‘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.’
He could see that his mother was taken aback by his direct approach. She would likely tell his father later that he was beyond coping with, but now she said, ‘Get it off.’ She made an impatient grab at the coat. ‘Fighting at your age.’
‘Well, Bill Cooper took the mickey out of me about me name, and Joe’s.’
‘I’d have thought you’d have been past that, fighting about your name. There was a rhyme when I was a bairn and it still holds good:
‘Sticks and stones will break me bones,
But calling will not hurt me.
‘Get your old coat on,’ she added, ‘and I’ll fix this when your dad’s in bed, because if he sees it it’ll be more than sticks and stones you’ll get, it’ll be the back of his hand.’
‘Let him try it.’ Matty turned away, his head wagging.
‘Now, now, now,’ Mrs Doolin admonished in a different tone, a stern, brook-no-backchat tone. ‘We’ll have none of that. As long as you’re here you’ll do as your father says. You understand? And if I was you, instead of talking big I would start a long farewell to that thing there.’ She pointed disdainfully down at Nelson. ‘Because it’s going. Whether you take it or I do, it’s going. No wonder its last owners threw it out. Likely they were all driven mad and taken to the asylum.’
As Mrs Doolin left the room the two boys looked at each other. Then Matty, dropping slowly down onto the hearthrug, put his hand on Nelson’s head, and as the dog nuzzled against him there came into his body a feeling so sad, so painful, that he understood in this moment why girls and women cried.
‘What you goin’ to do?’ Joe pushed his face close to Matty’s, and Matty, shaking his head, made no answer.
‘I say, what about us going round houses like, and askin’ them if they want a dog?’ With this inspiration Joe’s eyes widened, and, as Matty looked at him he didn’t say ‘Aw, don’t be daft,’ for he realised that Joe had thought of something. It was true it would still mean that he would lose Nelson, but it wouldn’t be as final as if he were put to sleep. And there was bound to be somebody somewhere like himself who loved animals. On average, there was just bound to be. It was finding them. Well, he’d have a try. His face lightened a little as he whispered, ‘Good idea.’
Joe squared his narrow shoulders, pursed his lips into a whistle, then, bending down to Matty, hissed, ‘Can you put the telly on?’
Matty wriggled forward and turned on the television; then flopping down again, he pulled Nelson across his knees and kept up a scratching movement with his fingers behind the dog’s ear, while Joe, at the other end of Nelson, scratched his rump. And Nelson wondered why life could not be like this all the time.
It was half an hour later and the boys were still sitting on the hearthrug in the kitchen when Mr Doolin arrived home. His approach had been heralded with the yard door banging, then the kitchen door banging, followed by a pair of heavy boots, one after the other, being thrown onto the stone floor of the scullery. And now his voice was calling, ‘Where’s me slippers?’
At this point Mrs Doolin entered the kitchen from the hallway, carrying in her hand a pair of tartan patterned cloth slippers. It was significant that she held them almost at arm’s length from her, and more significant still that she cast a glance towards Matty as she crossed the room. And the glance brought Matty’s head hanging. It also tightened his hold on Nelson.
The televis
ion cut off the muted conversation coming from the scullery, and Matty, still keeping his hold on Nelson, reached out and turned down the volume. But even now the conversation was no more audible, and Matty and Joe exchanged glances, until, following a brief silence, Mr Doolin’s voice, loud now, came to them, crying, ‘Well! This is the finish. It’ll go, an’ I’ll see that he stumps up out of his pocket money and gets me a new pair of slippers.’
The injustice of this last remark brought Matty’s eyes wide. Those particular slippers had been worn out years ago.
But now Mr Doolin was coming into the kitchen. He was a thickset man, of medium height, and his hair was grey and strong looking, as was his face. Stubborn would be a better descriptive word here, for his lower jaw was squarish, and his nose blunt. But his mouth, when not pursed in some reprimand or dogmatic argument, looked kindly, as did his eyes.
‘Well, me lad, what’s this I’m hearin’?’ Mr Doolin took his seat at the table and drank from a cup of tea which was already awaiting him, before slanting his glance towards Matty, adding, ‘Well, what have you to say?’
Matty didn’t know whether his father was alluding to his fighting or to Nelson, so he said, ‘Nothing; me mam’s told it to you all.’
‘Now, now! I’m having none of your lip.’
‘I’m not giving you any lip.’ Matty’s hand nervously stroked the dog’s head, while Nelson cast a baleful glance up at the man sitting at the table. And the dog actually shrank closer to Matty as the finger came thrusting down towards him and Mr Doolin’s deep voice cried, with finality, ‘It’s the end. It’s gone past enough. He’s going.’
Yet as awful as the final verdict was it wasn’t delivered in the manner that Matty had expected, and he looked slowly sideways up at his father, and as he did so he realised that his father was in a good mood.
Mrs Doolin’s voice broke Matty’s concentrated stare as she said, ‘Come on, get up out of that and have your tea . . . Come on, Joe.’
‘Oh, thanks, Mrs Doolin.’ Joe’s smile was spread from ear to ear. He looked up at Matty’s mam as if he was surprised at the invitation.
As Mrs Doolin placed plates of egg and chips before the boys, and one, to which was added a thick steak, in front of her husband, Matty’s suspicion that his father was in a good mood was more than proved, for Mr Doolin, with a wry smile on his face, now bent his body towards Joe and asked in a confidential tone, ‘How would you like to come here as a lodger?’
Under the circumstances the question might have appeared tactless, as this was Joe’s third tea visit in a week, but Matty knew that had his father been really annoyed at Joe’s presence he would have remained sullenly quiet until the boy had gone, and then let off steam.
Matty, forgetting for the moment the ominous fate that hung over Nelson, grinned at his pal, as Joe, not to be put out by any unsubtle jibes, jerked his head at his host and replied brightly, ‘Oh, I’d like that fine, Mr Doolin.’
‘You would?’
‘Aye, I would fine.’
‘And why?’ Mr Doolin enquired, although he was asking what he well knew.
‘Aw, well, ’cos Matty’s mam’s a grand cook an’ she keeps everything nice like.’
Mr Doolin shook his head, this time in approval, and, looking to where his wife was seating herself at the other end of the table, he said, ‘Well, what do you think of that, eh?’
‘I think Joe’s full of blarney.’ Mrs Doolin’s voice sounded prim but she looked kindly towards the small boy. Then, her voice still holding the prim note, she said quickly, ‘Get on with your teas; everything will be clay cold.’
The boys needed no second bidding. And it was such a good substantial tea, and the atmosphere was so genial, which under the circumstances appeared strange to Matty, that he would have felt totally happy at the moment if it hadn’t been for the warm body pressed against his legs patiently waiting for that last titbit from his plate.
It wasn’t until the meal was almost finished that the atmosphere changed. It was brought about quite suddenly as Joe, still aiming to be gallant, looked at Mrs Doolin and said, ‘You’ll have to give us some lessons in cookery afore we go to camp, Mrs Doolin.’
‘What’s this?’ Mrs Doolin put down her knife and fork, then, turning on Matty, cried, ‘Now, our Matty, I told you that was finished.’
‘Aw, Mam.’ Matty lowered his head.
‘Don’t aw Mam me. You said you wouldn’t go with the school camp.’
‘And I’m not.’
‘Well then, don’t let’s bring all that up again. You’re not going camping on your own. Now we’ve had enough for one day since you’ve come in. I told you the only way you could go was if you went with the school camp, or the youth club, and have someone with sense to see to things. And that’s that.’
‘But, Mam! I’m fifteen and if I haven’t got sense now, I . . . ’
‘Now look here, Matty, you be quiet. I’m having no more of it. I’m telling you.’ His mother’s finger was wagging in his face, and Matty looked away from it towards his father. And now his father said, ‘Your mother’s right. You can go campin’ if you’ve got somebody to supervise things, but not on those fells by yourself.’
‘But I’ll not be by myself; there’s Joe here’ – Matty thumbed towards his friend – ‘and Willie Styles. I’ve told you, Willie’s been camping on his own afore.’
‘Not miles away in the Lake District on those lonely fells. And Willie Styles hasn’t the sense he was born with, he’s nothing but talk. Oh, I wish you hadn’t seen those fells; you’ve never been the same since.’
‘Your mother’s right,’ put in Mr Doolin harshly. ‘Since Jim Tollet took us for that ride that Sunday you’ve never been the same, and I say with her again, there’s no camping on your own. You’ve just got to look at the papers and see what happens to youngsters when they go acting like men, and nobody to say them nay . . . Get stuck up on a mountain and break their necks tryin’ to get down, and endanger other folks in helpin’ them.’
‘Aw, Dad.’ Matty made a deep bow with his head, and the action seemed to infuriate Mr Doolin, for he thrust out his arm and grabbed his son. And when Matty’s body tensed and his face darkened Mrs Doolin, slapping at her husband’s arm, cried, ‘That’s enough of that. It doesn’t warrant a row.’ Again she slapped at her husband’s arm, harder this time, and Mr Doolin, drawing in a deep breath, released his hold, saying, ‘You’ll go too far one of these days, me lad.’
It was at this point that a voice from the yard came to them, calling, ‘Matty, Matty, are you there?’
‘That’s Willie,’ put in Joe in a very small voice, looking towards Matty. But before Matty could reply or move towards the scullery, his mother exclaimed, ‘Oh, is it? Well, I’ll see Mr Willie. We might as well get this cleared up once an’ for all.’
‘Aw, Mam, leave it be; I’ll tell him.’ Matty’s voice was trembling slightly.
‘I’ve told you to tell him afore, me lad, and if you’d done so he wouldn’t be round here the night . . . not on his club night, and we wouldn’t have had these ructions.’
On this, Mrs Doolin marched to the door, but the next moment returned to the kitchen, standing aside to allow Willie Styles to enter the room . . .
Willie was Matty’s senior by three months. He was as tall as Matty but without his sturdiness, being very thin with a long, lugubrious face. Nothing about Willie inspired confidence, or gave evidence of stability. He had the nervous habit of twitching his nose, very much like that of a rabbit. Moreover, when he got excited he stammered. Willie’s manner and conversation were naturally funny, and he played on this.
‘Evenin’, Mr Doolin.’ Willie nodded his long head at Matty’s father, and did not seem in the least disconcerted when Mr Doolin ignored the greeting.
‘Hello, there, Joe.’ Willie nodded to Joe, and Joe, grinning, nodded back.
‘Now you can stop all this small chit-chat, Willie,’ said Mrs Doolin. ‘Up to a few weeks ago we never saw hilt or ha
ir of you on a Tuesday or Friday, for you were too busy with the lads in the club practising your guitars, and it’s now Friday night, so what are you after?’
‘Oh, nowt . . . nothing, Mrs Doolin. I just wanted a word with Matty.’ He cast his eyes in Matty’s direction and kept them there while he said, ‘To tell him I’ve got me tent.’
Mrs Doolin pressed her lips together, and, lowering her head, wagged it slowly before saying, ‘What did I tell you, our Matty? I told you to tell Willie there was no camping holiday for you, not just the three of you.’ She raised her head as she added, ‘After the schemozzle in the house last Saturday I’d have thought you would have had the sense to finish it.’
‘Aw.’ Willie was moving from one leg to the other now. ‘Well, Mrs Doolin, he’s never seen me since. He . . . he would have told me else.’
‘Be quiet, Willie, and don’t be so silly. In the same school and not seeing each other! Walking up the road together for years and not seeing each other . . . ! Oh boy.’ She flicked her hand at him impatiently, and he came back at her with a disarming smile, saying quietly, ‘We . . . ell, Mrs Doolin, I’ve been off bad . . . cold, you know.’
There was a pause before Mrs Doolin asked, ‘All the week?’
‘Aw well, no. Just since Wednesday.’
‘Well then, he had plenty of time to tell you, Willie.’ She nodded towards Matty. ‘But if he didn’t, I’m tellin’ you now. He’s going on no camping holiday. Is that final? And nothing you can say will make me change me mind. Do you get that?’
Willie did not answer, and there was silence in the room now, and Mrs Doolin looked from him to Joe, who stood just to the side of him. Then she lifted her eyes to her son, and their glances held before her eyes dropped to Nelson, where the dog was squatting peacefully on the mat, and she exclaimed impatiently, ‘With one thing and another I’m about distracted. Go on, get yourself out.’ She was addressing Matty now. ‘And take that animal with you. And remember what I told you about him an’ all. If you don’t do it I will. Or,’ she added, ‘your dad will.’
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