Free Matty Doolin by Catherine Cookson Page A

him, or laughing at him.
    ‘What’s your name?’ she asked him.
    ‘Joe, missis,’ he said. ‘Joe Darling.’ His eyes flicked towards the girl as he spoke. Then addressing Mrs Walsh again, he laughed as he went on, ‘It’s a funny name. I get chipped about it.’
    ‘I think it’s a nice name, a name to be proud of. Don’t forget Grace Darling.’ She nodded at him again before she turned to Willie. ‘And what’s your name?’
    ‘Willie Styles.’ Willie gave her the whole treatment of his engaging grin.
    ‘Willie Styles?’ she repeated. ‘Well, Willie, I hope you enjoy your holiday.’
    ‘Thanks, missis.’ He nodded his head at her.
    ‘And you?’ She was looking at Matty.
    ‘I’m Matty Doolin.’
    ‘Doolin? Oh, you’re Irish?’
    ‘Not really. Me granda was, that’s all.’
    ‘Well, I hope you have a nice holiday.’ Mrs Walsh looked for some time at Matty, before she turned to her daughter and said, ‘This is Jessica.’ Then letting her glance travel over them all, she pulled a prim face as she added, ‘And she doesn’t like to be called Jessie.’
    ‘Oh, Mother!’ As her daughter made this protesting statement Mrs Walsh said, ‘Now, I’m sure you’re all ready for a cup of tea. Well, it’s mashed. Sit yourselves down. Are you hungry?’
    ‘I’m always hungry, Mrs Walsh.’ This was from Willie.
    ‘Me, too,’ put in Joe.
    ‘And what about you?’ Mrs Walsh turned her head towards Matty as she lifted the big, brown teapot from the hob of the open range. And Matty smiled at her before he said, ‘Me mother says she used to know a corporation horse who used to eat like me.’
    Matty felt pleased as he listened to Mrs Walsh laughing. It was a jolly laugh; it was as if she enjoyed laughing. He felt he had accomplished something. He watched her now go towards the long dresser against the far wall of the kitchen, and, lifting a cloth, disclose a number of plates laden with food. He watched her and Jessica bring them to the table, and he couldn’t believe that she had prepared all this stuff for them.
    ‘Sit up,’ she said. ‘Sit up.’
    ‘Eeh, missis!’ Joe was gazing at the laden plates of bread and butter, scones, tarts, and a huge bacon and egg pie adorning the centre of the table. As she put a cup of tea to the side of his plate he looked up at her and said brightly, ‘Eeh! It’s like being at Matty’s mam’s. Matty’s mam’s a good cook an’ all.’
    ‘Is she?’ Mrs Walsh was looking towards Matty, and Matty proffered, ‘She likes cooking.’
    ‘So do I,’ said Mrs Walsh. ‘I also like to see what I’ve cooked eaten, so now tuck in, all of you.’
    Mrs Walsh hadn’t to repeat this order, and she hovered around them as they made good inroads on everything on the table.
    Jessica sat at the far end of the table and watched them. This tended to make Matty feel embarrassed. He wished, at this moment, that Mrs Walsh had had a son instead of a daughter. But his thoughts were soon diverted from Jessica on seeing that Willie was bent on clearing every plate on the table. So he brought the meal to an abrupt end by rising to his feet and saying, ‘Thank you, Mrs Walsh; that was a grand tea,’ at the same time making an almost imperceivable movement with his hand towards the other two. Joe answered the signal at once, but Willie was hesitant, and when he finally rose to his feet his eyes lingered on all the food still left.
    ‘You will want some milk,’ said Mrs Walsh. ‘Have you a can?’
    ‘No,’ piped up Joe; ‘we forgot it, but we’ve got a bottle.’
    Mrs Walsh looked towards the bottle, where Willie had left it on a table just inside the door, and she said, ‘Oh! You don’t want to put your milk in that, I’ll lend you a can. How are you off for bread and stuff?’
    ‘Oh, we’ve got piles of grub,’ put in Joe. ‘Matty’s mother baked all yesterday and . . . ’
    ‘We’ll only have enough bread to last us a couple of days, Mrs Walsh,’ interrupted