Barkbelly

by Cat Weatherill

  Taffeta always had a kind word for the workers and she was especially fond of Barkbelly. She had been amazed when she first saw him working without a splatter suit. From her vantage point down on the factory floor, she hadn't been able to see he was wooden. All she could see was a boy, purple-splotched with blueberry jam from head to toe, cycling furiously round and round.

  In alarm, she had scampered up the ladder to the aerial platform and waved at him to stop. Then, fascinated by his strange skin, she had talked to him for half an hour. And with every passing minute, Barkbelly had fallen deeper under her spell. She was so charming and gracious. So interested in what he had to say. And she was beautiful. Very, very beautiful.

  Barkbelly was so obviously smitten, Wick couldn't help but notice, and he teased his friend daily. Barkbelly didn't mind. In a strange way, he welcomed the teasing. As long as Wick thought it was a crush, the truth remained safely hidden. Barkbelly did love Taffeta, with all his heart—but he wanted her to be his sister, not his girlfriend.

  Barkbelly thought Teak Tything was the luckiest man alive. He had the best sister in the world and she adored him. Some brothers and sisters fought like farm cats, but not these two. Whenever Barkbelly saw them together, they were laughing and smiling. They were the best of friends. No, they were more than friends. With a sharp pang of envy, Barkbelly noticed how Teak instinctively protected his sister. He would guide her away from machinery, steer her round puddles, walk on the outside of the pavement when wagons were passing by.

  That was how it worked: Teak cherished his sister and she nurtured him in return. She was there to share his secrets and listen to his dreams—to make things better with a hug or a smile. And she would always, always love him, no matter what.

  Wherever she went, Taffeta was shadowed by her dog, Dolly, a wiry little terrier that wore a tartan collar and loved nothing better than flushing out mice in the storerooms. Mice and rats were a serious problem in the factory. Hundreds of them lived there, hidden away under the floorboards or in the walls. There was so much they could eat: dried fruit, fresh fruit, sugar and honeycombs… they nibbled everything. But their nibbling wasn't the only problem. Their droppings looked just like berry seeds and could get into the jam without anyone noticing. And whenever they shredded sacks or rags or floor- boards, they left behind a mound of debris. Usually the cleaners (a formidable troop of women led by Apron Browning) would sweep it up before it caused any mischief. But one day all that changed.

  Chapter 21

  t was a miserable morning. Winter was over but the rain persisted, and everybody seemed to be sniffling with a cold. When Apron Browning arrived for work, she found she was missing three cleaners. All of them were at home, tucked up in bed with hot-water bottles and flasks of honey tea.

  “Today of all days,” she moaned, and her “girls” (a gaggle of gray-haired matrons with lumpy legs) nodded sympathetically. They were sitting in the cleaning cupboard, where mops moped in corners and brooms bristled by the door.

  Apron sucked on her pipe and went on. “Miss Taffeta is expecting a delivery of vanilla sugar, and you know what that's like. Delicate. Very delicate. It absorbs any smell in the room, and if it ends up smelling of dust and dirt, we all know who'll get the blame, don't we?” The girls nodded solemnly. “So we have to scour Storeroom B, and since there's only four of us in today, we'll have to do the factory floor double-quick and then we can get on with it. The delivery is due at two o'clock and the room will need time to dry, so let's get on.”

  Apron knocked out her pipe and stood on the embers, smoothed the creases in her overalls, stretched, yawned and led her team out onto the factory floor, armed with brooms and dustpans. Soon they were cleaning and polishing, sweeping and dusting, bagging and binning.

  They moved through the rooms like ants. They were relentless, merciless, deadly efficient—but too hasty. At the far end of Boiler Room 1, tucked away beneath a corner cupboard, there was a pile of shredded rags. It was dirty bedding, discarded that very morning by the mouse equivalent of Apron Browning. Normally, it would have been swept away faster than a cat can lick its lips, but not that day. The cleaners bustled by and didn't even see it. And as things turned out, that was deeply unfortunate.

  The incoming delivery of vanilla sugar was causing bother throughout the factory. The factory worked on exactly the same principle as its machines. Everything was connected. If a wheel turned, then a belt moved and something shifted. Storeroom B, which was now being scrubbed by Apron's girls, had, until that morning, stored bananas. They had to be moved to make way for the sugar, but where could they go? No other storeroom was free.

  This was the problem faced by Overseer Mossman when he arrived for work. His solution was simple: they would make banana jam. But it must be made quickly, because the pot would be needed in the afternoon for raspberry jam, and that definitely couldn't wait. The raspberries were softening by the hour, and if they became too soft, the jam wouldn't set.

  Mossman loved days like this, when everyone expected answers and he supplied them. He marshaled his troops without delay. Mop Mallory was ordered to lay a fire beneath Pot 1. The bananas were carried in from the Weighing Room and put into the pot with gallons of water. Soon they were simmering, filling the air with a rich yellow scent. Once they were soft, the Overseer added the sugar, lemon juice and a secret blend of spices, then ordered the Fire Feeders to increase the heat. These Fire Feeders—Dog Doyle and Egg Parrish—were two of the heftiest lads in the factory and they began to work like demons, throwing shovels of coal into the blaze and fanning the flames with an enormous set of wheezy bellows. Barkbelly was given the task of stirring the jam.

  Mossman, tiger-eyed, supervised the entire operation. Things were not going smoothly. The Fire Feeders were working at a furious pace and the jam was boiling, but they were falling behind schedule. Mossman blamed the bananas. They had been so hard, they had taken longer than usual to soften. He needed to start a batch of plum jam in Pot 2 soon, but he couldn't have two pots boiling side by side at the same time: it was too dangerous. Perhaps if he increased the heat under the banana jam…

  “Mallory!” he shouted. “Send a message to the fuel store. Tell them I want more coal in here now. Then find the Beckwith twins and bring them to me.”

  Mop dispatched a boy to the coal store, then disappeared in the direction of the staff canteen. Within minutes he returned with the Beckwith twins, Barn and Bucket. They were massive lads, wide as haystacks, with ruddy faces, piggy eyes and a reputation that traveled far beyond the factory gates. The Beckwith twins were extraordinary. Any Fire Feeder could lay a fire and make it burn, but once it was aflame, he became a slave to it. The fire became a ravenous monster, demanding to be fed, and the Fire Feeder sweated and groveled before it. But with the Beckwith twins, this never happened. Somehow the fire became their slave, licking their boots and trying to please. For them, any fire would burn hotter, higher, brighter.

  “Ah—the experts,” said Mossman, greeting them with a thin slice of a smile. “There is need of you.” He led the twins to the problem pot. “This jam needs extra heat. Doyle and Parrish have tried”—he leaned conspiratorially closer to the twins—“but this requires something more.”

  Barn Beckwith squatted down like a toad and squinted at the fire. Bucket Beckwith walked slowly around the pot, sniffing.

  “Banana?” he grunted.

  The Overseer nodded.

  “Thought so,” he muttered. “Always needs a firm hand, does banana.” He started to roll up his sleeves.

  “Excellent!” declared Mossman. “Doyle! Parrish! You're done! The twins will take over now.”

  Doyle and Parrish staggered out from the smoke and stumbled off, overjoyed to be relieved. Behind them, the Beckwith twins started to unload a newly arrived coal wagon. Above, Barkbelly wheeled furiously round and round.

  Soon Barkbelly could feel the temperature rising. The fire was howling with renewed vigor. Greedy flames licked the buttery air. When
he looked down, he could see the twins working the bellows—and Miss Taffeta approaching them. How could he not notice her? She was wearing a red velvet dress, and as she glided between the pots, she looked like a poppy in a field of thistles.

  Taffeta briefly watched the twins and then, with her clipboard in her hand, skipped off in the direction of the storerooms. Ten minutes later, when Barkbelly went for his lunch, he saw her counting bags of raisins in Storeroom E. Dolly was snuffling at one of the sacks, her stumpy tail wriggling in excitement as she caught the fresh smell of mice. When Barkbelly passed by again, half an hour later, Miss Taffeta was still there, but she had tired of her counting and was curled up on a pile of sacks, fast asleep. Dolly was dozing beside her, oblivious to the scritching and the scratching of the mice as they continued to feast.

  Barkbelly returned to his Stir Bike (which had been worked by two other boys in his absence), climbed on and started pedaling. The jam was nearly set. He could see it clinging to the sides of the pot and the aroma was heavenly. He saw Mossman waving to the twins, telling them to dampen the fire. But the fire was reluctant to die, and as Barn Beckwith sprayed the flames with a fine mist of water, a flicker of flame shot up like a dragon's tongue, spitting defiance, and a fiery snow of sparks flew through the air.

  Bucket doused the flame immediately. Soon the fire was nothing but a sullen pile of embers and the twins, congratulating each other, abandoned it like victorious soldiers.

  But the fire wasn't beaten yet. A single spark from the dragon's tongue had fallen onto the tiny mound of mouse debris that Apron Browning had missed. And there, beneath the corner cupboard at the far end of the Boiler Room, a new fire began.

  It smoldered and smoked, sizzled and burned. The shredded rags were devoured within seconds, and the flames leapt to the cupboard and ate through the wood. Inside they found cans of lubricating oil, fat-soaked rags and greasy ropes. The flames pounced on them and soon the cupboard was engulfed by fire and the wall behind it was alight. Black smoke menaced the air, tainting the buttery scent of the jam. Overseer Mossman smelled it; Barkbelly saw it. He was standing on the platform, drinking water, when the first smoke reached him. Looking down, he saw that the entire far end of the Boiler Room was aflame.

  “Fire!” he yelled. “Fire! Fire!” Then he ran down the spiral staircase and started ringing the bell outside the Overseer's office.

  “Keep ringing!” shouted Overseer Mossman. “Everybody out! Now! Mallory, fetch the register! Leave it, Collins, and go!”

  Barkbelly was swamped by a sea of people, panicking, crying, coughing, shouting. They looked for their workmates, looked for the door. The smoke was thickening like gravy. The fire raged, fueled by the coal set under Pots 2 and 3, the varnished rafters and the burlap sacks piled in the nearest storeroom. Machines exploded. Floorboards buckled. The tin roof started to sag, but still Barkbelly rang the bell. Only when Mop dragged him away did he stop, and even then he took the chain with him. He was holding on so tight that he pulled it right off.

  Outside in the factory yard, Mossman was reading out names from the shift register, making sure that every worker was accounted for. But Barkbelly wasn't listening to the roll call. Beneath the roar of the flames and the groan of the timbers, he could hear a dog barking. It was faint, but…

  “Mister Mossman! Mister Mossman!” Barkbelly cried. “It's Miss Taffeta, sir! She's still in there! I can hear her little dog barking!”

  At this, a dozen workers wailed in anguish. Others started crying: Miss Taffeta was well loved. Mossman just stared at the inferno. Now that he faced a real crisis, his ability to make decisions had completely abandoned him.

  Apron Browning, standing nearby, suddenly spotted the Masters on the far side of the yard.

  “Master Tything!” she shrieked. “Old Master Tything, sir! Over here!”

  “Everything all right, Mossman?” asked Old Master Tything, hobbling over.

  “No, sir. This young man believes he can hear Miss Taffeta's dog barking inside the building.”

  The color drained from the old man's face. “Has anyone seen Taffeta since the fire started?” he asked the crowd. No one answered. “Has anyone seen Taffeta since the fire started?” Still no one answered. Old Master Tything swayed on his feet. Without his son's arm to steady him, he would have toppled like a tree in a hurricane.

  “Teak,” he gasped. “We must find her!”

  Young Master Tything turned to the Overseer.

  “Mossman,” he said, “go back inside. See if she's there.”

  “No.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said no.” Mossman turned to Mop Mallory. “Make sure the gates are open for the fire wagons.”

  Young Master Tything was quivering with emotion. “You will go in there,” he snarled, grabbing Mossman roughly by the arm. “You shouldn't have come out until you knew it was clear. It is your fault that she is in there now. So you will go back in!”

  Mossman didn't flinch. “I will not,” he hissed. “I am paid to organize the workforce, not to risk my life for a piece of fluff.”

  Young Master Tything gasped. Then he clenched his fist, swung it and—smack!— Mossman dropped where he stood. Blood streamed from his broken nose.

  “You worthless worm,” Young Master Tything spat at him.

  “If you don't get out of here right now, I will tie you to a plank, throw you into that fire and fan the flames myself.”

  Mossman staggered to his feet and slowly wiped the blood from his nose. Then he stumbled away, with the shocked crowd clearing before him like mist.

  Old Master Tything was utterly distraught. “Taffeta,” he moaned. “My beautiful Taffeta. I'm—I'm going in there myself!”

  “No!” cried Young Master Tything, pulling him back. “You're not! Stay there, Father. I'm going in.”

  The Young Master ran toward the factory, ripping off his jacket as he went. But suddenly there was a tearing of timbers and the roof collapsed in a shower of sparks and splinters.

  “Teak!” cried Old Master Tything. He began to stumble across the yard. “Teak! Come back!”

  Teak Tything was staring at the collapsing factory, his face frozen in horror. “Taffeta,” he groaned. “Taffeta.”

  “It's too late, son!” said Old Master Tything, seizing him by the arm. “It's too late!”

  “It can't be!” said the Young Master wildly. “It can't be…. I will go in there!”

  “No!” cried his father. “No! I've lost a daughter! I cannot bear to lose a son!” He shook Teak violently, willing him to listen. “Do you think I want to say these things? Do you? Do you? Son, we have to let her go. It is too late. No one can go in there now.”

  “I can,” said Barkbelly.

  The factory workers were crowding round the Masters, with Barkbelly straining among them.

  “You can't!” said Wick, holding him back. “It would be madness. It's too late!”

  “It's not!” said Barkbelly, struggling to free himself. “She was in Storeroom E and that block is still standing. See?”

  He pointed and everyone saw that he was right. The stockrooms were standing while the inferno raged round them.

  “No,” said Mop Mallory, joining in the debate. “You can't go. It's too dangerous. Anything could happen in there.”

  “Not to me!” cried Barkbelly, squirming free. “I'm indestructible!” And with that, he raced toward the flames and disappeared into the smoke.

  The workers turned to each other, wide-eyed.

  “Has he forgotten he's wooden?” cried Apron Browning.

  No one answered, but everyone was thinking exactly the same thing.

  Chapter 22

  he stockroom wing was still standing, but that didn't mean it was safe. The smoke was unbelievable: a thick black fog that packed the corridors so tightly it seemed almost solid. Fingers of fire snatched at Barkbelly's ankles as he ran by. He choked and retched, coughed and spat. He staggered blindly on, fumbling and stumbling. Fal
len timbers littered the floor. Walls spat out their bricks. Everything was bending and twisting in the terrible heat, but still he went on.

  Suddenly he saw a ghostly figure waving at him. Taffeta! She was nothing but shadow and smoke: a thin wraith, silver and gray, waving like a windblown willow. Barkbelly could see that she was trying to call out, but the smoke surged down into her lungs. She fell back against a door frame, coughing and gagging. She held her scarf across her mouth with one hand while the other cradled her limp dog.

  Barkbelly charged. Every skill he had learned as a Bull Runner came into play now. He swept aside broken pipes and tattered screens. He batted bricks and kicked tiles. He powered his way toward her. He took her in his arms and threw her bodily over one shoulder. He turned and fought his way back through the falling factory. Then he emerged, blinking in the sunlight.

  The crowd bellowed and surged forward. They took Taffeta from him and put her down on the ground, where she lay as lifeless as the dog beside her.

  “Taffeta!” cried Old Master Tything, cradling her in his arms. “Taffeta!”

  “Stand back!” yelled Young Master Tything. “Stand back, for pity's sake! All of you! She needs air! Can't you see that? Stand back! Mallory, get them back!”

  Barkbelly was quite forgotten in the fight for Taffeta to breathe. The crowd was moving like a many-headed monster. Everyone was straining to see, to hear, to know. And suddenly, in the dark of the despair, Taffeta coughed. Then she spluttered, and her body folded in upon itself again and again as more coughs racked her body. The dog was coughing too, flap- ping beside her like a fish.

  The crowd howled its relief in a single voice—a deafening roar that brought down the rest of the tiles on the factory roof and drifted over the town into the fields beyond.

  Then cheers and hurrahs and screams and shouts. Yells and cries and whistles and hollers. And a chant, rumbling up from the belly of the crowd: “Barkbelly! Barkbelly! BARKBELLY! BARKBELLY!” And the lone voice of Apron Browning screaming above it, “You're on fire! Your little finger is on fire!”