Matty Doolin (8 page)

‘I like dogs.’ Matty’s voice was soft, and his eyes didn’t leave the dog’s face as he spoke.

‘He’s barmy about dogs, Mr Walsh.’ Joe was nodding down at Matty. ‘That’s why we’re here. His mother wouldn’t have let him come campin’, but it was through her his dog was killed . . . run over, and she . . . ’

‘It wasn’t.’ Matty was on his feet, his voice a growl now. ‘It wasn’t her fault. And shut your mouth, it’s all finished.’

‘Here! Here, young fellow me lad! There’s no need to go off the deep end like that.’ Mr Walsh’s voice was harsh. ‘The young ’un was only explaining something to me. You want to control that temper, boy, or it’ll cause you trouble one of these days . . . Well now, I’ve got to get on with me work. Come along with you all.’

They followed him quietly. The harmony of the morning was shattered, but when they reached the main farmyard again Mr Walsh asked them, in an ordinary tone, ‘What are you going to do with yourselves the day?’

‘We thought of going for a hike,’ said Willie. ‘We were goin’ to ask you which was the best place to go.’

‘Oh, well.’ Mr Walsh ran his hand through his hair. ‘You want to take things quietly at first. Have you done any climbing?’

‘No.’ Willie and Joe shook their heads.

‘Well then, don’t bite off more than you can chew the first day. If I were you I wouldn’t try to climb any hills or mountains. I would go to the end of this road, you know where we turned off the other day, cross over it and you’ll come to a path that leads you under the railway bridge. That’s about another mile or so on. From anywhere round there you’ll get a good view of Tindale Tarn and Cold Fell. But I’d make that view all you take in today. You’ll have plenty of time within the next fortnight to climb, and there’s more than enough climbing material round about. There’s Blacklow Hill, Carrick and Black Fell, all over yon side of the river.’

‘What river is it, Mister?’ asked Joe.

‘Well, for a good part of the way it’s the South Tyne, until it peters out. That’s on that side. Then, on this side, there’s the West Allen river and’ – he waved his hand in the air now – ‘and that’s enough to get on with the day. Get yourselves away now and have a good time. And don’t forget your milk.’

It was Matty who picked up the milk can, and it was he who left the yard first, the other two walking some way behind him. But as they entered the field Joe came up and said under his breath, ‘I’m sorry, Matty. I meant nowt; no harm or owt.’ There was a long pause before Matty answered, ‘I know that. Only . . . only I don’t want me mam blamed. It was my fault; I should have taken him as she told me, and then he wouldn’t have been hurt.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t your fault, man,’ Willie put in. ‘You only did what you thought best for the dog. But anyway, let’s forget it. Come on, let’s put some chuck together and get going.’ He punched at Matty. Then Joe punched at him, and Matty, his face breaking into a grin, cried, ‘Give over, the pair of you; you’ll have the milk spilt.’

So they set out on their first hike, whistling, chatting and laughing as they went along.

It was around four o’clock in the afternoon that the trio, no longer whistling or laughing, stopped for a rest on the perilous part of the road where it dropped sheer into the valley. They were once again tired, hot, thirsty and hungry, and to add to these afflictions Willie had become a casualty. For the first time in his life he was experiencing a blistered heel. The fact that the blister had broken added to his discomfort, which he made verbal at every limping step.

‘Look, tie another hanky around it,’ suggested Matty. ‘And put your shoe on again; you’ll get along better.’

‘I can’t, man, it’s agony. You don’t know, your feet’s all right, so you can talk.’

‘You’ll have to soak it in the stream when we get back,’ said Matty.

‘Aw, yes, when we get back. When will that be? If you hadn’t wanted to see round the next hill, and the next, we’d never have gone so far.’

‘All right! All right!’ Matty was snapping back now, and at this moment Joe cried, ‘Look what’s comin’. Look, there.’ He was pointing excitedly down the twisting road. ‘It’s Mr Walsh’s lorry.’

‘Aye, it is. You’re saved.’ Matty could now smile down at Willie, where he was sitting on the grass verge.

In a few minutes the lorry came up to them, and Mr Walsh, leaning over the wheel, surveyed them with a twinkle of humour in his eye before saying, ‘You’re all dead beat, you’ve got sore feet, and you’ll never do it again.’

‘Aye, that’s about it, Mr Walsh.’ Matty smiled self-consciously up at him. ‘Though Willie’s come off worst; he’s got a skinned heel.’

‘Oh.’ Mr Walsh let himself slowly down from the cab and went to where Willie was supporting himself on one foot. ‘Well. Well. Well.’ He appraised the bare heel. ‘It looks a sore one that.’

The sympathy brought Willie stammering and spluttering. ‘Aye. It . . . it . . . it is. It’s awful, Mr Walsh. I’ve never had anything wr . . . wrong with me feet afore . . . ’

‘Well, you’ve been lucky, lad. If you’re going walking the fells this won’t be the last blister you’ll have, not by a long chalk, and certainly not if you wear shoes like that.’ He pointed disdainfully to the pointed-toed shoe Willie held in his hand. ‘What possessed you to go walking in shoes like that? You want boots for fell walking: something to support the ankle, and a good stout sole.’ He looked from Joe’s feet to Matty’s and remarked, ‘Now those are sensible. Although they could do with a much stouter sole. As for yours, me little fellow,’ – he jerked his head at Joe – ‘they’re not much better than your pal’s.’

As he helped Willie up into the back of the lorry, Mr Walsh said, ‘It was lucky for you I decided to drop over to Slaggyford. I’ve a brother-in-law over there who’s not too well. It’s an ill wind.’

‘Aye, it is.’ Joe nodded knowingly at Mr Walsh.

It was apparent to Matty that Mr Walsh liked Joe. He also thought he had a sneaking regard for Willie. Most people liked Willie because he could make them laugh. But he had an idea that Mr Walsh hadn’t cottoned on to himself.

When the lorry stopped opposite the field gate, Mr Walsh pulled open the sliding window in the back of the cab, and, looking at Willie, said, ‘You stay put and let Mrs Walsh dress that heel for you. You others nip over the side; I’m not coming round.’

The next minute Matty and Joe were standing in the roadway watching the lorry carrying their now smug-faced pal towards the farm.

‘I bet she gives him tea.’ This was from Joe.

‘Aye, I bet she does,’ said Matty. ‘And he’ll play his sore heel as if it was his guitar – not that he’s any hand at that.’

They laughed weakly as they went into the field and Joe said, ‘Talkin’ about guitars, when his mother wouldn’t let him bring it he was a bit wild, but he brought his mouth organ.’

‘He did!’ Matty stopped. ‘Well, he’d better not play it after ten o’clock, that’s all. Come on.’

With a spurt of energy they ran towards the camp which had suddenly taken on the appearance of home to them both.

Matty lay in his sleeping bag, his hands behind his head, staring at the roof of the tent. To his side, Joe, resting on his elbow, peered towards him. They were both listening to Willie’s voice coming from his tent, for at least the tenth time, explaining to them about his late return.

‘It wasn’t my fault, man, I tell you; I couldn’t refuse the tea, could I? And then, when they had company and they got talkin’ and . . . ’

There now came the concerted chorus from Matty’s tent, as both he and Joe cried, ‘And I made them laugh.’ This was followed by a derisive: ‘Tell us the old, old story.’ Then Matty added, ‘All right. You’ve told us a dozen times, so let it drop. What’s wrong with you is not only a sore heel but a sore conscience. As I said afore, you were stuffin’ your kite with fancies knowing we just had bread and jam and the end of me mam’s cake.’

Silence followed this remark, and the two boys, looking at each other in the reflected light from the bright moonlight outside, nodded their heads once, then burrowing down in their bags, they lay quiet.

It must have been ten minutes later when Matty, almost on the point of sleep, heard Willie’s voice as if he were talking to himself, saying in self-pitying tones, ‘I get the backwash of everythin’. It’s Willie this, an’ Willie that. I’ll likely get the blame for the hole the morrow.’

On this last remark Matty pressed his lips tightly together to prevent himself from making a retort, for the matter of the hole still rankled.

It hadn’t been Willie’s staying at the farm until nine o’clock that had got his back up so much as their finding the hole, the new hole, on their return, and the sausages lying in a heap near the ashes of the fire. The hole was just over a spade’s width each side and about a foot deep, and it was a beautifully cut hole. As he had stood looking down onto what he later learned was called a grease pit, the top neatly criss-crossed with twigs and covered lightly with bracken, he had felt the hole to be a personal affront. SHE was showing him up.

The feeling did not lessen with the knowledge that she was right . . . And then those sausages. He should never have left them lying about; he should have put them on the fire in the first place. Still he wasn’t going to take it from her. She was only a kid, and too bossy by half. She should mind her own business, and he would tell her so. Aye, he would, when he saw her.

All evening he had waited for a visit from her, but when she didn’t put in an appearance his feeling of annoyance grew. Joe had wanted them to go across to the farm, but he had been firm against that. They weren’t going to do any sucking up; there were enough at that game already, he had said.

But Matty was tired now, and not a little footsore, so, soon, defecting pals, bossy girls, and the worries of life in general slid from him as he fell into a deep, untroubled sleep . . .

What the time was when the sound of a scream brought him sitting bolt upright, and Joe into spluttering, frightened awareness, he didn’t know. Before the second yell ended they had both tumbled out of their bags, and as Matty, scrambling on hands and knees, emerged from the tent, Willie’s voice came at him, stuttering, ‘M . . . Matty! O . . . oh! M . . . Matty. Where are you, Matty?’

There was no moon now, only a cold dense blackness. If they’d had the wits to question they would have asked why it was so intensely cold after being such a fine day. Pulling his pyjama coat across his bare chest, Matty shouted, ‘What’s up, man? Where are you?’ He made for the direction of Willie’s tent, but Willie’s voice came from somewhere near the wall, crying, ‘I’m here!’

‘Well, where’s that? And what’s the matter with you? Have you gone stark, staring bonkers?’

‘It was a th . . . th . . . thing. It st . . . started to wo . . . worry me, man.’

‘Get the torch, Joe.’ Matty turned his head to where he thought Joe was, and Joe’s voice came back at him, saying, ‘Eeh, an’ I’ll get me coat an’ all! I’m freezin’.’

A minute or so later, Joe crawled from the tent, flashing the light about him.

‘Give it here,’ said Matty.

‘And here’s your coat. Put it on,’ said Joe.

Matty got gratefully into the coat. Then turning the flashlight towards the wall, he saw Willie; and, going quickly towards him, he said, ‘Come on, get back into your tent. You’ll be froze to death. What’s up with you, anyway? You had a nightmare?’

‘N . . . no, man, no.’ Willie’s tone was emphatic now. ‘I tell you, I was attacked by somethin’.’

‘Oh, don’t be daft.’

‘I’m not daft. It tried to bite me lug off.’

If Willie could have seen Matty’s expression and his rolling eyes he would have cried, ‘You don’t believe me?’ As it was he said, ‘It’s a fact, man. I’m tellin’ you. I woke up and there was this hairy thing, great big hairy thing, and it nearly took me ear.’

‘Man, you’ve been dreamin’. Mean to tell me it came into the tent and bit your ear? Is your tent down?’

‘No . . . o! No.’

They were walking towards Willie’s tent now. ‘Yes see, it was kind of stuffy an’ I lay with me head the other way . . . outside.’

Matty was now flashing a light on the ground outside the tent, and, stooping down, he picked up about a third of a slice of bread with a piece of meat adhering to it, and, keeping the torch flashed full on, he handed it to Willie.

‘Well, man, it was only a sandwich. Mrs Walsh gave me one. If she had given me two I would have handed them over, but she only give me the one for me supper like.’

‘And you were stuffin’,’ said Joe, ‘an’ you fell asleep. You know, you’re a gutsy . . . ’

‘I’m not. I . . . ’

‘Here.’ Matty thrust the dirty bread into Willie’s hand. ‘Take it and finish it, but do it inside ’cos the next animal that comes huntin’ round might take a fancy to your nose. And good luck to it.’

‘Aw, Matty, don’t be like that.’

‘What do you expect me to be like?’

‘I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry about gettin’ you both up, but I was scared to death. Eeh! It was awful, man.’ There followed a silence now and Willie, evidently shivering with the cold, as his stammering indicated, said, ‘C . . . can I c . . . come along of yous?’

‘No, you bloomin’ well can’t,’ said Matty emphatically. ‘There’s hardly room for the two of us.’

‘B . . . but, man, I’ll never get to sleep. It scared me. Honest. C . . . can I just sit up in the c . . . corner.’

‘Oh, for crying out loud. Get your bed and go in with Joe, and I’ll take your tent.’

‘Th . . . th . . . thanks, Matty.’ As Willie went hurriedly into his tent to gather up his bag, Joe, going with Matty towards their tent, said, ‘What did you want to do that for?’

‘You want to get to sleep tonight, don’t you?’ said Matty.

‘I’m not so sure I can now. You know somethin’?’ They were inside the tent now. ‘I wish we were on our own, Matty; he’s nowt but a nuisance. I never thought he’d be like this. Me dad always says the bigger they are the softer they are . . . Aw, I wasn’t hitting at you, Matty. You know that.’

‘Shut up and get into bed. And if he starts nattering, don’t answer him. Mind, I’m telling you. He might be frightened now but tomorrow morning it’ll all be one big laugh, you’ll see.’

And in the morning Joe saw.

Willie was in high fettle, and both Matty and Joe, being ordinary boys, and filled now with a good breakfast of porridge, bacon and eggs, and the coldness of the night forgotten in the warmth of the sun, were laughing with and at Willie’s description of the midnight attack. Willie was now lying on his side, curled up, giving a demonstration of being asleep, at the same time manipulating one hand into an imitation of the pawing animal approaching his face. Then, his hand making a grab at his ear, he sprang up, yelling and dancing like a hottentot. It was at this point of the performance that Mr Walsh put his head over the wall.

‘Well now.’ He nodded towards Willie. ‘That’s a sure sign your heel’s better.’

‘Oh, aye, Mr Walsh. Yes. Yes, it’s a lot better. I was just showin’ them how I was attacked in the night by something . . . an animal.’

They all went towards the wall and the farmer. ‘You were?’ Mr Walsh’s brows came down over his merry eyes, which gave the lie to his straight countenance.

‘Aye, Mr Walsh. I was lyin’ there . . . ’ Again Willie went through the pantomime of the attack, but before he had quite finished Joe took it up, saying, ‘And he was screamin’ like a girl, Mr Walsh, and brought us out into the freezing cold. Coo! We were nearly starved. And then he wouldn’t sleep by himself.’ He poked at Willie. ‘That’s the big fellow for you, he was frightened.’

‘Well, you were all right, you hadn’t been attacked,’ said Willie. ‘I could have lost me ear.’

‘Lost your ear?’ Joe’s voice was derisive. ‘He was stuffing himself, Mr Walsh, and must have fallen asleep while he was doing it, an’ some animal came round, just sniffin’. That’s what happened.’

‘Yes.’ Mr Walsh was smiling broadly. ‘That’s exactly what must have happened. It was likely a fox. Yet I can’t see him going near your face.’

‘Oh,’ put in Joe quickly, his grin wide, ‘he’s got the kind of face a fox would like, Mr Walsh.’

They were all laughing now, Willie included. Then Mr Walsh, pointing towards the hole, said, ‘I saw you hadn’t a grease pit, so I dug you one. That’s for all your dirty water, tea leaves and the like. You renew the bracken each day. And you always burn the top and all old food.’ He was looking straight at Matty as he spoke, and he went on, ‘And I’ve pegged out a space in the wood over there. I think you need a latrine, don’t you?’

‘Yes, yes, Mr Walsh.’ Matty’s voice was quiet, and his manner respectful. Yet he was angry inside for he knew he was being rebuked, even if in a nice way, for not running his camp properly.

‘And what are your plans for today?’ the farmer asked, kindly now.

‘Well, we can’t go for a hike,’ said Joe, ‘because of Willie’s foot. We just thought about stickin’ around. Didn’t we, Matty?’

Matty nodded. ‘Yes, there’s plenty of places to see round about.’