Matty Doolin by Catherine Cookson Page B

slowly by Mrs Doolin.
    ‘What do you think, Matty? Isn’t it great?’ Joe was hopping from one side to the other in his excitement.
    ‘Aye.’ The muscles of Matty’s face were sagging so much that he didn’t seem able to close his mouth. Now he looked straight at his mother, and although Mrs Doolin returned his look she did not speak. He watched her swallow twice before he moved swiftly towards her. But all he could say was, ‘Oh, Mam.’
    Mrs Doolin put out her hand and touched her son’s face and asked softly, ‘Are you pleased?’
    ‘Pleased?’ It was Matty’s turn to swallow hard, and then he said in a rush, ‘I don’t know what to say, Mam, only you shouldn’t have done it, not spent all this. I . . . I could have gone on half of this stuff, but . . . but thanks, Mam. I know what it must have cost, an’ I . . . I don’t mean only in money. You understand? I mean for you to let me go campin’.’
    ‘Well!’ Mrs Doolin turned abruptly away, saying now with a slightly tart tone to her voice, ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes, yes, Mam, it is.’
    ‘Well then, that’s all right. Now let’s get this stuff off the table and get the tea going; your dad will be in in no time.’
    ‘Does he know, Mam?’
    Mrs Doolin looked at Matty over her shoulder, her eyebrows slightly raised. ‘Of course he knows. He went with me and Joe here.’ She flung out her hand towards Joe who was still grinning widely. ‘He went with us to pick the things. He seemed to know more about what was needed than any of us.’
    Matty drew in a long breath, and let it out slowly before he said, ‘That’s good.’ But as he looked down at the three blankets reposing on the sleeping bag, a section of his mind doubted whether his father did know very much about camping. How did he expect him to lug a tent, a sleeping bag and three blankets, as well as all the other paraphernalia, around on his back? And then there was that big eiderdown. That was likely his mam’s idea. Altogether there was far too much stuff. But he would say nothing for a time. Oh no, he’d better say nothing that would upset either of them. He’d far rather set out with the whole caboodle and park half of it someplace, then pick it up on their return. But all that could be arranged.
    As the boys, their arms full of camping equipment, made towards the back door, Mrs Doolin exclaimed in a high tone, ‘You’re not putting that stuff in the shed. You can put it in the front room for now; it’ll get damp down there.’
    On this, the boys exchanged amazed glances; then laughing, turned and carried the equipment into the front room. And as Matty laid his pile on the hearthrug he knew that he was actually taking part in another miracle, for the front room was his mother’s pride and joy and was rarely used except at Christmas, or when special company came . . .
    But it would appear that this was a day of miracles, because half an hour later, when his father came into the house, he brought with him a brown-paper parcel, and, throwing it nonchalantly onto the easy chair to the side of the fireplace, he looked from his wife’s averted face to Joe’s grinning countenance, and lastly he met the straight gaze of his son. Then rubbing his hand over his bristled chin, he exclaimed, ‘Aye, well, you all look like a kitchen full of liver-fed cats.’ Being Mr Doolin, he couldn’t help adding, ‘And that’s a change, I’m sure.’
    ‘Now come, sit yourselves down,’ said Mrs Doolin, still without looking at her husband. And as Mr Doolin went to his seat, Matty, who had not moved his eyes from his father’s face, said quietly, ‘Thanks, Dad.’
    ‘Aw!’ Mr Doolin’s response was immediate. ‘So you’ve seen it all, have you?’
    ‘Yes, Dad.’
    ‘Well, what do you think?’
    ‘Grand. Everything’s grand; it couldn’t be better.’
    ‘Aye, well, although I say it meself I haven’t forgotten what’s needed to go campin’. Although mind’