Matty Doolin Page 5

  Slowly and unnoticed, Matty walked up the street; unnoticed, that was, until he came to the outskirts of the crowd. Then a woman, turning and looking at him, exclaimed, ‘Aw, Matty, lad.’ There was such commiseration in the woman’s tone that Matty’s heart gave a painful jerk. Something had happened to his mam? Careless of whom he was pushing, he went through the people, until he came to the clear space where stood his father, facing Mr Tollet, and his father was shouting, ‘Don’t tell me you were only doing twenty. Sixty more like it. You should be had up.’

  ‘Look, man,’ said Mr Tollet in a calming tone. ‘I haven’t killed anybody; it was just the dog. An’ if you had looked after it it wouldn’t have been running wild, would it?’

  Mr Doolin, about to retort, became aware of Matty standing at his side, and, his aggressive manner and voice changing, he appeared and sounded flustered as he said, ‘Aw, lad, there you are then. Well, look. Come on . . . come on indoors.’ He made the unusual gesture of putting his arm around his son’s shoulders and leading him through the crowd towards the open front door, which he shut forcibly behind them with a thrust of his foot. Then, still keeping his hold on Matty, he led him into the kitchen, where Mrs Doolin sat, her elbows on the table, her face buried in her hands.

  On their entry, Mrs Doolin raised her tear-stained face to her son and brokenly said, ‘Oh, Matty.’

  Matty made no reply, not even to ask the obvious question, for he knew by the dreadful dead weight inside him that something irrevocable had happened to Nelson.

  ‘I . . . I didn’t mean it, Matty, not like that I didn’t. Believe me I didn’t.’

  ‘Now, now, Jean.’ Mr Doolin went towards his wife. ‘Give over, it wasn’t your fault. It was that damned maniac racing round the corner.’

  ‘It was . . . it was, Matty.’ Mrs Doolin put her hand out towards Matty now. ‘It was my fault.’

  Ignoring her pleading gesture, Matty asked, in a voice that didn’t sound like his own, even to himself, ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s in the shed, lad.’ It was his father speaking. ‘He’ll likely be gone by now. He was in a bad way.’

  On these words Matty seemed to come to life, and he cried, ‘He’s not dead then?’

  ‘Now don’t excite yourself.’ Mr Doolin himself preceded Matty through the scullery. ‘He could be; he was as near enough to it as makes no odds a few minutes ago.’

  Matty, scrambling now, pushed past his father, ran down the yard and pulled open the shed door, there to see a pitiful sight. Nelson lay on his side, his blood-soaked hindquarters showing where the car had hit him. His eyes were closed and he appeared dead, but as Matty, dropping slowly to his knees, laid a trembling hand on his head, the dog gave a slight shiver and opened his eyes. Both eyes were glazed, his good eye looking almost as opaque as the one with the cataract on it.

  When Nelson, making one more valiant effort, licked weakly at Matty’s hand, Matty, throwing himself almost flat on the ground, laid his face near the dog’s. But still he neither spoke nor made a sound, not even when his father said, ‘Don’t get too near him like that, lad. You don’t know what you’ll catch.’

  As Matty, his body seeming to swell with the queer pain that was filling him, held Nelson’s head between his hands, the dog slowly closed his eyes, and his tongue becoming limp where its tip touched Matty’s thumb, he died as he would have wished, in the hands of the kindest of his many masters.

  When Matty, with his head sunk on his chest, continued kneeling by the dog, his father said, ‘Well, it’s over. He couldn’t have been in much pain, he’d be numb. It affects you like that when the legs are smashed. Come on.’ And he thrust his hand, not ungently, under Matty’s arm, and pulled him to his feet, adding under his breath, ‘Your mam’s in a state; she’s blaming herself. Now don’t you make it worse for her . . . you understand?’

  Matty pulled himself from his father’s hold and went slowly up the yard and into the kitchen, there to be met by his mother. She was still crying, and after staring at him for a moment she shook her head as she said again, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I am that. I wouldn’t have had it happen like this for the world. Only I was so vexed at you running off this morning, and then you not coming in to your dinner, and him howlin’ all the time, and her next door sending Mr Watson in to say we’d have to do something about it, and you still not coming home. I . . . I felt so vexed and upset, so . . . so I pushed him out into the back lane. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but as I said I was vexed. But I wouldn’t for the world it had happened like . . . like this. Believe me, Matty.’

  Mrs Doolin paused and waited for Matty to say something. But he could say nothing that would relieve her self-reproach. His head bowed once again, he was making his way towards the room door when she put her hand out tentatively towards him. She did not touch him but she said brokenly, ‘Won’t . . . won’t you stay and have your tea? It’s fish.’

  It was too much. Nelson, unusually perhaps for a dog, had been very partial to fish. Turning swiftly from her, Matty went into the hall, and, taking the stairs two at a time, he reached his room and banged the door after him. Then flinging himself onto his bed, he grabbed up fistfuls of pillow; and when he dropped his face onto his hands he saw on the black screen of his mind the picture of Nelson dashing down the back lane, after his mam had pushed him out, looking first one way and then the other before deciding that he would find his master in the front street. He could see him rushing headlong into the car, and for a moment he actually felt the impact, and his own legs jerked in sympathetic reaction.

  As the burning in his eyes intensified and his throat swelled to bursting point, the bedroom door was thrust open and his father stalked in. Matty felt him standing over him. And now his voice beat down on him, saying, ‘Now look here. Your mother’s been through enough this afternoon without you makin’ it worse for her. She was nearly out of her mind when I came in. She carried that dog up the road herself, wouldn’t let anybody touch it. She’s taken all the blame to herself when it’s you who are to blame. For if you had done what you were told the animal would have died peacefully. But no . . . no, you think you’re right. You’re always right, aren’t you? So you took yourself out on a jaunt for the day, not really carin’ two hoots what happened to the . . . ’

  ‘I didn’t take meself out on a jaunt. I didn’t.’ Matty swung round on his elbow as he bawled back at his father. But Mr Doolin did not raise his hand or cry at him, ‘Now look here, me lad, I’m havin’ none of your cheek,’ because he saw his son was crying. He watched the slow painful tears rolling down Matty’s face before, his own head drooping, he turned slowly away and went quietly out of the room.

  On Monday, Matty played truant from school, and his mother got to know for the simple reason that Joe came round to see if his pal was ill. Matty intended to make no secret of his default, for he did not return home until six o’clock, when his mother, more worried than ever, reproached him, but quietly, saying, ‘You shouldn’t have done it, Matty. And you so near finishing school. It’ll be a black mark against you.’

  The expression on Matty’s face told her what he thought about black marks, and it aroused his father to shout, ‘Now look here, me lad. Saturday’s over and done with, and the quicker you forget it the better it’ll be for you, because you’re not going to upset the house and all in it on account of a dog.’

  But Mr Doolin found he couldn’t keep upbraiding someone who didn’t answer.

  On Tuesday, Matty went to school and at nine-thirty, accompanied by Mr Borley, he stood before the headmaster, who first of all went into the incident of Friday night; then he said he understood that Matty had played truant yesterday and openly admitted it this morning. What had he to say about all this?

  Matty’s answer was, ‘Nothing, sir.’

  The headmaster then dismissed Mr Borley from the study, much to that gentleman’s annoyance, and endeavoured to get beneath the façade of the big, reticent boy. But after twenty minutes of his precious time, the
headmaster realised, as he had done so many times before, that the breaking down of walls with which boys at times surrounded themselves demanded more than minutes of time to accomplish. He also realised, as he had done before, that men like Mr Borley were an obstacle to progress when dealing with the Matty Doolins of this world.

  When the headmaster dismissed Matty it was with a strong reprimand, and without caning.

  It was during the last week at school that Matty experienced another form of hurt. This was caused by the blatant desertion of Joe and Willie. This desertion was so obvious that it brought jibes from Bill Cooper, such as: ‘So darling Joe has walked out on you.’ And, ‘Willie Styles doesn’t want to go about with a bigger nitwit than himself.’

  It further troubled Matty at this stage that he didn’t want to pounce on Bill Cooper, and he was surprised when he said to himself, ‘Let him talk. He keeps acting like a bairn.’ Following this thought Matty had felt a kind of superior feeling, as if he were years older than Bill Cooper. But whereas he could dismiss what Bill Cooper said, he could not dismiss the feeling created by the desertion of his pals. They were both, he knew, excited about going into the docks and the Technical School. Yet, he reasoned, this shouldn’t make them avoid him; they had never done such a thing before. Joe, in particular, had trailed him every free hour of the day right back as far as he could remember.

  The memory of Nelson too had been with him every moment of the past week. For the first few days he had imagined, at odd times, that he saw the dog bounding around him. Then an odd thing began to happen. When he tried to visualise Nelson he couldn’t get him into shape, not to look like Nelson. He’d see a little dog, or a sausagey dog, or a dog as big as a Great Dane. He would see all kinds of dogs, but not Nelson.

  It was on the Wednesday night as he walked home alone from school that he thought: It’s as me dad says, you can never trust anybody, not even yourself.

  And it was in this frame of mind that Matty entered the house. As usual he came in through the scullery and into the familiar kitchen. But now it was no longer familiar.

  Matty stood gaping at the sight before him, for the whole kitchen was covered with camp equipment. There, taking up the space before the fire, stood a four-foot-high ridge tent. Between the sideboard and the table was stretched a sleeping bag, on top of which were neatly stacked three blankets, and an old eiderdown. This had evidently been sewn to form a bag. On the table was arrayed an enamel plate and mug, a knife, fork and spoon, an all-purpose billy, and a miniature Primus stove.

  Matty just gaped from one thing to the other, and he wondered for a moment if he had come into the wrong house.

  Then a suppressed giggle coming from the passage brought his head sharply round towards the partly open door, and the next moment it was thrust wide and Joe bounced into the kitchen, followed more slowly by Mrs Doolin.

  ‘What do you think, Matty? Isn’t it great?’ Joe was hopping from one side to the other in his excitement.

  ‘Aye.’ The muscles of Matty’s face were sagging so much that he didn’t seem able to close his mouth. Now he looked straight at his mother, and although Mrs Doolin returned his look she did not speak. He watched her swallow twice before he moved swiftly towards her. But all he could say was, ‘Oh, Mam.’

  Mrs Doolin put out her hand and touched her son’s face and asked softly, ‘Are you pleased?’

  ‘Pleased?’ It was Matty’s turn to swallow hard, and then he said in a rush, ‘I don’t know what to say, Mam, only you shouldn’t have done it, not spent all this. I . . . I could have gone on half of this stuff, but . . . but thanks, Mam. I know what it must have cost, an’ I . . . I don’t mean only in money. You understand? I mean for you to let me go campin’.’

  ‘Well!’ Mrs Doolin turned abruptly away, saying now with a slightly tart tone to her voice, ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Mam, it is.’

  ‘Well then, that’s all right. Now let’s get this stuff off the table and get the tea going; your dad will be in in no time.’

  ‘Does he know, Mam?’

  Mrs Doolin looked at Matty over her shoulder, her eyebrows slightly raised. ‘Of course he knows. He went with me and Joe here.’ She flung out her hand towards Joe who was still grinning widely. ‘He went with us to pick the things. He seemed to know more about what was needed than any of us.’

  Matty drew in a long breath, and let it out slowly before he said, ‘That’s good.’ But as he looked down at the three blankets reposing on the sleeping bag, a section of his mind doubted whether his father did know very much about camping. How did he expect him to lug a tent, a sleeping bag and three blankets, as well as all the other paraphernalia, around on his back? And then there was that big eiderdown. That was likely his mam’s idea. Altogether there was far too much stuff. But he would say nothing for a time. Oh no, he’d better say nothing that would upset either of them. He’d far rather set out with the whole caboodle and park half of it someplace, then pick it up on their return. But all that could be arranged.

  As the boys, their arms full of camping equipment, made towards the back door, Mrs Doolin exclaimed in a high tone, ‘You’re not putting that stuff in the shed. You can put it in the front room for now; it’ll get damp down there.’

  On this, the boys exchanged amazed glances; then laughing, turned and carried the equipment into the front room. And as Matty laid his pile on the hearthrug he knew that he was actually taking part in another miracle, for the front room was his mother’s pride and joy and was rarely used except at Christmas, or when special company came . . .

  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.’