Matty Doolin

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Well, shut up! Here she comes,’ hissed Joe.

  ‘There.’ Jessica handed the spade to Willie, but continued to walk with them.

  Except for the comment of ‘Coo, can’t you see for miles!’ from Joe, no-one spoke until they reached the gate. And as Matty went to open it his attention was drawn to Willie. Willie was handing the spade to Joe, and to Matty’s amazement he watched his tall lanky friend take a grip on the wall to the side of the gate and with a crouch and a spring lift himself over it. It was the same technique that he used on the horse in the gym. He was always very good at vaulting, and he had always given him credit for it, but not now. The big stiff was showing off because of a girl.

  When Jessica and Joe had passed into the field, Matty banged the gate shut. They said that girls always jammed up the works, and he had a premonition that he was going to experience some jamming in the near future.

  ‘Oh, you’ve got a lot of stuff.’ Jessica was moving amongst the baggage. ‘But only two tents?’

  ‘Me and Matty sleep in the big one,’ Joe pointed to it. Then turning to Matty, he exclaimed, ‘We forgot to ask about the water . . . Where do we get water?’ He looked at Jessica.

  ‘From the stream.’

  ‘Can’t see no stream,’ said Joe.

  ‘It’s round the hill. Come on, I’ll show you.’ As she turned from them and ran across the field, she was immediately followed by Willie and Joe. Matty’s legs, too, made a number of strides before they stopped. Then slowly he turned back to the encampment. There was the fireplace to dig out; and anyway, he wasn’t going to run all over the place after a girl.

  It was almost ten minutes before they returned, and the boys came up panting and shouting. Then they all stood for a moment looking at the hole Matty had dug, until Jessica exclaimed, ‘That’s too big and too deep. And where have you put the turves?’

  ‘The turves?’ Matty looked down at her. ‘The grass is under there.’ He pointed to a pile of soil.

  Jessica shook her head, a small superior smile on her face. ‘You should always cut the turves off nice and neat and put them to one side, and, when you’re leaving, fill in the hole and put the turves back. That’s what the scouts do. There were some here last year and you couldn’t tell where their fireplace had been when they left.’

  Matty only just held back a retort that would have put both her and the scouts in their proper places, but, looking at the hole, he realised she was right . . . it was too big and too deep.

  ‘You should start again, that’ll never be right. I’d fill it in if I were you.’

  ‘Aye, I think that’s a good idea. I’d fill it in, Matty.’ Willie nodded his head knowingly, and regretted it the next minute as the spade was thrust into his hand, and Matty said, ‘Right, get it filled in. And then dig a fireplace and . . . put the turves to one side. I’m going to unpack the rest of the gear.’

  Matty stalked away, and there was a telling silence all about the little camp until, on hands and knees, unpacking the Primus, which his father had said should only be used for early morning tea and on special occasions, he heard the hushed voice of Jessica asking, ‘Is he always grumpy like that?’ And his reactions were very mixed when he heard Joe’s reply, ‘Aye, but he’s all right. Matty’s all right.’

  Then Joe, apparently seeking agreement, said softly, ‘Isn’t he, Willie?’ And it was no comfort to Matty to hear Willie’s reply, ‘Oh aye, Matty’s all right. He’s just made like that.’

  Just made like that! Matty was bristling with indignation now. They were talking about him as if he was an oddity. Just because he didn’t keep yapping all the time.

  As Willie dug the hole under Jessica’s direction, the three of them giggling together, Matty’s feeling of isolation grew.

  When, a while later, the dry sticks ignited and the flames shot upwards there was a cheer from Willie and Joe, and they cried to him, ‘Look at this, Matty, a fire!’

  Matty strode towards them, saying as nonchalantly as he could, ‘Well, you’ve seen a fire afore, haven’t you?’

  ‘Aye.’ Joe nodded at him. ‘But not made like this. She’s good, isn’t she?’ He jerked his head towards Jessica, who was disappointed when all the big stubborn-looking boy said was, ‘A fire’s not good unless there’s something to put on it.’

  ‘Did you bring any water with you from the stream?’ Matty went on.

  ‘No,’ Willie shook his head. ‘Forgot to take the bucket.’

  ‘You would.’ Matty turned away and, grabbing up the canvas bucket, went down the field in the direction that the boys had taken earlier. He had just rounded the foot of the hill when he heard flying footsteps, and Jessica caught him up.

  ‘Look, I’ll show you,’ she said and ran past him down the gentle slope that led to the stream.

  When Matty reached the bank, he stood looking down at the water running over the rocks, so crystal clear it was as if he were looking into a mirror. On the bank opposite grew the big leaves of the saxifrage, parsley fern, and foxgloves. These flourished thickly right up to a wall of rock. Slowly Matty raised his eyes to this, and saw tumbling down it the water that fed the stream. It was jingling, and tinkling, and gurgling like a happy child at play. He wished he was alone and could stand and look about him, and listen to the sound of the waterfall, for never in his life before had he seen such a beautiful sight as this stream that was fed from the rocks.

  ‘You can wash here.’ Jessica was pointing down to the water at their feet. ‘But you get your drinking water from there.’ She raised her hand upwards toward the rock. ‘Look, I’ll show you how to get it.’ She was away from him and climbing the bank that was part of the rock face, and when she reached the top she leant against the moss-covered sloping wall and pushing the fingers of her right hand into a niche she stretched out her left hand towards the falling water, and it cascaded from it in a sparkling shower. Then, turning to him, she shouted, ‘See!’

  He nodded slowly, and when she came down to his side again she said, ‘It’s lovely water. I mean, to drink.’

  He was looking about him, and more to himself than to her he said, ‘It’s lovely altogether, beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Really!’ Her tone was full of quiet surprise.

  He nodded. ‘No, never. It’s like a dream.’ He lifted his head; first to the rock face and the tumbling water; then to the far flower-filled bank; and then beyond, to another valley sloping gently away and guarded in the far distance by yet more hills rising to mountains.

  ‘It’s nice in the summer, but in the winter – ugh!’ Jessica shuddered. ‘You’re frozen, frozen.’ She shook her hand. ‘Your fingers drop off.’

  He looked down at her now, and for the first time he smiled at her and said jocularly, ‘Well, yours have grown again.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

  ‘Will I get the water for you?’ Her voice was still quiet, and he answered, ‘No, I’ll get it meself.’

  ‘It isn’t easy.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to find that out, won’t I?’ He softened this tart rejoinder with another smile. And then he climbed the rock, and, doing as she had done, he pressed himself against the face, found a hold for his right hand and held out the bucket with his left. As the water pinged into it he almost overbalanced and went over the edge. And Jessica’s voice came to him, laughing now, ‘I told you. I told you.’

  When he pulled the bucket to him it was only quarter full. The water looked so gentle as it tumbled down, there didn’t seem any force behind it, but when it hit anything it acted like a fast-running tap on a flat board and sprayed upwards.

  ‘I told you. It’s better with a jug, and then you can fill the bucket.’

  He turned to her. ‘I’ll learn.’ Again he pressed himself against the wall. Again he held out the bucket. Again he made a waterspout. And there was even less in the bucket when he drew it to him for the second time. />
  ‘You stay there and I’ll dash up to the house and get a jug. I won’t be long.’ Before she had finished speaking she was away, running swiftly.

  Slowly he lowered himself from the rock, and, going to the stream, sat on the bank, and stared at the racing water a few inches below his dangling feet. And as he stared there came upon him an intense longing to be alone in this place, really alone. The longer this feeling stayed with him the more guilty he felt, for it was making him wish that Joe and Willie were miles away, in fact back home in Tyne Dock.

  As his eyes followed the stream to where it disappeared round a curve in the land, he said slowly to himself, ‘I’ll die in the docks.’

  The next instant he was on his feet. He was daft. That’s what he was, daft. He hadn’t been here five minutes and he was making himself as miserable as if he were back at school. And why should he stay here anyway and wait for a girl to bring him a jug? He should have gone and got it himself. He strode away round the foot of the hill into the field . . . Anyway, taking orders from a girl . . . he wasn’t going to start doing that.

  Chapter Four

  They had a supper of sausages, fried potatoes, eggs, fried bread and cocoa, and all three laughed and joked as they ate. When the meal was finished, they lay on the grass, comfortably full, while they waited for the kettle to boil to do the washing up. They were lying facing the long valley. The sun had just dropped beyond a distant high peak and from its dying there gushed up a spray of orange, pink and mauve colour which spread across the sky like a soft tide, the edge of which was advancing towards them.

  ‘It’s bonny,’ said Joe.

  ‘Aye,’ said Matty.

  There was a pause. Then Willie asked, ‘What’ll we do the morrow, eh?’ When he received no answer he repeated, ‘I said, what will we do the morrow, Matty?’

  ‘Oh, go for a hike.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. We should have got a map.’

  ‘Mr Walsh will tell us where to go,’ said Joe.

  ‘Do you think she’ll want to come along?’

  Matty had raised himself sharply on his elbow, and, addressing Willie pointedly, he said, ‘Well, if she does or not, she’s not coming.’

  ‘Well, I only thought . . . ’

  ‘She’s only a kid, just on twelve.’

  ‘Okay, okay, Matty man, I know that. I was just sayin’ . . . ’ There was an edge to Willie’s voice now.

  ‘Well, don’t,’ said Matty. ‘She’s not coming hikes with us. How far do you think she could walk?’

  ‘Likely a sight farther than us.’

  This telling statement from Joe brought Matty’s eyes round to him, and caused him to smile as he said now, ‘You’re likely right there, but still’ – his face became straight again – ‘she’s not comin’.’

  ‘Dishes,’ said Matty, as the long twilight began to deepen. Both Joe and Willie repeated the word, but prefixed with an ‘Aw!’ And Matty, too, getting reluctantly to his feet, said, ‘Well, they’ve got to be done. And if we leave them till the morning the fat’ll be as hard as nails . . . ’

  The dishes washed, and stacked under the spare groundsheet that was covering the oddments of their camp equipment, they all showed a great urgency to go to bed. Now followed an hilarious half an hour, during which Willie had them doubled up with laughter by wriggling his way out of his tent inside his sleeping bag, looking for all the world like a gigantic caterpillar.

  But once in his sleeping bag, Joe found that whatever way he turned he was lying on a lump. This resulted in him getting out, lifting the groundsheet and battering his portion of earth with a stone which took him all his time to lift.

  Matty’s own strip of ground was flat, but hard. He didn’t think he had felt anything so hard in his life, and he hoped his dad was right about the ground feeling as soft as a feather bed in the morning.

  At last they were settled. Matty lay staring out between the open flaps into the now dark night. There was not a sound to be heard. He thought if he listened hard he’d be able to hear the waterfall, but he couldn’t. All his life he had gone to bed against the wall of background noises, for at night the docks had never really slept, the traffic had never ceased; and all around them, behind thin brick walls, were people. But here there was nothing; no sound whatever. He resisted the urge to speak to Joe, and the silence swelled and swirled in his head, and the thread of fear in him turned into a rope.

  So when the figure, darker than the night, loomed in the doorway and spoke his name softly, saying, ‘Matty,’ it acted like an explosion under him, and he sat bolt upright, gasping.

  ‘You weren’t asleep, were you?’ Willie’s voice was hushed. ‘Man, I can’t get off, it’s so quiet. Do you feel it quiet?’

  Matty had to swallow a number of times before he could answer. And then he made his voice harsh as he said, ‘Of course it’s quiet; you’re in the country.’

  ‘It doesn’t scare you?’

  ‘No, of course it doesn’t. You’ve been out campin’ afore, haven’t you?’

  ‘Aye, I know, but never in the wilds like this. On the campsites and such . . . Is he asleep?’

  Before Matty could answer, Joe’s thin voice piped up, ‘No, I’m not. I felt it an’ all. I listened for the cows mooing, or some noise from the farm, but it must be too far away . . . you not scared, Matty?’

  ‘Scared!’ Matty’s voice was high. ‘Don’t be daft. Go on and lie down. And you, Willie, get back into your bag. I’m dog tired and want to get asleep.’

  ‘Okay.’ Willie sounded lost as he turned away, and Joe said, ‘It’s sleeping on his own. I’m glad I’m not.’

  ‘Go to sleep,’ said Matty. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Matty.’

  Matty lay down, feeling really very tired now. The fear had gone; he no longer heard the silence. The others felt like he did. He felt as warm as toast; that was the double eiderdown inside the sleeping bag. He thought vaguely of his mother as sleep came to him. She’d be worrying. Aye, she’d be worrying the night.

  When morning came the silence of the night was forgotten, for the air was filled with the deep mooing of the cattle, the sharp intermittent barking of a dog in the distance, and the unusual sound of a breeze stirring the top of the long grass.

  They cooked bacon, fried bread and sausages for their breakfast, and when they found the sausages were slightly more than high they laughed as they peppered the stone wall with them.

  It was around half past ten when, washed and tidy, they made their way to the farm, there to be greeted by Mr Walsh. He was standing at the door of the cow byres, and called to them, ‘Well, your first night over. How did it go?’

  ‘Oh, fine, fine.’ They went towards him, and as they came up he asked, ‘Not disturbed or anything?’

  ‘Disturbed?’ Joe shook his head. ‘It was too bloomin’ quiet.’

  ‘Quiet?’ Mr Walsh pulled a long face. ‘Well, I suppose it’s all a matter of comparison. It’s quiet to where you came from. Well now, you after some milk?’ He addressed Matty who was carrying the can, but Matty was looking past him into the cow byre and needed a push from Joe to recall his attention to what Mr Walsh was saying. And then he exclaimed, ‘Oh, milk! Yes, please. We were just going to ask Mrs Walsh about it.’

  ‘Oh. She and Jessica have gone up to church, but give me your can here and I’ll fill it from the churn.’ As he took the can from Matty’s hand he paused a moment before saying, ‘Would you like to look round?’

  ‘Oh. Yes, please.’

  ‘Aye. Yes.’ It was a chorus from the other two.

  ‘Well then, come along.’ He went before them into the cowshed, pushing at the rump of a cow as he passed her, saying, ‘Move over, Dolly.’

  ‘Ooh, look!’ Joe had stopped and was pointing to a cow. ‘It’s being milked by one of them machines.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Walsh. ‘Machines help a lot these days when you can’t get labour.’

  ‘How many cows
have you?’ asked Matty.

  ‘Seven,’ said Mr Walsh. ‘Seven milkers. And then I’ve got ten heifers, and a bull.’

  ‘A bull!’ put in Willie. ‘Is he loose?’

  ‘No, lad.’ Mr Walsh slanted his eyes up towards Willie. ‘But if you want to go in for training I’ll let him out.’

  Willie saw the joke as did the others. Then Mr Walsh said, ‘I’ll be with you in a minute; I must take her off.’ Returning to the cow that was being milked, he took away the apparatus. Then with the pail of frothing milk in his hand, he went into the dairy. They followed him and stood gaping at the stark whiteness and cleanliness around them.

  Matty, wide-eyed, watched Mr Walsh measure the milk, then jot down an entry in a book lying on a marble slab.

  ‘There, that’s that.’ Mr Walsh turned to the boys. ‘That’s my milking over for a few hours. Just a minute.’ He went back into the cowshed, and, lifting up a hose from a hook, he turned on a tap and swilled a line of cow dung into a trough that ran along the length of the byres. In a minute or so he was back, saying, ‘Well now, come and see the rest of the animals.’

  In the farmyard once more, Mr Walsh pointed to a large shed-like structure with an open front, open, that is, except for a low fence. Beyond the fence were two sheep.

  ‘I’m keeping them quiet for a day or two,’ explained Mr Walsh. ‘One got its hoof ripped on a broken bottle.’ He turned and pointed to Joe. ‘That’s what comes of throwing bottles and stuff away after picnics.’

  Joe grinned up at him. ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘No.’ There was a similar grin on Mr Walsh’s face now. ‘But it might have been, eh?’

  ‘What do you use this for?’ asked Matty, pointing into the enclosure.

  ‘For the sheep in the winter, in rough weather like it was a year or so back. Remember? Times like that we bring as many in as we can. When they are lambing, that is. And this . . . ’ He moved on as he spoke and went towards the door, the upper half of which was open and showed a large room walled by bins. ‘This is where we keep the grain and feed.’