Read Online Matty Doolin by Catherine Cookson - Free Book Online

– he jabbed his finger towards his son – ‘don’t think we had that lot when we slept out. Aw, no. A groundsheet and a blanket was our lot, and frozen toes, and your eyelashes with icicles on them.’
    ‘Well, those days are gone, and thank goodness. Sit up, Joe,’ put in Mrs Doolin briskly.
    ‘Thanks, Mrs Doolin. Aw, thanks.’
    ‘By the way’ – Mrs Doolin turned her gaze towards the armchair – ‘what have you got in there?’
    Mr Doolin now looked towards the parcel, and in a tone that suggested he had forgotten all about it, said, ‘Oh, that . . . Oh, aye. Well.’ He cast a sidelong glance towards Matty now. ‘You’d better open it and see, hadn’t you?’
    ‘Me, Dad?’ Matty scraped his chair back from the table.
    ‘Well, I’m sure your mother won’t be wantin’ them.’
    Somewhat mystified, Matty picked up the parcel and, tearing off the brown paper, revealed a bright green canvas bucket, together with its matching basin. The first thought that came into his mind was, some more things to carry, but, glancing towards his father and seeing the warm pride in his mother’s face brought there by his father’s generosity, he rose to the occasion and exclaimed, ‘Coo! Talk about doing things in style.’ He held the bucket swinging by its rope handle. ‘Look at this, Joe.’ Again he paused and looked at his father and said, with sincerity. ‘Thanks a lot, Dad,’ for he realised that his father’s gift put a final stamp on this day as a day of miracles.
    ‘Aw, you shouldn’t be thankin’ me, it’s your mother you should be thankin’. She put the idea into me head. Scared stiff you wouldn’t keep your neck clean. You know how to use the basin, don’t you? Look.’ Mr Doolin rose hastily from the table and, going to the fireplace, took up the poker, the tongs, and a long hearth brush, and criss-crossing them demonstrated as he exclaimed, ‘Three sticks like that, you see. Good firm ones lashed together; then just hook your basin on it an’ you’re set up . . . hot and cold,’ he added on a deep laugh.
    ‘Will you sit down and get your tea! Everything will be ruined.’
    When they were seated once more and were busy with their eating, there came a slight lull in the excited conversation. Then Matty, his mind still on the transporting of the growing camping equipment, looked at his mother and said, ‘I’ll have to dip into me savings, Mam, to get a big rucksack.’
    ‘You’ve got your dad’s old knapsack; isn’t that good enough?’
    ‘Oh, it won’t hold half the stuff. I’ll want something bigger so’s I can put the tent roll on the top and get it on me back.’
    ‘On your back!’ Mrs Doolin’s voice ended up in a high squeak. ‘You don’t think you’re carrying that lot on your back, do you? It’s going by train.’
    ‘By train?’
    ‘That’s what I said, by train. Willie’s dad, as you know, is on the railway and he’s going to have everything sent on together.’
    Matty was silent for a moment, and his face dropped into set lines as he said, ‘But . . . but it’ll mean us stopping in one place.’
    ‘Yes . . . yes, I’m afraid it’ll mean just that.’ Mrs Doolin’s manner was prim again. ‘Mr Styles heard of a farm . . . and it’s on the fells, so don’t worry, miles from anywhere he assures me, and that should suit you, and he’s written to the farmer and everything’s settled . . . There’s one thing you’re not going to do, and that is jaunt around the countryside and me not knowin’ where you are.’
    ‘Your mother’s right.’ Mr Doolin was nodding stiffly at his son, but his tone on this occasion wasn’t convincing.
    In the silence that returned to the tea table Matty put his left hand down by the side of his chair – it was an unconscious movement – and when his fingers found no answering touch the memory of Nelson returned to him, and he was swept with a feeling of remorse, and guilt. He had completely forgotten about Nelson during