‘Eeh! I’ll look a pickle.’
‘You’ve said it.’ Willie looked, and sounded, his own bright self this morning. ‘You’d get a prize in the carnival if you went in like that.’
‘Aw, look, man, I can’t go outside like this.’
‘Well,’ said Matty, ‘as I said, it’s up to you. You can stay here all day. But I’m going to have a wash. Then I’m going over to see if I can cook some breakfast.’
As Willie, still laughing, followed Matty, Joe brought up the rear, protesting loudly, and after they had sluiced their faces under the pump and dried themselves on the coarse towel hanging over a rail, they returned to the barn, folded the blankets and put them in a pile. Then Matty said, ‘I’ll have to take these back.’
‘I’ll take them, if you like,’ volunteered Willie, a twisted smile on his face.
‘Aw no, you won’t,’ said Matty. ‘If you take these, you’ll land yourself inside for breakfast, and we’ll be left out in the cold, cold snow.’
It wasn’t Willie who answered Matty now but Joe, and he screwed up his face as he said slowly, ‘You know, you’re funny, Matty.’
‘Funny?’ Matty narrowed his eyes at him over the top of the blankets.
‘Aye, sort of. You’re so sure you wouldn’t be invited in for breakfast.’
‘Aye, I am.’ Matty now strode on ahead and went down the farmyard and turned off to the left, and to the kitchen door. And there he was met by Mrs Walsh.
‘By, you’ve soon got moving.’ She took the blankets from Matty and put them on a table just inside the door, saying, ‘I’ll put them out in the sun later. Who knows but you’ll need them tonight again.’
‘I hope not, Mrs Walsh.’
‘It was a bad storm, one of the worst we’ve had for some time. But you get all kinds of weather and you get used to dealing with it.’
‘It seemed different to other thunderstorms I’ve heard,’ said Matty.
‘That’s because you’re closed in in the town. Here, in the open, there seems so much more of it.’
‘Aye, you’re right. There seemed a lot of it last night.’
She smiled broadly at him. ‘Anyway, the sun’s hot again and it’ll soon dry your things out.’
‘Thanks for the blankets . . . and the tea, Mrs Walsh.’
‘You’re very welcome, boy, you’re very welcome.’
When Matty joined Willie, who was alone now, Joe having scurried on ahead in case he was seen, Willie said briefly, ‘No invitation?’
‘No invitation,’ said Matty. ‘I told you.’
‘By, I’m hungry,’ said Willie.
‘Well, the Primus will be all right; we’ll soon get something goin’ on that. And the bread was in the biscuit tin, and that should be all right.’
When they came to the encampment, Joe was standing looking about him in dismay. The wrecked tent, like a piece of old wet rag, lay flat on the ground, secured only by one rope. On the patch of ground it had covered lay a sodden jumble of bedding, tins and knapsacks.
Surprisingly, Willie’s tent was still erect, and when they felt the canvas it was almost dry.
‘Come on!’ said Matty briskly. ‘You light that Primus, Joe, and get some water boiling. You, Willie; help me strip the sleeping bags. We’ll hang them over the wall. We’ll put everything on the wall; it’ll catch the sun better there . . . ’
It was half an hour later, when everything was spread out on the wall and Joe had just managed to make a pot of tea that Jessica came hurrying into the field. She was carrying what looked like a small covered dish. As they stopped what they were doing and watched her approach, their mouths began to water, for the smell of bacon preceded her. ‘My mother thought you mightn’t be able to get your fire going with the wood being wet; she sent you these bacon sandwiches.’ She balanced the dish on one hand and raised the lid, and watched their faces brighten.
‘Oh! Thanks. Thank your mother, will you?’ Matty took the dish from her. ‘It’s good of her.’
‘Aye, it’s good of her,’ Joe endorsed.
‘When I win the sweep I’ll buy her a first-rate cooker,’ said Willie.
‘She’s got one. She wouldn’t cook on anything but our stove if she’d got a million. She always says so.’
‘So you can keep your cooker.’ Joe nodded at Willie, and they all laughed.
‘Be seeing you.’ They watched her for a moment running across the field, her hair flying out behind her. Then, simultaneously, they attacked the dish, and as they ate ravenously they each said, in his own way, that they had never tasted anything like the new bread, or the thick slices of home-cured bacon.
It was around eleven in the morning when Mr Walsh, accompanied by Jessica, paid them a visit. Would they, he wanted to know, like to come and see the dogs at work? Before the others could even think of a reply, Matty exclaimed excitedly, ‘Oh yes, please. I’d love that.’
‘But what about the things?’ put in Joe. ‘They’re not dry yet. And what if it comes on to rain?’
‘Oh, it won’t rain until we get back. I can assure you of that,’ said Mr Walsh.
‘Well, I’m not going,’ said Jessica, ‘so if it starts to spot I can get them down for you . . . ’
Before she had finished speaking Willie put in, stammering now, ‘O-oh, there’s no ne . . . need cause I c . . . can’t do a long trek. Not with me heel. It isn’t quite better yet. You two go on.’
There was a quick exchange of glances between Joe and Matty. Then Mr Walsh said in his impatient way, ‘Well, come on, whoever’s coming. Get your boots on; we want no more sore heels.’
Joe was now wearing his own shorts, which were more or less dry, but when, after pulling off his plimsolls, he tried to get into his shoes he found they were still soaking wet, and most comfortable. ‘You can’t walk far in those,’ said Mr Walsh, looking down on him as he struggled to push a stockinged foot into the shoes. ‘That’s you out an’ all. What about you?’ Mr Walsh had turned to Matty.
‘Oh, these boots are all right, Mr Walsh; I had them in me case.’
‘Well, let’s get going.’ Mr Walsh led the way, and Matty, after one quizzical look at Willie, and a quick wink at Joe, hurried after the farmer.
Matty came up with Mr Walsh at the gate, and he dropped into step with him but did not speak. Nor did Mr Walsh open a conversation, but what he did was to whistle. It was a long, low sustained note. They had passed the farm and were on the road that was new to Matty when he saw the answer to Mr Walsh’s call, for there, bounding down the foothills beyond the farm, came racing the two dogs. After they had circled their master and Matty once, Betsy, taking the lead, fell in just behind Mr Walsh, walking to his left heel, while Prince came just behind her.
Matty kept glancing back towards the two dogs, and it was when Betsy veered away from her master’s side just a trifle that Mr Walsh growled, ‘Steady. Steady.’ Then without looking at Matty he said, ‘Don’t do that. Never try to distract a dog’s attention from its work.’
When they reached a path where the ground levelled out before rising again, Mr Walsh stopped, and the dogs slowly lowered themselves to the grass and sat with tongues lolling, while Matty stood looking around him in awed wonder. Then more to himself than to the farmer, he said, ‘I didn’t know there were so many hills in the world.’
‘Don’t insult them, lad; they don’t like to be called hills; they like to be called mountains, or rocks.’
‘Rocks?’ repeated Matty.
‘Aye, mud rocks . . . slate rocks . . . volcanic rocks. Skiddaw, the Newlands Fells, and the fells about Whinlatter Pass are all slate. And there are many others. These, they say, were left by the sea. Then there are the Scafell rocks under the Coniston and the Helvellyn range. These, they say, are the result of volcanoes, and some of the volcanic slates are green.’
‘Green!’ said Matty questioningly. ‘With grass?’
‘No. No. Just green . . . And see. Right over there towards the coast, you cannot see it from
here, lies Coniston. Have you heard of Shap granite?’
Matty shook his head.
‘They make street flags with it. Some of London is paved with it, they tell me. It’s a fine sight to see it in its natural setting, layer upon layer of natural white limestone. But you’ve got to go to the Pennines to see that . . . Well, come on.’ He turned abruptly. ‘My sheep know nothing about mud rocks or Shap granite, they only know about grass. And you’ll see grass up here as smooth as a cat’s back.’
They were climbing again . . . up . . . up . . . up to the top of the world Matty thought, and although he was hot, even sweating, he realised that the air was cooler here. At one point, he saw a great shining stretch of water, but he hadn’t the breath to ask Mr Walsh which lake it was, for they were going down the other side of the mountain now, and Mr Walsh was skipping like a young boy down the narrow twisting path.
When they were at last on comparatively level ground, Matty saw before him a long funnel-like valley with gentle slopes rising at each side of it. But to the immediate right of them lay a wide expanse of green, and dotting it like buttons were a large number of black-faced sheep.
And now Matty saw, and heard, what to him was an amazing thing, Mr Walsh giving orders to Betsy, and she obeying them implicitly. First, the farmer pointed his stick in the direction of a path that seemed to lead around the foot of the mountain they had just come over, and said, ‘Away, girl.’
As Betsy streaked towards the sheep, Prince now moved up close to Mr Walsh’s side. The dog’s whole body was visibly trembling, and Mr Walsh, without looking at him, said sharply, ‘Steady, boy. Wait.’
Betsy was now rounding the herd, running, then dropping on all fours; waiting; then up again. When one sheep slipped from the group the dog was after it and brought it into line, and for the first time Matty heard her bark, just one sharp bark, like an order.
Matty was following Mr Walsh and Prince now, but keeping a distance behind him in case he inadvertently did something to distract the dog. Matty never heard the farmer’s order to the younger dog, but he saw it suddenly streak away to the flank of the close-packed moving sheep.
Mr Walsh now whistled again, and this brought the two dogs to a dead stop. It also halted the sheep; and with leisurely, but measured tread, the farmer went round the foot of a hill, and going towards a roughly made gate he lifted it off its hinges, placed it against the wall, then moved a short distance away, before giving another order to the dogs.
Within minutes the sheep were all through the gap and into the next field. At least, Matty thought it was a field, until he was at the other side of the drystone wall. Then he saw it was just another great stretch of low fells.
The dogs did not keep to heel, but frolicked here and there along the path. And when the older dog came bounding back, and right to Matty’s legs, he put his hand down swiftly and patted its head. But when Betsy stayed at his side, as he made his way behind Mr Walsh, he became uneasy, in case of another reprimand.
They were returning to the farm by a different, and not half so arduous, way as that by which they had come. During the journey Matty found the silence something of a test, but it wasn’t in him to open a conversation. It wasn’t until the farm came almost into view that Mr Walsh said abruptly, ‘What are you going into?’
‘Going into?’ repeated Matty hastily. ‘You mean . . . ?’
‘I mean, what are you going to work at?’ Mr Walsh’s voice sounded high, and impatient, and this caused Matty’s reply to become stilted. ‘The docks.’
‘Why are you going in the docks?’
‘Well.’ He hesitated; then went on slowly, ‘That’s all I can do. And me dad wants me to go in.’
‘The others tell me they’re going to be apprenticed; why couldn’t you do the same?’
Not for the life of him could Matty tell the farmer the truth, and say, I don’t want to go in the docks, not in any capacity, I want to work with animals, because, he imagined, it would bring a hoot of derision from this brusque man. Didn’t every boy who visited a farm say he wanted to become a farmer? This desire was too near to him, too real, too painful to stand derision of any kind, without causing him to lose his temper. And he was well aware that it wouldn’t pay anyone to lose their temper with a man like Mr Walsh.
‘Aye. Well, you know where the money lies and I suppose that counts for something these days. You can’t have it all ways. Well now, have you enjoyed what you’ve seen?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes.’ Somehow Matty couldn’t get into his voice the enthusiasm which he felt. He had been thrilled and excited with the journey over the mountain, and he realised now, since they had come back this comparatively easy way, that the farmer had purposely taken the stiff climb to reach the far valley simply to point out the magnificence of the hills . . . or rocks. Oh aye! Matty smiled to himself. He mustn’t forget that the big ones didn’t like to be called hills.
This touch of humour coming into his thinking, decided Matty that he must in some way convey the pleasure he had experienced during the past two hours to Mr Walsh. The decision made, the words gathered swiftly in his mouth, and he was actually about to open the conversation, when the farmer, pointing to a stone wall around which they were walking, said, ‘If you jump that and cross the field you’ll come to your camp behind the next wall.’
Matty paused, then stopped. The spontaneity sank in him. ‘Thanks. Thanks, Mr Walsh. I . . . I’ve enjoyed it.’ Again he sounded hesitant.
Mr Walsh slanted his glance towards him, a half smile on his face. Then saying, ‘I . . . I believe you, lad,’ he strode away, leaving Matty knowing full well that he didn’t believe him, and feeling that he wanted to punch himself for not being able to convince the farmer of the truth of his statement.
When he reached the wall he was surprised to see his two pals sitting aimlessly whittling pieces of wood, and as he jumped the wall they got to their feet immediately and questioned him about his walk.
‘Oh, it was fine, fine. Hard going at first.’ His voice sounded airy. ‘Boy, didn’t we climb! But it was worth it, man. I’ve never seen anything like it. We’ll have to go there afore we go home.’ He looked from one to the other, then asked, ‘What’s the matter with you two?’
‘Nowt,’ said Willie quickly.
But Joe, his head lowered, said, ‘We’re a bit fed up.’
‘Fed up?’ Matty’s jaw actually dropped. ‘What you fed up about? We’ve hardly got here. We’ve done nothing yet.’
‘That’s it,’ said Willie. ‘You can’t get anywhere unless you walk miles.’
‘Well, we can take the bus. We were going to Blanchland today, and round about there, weren’t we?’
‘Aye.’ Willie nodded slowly. ‘But you’ve got to walk all down that blooming road, then back up. It took us forty minutes the other mornin’. That’s when we were fresh. And Jessica says the bus only passes the bottom every two hours.’
‘But we didn’t come to use buses, we came to camp, and walk.’ Matty thrust his head out towards Willie now.
‘Oh, aye, man, I know. I was just sayin’. But anyway, Joe thinks like me. Don’t you, Joe?’
‘I do a bit, Matty.’ Joe looked shamefaced as he made this statement. ‘There isn’t much to do.’
Matty sat slowly down on a large stone. He was deeply perplexed. The others sat down, and after an uncomfortable silence, Joe said, ‘We were goin’ for a walk. Jessica was goin’ to take us down to the part where you can swim . . . show us the easiest way to get there, then her mother came for her. Do you know somethin’, Matty? She’s clever. Isn’t she, Willie?’
Willie merely nodded to this. And Joe went on, ‘She told us all about a writer called Beatrix Potter, who lived round here, a place called Coniston, on a farm the name of . . . Eeh. Eeh, I’ve forgotten.’
‘Tilberthwaite Farm,’ put in Matty quickly. ‘Aye, I know all about Beatrix Potter.’
‘Oh!’ Joe raised his eyebrows. Then not to be outdone, he went on, ‘She was learnin
g us to count in a different language; her grandfather used to count like it. Yan, tan, tether. What’s the other, Willie? How does it go?’
‘Pimp something,’ said Willie.
‘No, pimp is five, I know that. She said it’s Scandinavian counting.’
‘Why didn’t you go on and find the pool by yourselves?’ said Matty now.
‘Oh!’ Willie jerked his head backwards. ‘There seemed no point, man. We’ve seen the stream, it all looks alike.’
‘Oh, godfathers!’ Matty punched his brow with his closed fist. ‘You’ve seen nothing yet. I tell you we’ve just come; we’ve hardly settled in.’
‘Well,’ said Joe, getting to his feet quickly, ‘don’t get your rag out, Matty. Let’s get some grub up and then go to that Blanchland place.’
After a moment Matty got to his feet and set about getting the meal ready, but he did it silently, for he was disturbed. They had come on Saturday, and this was Tuesday of the first week, and his pals were bored. He couldn’t understand it; he just couldn’t understand it.
Chapter Seven
By the time Saturday came around it had become absolutely plain to Matty that the camping holiday was not a success. Willie and Joe had had enough. They both agreed that camping would have been fine if the farm had been near a town, or a village where there were houses to look at, and people to see, but this wild, isolated spot held no attraction for them in any form.
It was Willie who actually proposed breaking up the camp and returning home. On Thursday he had said, what was the good of staying on if the weather was going to change. It had been dull on Thursday. But Friday had been gloriously warm. Now it was bright and warm too, but Joe and Willie, sitting on the bank of the stream idly aiming pebbles at a jutting rock were talking about, of all things, the splendours of their home town. Never before had they realised that South Shields was such a wonderful place, and never had two boys more wholeheartedly longed to be back in its bustling workaday world.
Matty Doolin Page 11
