Matty Doolin by Catherine Cookson

answered, ‘I know that. Only . . . only I don’t want me mam blamed. It was my fault; I should have taken him as she told me, and then he wouldn’t have been hurt.’
    ‘Oh, it wasn’t your fault, man,’ Willie put in. ‘You only did what you thought best for the dog. But anyway, let’s forget it. Come on, let’s put some chuck together and get going.’ He punched at Matty. Then Joe punched at him, and Matty, his face breaking into a grin, cried, ‘Give over, the pair of you; you’ll have the milk spilt.’
    So they set out on their first hike, whistling, chatting and laughing as they went along.

Chapter Five
     
    It was around four o’clock in the afternoon that the trio, no longer whistling or laughing, stopped for a rest on the perilous part of the road where it dropped sheer into the valley. They were once again tired, hot, thirsty and hungry, and to add to these afflictions Willie had become a casualty. For the first time in his life he was experiencing a blistered heel. The fact that the blister had broken added to his discomfort, which he made verbal at every limping step.
    ‘Look, tie another hanky around it,’ suggested Matty. ‘And put your shoe on again; you’ll get along better.’
    ‘I can’t, man, it’s agony. You don’t know, your feet’s all right, so you can talk.’
    ‘You’ll have to soak it in the stream when we get back,’ said Matty.
    ‘Aw, yes, when we get back. When will that be? If you hadn’t wanted to see round the next hill, and the next, we’d never have gone so far.’
    ‘All right! All right!’ Matty was snapping back now, and at this moment Joe cried, ‘Look what’s comin’. Look, there.’ He was pointing excitedly down the twisting road. ‘It’s Mr Walsh’s lorry.’
    ‘Aye, it is. You’re saved.’ Matty could now smile down at Willie, where he was sitting on the grass verge.
    In a few minutes the lorry came up to them, and Mr Walsh, leaning over the wheel, surveyed them with a twinkle of humour in his eye before saying, ‘You’re all dead beat, you’ve got sore feet, and you’ll never do it again.’
    ‘Aye, that’s about it, Mr Walsh.’ Matty smiled self-consciously up at him. ‘Though Willie’s come off worst; he’s got a skinned heel.’
    ‘Oh.’ Mr Walsh let himself slowly down from the cab and went to where Willie was supporting himself on one foot. ‘Well. Well. Well.’ He appraised the bare heel. ‘It looks a sore one that.’
    The sympathy brought Willie stammering and spluttering. ‘Aye. It . . . it . . . it is. It’s awful, Mr Walsh. I’ve never had anything wr . . . wrong with me feet afore . . . ’
    ‘Well, you’ve been lucky, lad. If you’re going walking the fells this won’t be the last blister you’ll have, not by a long chalk, and certainly not if you wear shoes like that.’ He pointed disdainfully to the pointed-toed shoe Willie held in his hand. ‘What possessed you to go walking in shoes like that? You want boots for fell walking: something to support the ankle, and a good stout sole.’ He looked from Joe’s feet to Matty’s and remarked, ‘Now those are sensible. Although they could do with a much stouter sole. As for yours, me little fellow,’ – he jerked his head at Joe – ‘they’re not much better than your pal’s.’
    As he helped Willie up into the back of the lorry, Mr Walsh said, ‘It was lucky for you I decided to drop over to Slaggyford. I’ve a brother-in-law over there who’s not too well. It’s an ill wind.’
    ‘Aye, it is.’ Joe nodded knowingly at Mr Walsh.
    It was apparent to Matty that Mr Walsh liked Joe. He also thought he had a sneaking regard for Willie. Most people liked Willie because he could make them laugh. But he had an idea that Mr Walsh hadn’t cottoned on to himself.
    When the lorry stopped opposite the field gate, Mr Walsh pulled open the sliding window in the back of the cab, and, looking at Willie, said, ‘You stay put and let Mrs Walsh dress that heel