Matty Doolin Page 8

  ‘Smells nice.’ Joe sniffed as he strained his head over the bottom part of the door.

  They came next to a big barn, the doors open wide. As Matty stood behind the others looking into the barn, he thought that, were his mother here she would say, ‘That’s a conglomeration of stuff and no mistake,’ for the barn appeared to be full of nothing but parts of old machinery: an old tractor, red with rust, what looked like the inside of a motor, and wheels, large and small wheels. If it hadn’t been for the bales of hay in the far corner the place could have been taken for a garage workshop.

  Mr Walsh dismissed the conglomeration with a wave of his hand, saying, ‘I’ll have to get down to that some day, but the time flies, never seem to get a minute. It’s always the same on a farm.’

  Now he was leading his way along an alley between the side of the barn and the stone building and into another yard that opened onto a field. One side of this yard was taken up with pigsties, and the boys all laughed as they looked into the first sty and saw ten piglets scrambling over the sow before arranging themselves in an orderly row to feed.

  ‘Coo!’ said Willie, his face one big grin. ‘That’s what’s meant by sucking pig.’

  They moved on to stand looking over a gate into a field full of chickens.

  ‘That’s a swarm,’ said Joe, ‘there must be over a hundred there.’

  ‘Make it two and you’ll be nearer the mark,’ said Mr Walsh.

  Mr Walsh next led the way down by the stone wall to another gate, and, leaning on it, he pointed to the animal grazing quietly in the middle of the field as he said, ‘There’s the boss.’

  ‘Eeh! Isn’t he big?’ said Willie.

  ‘Is that the bull?’ said Joe.

  ‘That’s the bull,’ said Mr Walsh. ‘And he’s called Sep.’

  ‘Why do you call him that?’ Joe was laughing up into Mr Walsh’s face, and Mr Walsh, still looking at the bull, said, ‘Well, I called him that because he’s got the same temperament as me father, and his name was Septimus. If you overstepped the mark or took any liberties with me father you found yourself in a horizontal position. It’s the same with him.’ He pointed. ‘He knows his place, and if you give it to him, well and good; take any liberties, and you’re on your back.’ Mr Walsh looked from one to the other, and after a pause added, ‘And that’s a warning. Never try any tricks with Sep. If you should be round this way and he happens to be near the gate, your wisest plan is to raise your cap to him and walk sedately on.’

  This last brought a high laugh from Willie and Joe and a smile from Matty. Matty was studying Mr Walsh. He thought he was a funny man, not funny peculiar, or funny ha-ha, as the saying went, just funny; and it came to him that you’d have to be careful how you trod when walking near Mr Walsh, so to speak. He also came to the conclusion that Mr Walsh was like his dad, and they were both, in some way, akin to the bull.

  ‘You haven’t got much to say for yourself.’

  The abrupt statement shot at Matty startled him, and he said quickly, ‘I . . . I was looking round; there’s so much to see.’

  ‘He’s nearly always quiet, Mr Walsh. Just now and again, he lets go,’ said Joe.

  The fact that he was under discussion made Matty hot and uncomfortable, and he turned his head away and looked along the road by the stone wall. And what he saw at the far end brought his body round immediately and he cried spontaneously, ‘Why, look!’ He pointed to where two sheepdogs were ambling leisurely towards them. ‘You’ve got dogs?’ said Matty, looking at Mr Walsh.

  ‘We’ve got dogs?’ repeated Mr Walsh. ‘Of course we’ve got dogs. A sheep farm would be very badly off without dogs. You’d need ten pairs of legs if you hadn’t dogs. What makes you surprised at that?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Nothing. I . . . well.’ He floundered and turned his gaze to the dogs again.

  The two sheepdogs came up, wagging their tails, and Willie and Joe immediately went down on their hunkers, crying, ‘Here, boy! Here, boy!’ as their hands ruffled the dogs’ fur.

  Matty did not drop to his hunkers but stood looking down on the animals, while Mr Walsh looked at him.

  It was the bigger of the two dogs that disengaged itself rather peremptorily from Willie’s fussing hands and came to sniff at Matty’s legs. And when the dog looked up at him, Matty bent down and, rubbing his hand slowly and lovingly behind the dog’s ear, said, ‘Hello there, boy.’

  ‘It’s a bitch, and her name’s Betsy.’

  Matty didn’t remark on Mr Walsh’s information but continued to rub the dog’s ear gently. And after a moment, he said, ‘Good Betsy. Good Betsy.’

  ‘What’s this one called?’ Joe was fondling the smaller of the two dogs.

  ‘He’s called Prince. He’s Betsy’s son, and she’s in the course of training him. He’s just on two years old.’

  ‘How old is Betsy?’ Matty was still looking at the dog.

  ‘Oh, she’s getting on. She’s around seven. And that’s funny.’ Mr Walsh was peering at Matty. ‘She doesn’t usually let people fuss her like that; she’s an independent creature as a rule.’

  ‘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.

  Chapter Five

  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 . . . t
hing. 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.’