Harklights

by Tim Tilley

  He looks at the little matchstick figure.

  “I know it doesn’t look much like a soldier…”

  Bottletop takes it. He turns it around. A huge smile spreads across his face. “Thanks.”

  I nod. “You’d better hide it.”

  As we pack to the grinding rhythm of the Machine, I imagine all the places across Empire Britannica that the matchboxes will end up. The smokestack cities: Manchester, Liverpool, London. Or faraway places, travelling by pocket and steamship, India – where Petal’s mother was from – or Africa. I also imagine all the different things they will be used to light. Gaslights, oil lamps, carriage candles.

  At eleven o’clock, the Machine is switched off and the waterfall of matches stops. Padlock puts down his newspaper and shoots dark looks around the room. When I think he’s not looking, I slide a pile of matchboxes across to Bottletop’s side of the crate.

  “Inspection time,” I mutter.

  Bottletop tenses, his hands clenched tight by his sides. He reminds me of myself when I was younger – I struggled too. Back then, I wished someone would help me. Then Petal arrived and she did.

  “I’ve packed enough matchboxes for the both of us,” I whisper. “Trust me. It’ll be fine.”

  But inside, I feel a prickle of doubt. What if Padlock did see me?

  Old Ma Bogey appears at the green door.

  As everyone stands and turns to look at her, I glance to the pile of matchboxes on Bottletop’s side of the crate. I might not be able to change my past, but hopefully I can save Bottletop from a few beatings. Give him better days.

  Old Ma Bogey slowly paces between the packsmith workstations. Padlock shadows her like a bodyguard.

  She stops by Wingnut and picks up one box between finger and iron thumb, then shakes it and listens to its woody rattle.

  “Needs a few more,” she barks. With a swift blow, she cuffs Wingnut on the back of his head, knocking the stick of chalk he keeps behind his ear to the floor. “You may be fast, but you also need to be accurate.”

  I wince. I know the sharp pain of the iron thumb. All of us packsmiths do.

  When Old Ma Bogey arrives next to our workstation, Bottletop’s shakes have returned.

  I hold my breath, waiting for Padlock to say something, but he just scowls.

  Old Ma Bogey lifts out a black-and-yellow matchbox from Bottletop’s side of the crate and rattles it. “Very good.” Then she opens it and checks the red strike-tips are all facing the same way. “You’re getting the hang of this.”

  After putting the matchbox back, her fingers curl like a dying spider, then point. “What is that?”

  Bottletop freezes as Old Ma Bogey picks up the matchstick figure he left on the countertop. “It’s, it’s—”

  “We are NOT here to make toys!” she cries, spraying little flecks of spit over the small boy’s face. “What do you think this place is – Saint Nicholas’s workshop?”

  Bottletop is too frightened to say anything.

  We both watch as she crushes the little wooden figure in her hand and lets the pieces drop from her fingers like fallen leaves.

  “I made it, Miss Boggett,” I say in a quiet voice.

  “What was that?” Old Ma Bogey’s eyes glow with fury. She pinches my ear. “I did not hear you.”

  The cold of her iron thumb pinches harder and harder, lancing my ear with hot pain as she lifts me off my seat. “I said, I made it.”

  Old Ma Bogey lets go of my ear. It throbs as if a new heart beats there. “Go to the yard and wait by the wall. Now!”

  I leave the Packing Room quickly, clutching my ear, ignoring the horrified faces of Petal and the other packsmith orphans. Old Ma Bogey sending me outside can mean only one thing – the Bottomless Well. The place where orphans go and don’t come back.

  I step outside onto the bare earth of the yard and stand by the factory wall. My stomach churns. I can’t look at the Well. I glance up at the hanging crane claw that unloads the logs from the trucks and drops them down a hatch to feed the Machine. Then I focus on a tiny plant growing out of the brickwork. Thread-like stem. Two bright green leaves. It’s not much more than a seedling, but I didn’t think anything ever grew in the yard. The gnarled old tree that stands in the middle never has any leaves. I’m sure the apples we get on our days off twice a year don’t come from it.

  When the Machine starts up again, marking the end of the inspection, the seedling quivers slightly. I press my hand against the wall and close my eyes, feel the steady tremble of the engine in my bones.

  When I open my eyes again, I glimpse a flash of magpie wings out of the corner of my eye, rising up into the air. Then there’s a noise, of something light and small dropping to the ground.

  A bird in the yard means good luck. I look around and skyward, but it’s gone. Then I catch sight of what looks like an acorn beneath the old tree.

  I walk over. As I pick it up, I realize it’s not a real acorn, it’s a wooden cradle with a hood, carved and polished to look just like an acorn.

  Inside is a tiny woollen blanket, I imagine for a tiny doll. Then the wool moves. I hold my breath, and the world shifts slightly. Underneath is a baby, about as long as half a match, with nut-brown eyes and coal-black hair, wriggling away.

  For a few moments, I just stare, filled with wonder.

  I can’t believe my eyes.

  I hold the acorn-cradle close to my face and watch the smiling baby happily kicking its feet in the air and waving its plump fists. “Impossible,” I mutter. “No one can make a clockwork toy with parts so small…”

  The words catch like a bone in my throat.

  It’s not an automaton.

  It’s real.

  A real tiny baby wearing a moss nappy.

  I glance from my palm to the cracked wall that circles the Bottomless Well. I’m crying on the inside, unseen tears. The baby has been abandoned at Harklights, just like I was.

  I want to tell the baby that everything is going to be alright. But I can’t be sure.

  And now I hear a familiar noise coming from the factory.

  Whack.

  Whack.

  Whack.

  Old Ma Bogey’s beating stick. It sounds as if she’s practising her strikes as she makes her way down the hall. Maybe she won’t throw me down the Well. Maybe she’ll just thrash me to within half an inch of my life.

  I carefully hide the acorn-cradle in my shirt pocket where I keep my piece of chalk.

  As I see Old Ma Bogey emerging from the shadows of the porch, my heart turns to lead. She’s pulling a handcart piled high with every single one of my matchbox buildings: town houses and tower-houses, grand mansions and hotels.

  How did she find out about them? Padlock didn’t know. And if the other orphans had seen me, they would never snitch. Our rule is to never tell on anyone.

  “It seems you have been busy apart from packing matches.” Old Ma Bogey’s voice is soft, almost warm, before it turns cold. “Petal told me.”

  Petal.

  I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. We’re friends. She helped cover my quota for months. She comforted me when Flint went down the Well, gave me the last sweet she had been saving. And we swore a secret oath together: Never tell Old Ma Bogey anything, never come back if you get a new home, and never forget our friendship.

  Old Ma Bogey must be lying.

  “She told me all about your secret models.”

  “Petal would never—”

  “Well, it was one of your orphan friends. Give me the penknife and glue pot.”

  I take them from my trouser pocket and hand them to her, trying not to let my fingers tremble. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, you’re sorry now. Everybody is sorry when they get caught. All this time, you’ve been stealing from me.” Old Ma Bogey screws her lips up tight. “I don’t think a beating will get through to you.” She lifts something up that was hidden behind the models.

  A paraffin can.

  “Oh, please,” I
cry, “don’t burn them! I’ll pack more matchboxes than ever…”

  She unscrews the cap and pours.

  Glug.

  Glug.

  Glug.

  All over my precious buildings.

  “I know you will,” she says with a horrid grin. Then she strikes a match and tosses it onto the models.

  “Matches are meant to burn. It’s what they are made for,” growls Old Ma Bogey. “Stay here. Watch your models turn to ashes and think about what you’ve done. Then back to work.”

  I nod in a daze as the stack of miniature buildings is engulfed in flames. The walls click and hiss as they burn and cave in on themselves – till all that remains is a mass of glowing embers, crooked matches sticking out like the ribs of a blackened skeleton.

  I wonder if I’ll ever leave and find a new home, wonder if I’ll ever get to make another model again. I touch the shirt pocket over my heart. At least I kept the acorn baby safe.

  I want to show Petal. She’ll be able to help me, but it’ll need to be away from the others. I know Petal would never snitch on me. Old Ma Bogey is only saying it because she knows we are friends. She’s trying to take away one of the few things I have left.

  As I cross the yard, I notice Scratch’s bowl in the shade of the porch, filled with milk.

  I know from my bits of newspaper education that babies drink milk. When I take the acorn-cradle out of my pocket, the baby smiles at me with bright eyes.

  “You hungry?” I whisper.

  I tear off a tiny strip of fabric from my shirt and dip it into Scratch’s bowl. Once soaked, I hold the strip close to the baby. Whether it’s curiosity or instinct I don’t know, but the baby holds the tiny strip and suckles. Once it’s finished, I carefully place the acorn-cradle back in my pocket. Then I lift up Scratch’s bowl and drink, forcing myself to stop before I finish it.

  The afternoon shift passes slowly. I pack matchboxes, trying not to remember my models going up in flames, wondering if any of the other orphans did snitch on me. Every time I glance over, each looks guilt-free. Somehow, I get the feeling it wasn’t any of them.

  My mind whirrs with thoughts of what would happen if Old Ma Bogey got hold of the baby. Would she put it in a bell jar like the miniature man? I tell myself she would put it in a cage so people from miles and miles around could buy tickets to come and look at it. In place of matches, packsmiths would put miniature acorn-baby dolls into matchboxes to be sold as souvenirs. Outside, excited crowds would line up and Old Ma Bogey’s rough voice would boom through a brass loudhailer: “Roll up! Roll up! Come and see the Smallest Baby in the World!”

  At the end of the shift, when the Machine’s noise dies down, I thank the stars the acorn baby isn’t crying.

  “You alright?” asks Petal, as we file out of the door into the corridor. “Did she threaten to throw you down the Well?”

  “Not this time.”

  “That’s a twist of luck.” Her face is innocent with bright eyes.

  I wait till the other packsmiths pass and we’re alone in the corridor. “I found something. Something incredible. Like in your stories—”

  “Wick, what do you mean?”

  I grab Petal’s arm. “Your stories – the ones where things happen that change everything. But I can’t show you here. We need to keep it secret from the others.”

  Petal shrugs off my grip. “Okay, I’ll tell Padlock you don’t feel too well and I’m taking you up to bed. Wait here a moment.”

  A smile lurks at the corner of her mouth when she returns. “Padlock says Old Ma Bogey doesn’t like anyone missing dinner. You’ll get two bowls of porridge for breakfast.”

  I cover my mouth and pretend to be sick.

  I lead Petal up to the bathroom and open the door. She follows me inside.

  “What did you find, another stag beetle?”

  I take the acorn-cradle from my pocket. The baby is awake, looking up at us with wonder.

  Petal gasps and her eyes light up. “Is it real?”

  I nod.

  “Can I hold it?”

  Carefully I pass the acorn-cradle into her waiting hands. She holds the cradle close, eyes sparkling with tears. “I always believed in impossible things,” she whispers.

  It’s true, she’s always believed in magic.

  When she passes the cradle back, there’s a smell coming from the moss nappy. I open it and there’s a slick of greenish poo everywhere.

  Petal wrinkles her nose and steps away. “Urgh, that’s disgusting.”

  “Blimey, look at all this muck,” I say. “Let’s get you sorted out.”

  I run the tap till there’s a shallow pool in the bottom of the sink, gently lie the baby in it and wash the poo off. There’s no way I can make a nappy, so instead I wrap her in another strip from my shirt and tie it carefully. “That’ll keep you clean till tomorrow.”

  Now the acorn baby has a new nappy, Petal comes close again. “Has she been fed?”

  “I gave her some of Scratch’s milk from the porch. I don’t know how we’re going to get more though.”

  Petal’s eyes twinkle. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something… And how about a tiny bottle? I’m sure there’s one in the naming drawer.”

  I can’t imagine how we’re going to get in Old Ma Bogey’s office and then sneak out to the yard for more milk without anyone finding out. But together, our chances seem better. I tell her about the matchstick models and one of the orphans snitching to Old Ma Bogey.

  “I don’t know who it could be,” says Petal in disbelief. “But I won’t say anything about the baby.” She mimes locking her lips and throwing away the key. “I better get back down to dinner or Padlock will come looking for me.”

  As I head into the empty dormitory, and cross to my place by the wall, I hope Petal and I can keep the baby safe. I ask myself where she’s going to sleep.

  Maybe I can make a new matchstick house…

  I must have fallen asleep, as the next thing I know I wake to darkness. I’m still curled on my side with my back to everyone. I find the acorn-cradle is still there, cupped in my hand. Moonlight floods into the dormitory through the curtainless windows and pools on the bare floorboards. From down in the hall comes the steady stirring chimes of the grandfather clock. I count each of them. It’s midnight.

  I wait a few moments to make sure everyone is fast asleep, then peer at the tiny cradle again. The baby is sleeping too. I’m wondering how Petal and I are going to get her more of Scratch’s milk, when there’s a light tapping on the window.

  I freeze.

  Slowly I close my hand over the acorn-cradle.

  I look up and the hairs rise on the back of my neck. There, at the window, is a little man silhouetted against the moonlight, wearing a hat and cloak. For a horrible moment, I think he’s the little man from the bell jar come back from the dead. But then, with a rush of excitement, I realize who he is. He must be another one, a live one! What if he’s the acorn baby’s father? This is a first. No parent has ever changed their mind and come back to the orphanage.

  “You came back for her,” I whisper into the night.

  I want to jump up and race to the window, but I move cautiously, quietly. When I reach the window, I see there’s a little woman and a girl there too, dressed in coats and boots.

  I open up the window, grinning in awe, and let the little people climb through onto the window sill. Here, in the milk-blue light, I can see the girl isn’t much younger than me, and they all have the same dark hair as the acorn baby.

  “You’re her parents, aren’t you?” I whisper.

  The little man steps forward. “Genna here is her mother,” he says in a gentle earthy voice, pointing to the kind-faced little woman with short hair. “An’ we are her friends. I’m Papa Herne an’ this is Nissa, my daughter.”

  The girl has a wild tangle of hair, swept back from her face. She adjusts a tiny catapult that’s tucked into her belt and raises a hand in greeting.

  “I’m Wic
k,” I mumble, hardly believing this is happening. “It’s good to see you.”

  I put the acorn-cradle down. As Genna picks her baby up, she wakes up and smiles.

  “Thank you for keeping her safe,” says Papa Herne. “Genna would thank you herself, but she don’t talk.”

  Genna looks up at me with a fragile grin. I wonder if something bad happened to her. There are several orphans at Harklights who never say anything.

  “We saw you outside from the wall when you found the baby,” continues Papa Herne. “But then yer mother came along.”

  “She’s not my mother,” I say.

  “Well, as a thank you, can we be of any assistance to you in yer home?”

  “This isn’t my home – it’s an orphanage.”

  Papa Herne blinks and rubs his smooth chin. He looks as if he doesn’t know whether an orphanage is a good or a bad thing.

  Nissa looks me up and down. “Where’s yer home if it isn’t here?”

  “I’ve not got one. That’s what an orphanage is for. It’s a place for abandoned children.” I glance at Genna. “I thought you’d left your baby here.”

  The little people’s eyes grow wide in horror.

  “No,” says Papa Herne. “She weren’t abandoned. Hobs would never do that. A magpie stole the cradle an’ then…”

  “What’s a Hob?” I ask.

  “It’s what we are – little folk. We’re like humans, only we got more forest in our hearts.” Papa Herne’s words die off as he looks around at the orphans sleeping on the wooden floor. Then he fixes his eyes on me. “Well, we need to repay yer kindness in looking after Tiya—”

  “Can he come live with us?” says Nissa.

  Papa Herne raises his eyebrows and looks thoughtful. “That’s exactly what I were thinking,” he says with a smile.

  There’s a strange stirring in my chest as I hear the words “come live with us”. I push the feeling down. I don’t want to get my hopes up, in case they don’t mean it. “You wouldn’t want me. I reckon I’d just get in your way. I’m too big.”