But it did. Barkbelly was looking at it.
This was Tythingtown.
Chapter 15
ythingtown was a huddle of houses and factories. High walls funneled the sky. Smoke belched from spiral chimneys. Water ran down the streets in greasy gullies. Dogs and children scavenged in the alleys, side by side. The townsfolk had pale faces. Watery eyes. Hacking coughs and savage sneezes. But they would survive—Barkbelly could see that. These people were determined to flourish. He saw builders sawing and hammering. Crowds of factory workers packing the streets like sheep being driven to market. Street vendors selling sausages, pickled fish, hot soup, cheese rolls, cream buns—everything a hungry boy could desire. The air was thick with language and the smell of cooking. So many people! It was perfect. He could melt into the crowd and no one would ever find him.
But could he make a living? Wooden or not, he needed to eat and that would cost money. He wanted a bed too. He wouldn't sleep on the street like a dog. He needed a job.
He didn't have to search long. Tythingtown was expanding like a balloon. There were factories, workshops and jobs aplenty. That afternoon, he found a fine pair of golden gates, and above them a sign, arching like a rainbow:
TYTHING & SON Jam Makers
Tied to the gate was a handwritten card:
HELP WANTED
ASK AT THE GATEHOUSE
The gatehouse was a tiny redbrick building with a grimy window. Barkbelly peered in and saw a little old man with more whiskers than face. He was reading a newspaper and twisting his finger in his ear, winkling wax.
Barkbelly tapped on the window. The gatekeeper put down his newspaper, slid back a panel and peered at him through thick spectacles.
“Yes?” he hissed. “I saw the sign,” said Barkbelly, “and I'd like to apply for a job.”
“Well, of course you would,” said the gatekeeper, screwing up his face. “Shabby little scrap of nothing like yourself, walking through a dirty town with neither money in your pockets nor food in your belly. Looking, looking, looking for any opening, any kind of salvation, any shaft of sunlight cutting through the clouds of despair and desperation, promising the crumbs of a meal, the comfort of a bed, some shelter from this world of sin and sorrow, and the hope, just the hope, that there might be a better future for those who work hard for it, in a place where work is available for those who see the sign, and spontaneously act upon it and ask, just ask at the gatehouse.”
The gatekeeper closed the window panel and returned to his copy of the Daily Truth.
Barkbelly was completely flummoxed. He looked around to see if there was another gatehouse he could ask at, but there wasn't. He tapped on the window a second time.
“Yes?” hissed the gatekeeper again, sliding the window panel open.
“As I said, I saw the sign and would like to apply for a job.”
“Then you must be interviewed,” said the gatekeeper. “For while it is true that those who ask might well be given, they most certainly will not be given without an interview. And an interview, before you ask, which you almost certainly will, because boys like you always do, coming not infrequently from the countryside where such formalities are not considered necessary for the furtherance of business, an interview is a meeting. Nothing more, nothing less. A meeting—albeit a rather formal one—in which you will be questioned by Young Master Tything and expected to answer in return. And again, before you ask, Young Master Tything is indeed the son in Tything and Son—that is, son of Sir Blunderbuss Tything, owner and founder of the magnificent factory you now stand before, humbled by its glory and dwarfed by its immensity. Before this factory, you are nothing. Nothing but an outsider, a bystander, an observer, a scavenging, beggarly dog, grateful for the meanest of scraps dropped from the lowest of tables, but inside this factory, beyond these golden gates, you can be something. You can be a worker. You can have money and food and a roof over your head. You can have the companionship of friends and the satisfaction of knowing that in every jar of Tything's jam there is something of you. Without you, that jam would not exist. You are an essential part of the process. You could be proud of that, could you not?”
“Oh, y-yes,” stammered Barkbelly, quite overcome by the enormousness of it all.
“Then it shall be yours. Yours for the asking. Wait there.” The gatekeeper closed the window panel and disappeared from view, then reappeared from the back of the gatehouse, jangling an enormous bunch of keys. He shuffled over to the golden gates, paused, held the keys up to his spectacles, squinted hard, chose the right one, slid it into the lock and turned it till it clicked, and then the gates silently opened and Barkbelly walked through.
The gatekeeper led him along corridors and through arch- ways, up staircases and down into cellars, across cobbled courtyards and round corners until they reached an office with a wall of windows. The gatekeeper stopped and knocked. Barkbelly read the polished sign on the door:
MASTER TEAK TYTHING
FACTORY MANAGER
The door opened and there stood a tall young man with a freckled face and a tangle of red hair. He smiled and brushed his bangs away from his forehead.
“Ah, Dogger,” he said, “I'll be with you in just a minute.” He pointed to a wooden bench in the corridor. “Take a seat.”
They sat down and Barkbelly found himself looking through the office windows. The young man was talking to someone in a high-backed chair and he was clearly enjoying the company. He laughed and listened and laughed again. Suddenly the visitor stood up and turned—and Barkbelly gasped. The room shimmered with the radiance of a beautiful young woman in a yellow dress. Barkbelly knew instantly that she was the young man's sister. Her red hair, tied up in yellow ribbons, was as curly as his and her heart-shaped face had the same freckles.
“Who is that?” he whispered.
“Miss Taffeta Tything,” said the gatekeeper. “Beloved daughter of Old Master Tything and sister to Young Master Tything.”
“Does she work in the factory?”
“Of course. Though not in the sense that you or I work in the factory, it has to be said, since in truth she is not a worker but an owner, and that is a completely different thing, but nevertheless, she does work in the factory, or, shall we say, she bears certain responsibilities within it, namely stores. It is her job to ensure that the storerooms contain sufficient fruit and sugar to make jam in accordance with both the season and the production schedule.”
“She's very beautiful.”
“Yes,” agreed the gatekeeper, and surprisingly said no more. At that moment the office door opened again and out ran a small dog. It yapped and danced and twirled around upon its hind legs, clearly excited to be outside again.
“Shush!” cried a buttery voice, and out came Miss Taffeta. “Now, you promise you won't be late?” she said as she paused in the doorway. “You know how Daddy hates to be kept waiting—especially on his birthday!” She giggled. “Shush!” she said again, wagging a finger at the dancing dog. “I'm coming!” She kissed her brother on the cheek and skipped away.
Barkbelly watched her go. She breezed down the corridor with the dog at her heels, and she was so golden and light, it was like spring arriving in the middle of winter.
“So, Dogger,” said Young Master Tything, “is this another new worker?”
“It is indeed, sir,” said the gatekeeper with a nod and a bow. “Another poor soul with no hope of a future, no—”
“Excellent! Well, come in here, young man, and we'll see what you're made of, eh? Thank you, Dogger!”
Young Master Tything ushered Barkbelly into the office and swiftly shut the door.
“Take a seat, young man.”
There was a huge wooden desk piled high with papers, a fat velvet chair and a wooden one with a worn leather seat. Barkbelly chose the wooden one and sat down. Thrrrrp! A leathery fart-noise sneaked out beneath him. I hope he didn't hear that. Barkbelly wriggled uncomfortably.
But the Young Master was too busy trying to cl
ear a space on his desk to notice anything. Five minutes passed before he even looked at Barkbelly, but when he finally did, he leaned across the clutter and peered intensely.
“Well, bless my socks!” he cried. “A wooden boy!” He grinned. “Extraordinary! What's your name, young feller?”
“Barkbelly, sir.”
“Indeed!” said Young Master Tything. “Well, Barkbelly, I believe you're looking for work?”
“Yes, sir. I'm newly arrived in town and I saw the sign on your gate—”
“Oh, excellent start!” cried the Young Master, clapping his hands together like a seal. “Truly fine observational skills! But—and here's the tricky bit—could you read it?”
“Yes,” said Barkbelly slowly.
“Astonishing! Absolutely first-rate! Oh, you're just the kind of chap we need here! Can you start tomorrow?”
Barkbelly nodded.
“Excellent! Do you need somewhere to sleep?”
Barkbelly nodded again.
“Capital! There's a bunkhouse round the back. You can stay there for a shilling a week, out of your wages. Do you need food? I'll arrange it with the Matron, Missus Maddox. Now, you'll start tomorrow morning at six o'clock sharp and you'll need to report to Mister Mossman, the Overseer. The other chaps will show you where he is. And now all I have to do is to welcome you officially.”
Young Master Tything leapt up out of his chair, clasped Barkbelly's hand and shook it vigorously.
“So! Welcome, young Barkbelly! Welcome to Tything and Son. Work hard, obey your masters and I see a very bright future ahead of you.”
“Do you really, sir?” said Barkbelly.
“Absolutely! Blue sky all the way! Baby blue!” Barkbelly hadn't smiled in days, but he did now. Baby blue! Not guilty gray or murderous black, but baby blue! Maybe there was hope after all.
Chapter 16
he next morning, at five minutes to six, Barkbelly stood outside the Overseer's office. Around him the factory wheezed and whistled. Flames flickered under vast copper cooking pots. Steam hissed out of pipes. Smoke curled and swirled. The air was sweet with strawberries.
At precisely six o'clock, the office door opened and the Overseer emerged. He was immaculately dressed, with a tie so perfectly straight it must have been aligned with a ruler. There was a badge pinned to his lapel:
MR. CHISEL MOSSMAN
OVERSEER
“So,” he said with a reluctant smile. “You are the new boy.”
“Yes, sir. Barkbelly, sir.”
“Indeed,” said Mossman, and in that one word he seemed to dismiss everything Barkbelly had been, was now or would ever be. His polished eyes scanned up and down. “The Young Master was quite charmed by you. But then, he is easily impressed. I will reserve my judgment until I have seen you work. Though I admit, you could be useful here. Are you strong?”
“Yes, sir,” said Barkbelly. “I'm very tough.”
“Mmm,” murmured Mossman thoughtfully. “I must decide where to put you. In the meantime, you can have a tour of the factory. Mallory!”
“Yessir!” A young man poked his head above a pile of sugar sacks.
“Mallory, take this boy on a short tour and return him when you've finished.”
“Yessir!”
The Overseer withdrew into his office and the young man grinned.
“I'm Mop,” he said, offering Barkbelly a grimy hand. “What do they call you?”
“Barkbelly,” he said, shaking hands.
“Blimey!” said Mop. “You've got a grip on you! What are you made of?” He rolled back Barkbelly's sleeve and examined his arm, tracing a finger along the grain.
“Ash, I think,” said Barkbelly, “but I can't be sure.”
“Handsome!” Mop slapped him on the back but soon regretted it. He winced and rubbed his reddened palm. “Come on, then, new boy!” he said. “You've plenty to see, and Mossman will be clock-watching as usual!”
Together they toured the jam factory. It was a labyrinth of corridors and workrooms packed with pipes and pulleys, belts and boilers, chains, wheels, cogs and kegs. Storerooms were piled high with sugar, lemons and every other fruit imaginable. Workers ran back and forth with barrow loads of ingredients. Wagons waited outside, bringing even more.
The jam was made in Rooms 1 through 6. These were cavernous spaces, each containing six immense copper pots as tall as townhouses. Below the pots were fires. These were stoked by Fire Feeders—brawny men who endlessly demanded coal from dozens of filthy Coal Boys.
“I'll show you what goes on above,” said Mop, shouting above the clamor.
He led Barkbelly up a staircase to a long platform that ran alongside the pots at rim level. Suspended in midair over each pot was a circular track, and on opposite sides of the track there were two bicycles.
Barkbelly noticed that only one was being ridden. He wondered why.
The bicycles had wheels but no tires—the tracks were grooved to fit the exact width of the wheels, and a huge spoon, which dangled beneath the track, counterbalanced the whole contraption.
The bikes were ridden by Stir Boys. They worked in teams of two. While one boy rested, the other rode a bike. As the bike was pedaled, the spoon turned, stirring the jam down below.
The jam bubbled and spurted like hot lava, so the Stir Boys wore thick leather suits to protect them. But the suits made the terrible heat even worse.
As Barkbelly watched, one of the Stir Boys stopped pedaling. Then he climbed shakily off his bike and started to stagger back to the platform. This was a hazardous business. The boy, dizzy with exertion, had to walk along a narrow wooden gangplank. If he fell down into the jam, he would be boiled alive.
Meanwhile, on another platform on the far side of the pot, the second Stir Boy was walking out to the second bike. When he reached it, he climbed on and started pedaling. The changeover was so well timed that the jam was left unstirred for no more than a few seconds.
Beside him, Barkbelly watched the resting boy pull off his goggles and unbutton his suit. He was sweating and steaming. Gasping for breath. His eyes bulged as he leaned on the guardrail.
“This is Wick Ransom,” said Mop, putting a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. “Wick, this is Barkbelly.”
The Stir Boy nodded but was too tired to speak. He lumbered over to a nearby pail of water, drank deeply and looked back toward the track. Barkbelly followed his gaze and saw a huge hourglass inside the spindle that held the track to the roof. Red sand was pouring from the top chamber into the bottom; already it was nearly half gone. Wick Ransom sighed and started to button up his suit. Once it was fastened, he had just enough time to pull on his goggles before he had to walk back out along the gangplank. The sand ran out, the other boy stopped pedaling and there was Wick's bike, waiting for him.
Mop tapped Barkbelly on the shoulder. “This way,” he said, and he led him down another staircase and into the Bottling Room.
Here the jam was spurted through pipes and squeezed into jars while it was still hot and bubbling. Lids were screwed on and then the jars whooshed overhead on a conveyor belt to the Labeling Ladies, who sat all day with pots of glue and hog's-hair brushes, dipping and sticking. From here, the jars trundled along to the Packers, who swept them up two at a time and packed them neatly into boxes. And finally, the boxes were carried on trolleys into a cool storeroom, ready to be transported to the world outside.
“Are you impressed?” asked Mop.
“Oh, yes,” said Barkbelly.
“So you should be!” said Mop with obvious pride. “This is the finest jam factory in the whole of Lindenland.”
“Where will I be working?” asked Barkbelly.
“I don't know,” said Mop with a shrug. “You'll have to ask Mossman. Which reminds me, I'd better get you back to him. Come on!”
Mossman had decided. “It seems to me, Barkbelly,” he said, “that a wooden boy will not feel pain.” He raised a challenging eyebrow. Barkbelly said nothing. “Perfect. You can be a Stir
Boy. Since you cannot be scalded by jam splash, you will not have to wear a splatter suit. Therefore, you will not need to take breaks every ten minutes like the other boys—you will be able to work all day. And since you will not need to work with another boy, I can save money. Perfect, see? Start right away. Mallory!”
“Yessir?”
“Mallory, the men have just set Pot 3 to boil. Take Barkbelly up there and show him how to work the Stir Bike.”
“Yessir. Who will he be working with, Mister Mossman?”
“No one,” said the Overseer, straightening his tie in a small mirror on the office wall. “He will be on his own.”
“All day?” gasped Mop Mallory. “With no breaks?”
“He can have lunch. You do need to eat, I presume?”
Barkbelly nodded.
“Fine. You can have lunch at twelve and supper at five- thirty. Work is from six in the morning till nine at night. Off you go.”
So Barkbelly went. Back up the spiral staircase to the aerial platform, where Mop showed him how the Stir Bike worked.
Underneath, a pot of gooseberry jam was starting to bubble. Steam swirled in fragrant pink clouds. It was time to begin. Barkbelly stripped down to his underbritches, put his clothes safely out of reach of the jam splash, climbed onto the bike and started pedaling.
Beneath him, the massive silver spoon began to rotate, slowly at first, but swifter as he pedaled harder. And Barkbelly did pedal harder as he gained confidence. Wind whistled past his ears. He felt wildly exhilarated. Looking over to his left, he could see a boy struggling to stir a vat of marmalade, hindered by his hefty splatter suit. To his right, another boy was sweating over a black-currant preserve. But he felt good! His strong legs propelled him, round and round through the zesty steam. Down below, the jam was reaching boiling point. It spluttered and erupted, splashed and spurted. Iridescent bubbles rose to the surface and burst like fireworks, shooting fruit and sugar high into the air.
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