Chapter Text
30 December, 1989
The eve of the 1980s would have been uneventful if not for the visitor to the Island. Seagull, one of Gresley's famous engines, rolled up to Barrow just the night prior to run across the bridge to Vickerstown to, finally, pull a special across the island, grumbling all the while. At the sheds, the engine complained about sore wheels from the trip, about lugging a train of perishable goods and priority mail to be "useful" as opposed to coaches of tourists—I am useful! I'm the only reason this blasted tour out to a bigger backwater than Norfolk is relevant at all!—and was still at it the morning after. The other engines at the shed, all diesels, were well glad to see him go, and him them; they hadn't got much sleep at all from arguing about quite important matters like what the best British Rail livery was, or which way the head of the Monarch faced on coinage, or why (or why not) things were better forty years ago.
At the station, Seagull wheeshed, snarled, and snorted, shooting steam up into the air, billowing a light bluish gray at the shadows turning orange in the morning sun as it condenses in the wintry air. Any spots where steam hissed out on the ground were melted through, but along the rest of the station and out toward the horizon, pinkish ultraviolet snow had piled so thickly and thoroughly that all but the top flowers of brushes and weeds were packed in with loose, powdery drifts, whipped around by the blustery winds. Not a soul wanted to be at the platform as they waited on a shunter to bring the coaches, least of all Seagull himself. Sometimes, the passengers really rued that 1927 day when the order was given to demolish the old, nice station here with a real roof and leave just a few open platforms in its place. Even if it wasn't the Region's terminus anymore, it's still the biggest port of entry for the Island itself and so still one of the most important stations.
Thunder cracked in the sky. Just what everyone needed. Thankfully, Seagull was a quite large metal thing much taller than anyone around, so there wasn't much risk of a shock... well, to anyone but him, that was. The only way things could be more miserable would be some sleet to top off the nearly two months of miserable weather, with five more still to go. The more eager to complain thought it was really quite a wonder anyone even lived here, but it was near the factories and the only link to the mainland, so some sacrifices were to be made. There wasn't much room for a limber upper lip anyway; they'd all be well frozen three months of the year in the best of years. A small group of men sung, a cappella, a rendition of a Christmas song, "God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen" to pass the time, even though the day had long come and gone; today was even bitterer than it was so it hadn't felt out of place; the workmen at the station hadn't even bothered to come out and remove any of the Christmas lights.
Eventually, a small little mainlander diesel came with a decently long train, and when Seagull's driver, who was outside, let him know it'd be a long one, he grinned. It was rather well fitting to the weather too—bitter. It enveloped his whole body, but his buffers especially felt it, and as the coaches bumped into them, he yelped some, frosty springs feeling a little pain from the sudden jolt.
"Bad news, though, boy; they're in Rail Blue."
Seagull grumbled some more. That'd clash with his shade of blue by being just so slightly off, that would. But the enthusiasts didn't seem to mind, and frankly, these lot seemed like they'd be happy to be in a bright magenta coach with yellow stripes if it had heating and cocoa. And it seems that was right because they'd started rushing to the edge of the platform before the coaches had even been coupled up to the engine, just the more well dressed stragglers staying behind to snap photos with cameras instant and less so, bangs of flash bulbs causing a bit of a racket to the annoyance of a woman in bright turquoise with a Betamovie, who was the last on the platform to get aboard, just in time before the guard's whistle signalled the train off.
Growling and grunting, he slipped and slode on the rails, wheels scraping and squealing, scowling as he tried to build up speed, slowly crawling forward and approaching a walking speed, but kept going until he found enough grip to roll away for real, building up speed and speed... and for once in the last who knows how long, he finally got in a nice, fast run, no need to stop any time soon or be restricted to that damned 25 mile per hour limit.
And, actually, he only started to realise he hadn't seen any other steam engines by the time he got to Crovan's Gate, where Ian was trundling by with a stopping passenger train, pulling in at the same time and offering a cheery honk. He was already well past either of his faces, so he let his own naturally curl into a disgusted frown. Diesels, he thought, doing the work of dignified engines. How the mighty island must have fallen.
He could feel ice start to form between his wheels and the rails as they loaded and unloaded, but before too long, they were off again and wouldn't stop until Knapford.
Sheep with great thick coats grazed around, but couldn't find much grass, beyond what was left underneath the protection of stout trees dotting the hill. Still, the exercise was nice. These sheep were, of course, jaded to the shrill shrieks and rumbling coming from that clearing over there at all hours of day and night, and figured this time around it was that big blue one that always goes fast and causes a racket; that's what those sounds usually meant. Of course, they were right in one way and wrong in another, but it didn't make much difference to them.
As they started to approach Knapford, Seagull's face started softening, enjoying the nice, long run. The platform was empty, of course, and Seagull didn't blame anyone. But there weren't any engines on the tracks, either; there was a train of trucks at the far end, but no trace of who pulled them; no trace, that is, besides how neatly organised all the trucks were, but that wouldn't have meant too much to him besides that the crews and shunters are paid by the hour. He was almost starting to get a little lonely, having nobody really to talk to, at least not any proper engines; the common diesels of burden were plentiful, but he'd been told this island were a steam haven, and there wasn't much of it to be seen.
Once he stopped, though, he finally heard puffing. Fainter at first, then louder, but almost out of breath sounding, and with... closer wheels clacking on the tracks? Maybe that engine is going tender-first?
What he didn't expect to be greeted by, or see at all besides photographs considering the only... other preserved examples were on the other side of England and for good reason, was the low-down face of an 1890s-era Metropolitan Railway brake coach, meticulously maintained but painted in that same Rail Blue. She gave him a smile that he didn't reciprocate, but didn't not reciprocate, and she went on introducing herself—Clarabel. "Right behind me is Annie, the first class coach, and behind her is our engine, Thomas. He got into many misadventures in our many years together but we think he's matured into a solid, dependable engine. You know, back in our younger days, we often got pulled around by one of your cousins. He should still be around here if you wanted to meet him..." And it was Thomas, Annie, and Clarabel whom many of the tourists got off the train to photograph, the woman with the Betacam even getting down to get a short interview with him and the coaches before turning to the Pacific.
The questions were the usual faff—going on about how he's finding the Island, what he thinks of rail preservations, what sort of work his railway does (she asked Thomas the same question), and so on. He put on a more pleasant face and voice for the interview, but was glad to see the back of it, too, and get on to finishing up the leg. The quicker he got done, the more time he'd have at least in shelter, if not the quicker he'd be out of here.
With that in mind, when came time, he lingered for a moment building up steam before taking off with surprising pep, eyes furrowed and a slight grin on his face—but not a happy one. Or not really happy for its own sake, at least. Still, it was something, and the trip to Tidmouth wasn't long, either, though the only trains sitting there were a common mixed traffic engine and the commonest tank engine, bickering in such a way where he wasn't quite sure if they were friends, enemies, or something else. They were smiling throughout, but that could be for really any reason. At least there was a real shelter under the glass roof, blocked by snow so all the lights were on but at least it wasn't all on the ground. Things were even pleasant, and he was looking forward to staying in the shed and meeting some of the more high-status engines; with such awful weather and many holidaymakers using the railtour as a more glamorous way to get to Tidmouth for the day, trains weren't long so the returning Express didn't have to be quite so long either, so one of the smaller engines he'd heard were here could handle it, he was sure.
Glad to be done with the work here for the day, he puffed off tender-first back to the big yard, where he was switched in to the Sheds, puffing in wordlessly, eyes closed and mouth held high. He had importance and wanted to show it.
The engines there—Gordon, Henry, Francis, and the night-shift engines, who were all asleep and so didn't quite matter much—had all seen importance many, many times in just the collective 244 years the three waking engines had experienced. Haughty Gresleys had been Gordon's main experience with preserved steam in general; one of his oldest younger brothers, Flying Scotsman, was one of the few he'd met who wasn't so bad.
Henry just rolled his eyes when Seagull had been facing away.
He took the open track directly to Gordon's left, between him and Francis, and spoke.
"So, I heard about a famous cousin of mine here. I assume you're him?"
Gordon snorted.
"I'd say Henry's more famous, and looks can be deceiving. Of course, I'm quite important to this Island's connections with Great Britain, but if all there was on a tiara was the great big gem in the centre, it'd be rather... ineffective, I'd say." He was wasting no time in getting to the 'is Henry our cousin?' discussion this time around.
Rather quickly did they have the Henry discussion. Seagull thought it an affront to Preservation that Henry, an exalted prototype of Gresley's first ideas become a test bed for Stanier to check if his mineral engine would work better with three cylinders, piggybacking off of their father's designs. Gordon was quite enjoying seeing an A4 in emotional distress. Henry didn't have the heart, as in he was somewhat enjoying it too, to tell him he was really an Ivatt design, stretched out to an unnecessary and cheaped-out-on wartime budget Pacific on a railway that was happy with Atlantic tank engines and electrics, by one of Marsh's interns as an experiment, and the third cylinder was entirely on Stanier; the story—really, rumour—was already so prevalent he'd have more trouble fighting it off than it was worth.
To make matters worse, Gordon then went on to dismiss the LNER, saying it's just the NER in a trenchcoat, and not the proper Great Northern he knew, with a slight smile once he saw Seagull's eyes bulge somewhat. "I suppose that was useful for giving Mallard enough room for a nice... hundred and twenty-five point something miles per hour, right? I've never really paid much mind to their speed records ever since they couldn't get Cecil Allen to verify Scotsman's run even when he was on their payroll. Not that I begrudge him, he's quite a pleasant chap. I'm looking forward to some Australian souvenirs next time I see him."
And on he went. It was to mostly Gordon's enjoyment that the newcomer didn't have the greatest night's rest when time came, though he was mostly left in peace as the two engines were needed elsewhere and even if he were willing to stoop to talking to the commoner, the commoner knew better than to talk to him.
31 December, 1989
Morning, early enough morning that the night crew weren't back yet and the day crew were all still asleep, came quicker than he'd expected, might as well have crashed through the roof and landed on his boiler. Birds chirped in the air as the wind blew against the doors, and for all his dignified act, he was dreading going back out.
But he was dreading staying in here until summer.
So he let the driver and fireman come and bring him up to steam, softly puffing onto the turntable and heading out of the shed. He would be pulling the eastbound that night, so all he had to do was to show up at the Island's capital. Easy enough, as he'd be leaving light and taking one of their trains; he would have been driven out even if he was still asleep this early just to not be in traffic's way. The twins had just come by half an hour previously so the rails were spotless, and honestly, with little commotion to be seen and just himself and his crew, the world seemed peaceful for a moment. He could even forget he wasn't back in his youth fifty years ago, with the far-off sounds of steam in the distance and the cities of Tidmouth and Knapford just about built up to their fullest extents much further back in the twentieth century. Even the cars and fashions of those not from England seemed to be behind the times, or without time at all.
All without time until he reached Wellsworth. The station, besides the necessary British Rail appointments, might as well have been frozen in time since 1890. Ornate trim and decorations at the tips of the roof caught his eye before the rough-hewn brick in any colour possible from reds and grays to blues did, with dark woods inside showing in a flash as someone came out to smoke. It was all very dignified, in a quaint way. Less so was the engine coming up for the first train of the day. An old Northern Single in the old lined black livery, tugging along a small train of more 1890s-era coaches in Rail Blue, it almost seemed like a bizarre, alternate reality scene of the Mainland in 1968. Strange, but... it made sense with the look of the station, he supposed. He was surprised when the engine puffed her way behind him after the coaches were emptied... and coupled those outdated things to him. Even worse, a tender engine doing shunting work. They could afford all this but not a station pilot?
But he'd be photographed. He'd better put on a bright face. Railtour mode...
His face searched a bit for a pleasant smile, and only found it just in time for the engine to puff back to a siding waiting for the train back. Then he let it fall. Just needed to know where it was once he did need it. He suspected that'd be soon.
"Have fun," she said, letting off some steam, yawning, and falling asleep, wrinkled face softening just slightly. He just had to push on, but for now, he had to wait for his schedule... which wouldn't be for another half hour. He could hear whistling and honking off in the distance, and tried imagining what was going on there as he sat to wait.
And wait.
The time went by uneventfully, painfully so. A diesel came by, one of those Midland clunkers he was surprised even lasted 11 years on the Mainland. Thankfully, he wasn't pulling anything important, just a slow scrap train he had to run around to take east, but he did see fit to honk and say "hello". Seagull pretended not to notice.
It almost felt triumphant, like he withstood a mighty tribulation, when the guard's whistle blew, his did in return, and steam plumed up in the air for their trip south. Little to see but pink-white fields, an orchard still using a steam tractor instead of a lorry, trees dotting the hills. honestly not much to see. But not too dissimilar to his railway, either...
Suddery was a bit of a change of pace, being the Island's capital it was almost as built up as Tidmouth-Knapford, but the station wasn't as modern, whereas Tidmouth's was a brutalist concrete and glass affair, Suddery's was brick, arches and spires towering over the trains passing by its three platforms and six tracks, let alone the people using it. The few remaining factories and the many more restaurants and homes let off wafts of smoke and steam, lights on, old cars scuttling about in the distance and even despite the weather a crowd at the station platform, with a few people holding cameras and camcorders—including the woman with the Betacam. As they approached, they could hear a chaotic tangled mess of speech, everyone talking, laughing, singing... and that was Seagull's cue to put on the pleasant face.
"Goood-mor-ning," he said, as slickly as he could, as he approached the platform. People looked up from their conversations and raised cameras, the familiar flashes sparkling like an ocean in sunset stinging somewhat when he looked directly at them, but he had to keep up his face. "I hope you haven't all been waiting here too long for my arrival."
Just at that moment, a whistle came from further down the line, and coming into view was another elderly lined-black engine, his face wrinkled but eyes youthful, nose pointed up and eyebrows salt-and-pepper at worst. The engine seemed to be taking things easy, just a wisp flowing out of his chimney as he coasted down the line to his stop at the other platform. Trailing behind was one of Ivatt's standard moguls, pulling half-empty van train into a track across the other platform, and the two engines started to chat like old friends, gossiping about who-knows-who.
"Just remember," the passenger engine said to the Mogul, "these trucks, if better behaved than the ones back in the day, are still not angels, but you can satisfy their desire for interaction by engaging them in story or song. Don't go too fast, and stop at Maron to make sure your brake lines are connected before going down the hill."
The Mogul laughed. "Don't worry, Grandpuff, I've got it. In any case, Driver won't let me keep going past the station even if I hadn't known."
It didn't concern him, and before they were off, he was, to take the train to Brendam. He'd turn around and pull it back up to the other elderly engine when he did, but for now, the trip there. There were some nice seaside views, but there were some this whole time, too. It's just a shame the Island didn't prioritize what steam to save, what they had is what they kept instead of upgrading their power past the 1920s... he was sure some of his brothers and sisters would have loved this view.
Getting to the station wasn't eventful, and he didn't even need to deal with uncoupling for a bit as he was left with train for photo opportunities, so all he had to occupy his time was to look around at the town. The station itself was a white weatherboard affair, with quite a big clock on the gable where a window might have gone, and a rich cherry red stain on the trim. Quite tasteful, really, and the town itself seemed mostly similar, with a four storey tall building and row of restaurants and rental services lined up next door all done up in the same style. A rocky shore framed the town against the sea, from which windchill was severe. Only twenty minutes later did he get uncoupled, puffing away to the shed at the end of the line where it meets with the Sodor China Clay Company, coming face to face with one of their diesels as he puffed toward the turntable. This one had a cheeky, honest smile, and a broad nose, eyes somewhat baggy but youthful and jolly.
"Hello," it said, somewhat brightly. "I'm Terry; I tend to help with the goods traffic but if Pauline or Emily are in the shop I usually take their passenger trains instead. I didn't think we'd be having a visitor today!"
Seagull had to bite his tongue. He went to go speak but by the time he thought of something to say he was facing away, face dropping into a bit of a sneer once he was. "Well, I couldn't just visit the Island and not take the extended tour."
He couldn't, but that was because the tour was quite expensive and all involved wanted to get their money's worth. A photo opportunity on the most historic line of the Region, at the country's capital at that, and in the snow? That was a recipe for printing pounds—tons sterling, even—during the usually sluggish, occasionally goods-only winter. Bring a big Gresley that the locals hadn't become so accustomed to as to be essentially numbed to his presence as all but 'the thing that takes us to England', and that's an instant winter-long debt elimination in ticket, refreshments, and film sales. Or at least, so it seemed.
Seagull puffed up to the head of the train, and the people without cameras started boarding, but it was a slow process in general. It was a great weight off his shoulders that he's over halfway done with his duties here on this Island, and that the "great haven of steam" that he'd heard of was quite less impressive in person, so he didn't need to stand out too much in order to stand out.
With a puff, he headed back to Suddery.
At the station, the old engine from earlier was simmering in the much higher sun, eyes shut but a small smile on his face, breaths slow, measured, and intentional. A flock of gulls flew overhead, one slower than the others, the rest of the flock getting further and further away from it as it struggled to catch up, heading northeast. A few clouds were less than perfectly smashed together, and light leaked through them, golden rays of sunshine stark against the overwhelming grayness. Seagull, coming to a stop, was the first to talk as he drew to the platform.
"You know," he said, looking down at the engine's wheels, "you have quite talkative diesels around here."
"Oh, yes," the engine replied. "We have Terry, the engine at the shed in Brendam, and BoCo, who... isn't around here right now, he should be coming back soon though. They're both quite hard workers I have to say, very reliable, which takes some pressure off the rest of us. They're quite good engines, I'd say."
"I am surprised," the engine said, "that someone of your... experience would stoop to being friendly with mere diesels, when there are more... well, proper engines on the Island that you could be spending that time with instead."
Edward wasn't sure how to feel. He didn't show his feelings, either, and just said "Oh, you know, there are only so many... what did you say? Proper engines? Left, since the Events of twenty years ago. If we're to expand with demand, as any Proper railway should, there are few options left. One of the Commission's provisions that gave us so much autonomy in the first place is that our Works couldn't produce more steam locomotives once they've stopped, and they have."
"I wouldn't have thought one of those Class 28s would have found a home here, I'm sure he's a net negative in how costly he is and how much time he takes up at your Works, is he not?"
"BoCo," Edward corrected, feigning thought. "And possibly; I was once too, though. All the way back... really, my whole life before the Thirties."
"Yes, well, another engine like you or I wouldn't be quite so much of a burden at all. Of course, you can keep him as an engine of burden, but I would consider finding an engine in need of a home on the Mainland and taking them in."
Edward feigned ignorance of Seagull's intent. "Well, we've got Terry. They're quite a new engine here, one of a similar vintage to BoCo but only retired recently, which must mean the other Regions must have liked them much more. Plus, they can go much faster."
Seagull was intrigued. "Don't know what gender it is?"
It took all of the strength in Edward not to scowl back, as he just said "Well, I never thought to ask."
Seagull thought on it. "Good, it's best to spend as little time as you can socializing with the lower classes. Though I suppose you're lower than I am anyway as a weak, old, slow thing; consider my interest in you a blessing." And he wheeshed a little steam towards where Edward was standing.
The guard's whistle blew for Edward's train and he was off in a puff, taking deep breaths as he dug into the rails, slipping shortly but gaining speed, more and more until he found himself further and further away from the station. He would have thought an engine like him in preservation would be better behaved, really.
Ah well, he'd learn.
Edward's every breath fogged into a white cloud as he thanked the Works for painting him in a nice black to keep him warm. Of course, blue would still be a proud colour for him, but this winter was one of the worst in a while. With a few clanks and puffs, he pulled the last of the hoppers to the through track for the SCC, heading back to the yards for a drink.
"What do you think of the visitor?" he asked, rolling to a slow stop and keeping his eyes trained on Terry's, trying to give off a subtle air of reassurance as his crew jumped off to go head to the station for their next orders. Terry looked up in ambivalence as they answered, one side of their mouth curled into a cheeky... something.
"Oh, I dunno," they said, "didn't get much time together. Seemed kinda busy, to me." They seemed innocent in speaking, raising their eyes thoughtfully, but could tell there was some venom to their interaction. Just enough to make the intentions clear.
Edward laughed, in such a way where it was somewhat clear he wasn't sure if Terry knew or not, but could be applicable to either. It was a quick, abrupt burst of energy, causing the diesel who was looking away by now to train their eyes right back onto Edward. "I'd heard from the grape-vine that he'd taken one run from Barrow to Tidmouth and spent the rest of the day in the shed, and he's only down here for a photo opportunity with the upper class at Suddery before going home with the Express.
"In fact," he said, with a small, knowing smile, "I know this will be his first time up Maronnock. I suspect you won't see me for a bit, starting..."
He looked expectantly at the weatherboard building. Nobody came, and he rolled his eyes with a disappointed huff.
"Ah well, that would have been something. Though I do suspect I'll have to leave my train at Suddery or Wellsworth, if my timing is right. If I'm not back in... oh, give it thirty minutes, go check for an engineless train and take it west for me, if you could. I'd very much appreciate it."
And they kept on talking, Edward telling a story about confidence to the diesel, before he had another train to pull. It was long and heavy, but he could do it, and had done it before all the new arrivals to the line as the former goods engine. He shut his eyes tight, face wrinkling up into a scowl, and soon the train was rolling, even if his chuffs were unusually strained, his wheels slipping on the rails.
"You've got this!" shouted Terry, whose driver got in their cab should Edward's driver radio in for help. He was moving certainly, but not as quickly as they'd hoped, and once he got the radio call, Terry came, with a knock, a splutter, and a cough from their exhaust, and they came up to the brake van, pushing hard against it, slowly but surely building speed until they passed the station platform, coming to a stop and watching as the brake van slowly shrunk into the distance, keeping the acceleration going thanks to them.
Terry just gave a small smile as they backed up to the platform, awaiting a new train.
Edward was just passing Suddery when the station's guard realised he'd forgotten to go out and flag him, chasing the train for a few steps before stopping and heading back inside to phone Wellsworth. And to keep drinking his good cocoa, made with good Dutch cocoa. He really ought to start thanking the intern for that more often... maybe he'd have to go find her. After the phone call, at least.
Back to Edward, he may not have a good singing voice, but his driver lead him and the trucks in a chorus of a song he'd recently gotten a new-fangled CD of and had been playing through his hi-fi whenever the mood struck, "It's Just Another New Year's Eve". The trucks sang happily along, grateful to have something to do for the trip. As Emily puffed by with the train Seagull had taken from her that morning, Edward gave her a whistle, and got one in return. Thankfully, they were just about finished singing when Edward spotted the red flag at Wellsworth, and warned his driver, who stopped just past the platform and got off to go speak to the station's staff. He and Edward both figured they knew what the issue was.
"You're famously the banker," Edward said to himself, rolling his eyes with a wry smile.
Edward and his driver were correct, and he just chuckled when his driver told him the news. They left the train on a siding, not bothering to turn himself around and puffing tender-first eastward, at a brisk enough pace that the crew had to pull their puffy anoraks over them tighter.
After not too long, the crew came to the base of the hill, and his fireman radioed into the nearest signalman to ask if they're lined to run around their train. They got the all-clear with a clunk on the other end, the points shifting in real time, and Edward started to puff softly up the hill, his pistons giving a louder clank than his exhaust draught, giving the engine a laugh as he passed by, and keeping his smile on his face even as he stopped just at the points at Maron, puffing back down with his brakes on, creaking and groaning all the way down the hill's curves until slowly buffering up to the foreign engine, who just scowled.
"You would think," started Edward as he pulled, soft puffs growing louder, "that such a strong and important engine as you would have made the train no issue."
The tour had counted on low traffic for the winter season, and hadn't taken into account such a rush in traffic for the last New Year's Day of the 1980s, with many Sodor residents heading to England via the Express to be with their families as the clock rang in the Nineties, leading to a train as long as it might have been in summer. And, this time around, rather than the Mark 3s that Seagull had taken west yesterday and returned to Barrow behind James, the train had been built with Gordon's American Pullman rake, much larger and much heavier, and only pulled by Gordon and the Diesels, and now Seagull.
"In fact," Edward kept going with a smile, speaking in part just to pass the time, "the Midland would have thought quite the opposite of me had I been Grouped. My brothers and sisters weren't seen as important or strong at all, and were all gone fifty years ago. I have a few cousins handling the Kirk Ronan branch, but I'd never met them before they were brought over, and they were already being retired ten years before I would have. Then there's Thomas and his brother, both of whom were built for but never worked for our old line, coming over with me back in the old days..."
Seagull's driver released the train brake, and as they came off the wheels, the train started slowly moving forward, creeping, accelerating glacially slowly. But they were making it up the hill. Seagull barked up the hill, Edward's nose going red with the chill, growling as he strained his pistons until his axles felt weary. But he kept going, as did Seagull, and the two eventually, lately, but triumphantly, made it to Maron. Edward uncoupled from the train, went to get a drink, and sat in a siding as BoCo came by with a goods train, Seagull's face keeping a scowl as he let passengers off to buy cocoa and food.
"Oh, good to see you! I'll take it from here," he offered, "if you'd be so kind as to show our Esteemed Guest the way to Barrow. I'm sure he would quite appreciate that, wouldn't you, Seagull? I've asked Terry to come pick up my last train already, so I've nothing I need to come back to immediately. Should work out quite nicely, and be a good change of pace for you, shouldn't it? "
BoCo was happy to agree.
Edward wasted no time in telling his story to Henry as he stopped at the goods platform at Tidmouth. Henry was sure not to waste much time either in telling Gordon, and Edward was counting on it, as he pulled the half-empty train back to Wellsworth, with a small, satisfied smile, happy to have a day's work done and a well-earned rest at the sheds, telling the story to whoever was around and cared to listen to him.
1 January, 2025
Seagull woke up to a pair of official-looking humans standing at his buffers. This was a rather bad sign at the best of days. One was a bit stouter than the other, but both had somewhat solemn looks to them, as the shorter one started to read, clearing his throat as he re-read through the whole note just to make sure he had all his facts straight. It would be quite embarrassing indeed to have come out here to make the announcement to him and be wrong, after all. "You know, with Flying Scotsman coming here long-term, we do sort of have a lack of space... plus, you're sort of cramped on just twenty-four route miles. So, we found someone to buy you off us, one of the members of the council of the Duchy of Lancaster. You'll be stationed at Barrow-in-Furness."
Seagull's eyes widened in fear.
"Effective twelve p.m., or about four hours from now, you'll be under the ownership of the Right Honourable Richard Robert Norramby, as his personal estate engine for his transport to Barrow-in-Furness to meet with the Wild Nor' Wester, for his transport to London. He has requested we paint you in Silver Jubilee livery."
The dread in his voice and the roll in his eyes as he realised his foreseeable future was unmistakable.