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traintrainingmontage · 3 days ago

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What a fantastic chapter. 🥺 I am absolutely in awe of how you make the engines feel and act like engines while also having very human emotions, and the amount of research you put into this is so clear to see. Plus, the characters noting how Truro is a parallel to that which embodies what he hates most? Chef's kiss. So many talented writers in this fandom; I can't get enough.

Christmas Story

Five Days Until Christmas

The engines of the big shed tried, both individually and as a group, for several days to puzzle out exactly what had occurred between Bear, Duck, and City of Truro. Their results were… mixed.

“I don’t know what I did…” Duck said, his stare vacant. It seemed like he was looking through Edward. “He just… It’s like it wasn’t even him.”

“Why do you care?” Truro scoffed. “It’s a brutish monstrosity and always has been. I say it’s for the better that the facade has finally come off and we know the truth.” He missed the way that James’ expression cycled through several different levels of outrage before settling on “astonished and also furious”.

“Mate, I wasn’t even there.” Oliver said to Thomas across the platforms at the big station. “But if you ask me, Truro and Bear seem to be on the wrong wheel with each other. Thing is, I dunno if this is just some leftover stuff from the sixties, or if they actually offended each other.”

“Maybe,” BoCo said to Delta, one night in the diesel shed. “If you and I couple onto each end of him, we could threaten to pull him in half unless he tells the truth about why he’s such a bellend.”

“I know that you all like keeping to yourselves,” Toby crept slowly through the yard at Knapford, looking at each truck in turn. “But does anyone know anything about what’s going on with Bear?”

“You must understand,” Gordon said, eyeing the Small Railway’s engines with deadly seriousness. “I wouldn’t come down this piddling branch line unless the circumstances were dire. So start talking.”

Notably, nobody talked to Bear during this time, but that wasn’t for a lack of trying…

At every opportunity, he dodged his would-be interrogators with a shocking level of ease:

“Bear, may I-” Gordon called across the platforms at Barrow. Bear took one look at him, and reversed backwards across the bridge to Sodor. Fittingly, it raised behind him, and Gordon lost sight of him behind the rigging of a fishing boat.

“Oi. We need to talk.” James tried being assertive. Bear growled at him so loud that the dust shook off the rafters at the big station, cowing him into silence.

“Bear, is everything-” Edward didn’t get his sentence out before Bear and his train roared out of Wellsworth, sprinting up the hill and out of sight. “-alright…?”

BoCo got more success than most. “Do you want to talk?” He asked, while shunting the wagons for the Flying Kipper. He didn’t get a verbal response, but the quiet pain lingering in the back of Bear’s eyes said more than enough.

Late on Friday night, they held a deputation around the turntable in the big shed. “Does anyone have any idea what we’re to do?” Gordon asked.

“I don’t know if we’re going to have a formal process for this,” BoCo began. “But I’d like to suggest finding Truro and extracting the information from him.”

“I’ll second that.” Delta mumbled under her breath.

Gordon closed his eyes. “As much as I want to chide you for being brutish, that may have to happen… later.” He took a steadying breath. “Does anyone have an idea for now?”

“Why don’t we involve the Fat Controller?” Thomas had stayed over at the shed specifically for this meeting. “He’d sort this out right quick.”

“We tried that.” James said, remarkably serious. “He’s concerned with what’s happening, but it’s so close to Christmas that he doesn’t have the time to handle it.”

A mutter of agreement rolled through the shed. “Isn’t that the truth.” “Why couldn’t this happen in July?” “Aye, we’re so rushed we havenae even seen the poor blighter.”

“And,” James continued once the voices died down. “He’s retiring come New Year’s. There’s other things that need to be done just to “manage the handover”, whatever that means.”

“It means,” Gordon read between the lines. “That this will be young Stephen Hatt’s first crisis as controller.” He looked around, all business. “Now, I have no doubts about his skills for the job, but now that Bear is, ahem, “willfully separating himself” from Truro and Duck, it means that the current Fat Controller is performing triage during a difficult situation. After the twenty-fifth, things may change. Hopefully for the better.”

There was a long and pregnant pause. “It also means,” Gordon continued, now gravely serious. “That we have between now and Christmas to solve the issue ourselves.”

“Durin’ the busiest three feckin’ days out o’ the year?” Donald sounded exhausted. “In what time?”

BoCo spoke up. “We didn’t survive this long by doing things that were universally pleasant. I have trust in everyone here to make miracles happen.” There was a long pause. “And if for some reason we fail, I hope that I can trust you all enough to lie to the Fat Controller on my behalf about what happens to Truro. Now everyone get some sleep, it’s the Saturday before Christmas, and we are going to be extremely fucking busy.”

With that, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

The other engines, Delta excepted, looked at each other, completely unsure if he was joking.

Saturday morning found Charles Hatt in his office before the dawn. There was no “weekend” today, just “busy” and “busier.”

Everyone seemed to want to go everywhere, and the schedule was being changed literally all the time. He spun in his chair, taking a moment to observe the lights of the station bouncing off the roof of an HST he’d managed to finagle out of York. It was bound for Manchester before the day even began, and the crush-loaded train would be a distant memory before the hour was over. The next platform over had Wendell, his region’s sole class 47, looking quite amused to be on the lead of a passenger train - this one to Kirk Ronan, to meet the very earliest of the Irish Ferries. Next to him was an entirely different 47, wearing ScotRail colors. That one was off to Glasgow, another deeply packed train. An argument could be made that the island would be empty by the time they left, had both mainland trains not disgorged nearly a thousand out-of-town passengers between them.

Finally, on the far platform, was a problem masquerading itself as an enigma. City of -

Bzzzt - “Mister Hatt, Gordon Drury to see you.” His secretary’s voice buzzed through the intercom, taking him out of his ruminations.

Gordon Drury was the second son of a farmer, and despite now working as the sole paid member of the Island Council’s Tourism and Travel Directorate, he still rose at well past five in the morning. “Charles,” He said, his gruff voice not matching the tailored suit he wore. “What’s so urgent you called me here before the sun?”

Charles was in full “Fat Controller” mode. He didn’t want to be dealing with this right now, and was quite irritated that he was. “Gordon, I know that you have made great strides in your… management of the Tourism Board-”

“Directorate.”

“Whatever.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “However I feel that your “volunteer administrators” and I have not been working on the same page.” Gordon was the only paid member of staff at the Tourism Directorate, but a great many local luminaries volunteered their copious free time, noted lack of effort, minimal coordination, and overestimated skills.

“What did they do now?” There wasn’t a question involved. They both knew what it was about.

“Last night, they claimed that “performance art” was a sufficient excuse to play their music naked.”

“I see.” Drury put his head in his hands, his large frame bending over in disbelief. “How’d that go over?”

“They were arrested, Gordon.”

“Of course they were.” The directorate needed more paid staff. It also needed smarter volunteers. Gordon Drury would also like to be able to plant money trees on his brother’s farm. It felt more possible than the others. “I’ll speak to the embassy.”

“Speak to whomever you like.” Charles said bluntly. “But they’re not coming back.”

“Of course.” Damned Germans.

There was a lull in the conversation, both men deep in thought. “I could… source another band, if you want.”

“Gordon.” Charles was blunt. “I am this close to having the Wellsworth Youth Choir perform in the station on Christmas day. I know that we have an agreement, but the - well I hesitate to use the word bands - that you and your volunteers have sourced are among the worst things I have ever heard.” He fixed the larger man with a steely look. “If you manage to find one at such short notice, it will be done by you personally, and they will demonstrate their skills or lack thereof to me. Understood?”

“Aye.” The two men shook hands on it, and the meeting was over. Gordon rose to leave, gathering his coat. “Say, if you don’t mind me asking: have they been that bad? For you to call me out here at six in the mornin’ on the Saturday before Christmas and be in such a state. I know the whole… naked thing is a bit much, but…?”

Charles took a deep breath, and felt himself deflate a little. “I have seventeen people staying in my home for Christmas, nine of whom are under the age of ten. My sister and daughter are arriving today, and while they have assured me that they and their respective broods will be staying elsewhere, that means that I will be playing host to nearly thirty people, most of whom are either children or acting like children.”

He paused, looking out the window. “Then on a professional front, several of my engines seem to be having what I could charitably describe as an interpersonal meltdown, the line to Arlesburgh has been beguiled by derailments and permanent way failings, and,” he said with great finality. “I am retiring next week, so I have to ensure that my son - who is totally qualified for this position, is kept completely in the loop, lest he be thrown headlong into what I assume will be a simply gruesome chapter of the next Awdry Book.”

Another pause, and he ran his hand through his hair. “Which, by the way, is now the subject of a television series on ITV. Apparently my father is portrayed by a little wooden figurine. I’m told that it’s very popular with children, which would explain why every grandchild, niece and nephew I have is suddenly very interested in trekking out to Ffarquhar and meeting Thomas.”

He finished, then paused for a second, before slumping back into his chair, utterly spent. “I apologize, that was out of turn.”

Gordon Drury tried to hide his wide-eyed stare. “No, I should be sorry. I didn’t realize all that was happening. I’ll let you know about the band, double quick.”

He left before Charles could say anything else.

The door didn’t even shut before his secretary stuck her head in. “Sir, your sister called. She says that she’s going to be on the 07:30 from London.”

“Thank you Emmaline.” He dismissed her, idly paging through the schedule on his desk, trying to work out what train that was.

Outside the window, unnoticed by Charles, the HST departed with a roar of Valenta motors. A minute later, the ScotRail 47 powered up and left as well. Both trains seemed unusually eager to leave, considering the weight of the coaches. Behind them at the platforms, Wendell seemed slightly anxious, eyeing the signal bridge, waiting for his turn to leave.

Next to him, City of Truro radiated hostility.

Arlesburgh - Later

The sounds of an argument wafted on the breeze as City of Truro arrived at the station.

“Oh, what now?” he said to himself, quietly.

Ever since that horrid diesel had left, the branch had somehow become even more of a travesty than it had been before. The tank engines were losing cohesion seemingly by the hour, especially the 5700 class. He had apparently been under the impression that the monstrosity was his friend, and was quite put out that this had been untrue.

“How is any of this my fault!”

“I don’t know, but he certainly didn’t say anything like that to me!”

He rolled his eyes as his driver uncoupled the coaches. The Collett-designed locomotives always had interpersonal problems like this. How he longed for the days of Dean and Churchward types being en vogue. They knew how to work - twice the work done with half the chatter.

“What? I’m supposed to read his mind?!”

“He’s not exactly the strong and silent type Duck! James knew that something was wrong, and he’s a bleeding moron!”

And then there’s the 4800 class. Not a drop of the original Armstrong design was left in him after Collett got his dirty fingers on the design. Even worse, this one has a brain, and the resultant opinions that he thinks he is entitled to have, as though he were a top link express engine. Bah.

“Gentle-engines, please.” He rolled up to the water plug with all due grace. “I know that things are perhaps a bit more… tense than they ordinarily would be, but it is nearly Christmas, so let’s all have some of that good cheer and merriment, hmm?” His driver set the hose in the tank, and promptly made himself scarce, meandering off to wherever it was that Drivers went when not serving their engines.

“Truro – ” The Pannier really was upset over this, goodness gracious. It will take some work to correct that once the trial period is done and he’s properly settled onto this line. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t help but feel like this was my fault somehow.”

The 4800 furrowed his brows, likely ready to say something unhelpful. Truro cut him off. “Duck. Montague. I know that you feel slighted by this, but I can assure you that anyone who would have a grievance with you is someone you’re better off not knowing. You did nothing, and that is all that’s important.”

There was a scoff from the 4800. “Huh. Nothing is about right.”

“What?” Even with eighty years worth of good upbringing, Truro was momentarily baffled by the seeming non-sequitur.

“That’s what Quackers over here did. What I did too. Nothing.” There was a concerningly determined look on the tank engine’s face. “All this time, Bear is looking like the world is crashing down on his cab and what did we do? Not a blessed thing.”

“I assure you that-” Truro tried to steer the conversation away from the point he was making.

“No, I assure you that we didn’t do anything.” The branch line runt continued. “You’ve got an excuse, being cooped up in a museum for lord knows how long, but-”

“Twenty two years.” It escaped Truro before he could even acknowledge it was occurring. The acid in his tone was barely tamped down.

The oik continued on like he hadn’t even heard him. “We’ve known him for almost twenty years now. Goodness sake, I escaped from his ilk more than once back on the mainland. He’s not a subtle engine - something was wrong, but I figured that it was just him and you not getting along well… Lord knows that I didn’t get off on the right buffer with him back then, and I’m not City of bleeding Truro.”

He paused, looking deeply troubled. Truro’s brow furrowed, and he tried to figure out how to make him shut up.

“But…” Nevertheless, the backwater country branch line tank engine continued on, as though his opinion was wanted or valuable. “I saw that something was wrong, and I didn’t do enough to help it.” He paused, a sardonic laugh escaping him. “Of course, I did something at least. I tried to talk to ‘im.” A sharp gaze was fixed on the 5700. “You, on the other wheel, didn’t notice anything beyond the tip of your enormous nose unless it was related to him.”

“I-” The pannier tried to retort. Truro’s mind spun its wheels - he really hadn’t expected this level of independent thought from a rural tank engine.

“No, I’m not done yet.” The farmer’s express kept talking. “You didn’t even notice! He was coupled to Truro and you didn’t even look! Clearly something was going wrong, and what, you spend all night grumbling that he messed up the yard? Right after he almost falls off a bridge? No wonder he yelled at you! You didn’t even consider-”

The Pannier looked like he was going to cry, and Truro’s slipping mental wheels abruptly found traction as an idea flashed through his smokebox. “Oilver. Stop. This isn’t being productive. Nobody is to blame for that beastly-”

“Beastly?” The tank engine shot back. “His name is Bear. Don’t think that you’re completely blameless here, boy-o. I know that we don’t have the best history with diesels, but it’s not his fault! You could’ve made an effort to be friends with him, it’s not the sixties anymore!”

It was probably the casual “boy-o” that did it. The casual implication that they were equals. “Oliver, I do hate to be blunt like this, but shut up.”

The two tank engines looked at him, mouths agape like Shakespearean groundlings. Now assured of at least some temporary silence, he continued, tone serious, gaze fiery. “I don’t appreciate being spoken to like that. While I appreciate that it isn’t the nineteen-sixties anymore, we are still the engines of the Great Western, the last scions of Brunel himself. There is a dignity and composure that we must uphold at all times, even in private.” He paused, mostly for dramatic effect, so as to sufficiently wow the proles. “What we have been doing over these last few days has been anything but that, and so I am asking you, as an express engine, to conduct yourselves using the best practices of the Paddington shunters. Is that acceptable?”

Two agog tank engines stared back at him, and he took their silence for acquiescence. A moment later, his driver and fireman emerged from wherever it was they’d gone, stopped the flow of water into his tender, and drove him off to the coaling stage.

Duck and Oliver could only stare as Truro took on coal, and was turned on the table. He’d never spoken to them like that, ever.

“Did- did he just tell us to conduct ourselves like Paddington shunters?” Oliver asked, not quite believing what he’d heard. “Did he tell you to conduct yourself like a Paddington shunter?”

Duck, who had been allocated to Paddington station’s fleet of shunters for thirty two years, said absolutely nothing. He continued to say nothing for quite some time, long enough that he eventually had to leave for his next train.

His driver grumbled all the while, pulling hard on the sluggish throttle and reverser. “Fuckin’ big engines running their goddamn mouths, I outghta give that one a poke in the nose for putting him in state like this.”

Alice and Mirabel were equally furious, and quietly plotted amongst themselves as to the best way to pay out Truro.

Duck meanwhile, was in a haze of memories mixing with reality. Truro really did tell him to act like a Paddington shunter, didn’t he?

Didn’t he?

Didn’t he know?

Didn’t he remember?

Didn’t he see?

Paddington shunters were the best of the best - what every other shunter on the Great Western aspired to be in the very realest sense. All the major termini tried to emulate them: Cardiff, Bristol, Birmingham - even Plymouth. They had developed the Shunting System over decades, ensuring the fastest and most efficient service into and out of the capitol. They could strip a train into its component wagons and coaches faster than most engines could ever dream. Their yard had been a haven of efficiency and poise - it had taken a direct hit from a German bomb to make the trains late.

But the big engines never cared, did they? Except for a few, a most serene and righteous few, they saw the shunters as nothing more than worker bees, scurrying about with no rhyme or reason. They weren’t worthy of respect, and if it weren’t for the general good upbringing and demeanour that Armstrong, Dean, Churchward, and Collett had built into them, they likely would have treated the shunters as poorly and pompously as the dreadful Eastern pacifics that befouled King’s Cross.

To ask “as an express engine” was a polite way of saying “do it now, I’m not asking again.”

To ask for someone to “conduct yourself using the best practices of the Paddington Shunters” was a deeply insulting way of saying “I don’t want to see you do it, and I don’t want to hear you do it.”

On their own, these didn’t mean any offense. If an engine had said that to Duck in the middle of Paddington station, he would have taken that to mean “I’m asking you extremely politely to go away and stop talking.”

But they weren’t in Paddington station, were they?

Duck wasn’t stupid, nor was he sheltered. Despite rarely leaving Paddington, he knew exactly how other engines, other railways, and even other (lesser) yards on the Great Western viewed Paddington.

By-the-book

No-nonsense

Precise

Efficient

Obsessive

Fussy

Officious

Irritating

Imperious

Haughty

Dislikable

City of Truro thought that he wasn’t worthy of respect, only contempt.

Duck - who had served thirty two years at Paddington, five of which were as the yard’s senior-most engine, was not worthy of his respect.

And the reason why that had to be true, was that in any other yard on the Great Western, what Truro said was not “Please go away and be quiet”.

It was: “How dare you speak to me. Go away and never let me see you again. Now, you worm.”

Oliver had never been a firm adherent of the shunting rules, or the seemingly mythical status that some engines gave to the shunters at big stations, but he knew damn well that Truro hadn’t said anything nice.

Seeing Duck wandering up and down the line, looking like he’d lost his best friend, was further evidence, and it made his boiler pressure skyrocket.

At noon, Duck’s driver took a half-hour lunch break, and when he returned to duty it was on Oliver’s footplate. “Wretched engine, great plodding brutish thing…” he grumbled as he worked Oliver’s throttle.

“What’s the matter with you?” Oliver asked as they pulled out of the station.

“This is the first time all day that my job has been easy, that’s what!” The man snapped.

“I’m sorry?”

“That big superstar engine went and flapped his gums and now Duck’s in a right tizzy.” He continued. “Mark my words this is gonna cause an accident if some eejit isn’t paying due care!”

Oliver could sympathize. “It’s worse than that - Truro is going to run engines off this branch at the rate he’s going. First Bear, now Duck!”

“Oh wonderful!” The driver groaned as they rolled south towards Haultraugh. “That whole nonsense was because of him?”

“That’s what I think, but nobody can get him to talk!”

Behind Oliver, Dulcie rolled her eyes deeply.

“What?” Isabel asked.

“Have you ever considered that we’re living inside an episode of The Archers?”

“What?”

“Nevermind…”

Oliver and his driver continued their discussion all the way to the big station, and by the end of it, they were convinced that something needed to be done.

Unfortunately, they were of very different minds.

“I’ll just pop in and talk to him. Won’t take more than ten minutes.”

“No! Do not bother the Fat Controller about this!” Oliver’s eyes were almost popping out of his smokebox as they rolled into the big station.

“Why not?” It’s an issue that needs to be addressed!”

“We can address it! Engines solve their own problems!”

“Duck’s in tears, Bear is covering himself in spray paint, and Truro tried to glare a hole in your boiler when we passed him at Haultraugh,” the driver said, ignoring the choked laughter of the fireman (who wanted nothing to do with this soap opera, thanks very much). “I’d say that your plan is going poorly.”

Oliver spluttered in disbelief as the train came to a stop, and yelped as he felt his driver’s feet leave the cab. “Where are you going- DON’T DO THAT COME BACK HERE!”

“Grow a pair of legs and stop me then!” the driver said, almost cheekily, and ran off to the station offices. Oliver’s helpless whistle echoed behind him.

He darted into the staff only portion of the station through the baggage handling doors, dodging trollies of luggage and freight as he went. The “shortcut” to the upstairs offices was up the massive freight lift in the back of the station building, and through the second floor storage areas. He rode upstairs in the company of a rolling cart filled with mail bags, and nearly bowled over the clerk collecting it when the doors opened.

Shouting sorry over his shoulder, he slipped through an unmarked door hidden between shelves of British-Rail branded crockery, and emerged into the carpeted environs of the station offices. A series of oak doors lined the hallway, each proclaiming a different name and title. After a moment’s walk, he stopped in front of the door labelled “C. T. Hatt - Regional Controller”. He took a second to brush the coal dust off, made sure that he looked as presentable as he could, and walked into the Fat Controller’s waiting room. The door shut behind him with a solid click.

Seconds later, fifteen feet further down the hall, a door labelled “PRIVATE - C. HATT” swung open. Charles Hatt stepped out of his office, his son Stephen, and Gordon Drury in tow.

“I must say Gordon, I didn’t think you would be able to find anyone on such short notice.” Charles said as they made their way towards the stairs down to the platform level.

“I didn’t think we wanted him to,” Stephen said, under his breath.

“Hush.”

The three men continued down the hallway, descending the stairs and entering the station proper. A small side room, part of the first class waiting room, had been closed off, with an assistant station master guarding the entrance. “Right through here, sirs,” he said as they approached.

They entered the room to find it empty, save for some instrument cases strewn along one wall. Large hat boxes were leaned up against another, and there were small satchels and suitcases pushed under a table.

“I think they went to change.” Gordon Drury put in helpfully. “They have costumes and everything.”

There was an audible slap as Stephen’s hand met his face, and Charles resisted the urge to groan out loud. “Gordon, what… genre of music did you say this was again?”

“Oh, it’s, uh, Mexican music. Mariachi or however you say it.”

Stephen’s other hand met his face, but Charles found this somewhat heartening. “Mexican? Wherever did you find them? I haven’t heard music from that country since I went to the Olympics there.”

“Oh, they’re on tour of Western Europe. Their embassy is doing a “hearts and minds” campaign,” Gordon explained as the door opened again.

There was a noise from Stephen yet again, as a group of seven men entered the room. To a man, each one wore an elaborate black suit, covered in brightly colored frills, ruffles, and ornamentation. Each one wore an exceptionally broad hat that Charles vaguely remembered being called a sombrero, and carried some kind of acoustic instrument. There were several guitars of varying sizes, an accordion, a pair of violins, a huge bass about the size of the man carrying it, and a trumpet.

Stephen seemed paralyzed in shock, so Charles strode forward to greet them. As he did so, he noticed something… intriguing about the men, that he couldn’t quite place.

“Charles, Stephen,” Gordon Drury continued. “This is the band. They call themselves, well it translates to English as “The Sound of Mexico”.” He chuckled, before moving to introduce each band member in turn. “Does what it says on the tin if you ask me. This is their leader, Senor Pintarić, guitarists Senor Kovač and Senor Paskaljević, violinists Senor Vukov and Senor Kodžoman, Accordionist Senor Dugonjić, and their Bass Player Senor Gomez.” There was an almost one hundred percent certainty that he hadn’t pronounced a single name correctly.

As he went down the line of men, shaking each hand in turn, Charles began to feel more and more like he was the butt of a rather elaborate practical joke. Meeting Señor Gomez as the last one seemed to crystalize it in his mind. “Gordon, only one of these men is Mexican.”

“Yeah?” There seemed to be some kind of communication breakdown. Perhaps he’d suffered a stroke and was now speaking in tongues.

“Gordon, how can they be a Mexican Mariachi band if only one of them is Mexican?”

“Ah!” The leader, Senor Pintarić, spoke up with an accent firmly from the wrong side of the iron curtain. “Is no problem. We play Yu Mex! Is Mexican music from heart of Yugoslavia!”

“I beg your pardon” floated into the air over Charles’ shoulder, as Stephen seemed to crash back to reality.

“Is very popular music in homeland!” Senor Pintarić continued, with the members of his band straightening up and looking their best. “Yugoslavia very independent, take culture from everywhere, not just America and Russia! Mexican culture, very important to us!”

“I see...” Charles really didn’t. “I take it that’s where Señor Gomez came from?”

“¡Si Señor!” The man in question responded.

Well. Charles thought to himself. One can either roll with the punches or take them on the chin. “All right, fair enough. Let’s see how they play.”

“Right!” Gordon Drury sprung into action again, addressing Senor Pintarić. “You mentioned having a Christmas song in English?”

“да наравно - Yes of course!” The bandleader issued a quick order in his native tongue to the rest of the band, who picked up their instruments with zeal. “Један, два, три, четири!”

The string instruments picked up a jaunty tune, joined by the trumpet a moment later. It seemed that the accordion player could also play the guitar.

¡Feliz Navidad!

¡Próspero año y felicidad!

¡Feliz Navidad!

¡Próspero año y felicidad!

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas!

From the bottom of my heart!

The worst thing about this, Charles mused to himself as they played, is that they’re actually quite good.

About an hour later

Light and cheerful Mariachi music filled the station. Both Stephen and Charles gave each other a look that spoke volumes as they stood near the bandstand on platform one.

The clock struck 12:30 with a single chime, and both men pulled out pocketwatches. Activating the stopwatch feature on each, both current and future controllers watched the hand sweep around the face.

One minute, two, then three and a half minutes passed before lamps appeared in the distant darkness of the tunnel. Another forty seconds passed before Gordon emerged in a cloud of steam and smoke, and the midday express finally rolled into the station six minutes and twelve seconds behind schedule.

Gordon’s brows furrowed as he saw the timepieces. “Blame the bridge tender, we’ve been late since Vicarstown.” He grumbled, before his eyes swept further back on the platform and found the bandstand. “What on earth-?”

Whatever he said next was carried with him to the end of the platform, the coaches sweeping past Stephen and Charles with a squeal of brake shoes. The first class coaches came to a stop directly in front of them.

Porters materialized as though by magic, swinging open the doors to the plush Pullman cars, revealing-

“Grandpa!” Stephanie, one of his many grandchildren, burst out of the train car like a racehorse from the gate. She was quickly followed by several other children, all moving too fast to see who was who, and then well behind them, his daughter Bridget.

“Hi Dad,” she smiled, sweeping him into a hug once Stephanie had let go.

“Hello, my darling,” he smiled. “Happy Christmas!”

Any further greetings were cut off by a voice from inside the carriage. “What, I don’t warrant a hug?” His sister Barbara stepped out of the doorway with a wry smile. “I see how it is now. Perhaps I shall just get back on the train and let it take me away to someplace-”

He cut her off with a similarly-sized hug, and they all spent the next few minutes collecting the hand luggage and children - both of which were many in number - before making their way down the platform towards the exit.

“I say, what in the world is that?” Bridget asked as they approached the bandstand.

“Your fault,” Stephen poked her in the ribs.

“Mine? I’ve scarcely been here ten minutes! How could I have…” She and Stephen continued arguing, a sound that Charles had long ago learned to tune out.

“It’s good to be back,” Barbara threw an arm around his shoulder. “Say, did you ever get my package? You never told me.”

“Oh yes, I did. That Jenga game is quite relaxing, actually. I haven’t had much time to play it, but I assure you that come next week I will have all the time in the world.”

Barbara laughed at that, and then had to quickly turn and chase after a wandering nephew who was getting too close to the platform edge.

Charles turned to help, but she had it under control before he could take two steps. Crisis averted, he took a long look along the platforms, instinct refusing to allow him to leave the station without checking for calamity.

While nothing immediately presented itself, his eye caught on something in the far distance, beyond even the shape of Gordon at the end of the platform.

It was Oliver, coming into the station with another commuter train. He looked deeply conflicted, in a way that was unusual for him, and his eyes were scanning the station like he was looking for something.

As the train got closer, Oliver’s eyes snapped onto him, and he caught Charles’ gaze like he wanted something. The look in his eyes said it was somewhat important, maybe moreso.

Then it was gone, hidden in a plume of steam from Gordon.

“Come on Granddad…” It was Stephanie, yet again, pulling on his hand and ushering him into the waiting room. Charles made a mental note to follow up with Oliver at a later point, before following his granddaughter into the station.

The next day

Sunday was usually a slow day - fewer trains, shorter trains, and a couple of extra goods services running in the daytime. A special once a week train ran early in the morning, carrying the faithful and the religious to the newly-restored Catholic Cathedral in Tidmouth in time for morning church services. The Anglicans had their services later in the day, timed to correspond to the usual train schedule, and the usual times at which people woke up.

Of course, the Sunday before Christmas was not an ordinary Sunday, and so the train waiting at the platform was not the usual rake of Duck and his autocoaches.

Instead, City of Truro stood placidly at the platform, billowing steam in the cold December air, while five Mark 1 coaches stretched behind him. As befitting an engine of his stature, he was thoroughly polished to a mirror finish, and a small “Cathedrals Express” headboard sat above his eyebrows. He looked up at it with something approaching fondness. The Sudrians had managed to… acquire the original headboard that had adorned Western Region trains in the 1950s, and after finding it in a condition they only described as “broken”, they’d made it “better than new” by modifying the crest to include a GWR logo in the centre of the bishop’s hat.

While he wasn’t one for modifying such a historical artifact, he did have to admit that it was a damned good looking headboard, especially when placed on an engine such as him and not some plebeian tank engine.

The lights from the waiting room were dimmer than the lights on the platform, and the glass in the windows became very reflective as a result. I look good today, he thought as he admired his reflection. The billowing white steam hid the few imperfections left by some of the less intelligent cleaners, and the snow that was just starting to float down from the clouds was swirling around him in a thoroughly roguish way. I look very good indeed.

Inside the station, two sets of eyes looked out at the engine. “Fucking wanker,” one said.

“I don’t know how, but he looks wrong like this,” said the other. “James doesn’t look wrong, when he’s preening.”

“‘S cause James isn’t a wanker.” The first said.

“Fair enough.” There was a pause, punctuated by a slurp of a mug of tea. “You ready?”

“As I can be.”

The drivers on the Little Western weren’t stupid. They’d figured out that something was going on, even if they didn’t know exactly what, and that Truro was likely at the center of it. This lowered their exceptionally low estimations of him to previously unheard-of levels. He was already difficult to fire, and drive, and keep steaming, and he treated them like scum on his buffers, but now? He’d made Duck upset, and there would be retribution.

Duck’s usual driver, still smarting over his inability to speak to the Fat Controller yesterday, had volunteered outright. There had been some debate over who would be the fireman today, with no-one wanting to officially step forward for this duty… until the start of the shift, that is.

When the “Cathedrals” stretched to its maximum length, there were a few different options for who would pull it. Occasionally Donald or Douglas took it, although Bear was a more common choice. James had taken it more than once, and he’d delighted at having a headboard. The most usual option, however, was for Duck and Oliver to doublehead the train, with all of their autocoaches in the train, plus any others that would be needed. It was a “bonding thing” as Oliver had once put it, and everybody seemed to enjoy it, even the hopelessly-fussy passengers. The few times Christmas had fallen on or near a Sunday, the “bonding” was increased moreso, and the train was decorated with Christmas frills and decorations, much to the delight of the passengers, engines, and coaches alike.

However this morning, while Duck and Oliver were in the process of being polished for the run, Truro had apparently browbeat them into giving him the train, and took the coaches he’d been using for the last month, leaving all the autocoaches stuck in the shed. Of course, the engines disputed this, but the manner in which they did so was so halfhearted that it raised concerns with the cleaners, who raised the alarm in the station, alerting the footplate crews to the unfolding situation.

After that, so many men clamored to be the one on Truro’s footplate that the stationmaster threatened to go off of the seniority list, and eventually one of the engine inspectors was chosen to be the one wielding a shovel.

The guards were equally upset, and despite the unpleasantly early hour, every single employee on the train was a seasoned railway man with many decades of experience.

As the clock struck six in the morning, the passengers started arriving for the train’s six thirty departure. The decorated condition of near-Christmas runs of “The Cathedrals” was known to passengers at this point, and so there was a significant amount of disappointment as people filed onto the starkly appointed Mark 1s. Several even made a comment about Truro, usually in the context of “wherever is Duck and Oliver?”, and the engine’s frown deepened greatly each time.

“I say,” he remarked to nobody in particular. “But you would think that they want to be hauled around in squalor.”

“Well,” the driver said curtly. “Some of us like the ‘squalor’.”

There was a confused chuff. “Who asked your opinion, driver?”

“Who asked yours, you inelegant excuse for a tea kettle?”

Truro whooshed steam aggressively, scattering the passengers on the end of the platform. The stationmaster was on him in a second. “What kind of a display is that? You’re going to spray people while it’s below freezing? You stupid great engine!”

“But- he-!” Truro tried and failed to defend himself.

“No!” bellowed the stationmaster. “This is your one warning for the day! Don’t make me get inventive!”

He stalked away to help a passenger who had tripped as he ran from the steam, leaving Truro furious and confused.

Half-past six in the morning approached with agonizing slowness, but eventually the time came. The train was packed to the gills with Christmas visitors and residents alike. Some weren’t even going to church, but were using the train as an early morning connection to the big city.

The clock struck six thirty with a single bong from the station clock, and the last passengers were quickly ushered aboard. A short distance train like this had little luggage, and so the porters were milling about on the platform while the coaches were quickly shut and locked behind the last stragglers. Leaning out of the window of the last coach, the guard slowly but surely waved his green flag. He didn’t wave it very far or very hard, and it could scarcely be seen behind the porters. He put his whistle to his lips, but didn’t actually blow it.

From the cab, the driver and fireman looked back, seeing the flag wave from their elevated vantage point. Moving quickly, they advanced the controls, and the train set off down the tracks.

Screeeeeeeeech

For about five seconds, before the brakes came on with a squeal, throwing passengers off their feet in the coaches. “The guard hasn’t said to go yet!” Truro bellowed. ��What sort of a driver are you?”

“What do you mean he didn’t blow it?” The driver shouted back. “Didn’t you hear it?”

“He did no such thing!”

“Oh great!” The driver said melodramatically. “He’s arrogant and deaf! You heard it, right?”

“Of course!” The fireman exclaimed.

Truro rolled his eyes. “You’re hearing things that aren’t there.”

“What are you doing?” The stationmaster came out of the station at light speed. “Go!”

“There hasn’t been a whistle yet!” Truro shouted.

“Yes there was, I heard it inside!” Came the retort.

“You’re mistaken.’ Truro said firmly.

“Mister Truro sir,” The lead coach said quietly. “He waved the flag, but-”

“Be silent, Termite.” Truro snapped, before turning his attention to the stationmaster. “There. Was. No. Whistle!” He ignored the insulted gasp that ran down the train as the all-first-class rake processed what was just said - a Termite was an old GWR term for a third class coach.

The cab radio crackled. “What in the bloody hell is going on up there?” The guard shouted through the connection. “I said go!”

Everyone turned to look at Truro, who looked bewildered. “But-but-there wasn’t!”

“Yes there was!” Everyone shouted back.

The driver reached up and released the brakes. “Yes. There was.” he said firmly before advancing the throttle.

Truro was outraged, confused, and more than a little embarrassed. He tried to set off, to minimize his error, but the hand at his controls must have been slovenly and ill-trained, because the throttle was advanced so far forward that his wheels slipped and spun all the way out of the station, jerking the train wildly.

“What’re you doing up there!” Came a shout over the radio. “We’re getting thrown around here!”

“Easy does it!” The driver yelled, rapidly reducing steam, causing the wheelslip to stop but the train to jerk again. “This is Swindon’s finest? Banging your passengers up and down the line?”

Truro growled, but otherwise didn’t dignify it with a response.

Haultraugh

The train banged and clattered into Haultraugh station amid a veritable cloud of insults. The coaches yelled and snapped with each bump, the driver was heavy-handed on the throttle, berating Truro for each wheelslip, and the fireman made only a minimal effort the get the coal into the firebox, leaving the cab a dusty mess and the fire a poorly-burning pastiche of what it should be. Dirty black exhaust emanated from Truro, staining his paint and dulling his brass. The radio hadn’t let up since they left Arlesburgh, a torrent of complaints spewing from the guards in the coaches.

The passengers in the station recoiled at the state of the train, and even before it stopped moving some turned around and left.

“Ach jaysus!” Burst out Donald, who was stopped at the signal on other platform, running “light” down to Arlesburgh to pick up a stone train. “What’re ye doin ye great beastie? Them’s coaches, nae trucks!”

Truro scowled at him. “I don’t need any help from you, you Caledonian lout!”

“An what’s tha’ supposed to mean?!”

The argument soon became blistering, with the coaches joining in on Donald’s side.

“-oh yes, we’re just all third class biddies to him!”

“-what I’m saying is that if you like Scotland so much you should go back to it!”

“-does anyone know the postcode fer Swindon? I’m gonna crush ye up and mail ye back in a box!”

“And we’ll help!”

“Typical lower class aggression! Not a drop of emotional intelligence anywhere!”

The few passengers still on the platform had very quietly made their escape - a brave few had gotten onto the train, but most had followed the first group and made a mad dash for the station carpark. Quite a few of those on the train joined them, and by the time the stationmaster came out, screaming bloody murder at Truro and Donald alike, the train had gotten quite emptier.

This was very apparent to the guard, who barrelled up the platform to yell at Truro as well. “You great mouthy disaster! Half the bloody train has run off because you can’t keep a consistent speed for five seconds! We’d better get going before they all run off!”

Truro turned a particularly bright shade of puce at that, and then very quickly turned a bright red when the guard pulled out his flag and whistle and made a great show of using both right in front of him.

With an infuriated whistle and a roar of steam, Truro practically ripped the throttle from his driver’s hand, and tried to take off down the line. The coaches and the guard screamed at him to stop, and it took a lot of squealing brake shoes just to slow the train to a crawl. As the second to last coach passed the guard, a door popped open, and he was able to jump on board.

“You maniac engine!” The guard shouted down the radio as he landed in a heap on the coach’s carpet. “You’ll pay for this!”

Truro simply grew angrier still, and bumped the coaches. This sent anyone not sitting down flying, and startled the coaches so much that the brakes came off, and the train shot forward down the line.

The driver was quick to apply the brakes again, and the train continued its jerky, stop-start journey down the line to Tidmouth. Before it had even left sight of the station, the stationmaster was back in his office, placing a very serious phone call…

Truro stormed into the tunnel, more furious than he’d been in a very long time. The NERVE… He bellowed within the confines of his own mind, too angry to even think coherently. The train was far lighter than it should have been, considering the pull on his couplings when they left Arlesburgh, and it only made him crosser still.

His smoke was dark and sooty, and each chuff was a deafening thunderclap inside the tunnel bore. He stormed over the summit and down the grade towards the big station, bursting out the other side just in time for the first ray of sunlight to crest over the horizon, straight into his eyes.

Hissing like a wounded animal, he jerked the train and shut his eyes, never once thinking of slowing down as they bucked over the switch at the start of the double track line into the station. Anyone out in Tidmouth’s affluent northern boundary in the predawn hour would have been treated to a phenomenal show of smoke and steam as Truro charged down the line towards the station.

To make matters worse, the line here was actually icy, the morning dew having frozen to the rails. Ordinarily not an issue, Truro’s rage and already difficult to master throttle had the driver increasing and reducing steam at wild intervals. The coaches, now firmly against their engine, were of no help, and bounced on his buffers like the most uncivilized group of trucks imaginable. The bumps were so bad that even the headboard mounted above his eyebrows was rattling on its posts.

In the coaches, the remaining passenger clutched at anything sturdy. They were praying harder now than they would have at church, and felt very close to God indeed.

Far away, Charles Hatt could just barely see a puff of smoke making its way across the horizon.

“Granddad, do you have to go to work?” Jack, his youngest grandson, whined in the way that young children could only do. “It’s almost Christmas!”

Stephen opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Barbara, who was having faux-melodrama with her breakfast. “Jack, am I not enough for you? You need Grandpa too? Not just Auntie Barbara?”

Jack giggled, and was soon joined by the rest of the children, who flocked to Barbara’s theatrics like iron to a magnet.

“We see you all the time, Aunt Barbara!” Stephanie protested. “We never get to see Grandpa!”

“But he’s so old,” Barbara protested, causing Charles to quirk his eyebrow in mirth. “Not like moi, who is a picture of health and vitality!”

“Barbara,” He said evenly. “Have you been telling the children that you’re their aunt?”

“Isn’t she?” Stephanie said, turning to face Charles and missing the wide eyed look that Barbara tried to stifle.

“Well,” Charles said with as much drama as he could muster. “She is your mother’s aunt, which means that makes her my little sister, and… your Great Aunt!”

The Children gasped at this revelation, and turned to face Barbara. “Auntie, you didn’t say you were old too!” Jack said.

“Maybe you should go to work.” Barbara addressed over the heads of the children.

“Maybe I will stay at home and educate my grandchildren on how family trees work.”

“Um,” Stephen said from across the dining room, marmalade toast halfway to his mouth. “You do know that I took today off, right?”

“You know, I think I’d forgotten that.” Charles said, reaching for a piece of fruit. “But I think the railway can manage one day without us.”

The Cathedrals Express screeched into Tidmouth with the sound of nails on a chalkboard.

Truro was black from buffer to buffer, coal dust streaking down him in a myriad of ways. His eyes were red, sweeping furiously across the platform, seeking out anything at which he could yell. The coaches were howling at the tops of their voices at him, seconded only by the train crew, who emerged from the cab equally black and enraged. They stormed up the platform, leaving black boot prints on the cement, wielding shovels threateningly. Behind them, the doors to the coaches opened up, and a wave of blasphemy followed the passengers out of the train. In two distinct streams, they parted on the platform, the first and largest group made a beeline for the ticket office - they were going to speak to someone about this.

The second group followed the crew up the platform, and before a minute had passed, Truro was surrounded by a near riot of angry people telling him exactly what they thought of him and his ability to pull trains.

Somehow, he was able to still his tongue, and take his verbal lashes in silence. The station staff were rushing up the platform like they were being chased, and he hoped against hope that someone, anyone could make it all stop.

Then, a particularly loud voice became briefly audible over the crowd noise. “-and if you want to be like that so bad, HERE, take it!”

A hard-sided leather briefcase came sailing out of the crowd in a near perfect arc. It smashed into Truro just above his eyebrows, fell down his face, bounced off his nose, and caught itself by the handle on one of his lamp irons. The case snapped open, and papers flew everywhere.

There was also an ornate clatter, followed by a shattering sound. Looking around on the ground for what that possibly could have been, Truro’s eyes fell upon the Cathedrals Express headboard, lying broken in three pieces on the sleepers of the next track. The GWR-painted crest sat almost perfectly atop one of the rails, and Truro had a fleeting thought that it could be salvaged…

Until, moments later, it was crushed underneath Gordon’s wheels, as the big blue idiot backed down onto his train.

Eyes wide with surprise, and not even able to fake the pompous demeanour he usually took with Truro, Gordon looked at the raging crowd, the furious coaches, and the simmering mad locomotive. “What on earth has happened? What have you done?”

Truro’s response could be heard on the platforms of Knapford station, nearly three miles away.

It must be said that the Alresburgh crew’s plan did not go exactly as planned.

Yes, while Truro did receive a tidy helping of the blame, the Tidmouth stationmaster and the yardmaster, who both declared the other to be in charge once it was discovered that the Fat Controller was “unavailable”, declared that this was everyone’s fault, and punished accordingly.

The driver was sent off to the docks, to work with the shunters down there - apparently the weekend fishing catch was much greater than expected.

The fireman/inspector was formally written up, for allowing such nonsense to happen (even if the stationmaster had no idea of the extent that he allowed things to happen)

The coaches turned out to be slightly damaged by Truro’s rough handling (and their own responses to that), and they were sent off to the works on the back of a goods train, much to their displeasure.

Truro, who was so upset he could barely be moved, was eventually dragged to the coaling stage by Edward, who took one look at the situation and decided that he didn’t actually want to know.

Later (hours later), while still fuming with rage and snapping at everyone in view, Truro was washed down on the yardmaster’s orders. The only hose that anyone could “find” (actually looking involved effort that nobody wanted to spend) was attached to the yard’s standpipe. Somehow, being hosed down with freezing cold water in temperatures that were at most a degree above freezing somehow didn’t help Truro’s mood, and when late afternoon came he was sparkling clean but blindingly angry.

The yardmaster nor the yard foreman were willing to trust him with coaches, and so he took a short mail train back to the Little Western as the sun started to go down. The mail vans had heard something about this engine not being a Friend Of The Mail, and considered making his life difficult, but the beady-eyed, tooth grinding fury that was plastered all across his face made them reconsider that course of action. They didn’t say a word to Truro, and he didn’t say a word to them, all the way to Arlesburgh.

Duck and Oliver were no more interested in talking to him than he was in talking to them, and so he sat in a corner of the yard for most of the day, ignoring the looks the trucks gave him.

That night, the night shift stationmaster came over and spoke to him seriously. “Truro, I know that there’s been some issues over the last day or so, but we need an engine to run the next service. Do you think you can keep your calm long enough to take it?”

Truro wanted to tell him exactly what had been disrupting his calm earlier, but held his tongue. “Of course sir. Where is the train going?”

After the disaster of that morning, the return Cathedrals Express had been run using Donald and a group of second and third class coaches taken from the Express pool. They hadn’t been needed after that, and Donald had needed to take one last stone train before the Christmas eve rush effectively removed all goods trains from the timetable, so he hadn’t been able to return them. There was just enough room in the timetable for a train to go south to Tidmouth around eight that night, so the stationmaster had organized a special “extra” service.

Truro didn’t say anything to the coaches as he buffered up to them, and they didn’t say anything to him. It was a difference from the usual fawning and fussing that he usually received, and after the morning, it was a welcome change. Pleasantly, his crew didn’t speak more than was strictly necessary. He didn’t know it, but shortly after the train had arrived in Tidmouth, there had been a series of very loud phone calls to Arlesburgh, and the crews had been ordered to never do that again.

Thankfully, few of the passengers traveling to Tidmouth at 8 PM were in the same circles as those who went to church at 6 in the morning, and nobody said a word about the disastrous Cathedrals Express as they filed onto the train. Despite it being an extra service, it was still full to near-capacity, and he struggled a bit on the frost-slicked rails along the coast.

In complete opposition to the events of the morning, the extra service arrived and departed from Haultraugh with minimal delay. He met one of the northbound services there, and the tank engine didn’t even speak to him, instead choosing to remain subserviently quiet. It was yet another welcome change, and he relished in the silence until the signal man waved him through with flags - they hadn’t yet fixed the signal, something which never would have been allowed on Brunel’s GWR. He would have to speak to someone about that, at some point.

Arriving in Tidmouth was an altogether pleasant experience this time around - there was a ludicrously dressed band playing music that wasn’t dreck this time, and the passengers streamed out of the train with no fuss whatsoever, let alone a riot.

His crew spoke to him for the first time in the journey, informing him that it would be some time before he could get back to Arlesburgh, due to the holiday traffic, and that they would leave him by the carriage sheds. By the time they got there, Truro was simmering happily, and he even found the time to take a nap.

I suppose we all have bad days…he thought to himself as he drifted to sleep under a few flakes of snow.

It is now Christmas Eve

He was rather rudely woken up at one o’clock in the morning, to a pure white vista stretching everywhere he could see. “Oh bother…” he said, surveying the completely snowed-in yard as the church’s clock tower bonged once.

A crew - presumably his crew - were moving purposefully around him, oiling his joints and tending to his fire with less care than he’d like. “Two inches an hour!” One panted as he shoveled snow off the coal pile in his tender. “It’ll be a foot high soon!”

“How concerning…” Truro drawled, unsure why so many people were fussing around him - he was warm enough to melt the snow landing on his boiler, perhaps they should be focusing their attentions elsewhere? Shovelling snow perhaps? “I take it you are to bring me inside?”

Bitter laughter, laced with schadenfreude, rang out around him. His warm mood began to dissipate as he began to get an idea of what they wanted him to do… “Gentlemen, I do hope you know that I am still technically part of the Collection at Swindon until the first of January-”

The sun just about peaked over the horizon as a snow and ice coated Truro slithered into Arlesburgh station. The tight confines of the tunnel meant that the Little Western was assigned a wedge type snowplow that was modified to be narrower than usual. It did its job well enough for clearing the line, but as an added detriment, it tended to throw quite a lot of snow back over the engine pushing it. This usually wasn’t a problem for Duck and Oliver, who knew the limitations of their equipment and went slower as a result, but Truro had just spent the last five hours clearing the line as fast as he could. He was wet, he was cold, and he was coated in ice.

The yard was still covered with snow, but the upcoming Christmas eve traffic would be using solely the coaching stock, so nobody was too fussed about clearing the goods yard. (Except the trucks, but there wasn’t an engine around who would listen to them right now.)

“Oh look!” The shed doors were thrown open, and Oliver emerged from the shed in a cloud of smoke and steam. “It snowed last night! How…”

His voice trailed off as he saw Truro. The bigger engine was being disconnected from the snowplow, and didn’t even appear to notice him, but it was enough to quench any possible excitement over the snowfall. Oliver made it halfway to the carriage sheds before he even realized that Truro had probably been the one to clear the line.

Truro watched the tank engine fetch the autocoaches. He may have feigned disinterest, but he was still paying keen attention, and had seen how the childish excitement had trailed off the instant eyes had been pointed in his direction.

Hmmph, he grumbled to himself, the mild indignation mixing and swirling with the furious discomfort of a long, cold, sleepless night. What’s all that about? Is my very presence enough to snuff out joy? Juvenile little imp. Just because I want order and discipline in the yard he thinks that happiness can go out the window? Hmmph. I will have words with him later. He scowled at nothing in particular, and this time he actually didn’t notice Duck emerging from the shed, seeing his face, and then steaming out of sight as quickly as possible.

As much as Truro wanted to correct this behavior, the time just wasn’t there. It was Christmas Eve, and the island was going… well to put it frankly, absolutely berserk.

The roads were jammed with cars, buses, and lorries going every which way, but especially into Tidmouth. Ferries from Ireland and the Island of Man were rushing back and forth as fast as the winter seas would allow. Airplanes soared low overhead, as they made long sweeping approaches to the airfield at Dryaw. Even Harold the helicopter was buzzing about - the roads were so choked that he had to act as an air ambulance.

And then there were the trains.

No train was long enough, and services couldn’t be frequent enough. Every train bound for anywhere was full to bursting; the Express was double headed, as was the Limited. James was so rushed that he forgot to complain about anything, and when Truro and Bear briefly crossed paths in the big station, they were both so focused on their next train that they didn’t notice the other.

The mariachi band was playing in shifts, and multiple engines had to do a double take at the occasional Yugoslav folk song that was thrown into the mix. Strangely, Gordon seemed to enjoy it, and he spent his meagre downtime talking to the bandleader about… whatever it was that Gordon would talk about.

And the weather wasn’t playing favorites either. The weather had warmed above freezing, and the clouds had given way to the sun, causing the snow to melt onto the cold rails, where it either froze or puddled. On the Little Western, Truro found himself slipping inside the tunnel, as snow that fell off the roofs of passing trains melted onto the rails.

For some unusual reason, Duck had even more trouble than that, and any time he set off from a stop it was with a flurry of wheelslip before his driver could bring things under control. “I think it’s your auto-train gear,” The fireman said, poking at the controls. “Something might be loose.”

“Just what we need…” Duck grimaced as he rolled into Haultraugh with a northbound train. The rails were icy just before the points, and his brakes locked as he encountered a fully iced over section. “Whoa!”

“Easy!” He yelped, as his driver slammed shut the regulator from his position in Alice’s control cab, and the Duck slithered to a stop directly on top of the switch.

Fortunately, this had happened several times before just in the last hour, and so with great care and patience, Duck’s driver slowly opened the regulator and…

chuff chuff chuff chuff chuffchuffchfuffchuffchfuffchuffchuffchuff

Duck slipped immediately, his wheels spinning wildly on the ice, before abruptly finding purchase. The entire train jolted, but got underway, and they were at the platform within a few moments.

Meanwhile, inside the signal box, trouble was brewing.

When Duck slipped, the whole building had shaken, the entire lever frame jumped, and there was a loud ping sound. The signalman groaned, knowing exactly what had happened.

Sure enough, when he tried to move the lever controlling the points, it wouldn’t budge. Worse still, the lever was frozen halfway between its two stops, meaning that the switch wasn’t pointing to either track.

“Stupid great engine!” the man grumbled to himself, already dialing the phone. The signal maintainers are going to earn their overtime today!

Duck didn’t learn that he’d broken the points until he’d arrived at Arlesburgh, and it was to his surprise that he felt no guilt or shame over it, or the massive inconvenience it would cause to the passengers on such an important day.

Instead, all he felt was worry and discomfort - unlike the last two times this had happened, all of the branch’s engines were trapped in Arlesburgh yard… and that included Truro.

Or rather, City of Truro. Use my full name, scum.

With all trains being delayed or cancelled outright, Truro and Oliver had been moved back to the sheds. Of course, Truro was facing Oliver, meaning that he couldn’t ignore the big engine.

Duck was usually a brave engine, but today his bravery ran away and hid, and he asked his driver if he wouldn’t mind taking a look at the auto-train gear.

Begrudgingly, the man agreed, and Duck sat there, facing away from Truro and Oliver, wondering exactly when everything had gone all wrong.

“So,” Oliver asked after a long silence. “What’s gotten so up your boiler that you’ve gone and become a bastard all of a sudden?”

Truro recoiled like he’d been struck. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” Oliver said firmly. “You’ve been nice as can be (to us) for weeks and weeks, and then all of a sudden out comes the old haughty express engine tripe.” He fixed the big engine with a level glare. “It wasn’t fun back then and it isn’t fun now.”

There was a simmering silence that followed that. Truro was inscrutable.

“You know, I don’t quite understand it.” Truro said after a second. “I spoke with Duck just the other day about perhaps restoring some discipline to our interactions, and he said that you were all for it.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “No he didn’t, come off it.”

“Oh yes,” Truro was entirely earnest, except for the shifty look in his eyes. “He said it would be nice to go back to the old ways. Something about tradition?”

The lie was so bad, and so blatant that Oliver couldn’t even be offended. “Mate,” He said, halfway to a chuckle. “That might work on a Paddie shunter like Duck, but I’m from the countryside, right? ‘Bout the only thing I trust coming out the mouth of an express engine that acts like you is ‘Hello,’ ‘Goodbye,’ and ‘I’m better than you.’ So cut the nonsense and say it Swindon style, alright?”

Duck had been listening intently since the moment Oliver had said the word “bastard.” On one buffer, it was inconceivable that he would speak to Truro in that way, but on the other…

Then:

I spoke with Duck just the other day about perhaps restoring some discipline to our interactions, and he said that you were all for it.”

What?

Duck reeled, completely missing everything that happened after that. Truro said that he what?

It was so completely false, so untrue, that it didn’t feel real.

Why would he say that? Duck thought to himself. Does he think Oliver would believe him?

“Oh Yes, he said it would be nice to go back to the old ways. Something about tradition?” Truro’s voice filtered through the mental noise.

Tradition? What?

There was a crashing noise from outside the station. A car towing a trailer had hit a pothole, causing the trailer to bounce up and down, making a tremendous racket.

Duck didn’t hear that.

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! We’ve broken away! We’ve broken away! We’ve broken away!”

“Chase him! Bump him! Throw him off the rails!”

“Another clear mile and we’ll do it.” “Oh glory! Look at that!”

There was a passenger train in the station.

“I must stop them. I must.”

A sudden swerve, a slide.

A barbershop.

What had been murky was suddenly clear.

Truro wasn’t being nice. He didn’t care.

He was manipulating them.

“Galloping Sausage!” “Rusty Red Scrap Iron!” “Old Square Wheels!”

“I’m revolutionary…”

Exactly how it happened all those years ago.

“He played me for a fool…” Duck whispered to himself, as every interaction he’d had with Truro played through his mind, free of bias for the first time. “He’s like a diesel…”

Silently, tears fell from his eyes.

His driver, too engrossed in the auto train connections, didn’t notice.

“So cut the nonsense and say it Swindon style, alright?” Oliver’s phrasing hung in the air like a lead balloon. ‘Say it Swindon style’ was the ultimate request - a plea, or perhaps a demand - to say exactly what you meant, with no more dancing around the point. The great equalizer, any engine could say it, at any time - it was one of the immutable rules of the Great Western.

Truro’s earnest look faded. It didn’t disappear, but it seemed to lose all its warmth. What had been a slight upturn to the edges of his lips became the barest hint of a sad smile. There was something behind his eyes, but it still seemed hidden, or perhaps restrained. “Are you sure?” the bigger engine asked, after a second. It almost seemed like he was readying himself to let go of a great weight, in the way that an engine does when they finally reach the last station, or the top of the hill.

“Am I sure? What kind of a question is that?” Oliver saw all of this play out on Truro’s face, but he didn’t comprehend it. If he’d had Duck’s level of training, of knowledge, of sheer exposure to haughty express engines, alarm bells would’ve been ringing.

But he wasn’t Duck, and his only real exposure to big engines and subterfuge was Gordon. He mentally shrugged off the “odd” look Truro was giving him, and tried his best to look slightly intimidating.

“What do you know about me?” Truro asked, after a moment.

“What sort of a question is that?”

“The ultimate question.” Truro looked almost pensive. “Am I a creature of myth, shrouded in fables, or am I steel and iron? Do you know who I really am?”

“You’re City of Truro, and I’m not playing guessing games beyond that.” Express engines always had these inflated ideas of their own importance anyways.

“Ah,” Truro rolled his eyes ever so slightly. “So I’m naught but a myth to you. Some ultimate creation, hewn from a solid block of steel by Brunel himself. Blessed be my name, for I am the son of the father, and the only witness to the holy ghost.”

“Well I wouldn’t go that far-”

“Hmm. All better for you then. Some do; we’ve been sharing a shed with one.”

“I wouldn’t say-”

“Oh, but he would.” Truro’s smile sharpened slightly. “One of the Paddingtons. He knows the legend full well.” There was a pause, and a hint of sadness. “Of course, he knows the legend as it is now.”

“Now?”

A sad chuckle escaped Truro. “Ah, there were two of us once: myself, and the holy ghost. He was once my compatriot - my comrade in arms, so to speak. Great Bear. Now there was an engine that Brunel shined on. I had to get by on my merits - my speed, my looks, my charm - but he needed only to exist for the full weight of fame to fall upon him. Posters, films, anything of publicity value, he was on it, right next to me. It was wonderful, having someone to share the load with.”

“But I thought that Great Bear was-”

“A total failure?” This was followed by a bitter chuckle. “Yes, he was. He wasn’t the great white hope that we all wished for, but you’d never know that for the publicity. He could do no wrong, and his wheels turned the rails to gold anywhere he went.” He paused wistfully. “And then it became anywhere we went. When the papers finally saw fit to publish my name, and my achievements, my status rose to equal his, and the publicity department couldn’t be separated from us both except with crowbars.”

Oliver, wondering exactly where Truro was going with this, missed the engine’s darkening expression. “And then of course, came progress.” He almost spit the word. “Churchward had only retired for what felt like a week when Collett swaggered into the picture. His thoughts were that only successful engines should be public figures.”

Truro was getting more and more emotional, words being accentuated by barely hidden anger. “Caerphilly was getting her official portrait done within three months, and Great Bear was gone within two years. They took him away and used his parts to make a Castle. He didn’t even recognize me when it was all said and done.”

“Hey…” Oliver felt an instinctual need to stand up for his designer. “Mister Collett was-”

“A man.” Truro snapped. “An ordinary man, with a pencil. He knew nothing of how engines lived, just how to improve them.” A scowl. “They even came for me, and the rest of my family, soon enough. I wanted to rage at the world, to rebel, fight, or at least die with them, but they all said ‘no, Truro, you will live on.’”

He scoffed. “What they meant was that I would be the one to carry their names into the future. To make sure that our class does not die the same ignoble death that Great Bear did. What the engines that you replaced did.”

“Oi!”

“Shut up. Do you think those branch lines managed themselves, before the works pushed you out like a little green turd?” It was now inescapably obvious that Truro was incensed, and Oliver began looking around for someone, anyone to defuse the tension.

Truro continued. “And then, do you know what happened? What my thirty years of faithful service got me? My speed record?”

“Did you call me a-”

“I got my wish.” Truro hissed. “I got my bloody wish to die with my family, because the Great Western Railway had no interest in preserving its history. I was going to go off to scrap, but at the last minute…” He trailed off, furious. “The last minute, I was saved. By the L-N-E-R.”

Part of Oliver’s mind was suitably shocked by this information. The rest was trying to plan an escape. He’s going mad right in front of me!

“I spent the next twenty six years crammed into a shed with the best and brightest the North Eastern could bother to preserve,” Truro continued, his voice buzzing with anger. “Who all think that they are god’s gift to railways, and that everyone else - including me - are apostates! It would drive a lesser engine mad. It almost drove me mad, but I was saved - or so I thought, when British Railways came calling.”

Oliver wanted to be anywhere else. “Oh yeah?” just keep him talking Ollie. Someone’s gotta come over here sometime.

Truro continued like he hadn’t heard Oliver. “They pulled me from that accursed building and whispered promises like they meant them. I’d get to run trains again, they said. With my own kind - Westerners!” He scoffed. “How quickly they forgot the reason why I was in that damnable place. Or so I thought at the time.”

He was quiet for a moment, and that honestly scared Oliver more than the increasingly crazed rambling. “You would never have known, seeing as you suffered the replacements that forced the change, but back then modernization was a dignified thing. We did our jobs until we were allowed our final rest. It was treated more like a living funeral, similar to what the humans do when one of their own gets some incurable disease. What do they call it nowadays, hospice care? It was quiet, and orderly. We were allowed to make our own goodbyes.”

He paused for yet another worrying moment, gaze dropping to the sleepers. “I was treated as a dangerous lunatic, for wanting to rage against this process. For wanting them to live.”

The gaze snapped up, and Truro stared directly into Oliver’s eyes. The burning rage behind the eyes was almost diesel-like in its intensity. “I trust that you remember what happened, as progress battered our shores?”

“Y-yeah.” Oliver gulped.

“I didn’t like the Castles,” Truro didn’t break the gaze. “Nor any of the rest. But they were still Our Metal, and they were worthy of that basic respect. I watched, from my position of privilege, my ornate cage of preservation, as every single one of them were driven into the rails in some sadistic attempt to extract every last shilling of value from them. How they were towed off to the scrap heap without so much as a by-your-leave. Engines would vanish, never to be seen or heard from again. Their friends would die wondering what had happened. The diesels reveled in it. They laughed and played with us as pawns on their game boards! Sadists, every one of them!”

Oliver had lived through this era, thanks very much, and was not enjoying a forced history lesson. “I was there.”

“But you didn’t go back in the box, did you?” Truro’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You ran for the hills and got away clean, like nobody ever did before or since. There was no rumour of your survival or death, no muttered tale of a crane snatching you off the dock like Scylla, or a screaming dismemberment at some mechanical abattoir, just a true story of the little engine that did. Not even I was so lucky. I had to go back, into an even smaller box this time, surrounded by the trappings of the railway I had just seen dismantled before my very eyes!”

Speaking of eyes, a little bit of derangement was slipping into Truro’s. “You have no idea what it was like! To be torn asunder and then thrown into a box for people to gawk at! There were only four of us to represent over a century’s worth of history, while more and more of it was being cut up just outside the walls! On clear nights we could hear it!” He was panting like he’d just charged up Gordon’s hill with the brake on. “Lode Star wouldn’t speak for ten years! I didn’t know what gender she was because I’d never even spoken to her! You have no idea the level of trauma I went through before I got here!”

Something in Oliver very quietly went snap. “You think that I don’t know?!” He found his voice and roared like a much larger engine. “I was on the run! This wasn’t some Sunday excursion up to Cumbria! I had to hide to survive! Living off of charity, my crew stealing coal out of other engine’s tenders! We disguised ourselves as a landslip to hide from the diesels looking for us!”

“Oh! And yet somehow you associate with them as though that didn’t happen!” Truro yelled back, subtlety forgotten.

“They’re not all monsters!” Oliver could not believe he was making this argument. “After they shut you back in that museum they started going after the diesels too! Whole classes wiped out in a month! All the Western region types, gone from service except for Bear, and BoCo’s worse off than that - he’s the only one of his kind left!”

“You named them?” Truro scoffed. “They don’t deserve names! They don’t deserve anything!”

Oliver growled. “Suddenly, I get why Bear hates you so much! There’s not much of you to like!”

“I’m not here to be liked!” Truro roared. “I am here to be obeyed! Don’t you get it, you mental reject? I am the express engine, and you are the servant who does my bidding!”

“Servant?” Oliver scoffed. “Yeah right, I might not be the most fanatical engine, but even I know that Brunel-”

“BRUNEL IS DEAD! I REMAIN!” Truro screamed. “I am the Great Western! My word is law! Do you think I spent twenty two years in Swindon telling children about broad gauge? No! I built the foundations of a legend that will live on forever. There is a Great Western Way, and it is my way!” Steam was beginning to escape from Truro’s nostrils.

The small part of Oliver’s mind not consumed by blinding rage nor reeling from shock was beginning to realize that he may be in some very real danger. It was not paid any attention to. “Not on this island it isn’t.” He said, suddenly defiant. “We follow the real ways, right from the heart of Paddington!”

Truro made a noise that could be a scoff or a hysterical scream. Or both. “I am well aware of that! And I will fix that! Just as I have been fixing that since I arrived here!”

“How’d you mean?” Oliver was only partly aware he said that.

“What- what- You can’t actually be that stupid?” Truro was incredulous, and it took the edge off his rage. “Have you not paid even a bit of attention to what has been happening around you? Are you as willfully blind as the other one?” Truro’s eyes motioned towards Duck, who hadn’t said a damn word the whole time.

“What?” Oliver said. “What could you have possibly done?”

“EVERYTHING!” Truro dragged out every syllable. “I have done everything to bring this line up the standards of the true Western, and away from the backwater attempt at adherence to The Ways that it currently is! I excised that diesel, I meddled with your trains, I even caused that derailment. You mean to tell me that you didn’t even notice!?”

Oliver was momentarily speechless. “You- you- you did what? You… you treated Bear like that on purpose?!”

“I most certainly did! It was far too welcome around here!”

“And-and-and you - you didn’t break his-”

“I will admit it was a touch more brutish than necessary, but the results were effective!” Truro almost sounded pleased with himself.

Oliver was seeing red. “What did he do to deserve that, you monster?!”

“I saw enough good engines get hauled away to an unjust end to make its specific crimes irrelevant.” Truro sniffed. “But I would think that it swanning into our midst with a Great Western livery on its sides was provocation enough!”

Oliver’s safety valves lifted, and Truro raised an eyebrow. “Oh don’t get upset, it’s not worth it.” He said hypocritically.

Oliver wanted to scream. “You- you- you- I can’t-”

“That’s right,” Truro cut him off. “You can’t, and you shouldn’t. You’re a tank engine. Your job is to make sure I can do mine. The fact that you get to gallivant all over this Island while I have to shunt trucks is an abomination.”

“You messed with my trains?!” Oliver suddenly remembered what else Truro had just admitted to.

“How else could I put you in your place?” Truro retorted, slowly regaining his composure as Oliver spiralled into spluttering rage. “It should have worked, too, but this whole line seems to be blessed by Saint Cajetan, he who brings luck to the moronic! Anywhere else, and you’d have been demoted to pushing trucks filled with horse shit two weeks ago!”

“And when that didn’t work you derailed a train?” Oliver snapped. “They were ours! Westerners to a one!”

Truro rolled his eyes, like it was a stupid question. “Don’t be idiotic. Those vans weren’t supposed to make it halfway out of the yard with bearings that seized. The fact they made it well past Haultraugh is a testament to their Great Western construction!”

“So, so, so what? They were supposed to fall apart or something? Make a mess in the yard?”

“Oh yes! That would’ve gotten you put on work details for a year in Paddington - moving something without inspecting it first? For shame.” Truro almost looked like he hadn’t just been screaming his voice raw. “But of course, not all plans survive contact with the enemy - or the Scots.”

Oliver, on the other wheel, looked ready to explode. “Why me!?” He bellowed. “Why pick on me? What did I do to you? What did I do that Duck didn’t?!”

“What you didn’t do, Oliver,” Truro said his name like it was an epithet. “Was know. Your. Place. Duck knew his place. Duck was not a problem. You, on the other buffer… needed some “re-education” on your proper spot in the world.”

Oliver stared at the diesel masquerading as a steam engine. “You won’t get away with this.” He said, his voice quivering with anger. “The Fat Controller-”

“Will learn nothing of this.” Truro cut him off, his face going very serious. “No-one will know of this conversation outside of us.”

“Hah!” Oliver laughed involuntarily. “What a load of rubbish! You think I’m not going to tell him? You think he’s not going to believe me?”

“Oh, I know that you won’t tell him.” Truro said very calmly, his face impassive.

“How’s that gonna work?” Oliver felt a rush of confidence. Truro had overplayed his hand, and he was going to feel the wrath of-

Inside Truro’s cab, the reverser and regulator moved violently. With a great jerk forwards, Truro began to roll towards Oliver, quickly buffering up against him and pushing him backwards. “OI!” Oliver screamed in the big engine’s face. “What’re you doing?!”

“Well Oliver,” Truro fixed him with a murderous stare as they rolled backwards toward the closed doors of the shed. “As it turns out, I know that you won’t tell the Fat Controller anything, and I know that because if you do…”

He trailed off as they smashed into and then through the door to the shed, wood raining down on them in a shower of splinters. A few seconds later, Oliver slammed into the buffers at the end of the shed, stopping with a groan of metal and wood.

Truro’s wheels kept spinning, though, and the creaking of the buffers got louder and louder.

“Well,” Turro said, his voice gravely serious. “It turns out that they preserved several of your brothers and sisters. If you should become a problem, I will simply replace you with one of them. Understand?”

Oliver gulped, but remained defiant. “They’ll never let you get away with this!”

Truro’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. “I’m City of Truro. You’re a tank engine. Who’s going to believe you?!”

“Oi! What in the name of mike are ya doing you maniac!” It was at this point that several new voices, all speaking over each other, interrupted the proceedings. Feet pounded on the floor of the shed, and hands grasped at the handle to Truro’s ash pan. Bodies flung themselves up the ladder and bounded into Truro’s cab. Hands cranked open the injectors and shot the in-cab hose into the firebox, drowning the fire and cooling the boiler even as the burning coals were unceremoniously dropped into the shed’s ashpit.

Truro yelped at the hands and bodies clamoring over him. “What are you doing? Stop that!”

He was ignored, and a hand grasped at the lever for the safety valve, and the shed filled with steam as the boiler pressure was released in a continuous droning roar. Truro bellowed some more, and attempted to move his controls, only to be stopped by a firm hand on the regulator and the reverser.

Oliver was blind in the confusion, and felt more than saw someone enter his cab and open the regulator slowly. With a few short chuffs, he was moving, shoving Truro backwards out of the shed and into the yard.

They emerged from the shed in a cloud of steam, Truro bellowing and roaring like a wounded animal. The cloud of steam seemed to multiply in size on contact with the cold winter air, and the figures swarming around in the cloud seemed to be more like spectres and phantoms than men.

Eventually, the hand at Oliver’s controls shut off steam and applied the brakes. Oliver came to a quick stop, while Truro continued to roll backwards under his own momentum. He came to rest a few dozen feet away, already under siege by men with large chocks to place around his wheels, locking him in place. The person in Oliver’s cab exited in a very swift manner, and Oliver noticed that he’d taken the coal shovel with him.

It was Duck’s driver, the one who had taken such an interest in Truro’s issues just a few days ago. He held out the shovel like a weapon, bellowing at the big engine as he stormed down the gravel. “What you think I’m fuckin deaf? You think that I’m not gonna hear you admit to bein’ the goddamned wrecking crew on my line? With my engines?!” He bellowed at a furious staccato.

“- think you’re immune? I will have you drawn and quartered for this!” Truro roared, his eyes looking from one man to the next - as the steam cleared, it became easier to identify people: the stationmaster, the yardmaster, a different driver, some of the porters, a guard, a cleaner, two inspectors, someone from the p-way gang, at least four firemen, some of the drivers from the small railway, and the signalman. “Your existence is tolerated! How dare you interrupt me, touch me in such ways! You will-”

CLANG

The coal shovel rebounded off of Truro’s face, and Duck’s driver reached up for another swing.

CLANG

This time the shovel fell out of his hands, and as he bent down to retrieve it, the p-way ganger, twice the size of a normal man, stepped forward. He was holding a pipe wrench the size of a sledgehammer. It usually laid against the wall of the shed, and was only used to undo some huge bolts that lay under Duck’s boiler jacket. The man gave it an experimental heft with one hand, and then turned and threw it at Truro like a shot put. It sailed through the air.

CRACK

Truro’s nose now pointed to the left. “YOU SAVAGES!” The big engine howled, snapped out of the stupor induced by the shovel. “I’LL KILL YOU AL-”

CLANG

The shovel came back for another swing, silencing Truro once again. Duck’s driver stood there, panting in the cold air, and pointed the shovel at the big engine yet again. “You think we didn’t hear you, you piece of shite? You’re done.”

#ttte fanfic #ttte bear #ttte duck #ttte oliver #ttte city of truro

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