up his face. ‘Responsible for what?’

‘For three things,’ said Mr Walsh flatly. ‘First of all, you keep the gates closed.’

‘But the sheep are wandering all over the . . . ’

Matty did not finish this remark because Mr Walsh put in quickly, ‘Yes, the sheep are wandering all over the place. But it’s not the sheep I’m worrying about, it’s the cattle. I don’t only run sheep. I’ve got heifers in that field over there’ – he pointed – ‘and cows down in that meadow.’ He pointed again, then went on, ‘And the second thing is, you don’t light fires in the wood. You saw the wood we passed through down the road. Well, you can get as much dry tinder as you want down there, but you don’t light fires there . . . understood?’

Slowly Matty nodded.

‘And the third thing is, no yelling and carrying on after ten o’clock at night. Got that?’

Again Matty nodded, but slowly, rather bewilderedly. And then Mr Walsh finished by saying, ‘Well, now you can enjoy yourselves.’

At this, Willie let out a small hoot of a laugh, and Matty was inclined to join him, but the expression on Mr Walsh’s face warned him he had better not.

‘Now, if I were you,’ said Mr Walsh, pointing to the kitbags, ‘I’d get your tents up and your stuff put nice and tidy; then you can bring your can over to the house for your milk, and Mrs Walsh might find you a cup of tea.’

For the first time in their short acquaintance, Mr Walsh smiled. He smiled first at Willie, then at Joe, then at Matty. And as he went to walk away, he put out his hand and rumpled Joe’s head.

‘Coo! I thought for a minute he was old Bore all over again,’ said Willie, ‘until he said that bit about going across and his wife making us tea. Come on, fellows, hurry up.’

The tea, looking like a mirage before them, urged them to erect the tents and get their kit straight in an unbelievably short time, and when they were ready to go to the farm it was Matty, looking about him, who said, ‘A can. We’ve forgotten to bring a can for the milk.’

‘I’ve got that empty pop bottle,’ said Willie.

‘Well, that’ll have to do,’ said Matty.

Together, they went towards the farm, and as they passed through the gate Joe made a great ceremony of closing it, saying aloud, ‘First rule, close the gate, me little man.’

‘Ssh! Ssh!’ said Matty. ‘Don’t take the mickey; he may hear you.’

They were quiet as they approached the farm. Slowly, somewhat tentatively, they made their way to the back door. Matty knocked, and his knock was answered by a girl of about twelve years old. She had a round face, round, merry grey-green eyes, and long brown hair in a ponytail.

Looking over her shoulder, she cried, ‘Mother, they’re here.’

A woman now came towards the door. She was small and plump and kindly looking, and her voice furthered this impression, for, unlike her husband’s, it was soft and slow. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Come away in, boys. You’ve had a long journey.’

As they walked into the kitchen, it was Joe who found his tongue first. ‘Yes, missis.’ He nodded at her. ‘We’ve come all the way from Tyne Dock.’

‘Oh, that’s a long way.’

As Matty watched her shake her head down at Joe he didn’t know whether she was sympathising with him, or laughing at him.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked him.

‘Joe, missis,’ he said. ‘Joe Darling.’ His eyes flicked towards the girl as he spoke. Then addressing Mrs Walsh again, he laughed as he went on, ‘It’s a funny name. I get chipped about it.’

‘I think it’s a nice name, a name to be proud of. Don’t forget Grace Darling.’ She nodded at him again before she turned to Willie. ‘And what’s your name?’

‘Willie Styles.’ Willie gave her the whole treatment of his engaging grin.

‘Willie Styles?’ she repeated. ‘Well, Willie, I hope you enjoy your holiday.’

‘Thanks, missis.’ He nodded his head at her.

‘And you?’ She was looking at Matty.

‘I’m Matty Doolin.’

‘Doolin? Oh, you’re Irish?’

‘Not really. Me granda was, that’s all.’

‘Well, I hope you have a nice holiday.’ Mrs Walsh looked for some time at Matty, before she turned to her daughter and said, ‘This is Jessica.’ Then letting her glance travel over them all, she pulled a prim face as she added, ‘And she doesn’t like to be called Jessie.’

‘Oh, Mother!’ As her daughter made this protesting statement Mrs Walsh said, ‘Now, I’m sure you’re all ready for a cup of tea. Well, it’s mashed. Sit yourselves down. Are you hungry?’

‘I’m always hungry, Mrs Walsh.’ This was from Willie.

‘Me, too,’ put in Joe.

‘And what about you?’ Mrs Walsh turned her head towards Matty as she lifted the big, brown teapot from the hob of the open range. And Matty smiled at her before he said, ‘Me mother says she used to know a corporation horse who used to eat like me.’

Matty felt pleased as he listened to Mrs Walsh laughing. It was a jolly laugh; it was as if she enjoyed laughing. He felt he had accomplished something. He watched her now go towards the long dresser against the far wall of the kitchen, and, lifting a cloth, disclose a number of plates laden with food. He watched her and Jessica bring them to the table, and he couldn’t believe that she had prepared all this stuff for them.

‘Sit up,’ she said. ‘Sit up.’

‘Eeh, missis!’ Joe was gazing at the laden plates of bread and butter, scones, tarts, and a huge bacon and egg pie adorning the centre of the table. As she put a cup of tea to the side of his plate he looked up at her and said brightly, ‘Eeh! It’s like being at Matty’s mam’s. Matty’s mam’s a good cook an’ all.’

‘Is she?’ Mrs Walsh was looking towards Matty, and Matty proffered, ‘She likes cooking.’

‘So do I,’ said Mrs Walsh. ‘I also like to see what I’ve cooked eaten, so now tuck in, all of you.’

Mrs Walsh hadn’t to repeat this order, and she hovered around them as they made good inroads on everything on the table.