‘Yes, I did an’ all,’ said Matty.
‘He’s a nice bloke, is Funnell.’ Joe went to the frying pan and, with a piece of bread, rubbed it dry, and as he ate he looked sideways at Willie, saying, ‘We can’t go the day if he’s here.’
‘No, likely not. Mr Walsh won’t take our kit down to the station if he’s got a visitor.’
Matty, in his tent now and getting his things ready for airing, smiled to himself. They had made their point; they were staying on. The next minute he was disturbed by the thought that he was disappointed that they were staying, and he imagined what it would have been like if Mr Funnell had happened to call in when he was here on his own. Perhaps under those circumstances the master would have asked him to accompany him on a tramp. He would have liked that. Oh aye. He would have liked that. But as things were it wasn’t likely there would be such an invitation thrown his way.
But Matty was wrong in this; there was an invitation thrown his way, and by Mr Funnell. The only snag was it included Willie and Joe, who grabbed at it as if their one pleasure in life was hiking. When Willie, in particular, showed intensified excitement at the fact that Mr Walsh and Jessica were going to join the party, Matty thought everyone would be justified in thinking that he himself was barmy were he to tell them that these two pals of his were fed up with walking uphill and down dales, were sick of the sight of mountains, and never wanted to see the country again, or anyone belonging to it, as long as they lived.
But now they were taking the same path over the mountain that Matty and Mr Walsh had taken a few days earlier. And on seeing it for the second time Matty was finding the scenery even more wonderful than before.
‘There you are, Stanley. Does it look any different?’ Mr Walsh had stopped, and was pointing from the high promontory across the valley.
It was odd to hear Mr Funnell addressed as Stanley, and it brought Matty’s attention away from the awe-inspiring view and made him smile inwardly. Stanley Funnell . . . masters were just men after all. He seemed surprised at the thought, and he looked at Mr Funnell as he replied to the farmer, ‘It’s always changing; it never looks the same twice. But it gets more beautiful each year. I’ve promised myself to come up in the winter and I will.’
‘Do that. Do that,’ said Mr Walsh. ‘But I bet you one thing. You won’t stand like you’re doing now, not at this height. In fact, there’s been times when I’ve had to go over the slope on me hands and knees.’
‘Indeed I quite believe it.’ Mr Funnell nodded his head. Then turning to Matty, he said, ‘Well, what do you think about it?’
‘It’s wonderful, sir.’
‘You really think that?’
‘Aye. Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘Would you get tired of seeing it every day?’
‘Me!’ Matty answered quickly. ‘No, no, I wouldn’t get tired of seeing it every day.’ His attention was now drawn from Mr Funnell to Mr Walsh, for the farmer was staring hard at him and his expression was very odd. His eyes were half-closed and his face unsmiling, and Matty said once again to himself, ‘He doesn’t cotton on to me.’
Matty dropped his gaze from the farmer, and, embarrassed now, he walked to where the two boys and Jessica were sitting perched on a shelf of rock. And when he came up to them, Jessica put a question to him, ‘Does it scare you being up high like this?’ She sounded as if she hoped it did, and he smiled at her, a superior smile, as he said, ‘No, I’m not frightened of heights. Are you?’ She seemed surprised at the question, and she tilted her chin up at him, saying, ‘Me, frightened of heights? Of course I’m not. I’ve climbed nearly to the top of the hump that’s behind our house. It’s twice the height of this, and all little paths and crannies. And there’s sheer drops. I bet you’d be frightened up there because you’re not used to climbing.’
Jessica was addressing herself solely to Matty, and, he thought, in a way designed to belittle him. She was like her father, she had it in for him. Well, let her. It didn’t matter. Girls only liked fellows like Willie who could make them laugh, or little fellows like Joe, whom they could patronise.
Jessica said now, ‘I bet you wouldn’t dare go up the hump.’
‘Perhaps I wouldn’t.’ He raised his eyebrows and turned from her. What was up with her? She seemed set for a row.
He was glad when he saw Mr Walsh and Mr Funnell move off down into the valley, and then for the next half-an-hour he forgot entirely about Jessica, or the boys, as he watched the two dogs, under Mr Walsh’s direction, separate six sheep from the herd, then skilfully, and without fluster, bring them down to a walled field near the farm.
The day turned out to be one of the most successful of the holiday, at least in Willie’s and Joe’s opinion, when Mrs Walsh invited them all over to tea. Nor was there any further talk about going home on the morrow now because Mr Walsh had asked them if they would like a run into Hexham again. He was taking the six sheep to a butcher. These, he had explained to them, were a special order, and if they didn’t mind sitting among the trussed-up sheep they were welcome.
Mr Walsh, who seemed in a very amiable mood, naturally included Matty in the invitation, and when, hesitantly, Matty had thanked him, but added that if it was the same to him he would just as soon stay on the farm, Mr Walsh had bestowed upon him again that odd look, which made Matty think why the heck hadn’t he kept his mouth shut and just gone with the others?
That night as they got ready for bed there was a lot of talk, as usual mostly between Willie and Joe. But it was when they were tucked up in their sleeping bags that Joe first touched on the controversial subject of slaughtering sheep, and the more personal one of having to ride in the same lorry. ‘It’s awful, man,’ he said to Matty. ‘There, the poor things’ll be lying all trussed up, and in an hour or so they’ll be dead.’
‘You’d think,’ Willie called from his tent, ‘bringing them up and lookin’ after them, he just couldn’t take them to the slaughterhouse. It’s sort of heartless, isn’t it?’
‘Aye,’ said Joe. ‘And you know, Jessica said they brought a dozen up on the bottle last year; she used to feed them.’
‘It’s cruel,’ said Willie. ‘Say what you like, it’s cruel.’
‘You eat meat, don’t you?’ Matty was sitting bolt upright now.
‘What did you say, Matty?’ Willie was pretending he hadn’t heard.
‘I said, you eat meat.’
‘Aye, of course I do,’ came Willie’s voice.
‘And you eat lamb, don’t you?’ Matty was bellowing down on Joe now, and Joe said, ‘Aye. Aye, I suppose I do.’
‘Well, you don’t object to eating lamb and beef, do you?’
‘That’s not the point,’ shouted Willie.
‘It is the point, only you’re too thickheaded to see it.’ Matty was snapping now. ‘That’s what you breed the sheep and the cattle for; they’re not pets. You eat bacon, don’t you, and chicken? You don’t go goofy about a chicken. Your dad keeps chickens, doesn’t he? Do you cry your eyes out when he kills one?’
There was a short silence following this last remark. Then Willie’s tone, stiff now, saying, ‘I thought you were fond of animals? You’re the one that’s supposed to go crackers about dogs.’
‘Dogs are different. You have a dog as a friend, same as a cat, or a bird. Not that I hold with birds in cages. But animals on farms are different; they are reared for meat; they are reared to be eaten.’
‘I can’t understand you. Honest, I can’t.’
‘Well, don’t strain yourself,’ Matty called back. Then turning towards Joe and speaking more quietly, he asked, ‘You see the point?’
Joe wriggled in his bag; then said, ‘No. No, Matty. Honest I don’t. I can’t see how you can go crackers over a dog and then don’t get worked up over those poor sheep going to the slaughterhouse the morrow.’
‘Well then,’ said Matty, ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll get worked up over sheep going to the slaughterhouse if you promise not to e
at any beef, or lamb, or bacon or chicken ever again. How about it?’
‘Aw, don’t be daft, man. It’s as Willie says, you’re funny.’
‘Oh, he does, does he?’
‘Aw, he didn’t mean that . . . he just meant . . . ’
‘I know what he meant. So I’m funny. Well I’m going to remain funny. Goodnight. And if you can’t go to sleep try counting the sheep going into the slaughterhouse.’
Joe started to laugh, a low rumbling, choking sound, and it was so infectious that Matty found himself having to keep his hand hard across his mouth not to join in. Then when Willie’s high yelp came from the other tent he let his laughter burst from him.
So the argument ended in laughter, and soon they were all asleep.
Chapter Nine
The clouds, low on the hill, gave warning of a storm to come as Mr Walsh put the last wriggling sheep into the back of the lorry and heaved Willie and Joe up, to act as their nursemaids – Mr Walsh’s own term for them. Lastly, he ordered Prince up. Then looking towards the sky, he said, ‘I reckon we’ve missed that lot; it’s rolling hard towards the coast’; adding quickly, ‘Let’s get going.’ He kissed his wife and Jessica. But before he mounted the cab he turned slowly and looked at Matty, where he was standing next to Mr Funnell. He looked at him with that deep penetrating stare of his, and said with a half smile, ‘Well, it’s all yours. I’m leaving you in charge.’
Matty cast a swift glance at Mr Funnell thinking that remark must apply to him; then, digging his thumb in his chest, he said, ‘You mean me?’
‘Yes, of course, I mean you. You said you wanted to stay behind and work, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘Well then, get on with it. And you’ll be answerable to me when I get back if anything goes wrong.’ He was laughing now. It was a joke, and Matty laughed too. And Willie and Joe laughed, their voices rising above the bleating of the sheep. And Mrs Walsh laughed, and Jessica laughed . . . but Mr Funnell didn’t laugh. As the engine started and he reached one hand toward the door of the cab to take his seat beside the farmer, he turned to Matty and said quickly, ‘Act as if that was an order. Understand?’
Matty blinked, then nodded. But he wasn’t quite sure in his own mind what he had to understand at this particular point. Then Mr Funnell added, ‘Remember what I told you earlier on. Remember?’
Again Matty nodded.
‘Goodbye then, and the best of luck, Matty.’
‘Goodbye, sir, and the same to you.’ Matty was smiling warmly at the master. It was the first time Mr Funnell had called him by his Christian name, and as the lorry rolled away down the hill and Mrs Walsh and Jessica leant against each other and laughed at the antics of Willie and Joe as they held their noses and stared at the sheep in mock disgust, Matty was remembering what Mr Funnell had said. ‘Talk,’ he had said. ‘Open out to Mr Walsh. Let him see what you are made of. Don’t give him the impression that you’re surly. And remember, if you want anything in this life you’ve got to go after it, and you’ve got to show you care about it. Do you understand?’
He had understood that all right, but he couldn’t say to Mr Funnell that he didn’t think that he’d ever be able to show Mr Walsh he cared, not about the particular subject they were both discussing, the unnamed subject. They might have gone into it more fully if they’d had any time alone, but there’d been Willie and Joe milling about all the time, or Jessica. Still he’d known what the master was hinting at all right. And now he was asking himself why Mr Walsh had said, ‘I’m leaving you in charge.’ Probably the farmer was pulling his leg. Even if Mr Funnell had put him in the picture and said, ‘Matty Doolin has a way with animals,’ Mr Walsh would never pick on him, for the simple reason that he didn’t cotton on to him. Now if it had been Willie, or even Joe, something might have come of it, but not him. And all because he couldn’t make his tongue wag. ‘Tell him. Talk!’ Mr Funnell had said. It was all right for people to say that who could talk themselves, whose tongues could ‘clip clouts’ as the saying went. Not that Mr Funnell was a great talker; but still he was never lost for words. At this moment it appeared to Matty that he was the only one in the world who was lost for words, the right words.
‘I bet they’ll be glad when they get to Hexham; what do you think?’
‘Oh, aye, Mrs Walsh. I bet they will.’ Matty dragged his attention to her.
‘They’ll be mixed up with the sheep before they’re at the bottom of the hill . . . poor sheep.’ As Jessica finished speaking she turned to Matty and added, ‘If you had gone there’d have been less room still. You’d have had to nurse one on your knees. You wouldn’t have liked that.’
‘Go on with you.’ Her mother pushed her. Then turning to Matty, she said, ‘Well now, where are we going to start first?’
‘Wherever you like, Mrs Walsh,’ he said, patting Betsy as he spoke.
‘No, it’s wherever you like. Take your choice. There’s the byres to be sluiced, feed to carry, and there’s the pigsties to be cleaned. I think that’s enough to be going on with. For me I’m going to see to my chickens, and then I’m going to get up some butter. After that, there’s the dinner to see to, and then I’ve got some baking to do. That’ll carry me on to the milking, so my day’s planned.’
‘I’ll start on the cow byres first.’
‘Whatever you like . . . Your mother won’t recognise those shorts when you get home.’
‘Aw, it won’t matter. I don’t suppose I’ll be wearing them again; you can’t go around the docks in shorts.’
She gave him a long intense look, very like her husband’s, then said, ‘No, you’re right there. You can’t go around the docks in shorts, yet’ – she laughed now – ‘when I was young I used to see the coolies coming out of the gates at Tyne Dock and going up the Station Bank, one after the other, wearing only a singlet and short pants, so I suppose you could go into the docks in shorts?’ Matty laughed with her now.
When they reached the farmyard he gave her a nod and, saying no more, went into the cowshed.
The swilling of the cowsheds would have been a very pleasurable occupation if it hadn’t been for Jessica. The carrying of the grain and the hay from the main barn to the storeroom would have been equally pleasant, if it hadn’t been for Jessica. The cleaning of the pigsties, not a pleasant job at any time, but one that he didn’t really mind, would have been got through in half the time if it hadn’t been for Jessica . . . and her questions. Where did he live? What was it like? How old was his mother? What was his father called besides Doolin? Were they old? What was his best subject at school? This was a difficult one. Did he like Mr Funnell? Mr Funnell was all right, he said. Did he know that Mr Funnell liked him? He gave no answer to this. Did he know that her mother liked him? All he could say to this was, ‘Oh?’ How much money would he get when he started working in the docks? Perhaps six or seven pounds a week to start with. This seemed to shatter her. Why that was nearly twice as much as any boy would get who started on a farm. What would he do with all that money?
He had answered her questions without looking at her, until she asked, ‘Have you got a girl?’
‘A girl!’ He turned his head disdainfully. ‘No, I haven’t got a girl. What do I want with a girl?’
‘Willie has,’ she said.
‘Willie would have,’ he replied, ‘if he got the chance, but he’s kidding you.’
‘He wasn’t kidding me. Why are you always grumpy?’
‘I’m not always grumpy.’
‘You have been since you’ve been here.’
He stared at her for a moment, then said brusquely, ‘Get out of my road, or you’ll get splashed.’
Jessica moved out of his way, then stood surveying him for some time before saying, in a very small voice, ‘You never say anything nice to anybody, do you?’
Matty slowly straightened himself and stared at her as she walked away. He wanted to call her back but he knew he hadn’t the words; it was no good.
It was around three o’clock when Matty, who was working in the big barn trying to bring some order into the jumble of old machine parts, realised that at least this time Mr Walsh was wrong with regard to the weather, for the storm hadn’t blown itself to the coast but was bursting in the hills inland. Although a good distance away, the roll of the thunder came to him every now and again, and he thought that if it looked like being a wet night he’d ask Mr Walsh if they could kip in the barn.
‘Matty! Matty!’ As he heard his name called he ran from the barn into the yard and saw Mrs Walsh standing outside the kitchen door, and as she waved to him he went towards her, still running. There was a man with her and she said quickly, ‘This is my brother, Mr Reid, Matty. He’s come to take me down to Slaggyford; our other brother is very ill. Have you seen Jessica?’
‘No, Mrs Walsh. Not since dinner time.’
‘She’ll be gone up the hump. She had her airs about something at dinner time. I could see that. Likely because her father didn’t take her into Hexham. When she gets in a huff she always goes up there. Look, Matty, if she’s not back within fifteen minutes send Betsy for her. Just say to her, “Fetch . . . Fetch, Jessica.” Go to the far gate, the one that’s in the wall running round the bottom of the hill. You know, over there.’ She pointed. ‘And just say that to her and point towards the fells, and she’ll find her.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that, Mrs Walsh.’
‘I don’t suppose I’ll be back before my husband now, but he’ll be in time for the milking. It can’t be helped if it’s a little late. The cows may kick up a row, but take no notice. He won’t be all that late. I’ll leave a note for him anyway . . . Tell Jessica that she’s got to make your teas. I’m sorry I’ve got to go off like this, Matty.’
‘Oh, it’s all right, Mrs Walsh, I’ll see to things; at least the things I can do. If Mr Walsh isn’t back when it’s time, shall I bring the cows in?’
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