Matty Doolin

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Eeh, by gum! Look at that!’ Joe stopped in his slicing of the corned beef, and, sitting back on his heels, gazed upwards. ‘The whole sky looks as if it’s going to drop on us. And look at the funny colour . . . It’s getting darker. Coo!’ He began with renewed vigour to slice up the remainder of the corned beef and slap it onto the bread.

  Matty was now laying stones on the hessian flaps of the tent, and he said, ‘If it doesn’t come on to rain I’ll make a can of tea on the Primus and take it in with us.’

  When they had stacked everything they could in the back of their tent, cases, bedding, and food boxes, it looked as if there wasn’t going to be any room for themselves; and after they had crawled in and got themselves arranged, Willie, on hands and knees, made his appearance at the open flap, and asked plaintively, ‘Could I squeeze in?’

  ‘Look at us, man.’ Matty moved his hand over the congested space. ‘We’re packed.’ He stared at Willie’s long thin face, which was not smiling now, and which was only just discernible in the growing darkness, and, turning swiftly, he pushed Joe with an angry movement, saying, ‘Bump the tins and cases out. He’ll put them in his tent and that’ll make the extra room . . . We hope.’

  ‘Strewth! Here we go again.’

  There began another whirl of compressed activity as they rearranged themselves, and they were no sooner crouched in more or less comfortable positions than the heavens above them seemed to split open. The thunder was so terrific, so terrifying that even after its rumblings had become faint, they were still huddled together, faces pressed downwards, in the middle of the tent.

  Matty was gasping as if he had been fighting against a strong wind. When he lifted his head he saw that it was almost like night now, and, following the noise of the thunderclap, so quiet as to be eerie. When neither of the others moved, he shook Joe, and then Willie, and whispered, ‘You all right?’

  ‘Eeh!’ Joe’s voice was trembling. ‘That’s what they call a thunderbolt, I suppose. Eeh! Man, I’ve never heard anything like it.’ His voice was awe-filled.

  As yet, Willie hadn’t moved, and Matty shook him again, saying, ‘You all right, Willie?’

  Slowly Willie brought himself upwards, and the whiteness of his face seemed to shine through the dimness, and as Matty peered at him he realised that this big, overgrown pal of his, this laughter-making, joke-loving pal, was frightened. Well, that was nothing to be ashamed of; that bang had frightened him. But Willie’s fright, he saw, was a different kind somehow; it was stark fear, more than temporary fright. Matty couldn’t explain the difference to himself but it brought his hand onto Willie’s shoulder as he said, ‘Coo! That scared the daylights out of me.’ He watched Willie’s head make a little nod now, and he waited for him to speak. But he didn’t.

  ‘I could do with a drink of tea.’ Matty touched Joe’s arm. ‘Hand the can over here; we’ll have a sup all round.’

  When Matty handed the can lid full of tea to Willie, he found he had to steady it before Willie could get a grip on it, and he thought again, It’s funny a big fellow like him. But he did not despise his pal for his abject fear. In some, not quite understandable, way he felt he had come to know Willie better in the last few minutes than ever before. It was all very puzzling.

  The hot tea made them sweat, and Joe exclaimed, as he wiped his face with his hand, ‘Eeh! I’m wringin’. I’ve never felt so hot in me life.’

  ‘You hot, Willie?’ Matty leant towards the quiet, dim figure.

  ‘Aye . . . aye, Matty, I’m hot.’

  ‘Once it starts to rain it’ll get cooler. I wish it would hurry up; storms are not so bad if it rains.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any lightnin’.’

  Joe had scarcely finished speaking when, as they all swore later, the lightning came straight through the tent. Certain it was that it not only illuminated the small space with a light, brighter than any sunshine, it also seemed to lift the tent, and themselves, from the ground, for it was accompanied within a split second by another terrific burst of thunder. Once again they were huddling together, and it was some longer time before they moved. When finally they came to disentangle themselves Matty found he had his arms about Willie, that Willie’s face was buried somewhere near his side, and that they were both leaning over Joe.

  ‘I’m scared. I don’t mind tellin’ you, I’m scared, Matty. Th . . . that was awful . . . ’

  Joe’s admission of fear did not disturb Matty half as much as Willie’s silence, his trembling silence now, for the boy’s whole body was shaking. Matty’s own voice had a tremor in it when he said, ‘It’ll be all right now. Listen. Here it comes . . . Hear it?’ He lifted his head and looked up at the roof of the tent, so near to his face.

  ‘It’s wind,’ said Joe.

  ‘No, rain. I heard it like that once afore, the day when Mr Tollet took us on the fells. The storm came up just as we were going home and the rain sounded like wind coming from a distance, and he had to stop the car . . . There it is.’

  As the first huge drops hit the canvas they all sighed with relief. It would be better now. Everybody knew that thunderstorms were soon over when it rained.

  Whereas they had never experienced such thunder, or lightning, they were used to heavy rain. But within seconds they were made aware that this wasn’t just rain; this was a force, a terrible force. All the clichés about raining cats and dogs, coming down in buckets, hailstones as big as marbles, a solid sheet of rain, seemed far short of an accurate description of this deluge that seemed bent on pressing them into the earth. The noise was such that if they had tried to speak they wouldn’t have been heard.

  Matty had pegged the tent flap in such a way as to leave a space to let the air in. Now, leaning forward, he groped wildly at the tape around the peg in an effort to shut the flap, but when once he had released it, it was torn from his hand. When he put his head out of the tent and grabbed at the wildly flapping canvas the rain stung his face like a hail of gravel.

  The tent flap at last secure, he had pulled himself back into a sitting position, when Joe, nudging him hard in the ribs, thumbed the apex of the tent.

  ‘Oh, no. No!’ Willie groaned inwardly. They would be in a mess if the tent leaked.

  It was evident in a very short space of time that they were in a mess. The tent was not only letting water in through the ridge, but it was coming in at the sides. Wherever their belongings touched the canvas there came a stream of water. Desperately, they drew their baggage and beds around them, and Matty and Joe struggled into their raincoats. Willie had a bicycle cape with him, and also a mack, but they were both in his tent. Matty, realising this, pulled off his raincoat again and put half of it over Willie’s head. He tried to laugh as he did so, but his effort was a failure, for it had no assistance from Willie. And so, huddled up, they sat in silent misery waiting for the storm to wear itself out, which, Matty reassured himself, couldn’t be long. No storm, he imagined, could keep up this force for very long. He was to learn a lot within the next hour or so.

  They were sitting in miserable dejection, the water pouring on them from all sides, the wind howling as they had never heard wind howl, and the thunder, although less violent, still crashing around them, when the main guy ropes snapped. In the deafening turmoil of the storm they didn’t hear them go, but when the canvas suddenly collapsed about them they had all the evidence of their going that was needed.

  Calling to each other, they disentangled themselves from the material that had taken on the weight of sailcloth, and, struggling blindly and soaked to the skin, they now fought their way to the dim outline of Willie’s tent. And when, breathless, they collapsed together like sardines on top of bedding, tins and cases, they realised that their plight had not improved, for the rain was pouring straight through every pore in the little tent.

  ‘What we going to do, man?’ Although Joe was shouting into Matty’s ear, his voice came like a tiny whisper; and Matty shouted back, ‘It’ll soon be over. It’s bound to wear itself out.
’

  How much longer they lay in wet, abject misery Matty couldn’t recall, but he was always to remember Mr Walsh’s voice as it came from the mouth of the tent, bawling, ‘Come on! Get out of that.’ Music had never sounded more sweet to Matty, nor had he seen a face so angelic as the hard, rock features of Mr Walsh peering from under the black brim of a sou’wester.

  One after the other the farmer gripped them by their collars and pulled them to their feet, and steadying Joe with one arm, he waved wildly with the other, as he yelled, ‘If your cases are dry, fetch them along.’

  Going back into the tent, Matty grabbed up Willie’s case and, pushing it into his hand, pointed to where the dim figures of Joe and Mr Walsh were moving slowly towards the gate. But Willie made no effort to go on his own; he stood waiting, hardly able to keep his feet, while Matty tore at his own collapsed tent and retrieved his case, and Joe’s. With Joe’s smaller case tucked under his arm, and carrying his own by the handle, he now put his free arm around Willie’s shoulder. And Willie doing the same to him, they pressed their way blindly towards the gate. It was open, and they passed through without bothering to close it; this was no time to bother about gates, so Matty told himself.

  When they entered the comparative shelter of the farmyard, the blurred figure of Mr Walsh came towards them and led them into the big barn, and around the tangle of machinery, to a great mound of dry straw. Had he walked into his mother’s kitchen at this moment it could not have looked more home-like to Matty than that dry straw.

  Joe was sitting on the edge of an upturned box and looked very small and dejected, like a little wet rat. He was still taking in great draughts of air, as were they all.

  When Matty let go of Willie, Willie immediately sat down on the edge of the straw, only to be brought to his feet again by Mr Walsh saying quickly, ‘Don’t sit there in your wet things, if you’re going to sleep on it. Look in your cases and see if your stuff is still dry and change your clothes right away. I’ll bring you some blankets over.’ Just before he turned away he said, ‘And be careful of that lantern there.’ He pointed to where a lantern was standing on the broad crossbeam of the barn wall. ‘It’s a safety one. But I wouldn’t chance it being knocked over; so be careful.’

  None of the boys made any answer. Not one of them had spoken since they came into the barn. They were too exhausted. And their movements, when they went to open their cases, were slow and laboured.

  The contents of Matty’s case were dry, and for this again he mentally thanked his mother. He had grumbled against taking the old battered leather suitcase because it was too heavy, but his clothes were as dry as when she had packed them. Willie’s, too, were comparatively dry, but everything in Joe’s thin composition case was wringing wet.

  As Joe lifted one sodden garment out after another, Matty said, ‘Well, never mind. Here’s a shirt of mine; it’ll do the night.’

  ‘It’ll reach to me feet, man.’

  ‘Well, does that matter if you’re lying down?’

  ‘No, no.’ Joe shook his head, and when he undressed and stood in Matty’s shirt that fell around his ankles it did not drag a laugh from any of them.

  Mr Walsh now came back into the barn. He was carrying a bulky bundle covered with a waterproof sheet, and behind him, dressed in oilskins like her husband, came Mrs Walsh, bearing before her a large basket, like that which bakers carry bread in. As she set it on the ground, she said cheerily, ‘Well, boys, that was a bit of a storm.’

  It seemed to Matty not quite right when no-one answered her, so he proffered, ‘Yes. Yes, it was, Mrs Walsh.’

  ‘It’s set in; it’ll likely go on for some time yet. But you’ll come to no harm in here.’ She took the cover off the basket, and, taking up a large pan, she began pouring steaming broth into three basins.

  The bundle Mr Walsh had carried was of blankets. Handing them to the boys, he said, ‘Here, roll yourselves in these and get into the straw there, and you’ll think you’re in an oven. And if you start sweating stay put; it’ll get rid of any cold you’ve got.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Walsh.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Walsh.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Walsh.’

  One after another, in docile voices, they thanked the farmer, then pulled the blankets around them and burrowed into the straw.

  ‘You look like the three bears, sitting there.’ Mr Walsh laughed as he took the bowls from his wife and handed them, first one to Matty, then to Willie, then to Joe. This was followed by great hunks of new bread and a spoon each.

  Matty looked into the steaming broth; then towards Mrs Walsh, her face just discernible in the glow of the lamp and the shadow from her sou’wester hat, and he said softly, and with deep gratitude, ‘Thank you, Mrs Walsh. It’s more than good of you. Thank you.’

  ‘That’s all right. That’s all right. And’ – her voice went high in her head – ‘don’t you all look as if you had lost a sixpence and found a threepenny bit. Your stuff will dry out, and you’ll see things differently in the daylight. It isn’t the first time that campers have been washed out here in a storm. Is it, Arthur?’

  ‘No, not by a long chalk. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. Take your time over that broth, and I’ll come back later and put the light out. Put the basins to the side there, then get yourselves off to sleep. Goodnight to you.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Walsh. Goodnight, Mrs Walsh.’ Their voices were louder now, more normal sounding, and when the farmer and his wife had departed they drank greedily at the soup. Then Joe, giving a big sigh, exclaimed, ‘Eeh! I’ll never forget this night as long as I live. Things might look better in the morning, as Mrs Walsh says, but still I’ll not forget this night.’

  Willie didn’t add his usual laughing quip to this remark, but Matty said, ‘I don’t think any of us will forget it. To tell the truth, it had me scared.’

  ‘Scared?’ said Joe. ‘That’s putting it mildly for me. Were you scared, Willie?’

  ‘Oh, aye! Aye, I was.’

  As Matty listened to this admission he knew it referred to the normal scaring storms created in most people, but he was aware that his pal was still trying to press down the fear that had run wild in him when he had been out there on the open hillside. To say that Willie had been as frightened of the storm as any hysterical girl sounded unbelievable, but, Matty knew, it was nevertheless true. He recalled at this moment that his grandmother had been petrified of spiders until the day she died, and his mother saying to him one day, ‘All folks have their private fears.’ He hadn’t understood what she meant then, but he did now.

  He finished his soup and the last mouthful of bread and exclaimed brightly, ‘By, that feels better. What about you, Joe?’

  ‘Me? I feel a new man.’

  ‘Well, let’s get down; we don’t want to be jabbering when Mr Walsh comes back . . . Are you finished, Willie?’

  ‘Aye.’ Willie put the basin down to the side of him.

  ‘How are you feelin’?’

  ‘Me?’ said Willie. ‘Oh! I’m feelin’ fine now. But lord! I was cold out there. After all that heat the day I never thought I’d be cold again, but you know, man, I was shiverin’ just as if it were winter.’

  ‘And it’s not far off, if you ask me,’ said Matty. ‘As for cold, my teeth were going like castanets.’ He paused and wriggled his hips deep into the straw. ‘Well, here’s me for dreamland.’

  As they settled down there was no joking. The terror of the storm was still too recent.

  Matty was dragged up out of deep, warm comfort by a voice seeming to bawl through his head, crying, ‘Come on with you! You going to sleep all day?’

  As he dragged himself upwards he saw Joe and Willie already sitting up, both rubbing the sleep out of their eyes.

  ‘There’s a can of tea for you, and there’s a pump in the yard. Get yourselves up and get a wash. Then get over and clear up the shambles. And let me tell you, if it wasn’t that you’re an inexperienced lot, and were hard put to it i
n the storm, I’d feel inclined to use me boot on you this morning. At least one of you. Who was last through that gate last night?’

  Mr Walsh’s voice still seemed to be bawling through Matty’s dazed mind. Who was last through the gate? he was asking himself. He and Willie came last through the gate, but Willie had been in no shape to think about shutting the gate. Neither had he for that matter. He squinted up at Mr Walsh, and said, ‘I was, I suppose.’

  ‘You suppose! You were or you weren’t?’

  The farmer’s tone brought Matty into full wakefulness. It also brought a snapping retort to his tongue, which he had the good sense to check; he said quietly, ‘It was me.’

  ‘Aye, I thought it was. Well now, as I said, I’m making allowances, but don’t let it happen again. I let the pigs out sometimes in the morning to run around, and if I hadn’t gone round that way and seen the gate open you would have had more than wet canvas to deal with this morning, me lads. Well now, up you get and have this tea and get busy.’

  The three of them looked at Mr Walsh’s back as he went down the barn, walking in between the machinery, but no comment was made. Then yawning, and stretching, and grunting, they disentangled themselves from their blankets, and their warm nest.

  As Joe finished his mug of tea he pointed towards the doorway and said in surprise, ‘Look! The sun’s shining. After last night, the sun’s shining.’

  The sun recalled to Joe the condition of his clothes, and now he said dolefully, ‘What am I going to put on? I haven’t a dry rag.’

  ‘Well, keep that shirt on,’ said Matty, ‘and you can have my other shorts.’

  ‘Eeh, but, man, they’ll come down to me heels!’

  ‘Well,’ said Matty with seeming indifference, ‘don’t wear any at all; it’s up to you.’ As he said this he pulled the shorts from his case and threw them towards Joe. The next minute he was trying to smother his laughter as he looked at Joe. The shirtsleeves trailed far below his hands, and the outsize shorts came well below his calves.