Matty Doolin (2 page)

‘Get up!’

Matty struggled to his feet, then stumbled across the yard.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Matty did not answer, he just wanted to lean against the railings for he was sick with the pain in his arm. He did not as yet know what damage Bill Cooper’s fists and feet had wrought on him, but he did know that Cooper had inflicted nothing to equal the wrench that Mr Borley had given to his arm.

‘Get up, Cooper. Who started this?’

‘He did, sir.’ Bill Cooper pointed a shaking finger at Matty. ‘He jumped on me from behind the wall.’

‘What have you got to say, Doolin?’

Matty blinked his eyes tightly before stretching them and looking at Mr Borley. He wished it was the end of term. He wished he had left school. He knew what he would say to him then, but now he said, ‘Yes, I jumped on him.’

‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Mr Borley did not seem at all pleased at Matty’s straightforward answer. ‘Well, my brave man, you’ll be at the head’s office at nine o’clock on Monday morning and you’ll see how high he can jump on you and how hard he can come down with the stick. It’ll be a pleasure to see you get your deserts, Doolin. Now get off before I attempt to take the law into my own hands.’

Matty continued to look at the master, and he wished from the bottom of his heart that Mr Borley would give way to his temptation.

‘Get going.’

Slowly Matty turned away, with the thought uppermost in his mind at the moment that it was funny that Bill Cooper should be on report with most of the masters except old Bore. The saying ‘Birds of a feather’ surely fitted there.

‘Are you feelin’ all right, Matty?’ Joe was walking by his side now, and he poked his head round to the front and looked up at his friend as they left the vicinity of the school.

‘Aye, I’m all right.’

‘Your coat sleeve’s had it at the back.’

‘What?’ Matty looked towards his shoulder. Coo! This would set his mam off. She had bought the coat for him only a few weeks ago because he had grown so fast out of his other one. Oh lord! She would go round the bend. The thought made him spurt forward, and Joe, trotting to keep up with him, exclaimed, ‘What’s the hurry now? You’ll likely get it when you get in.’

‘I want the worst over afore me dad comes in from work. If me mam has cooled down by then she’ll deal with him.’ He paused; then added, ‘You needn’t come back with me.’

‘But, but I want to.’ The two boys stood looking at each other for a moment. Then Matty, biting on his lip, hurried on once more. Of course he knew Joe would want to come home with him, for there would be nobody in his house until six o’clock. His mother had stopped giving him the key after she found out he took his mates in and made them tea.

The boys now went past the Dean’s Hospital, then turned into Stanhope Road, past the Park, then along the road where Matty turned off into his own street, Brinkburn Street.

Matty had lived in Brinkburn Street for eleven of his fifteen years; he could remember no other home. Up till recently he had liked Brinkburn Street. It mightn’t be as posh as Talbot Road, or any of the other roads that ran off Stanhope Road, but because it was where his home was he had liked it, and at times he felt called upon to defend it. But he had to admit to himself that his liking for his home and the street had faded a little during the past months. He could almost go back to the day when the process began. It was one Sunday during last Autumn when Mr Tollet, who lived across the road and whose higher social status was marked by his car which was parked every night opposite his front door, had taken his mam and dad and himself for a ride into the country, the real country, miles away. And for the first time he had seen fells, and hills as big as mountains, and great stretches of water, so clean and clear that the sky showed deep down in them and never seemed to touch bottom. It was from this day that the brightness of his home and the excitement of his street began to dim. Even the fascination of the ships crowding the jetties and filling the docks, and sailing out between South Shields and North Shields piers into the stark, bleak North Sea faded. Even living in a town that offered the excitement of great stretches of sand, of fantastic rocks, of a big football ground, of dog racing, lost its appeal . . . He could think of nothing but the country, for in the country there were animals. He wanted to work with animals, tend them, help them, care for them. He did not think ‘love them’, because that would be sissy, but there was a feeling in him that searched for a word that implied the same as love.

The process of finding out what he really wanted to do had been painful to Matty. His thinking had been confused; he even felt frightened at times wondering why he couldn’t be like the other lads, like Joe, and Willie Styles, his other pal, and go and serve his time. He knew he looked tough; and he sounded tough, except when he was talking to his dad. He knew better than to sound tough then. So this strange feeling for animals and the country and open fields did seem a bit odd. There had been a period when he made a valiant effort to make himself see sense and act normal like the other lads. That was until Nelson appeared on the scene.

Nelson had come into his life one night after school when his mother had sent him with a message to a friend of hers in Eldon Street. He had gone down the Dock way, and it was as he walked by the Dock wall that he saw the dog limping along the gutter. There was something wrong with one of its front paws, also one of its eyes looked blurred. He bent over it, and without hesitation, because he was quite unafraid of dogs, he put his hand on its head and spoke to it. The dog had started, in an odd kind of way, as if to avoid a blow. Then it had turned its head right around and looked up at Matty; and when he touched its leg it yelped but made no attempt to snap at him. The dog was without a collar, and Matty knew this could mean one of many things. Perhaps it was old, or had become a nuisance, and the people had thrown it out, or perhaps they wouldn’t pay the licence, or couldn’t feed it; or likely they just didn’t want to be bothered with it when it was hurt. There were people like that.

This wasn’t the first time that Matty had handled stray dogs, but it was the first time that he had felt as angry about one, and that peculiar painful emotion, that as yet he could not define as compassion, had swamped him as he looked on this dog that was both lame and half-blind.

On this occasion Matty knew he had to do something. But what? If he took the dog home he knew what the result would be; he had tried that before. Yet he couldn’t leave the poor beast here; anything could happen to it. If a gang of roughnecks got hold of it, it would be sport for them. It was this last thought that made him decide to chance taking the dog home. He would hide it in the shed, and tomorrow, being Saturday, he would take it to the PDSA and have it put to sleep. He did not think of taking it to the police station. If the police took in all the stray dogs in the town there would be no room in the lock-up for anyone else, he knew that.

So it was on this night of Matty’s decision to befriend a stray dog that the course of his life was set.

‘Come on,’ Matty had said to the dog. But the animal had no need to be bidden to follow its new owner, for he, too, had made a decision; he liked the feel of the hand that had stroked him; moreover, he liked the smell of this boy. He would go wherever he went.

Matty and his newly acquired friend duly arrived home. But his hope of hiding the dog in the shed at the bottom of the yard proved fruitless, for after leaving the animal with a warning to be quiet, he had hardly got through the kitchen door before a high-pitched wail followed him.

Matty’s memory did not dwell on the tussle that followed against the combined force of his mother and father. Solely because of the fact that the dog was to be there for one night only, before being taken to its peaceful end on the following day, did they allow it to be kept in the shed.

Of course there are always two sides to everything, and Mrs Doolin had grounds for her opposition towards the dog, for over the past years she had found many strange animals, not only in the shed, but kept under her son’s bed. Mr Doolin, on the other hand, was opposed to keeping animals on the principle that you shouldn’t keep an animal unless you had room for it.

But it was Mr Doolin who gave the dog its name. Because of its infirmities he had immediately named it Nelson, and he seemed amused by his choice. Matty, taking advantage of his father’s attitude, forgot to take Nelson to the PDSA the following day, although his mother threatened what his father would do to him when he got in.

The day being Saturday, his father was slightly mellow when he came in from work; also it being Saturday, the one day in the week he had a bet on, his mellowness did not evaporate after the last race when his horse won. These were the small events that reprieved Nelson, at least temporarily.

All might have gone smoothly if Nelson had been content to stay in the shed all day, but Nelson, after tasting the warmth and comfort of the kitchen, and the smells and titbits forthcoming there, found the shed, in spite of the packing case and old blankets, a very dreary place; and being a really intelligent animal, he discovered how he could bring about his release almost instantaneously. He had only to sit back on his haunches, lift his head and let rip a great howl from the elongated depths of him. But what Nelson didn’t understand, and what Matty tried to impress upon him, was that his howling would bring about the end of him . . .

It was as Matty now approached his street that the faint, but unmistakable eerie wail halted his step, and that of Joe. The boys looked at each other for a moment; then simultaneously they dashed up the back lane. As Matty neared his own back door the intermittent wailing became louder, and when he burst into the backyard it caused his face to screw up in protest. But when his hand touched the latch of the shed the wailing stopped; and there to greet him when he opened the door was Nelson.

Nelson was undoubtedly an old dog. He was also, unmistakably, a mongrel, as his parents had obviously been. He was neither labrador, collie, spaniel, nor bull terrier, but a little of each. But Matty’s attention to him, coupled with good feeding over the past few weeks and his own overwhelming love for this new master whose touch was soft, had brought back to him what seemed like a second childhood.

‘Stop it, man. Stop it.’ Matty tried to stop the dog jumping all over him at once. ‘You’ll get me hung, both of us hung, for I’ve told you, haven’t I, it’ll be the end of you.’ He got down on his hunkers and let the dog wash his face; and Joe, also on his hunkers now, remarked as he watched Nelson’s antics, ‘He goes daft when he sees you, doesn’t he? Are you going to take him indoors now?’

Slowly Matty pulled himself upright, then turned and looked up the yard towards the kitchen window. His mother, he realised, hadn’t come to the door threatening what was going to happen to Nelson, or telling him the neighbours had all been complaining. ‘Come on,’ he said quietly, and together the two boys, with the dog bounding round them, went up the narrow yard and into the kitchen. At least, they got as far as the scullery door which led into the kitchen, for from there Matty saw his mother.

Mrs Doolin was standing to the side of the kitchen table in a waiting position, her arms folded across her waist. Matty stared at her in amazement for a moment. Then, his eyes moving from her stiff face, he was amazed no longer at her expression, for there, arrayed on the table in a straight line, were the remains of his father’s slippers. They had been very old slippers to begin with, but now they were hardly recognisable. Next to them was a shredded tea towel; and next to the tea towel was a smaller mass of chewed paper. It was a browny colour. And next to this was his mother’s felt hat. The hat was intact except for a piece of the brim.

‘Well!’

Matty looked back at his mother. He stared at her for some time before gasping, ‘Oh lor!’

‘You can say that again.’ Now his mother’s quiet demeanour vanished and, turning to the table, she picked up one article after the other, crying, ‘Look at this lot. Look at them! Your dad’s slippers. You’re in for something there. And a good tea towel. But this is worse.’ She picked up the small brown, pulpy mass. ‘His coupons, his football coupons that were going off this morning. And look at my hat . . . Well!’ She wagged her head in wide movements. ‘He’s done for himself this time. And you, me lad’ – now she thrust her fingers almost into Matty’s face – ‘you won’t be able to talk him out of where he’s going.’

‘But, Mam, it’s only ’cos he’s lonely. If you’d only let him stay in the kitchen he’d be as quiet as a mouse. Look at him now.’ Matty made rapid movements with his hand towards the dog lying peacefully on the mat before the fire.

His mother had taken up her cool stance again. ‘Where do you think he was when he did this lot? They’re not kept in the shed, are they? I promised you I’d keep him in, and anyway I couldn’t stand Mrs Wright and all the neighbours coming to the back door complaining about him howling. This happened when I left him to go out for me shopping. He did this in an hour and a half. Moreover, he was howling in here.’ She thumbed the floor. ‘Comfortably ensconced on the chair there I left him, and when I came back he was howling blue murder. And this’ – she swept her arm over the table – ‘greeted me. If I’d been another five minutes I bet he’d have had the cushions off the couch. Well . . . ’ Mrs Doolin paused. ‘This is the end, Matty, you understand?’ Her voice sounded calm and reasonable now but belied the look on her face. ‘You’ve been able to talk me around so far, but not any more. As for your dad . . . ’ She swept the things up from the table before ending, ‘Just think of something to say to him when he sees his slippers, and hears that his coupon hasn’t gone off.’

During this, Matty and Joe had been standing in the shadow of the scullery door, and Mrs Doolin had been so incensed at the tribulation that had fallen on her through the presence of the dog in the house that she hadn’t taken in her son’s condition, but now, as she turned from the table, Matty came slowly into the kitchen, and she almost dropped the things from her arms as she exclaimed on a high note, ‘Your coat! What’s this now? Look at you . . . That’s your new coat. Oh!’ She closed her eyes and her head once again wagged in a wild movement as she ended, ‘This is beyond a joke.’

‘It . . . it wasn’t his fault, Mrs Doolin. He . . . ’

‘You be quiet, Joe Darling. Matty’s big enough to explain for himself. Now out with it.’

Matty went slowly towards his mother, and stood looking into her face. He supposed it was a bonny face but at the moment it was dark with temper. He liked his mother; he knew he was close to her and this made her happy, but lately he felt that it wasn’t altogether a good thing, and sometimes he had a sort of guilty feeling when he wanted to get away from her. He said now, as if speaking to an equal, ‘I’ve no need to tell you, you can see what happened. I’ve had a fight.’