Matty Doolin

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘It’s a fact,’ said Willie. ‘You know, I’ve learned somethin’ from this trip, Matty. People are made different. Do you know that?’

  ‘No kiddin’,’ said Matty.

  ‘But listen, man,’ said Willie, poking his head forward. ‘I’m serious. I admit I was mad about coming campin’, but I hadn’t been here a night afore I knew I wasn’t cut out for places like this. I’m honest about it, you see. I’m honest about it, I’m admitting it. Some folks are cut out for the towns, and some for the country. Me, right from the soles of me feet to the roots of me hair, I’m town. An’ Joe’s the same. Aren’t you, Joe?’

  Joe lowered his eyes away from Matty’s gaze as he admitted dolefully, ‘Aye, that’s right, Matty, the hills an’ things would get on me wick. But’ – he brightened up – ‘your ma says you’re comin’ home every other weekend. Eeh! We’ll get together and we’ll have some fun, eh?’ He pushed his fist towards Matty. ‘Perhaps you’ll get a motorbike, eh? An’ then you can scoot home two or three times a week.’

  Matty extended his hand and gripped Joe’s; then Willie’s. They looked at him for a moment longer, then went towards the door, and there Joe, turning, said softly, ‘Funny, isn’t it? All this happening ’cos you picked Nelson up out of the gutter.’ On this he gave Matty a long sorrowful glance, and followed after Willie.

  Matty lay quite still. There was a sadness on him now. He would likely see Willie and Joe again; they might meet up once or twice at weekends, but he knew that something was finished – not just school and leaving his friends, but something bigger that included all that. Yet as he lay the sadness lifted, and there returned to him that strange exciting feeling of joy, and he thought of what Joe had said. He was lying here now because he had picked Nelson out of the gutter, a stray, old, half-blind, dying dog. He could see Nelson now as he had never been able to imagine him since he had died.

  In front of his closed eyes he saw Nelson young and vigorous, laughing at him, tail wagging, ears alert. Joe had said he could get a motorbike. Yes, perhaps he would have a motorbike sometime in the future, but what he would get one day would be a dog, a dog that was his alone. Like Betsy belonged to Mr Walsh, this dog would belong to him, and he would call it Nelson. Together they would roam the hills. They would go up the hump and into the Bowl. Yes, that was one thing he would do; he would explore the Bowl. He would make sure that in the future, mist or no mist, he would find his way out of that maze of hills and mountains. He would come to know each crag and shape so well that if he was blindfolded he would find his way home. He and his dog, Nelson, would find their way home.

  The End