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Chapter Text

"What colour paint would you like, Duck?" asked The Fat Controller.

Duck heard the question, but he was certain that he could not have heard it correctly.

"Beg pardon Sir?"

"All the engines on this Railway may choose what colour they would like to be painted," explained The Fat Controller.

"There isn't a livery?" asked Duck in confusion.

The Fat Controller laughed. "Not as such, no."

"But I saw two blue engines on my way here. Your Number 2 and 4?" Duck had also seen a green engine, Number 3. Despite that, he rather hoped this difficult question would turn out to be some sort of joke. It felt like a test.

"Only the first few engines who joined this Railway wear blue now," said The Fat Controller. "You can pick any colour you would like."

Duck didn't like being asked to pick at all. He didn't much care for his black paint, but being painted black hadn't been up to him. When his old Railway had been folded into the Other Railway, he had been painted black to match the rest of their engines. As right he should have been, thought Duck. It was for a Railway's Controller to decide the paint colours, not engines!

It was also not for engines to argue with orders and The Fat Controller told him to pick a colour for himself. So Duck tried. He was a Great Western engine, and Great Westerns should be painted green. Being painted Great Western green again...

Duck cut that line of thought off before he could get too cozy with the idea. Wearing another Railway's livery simply wasn't done. Duck would never dare to ask for such a thing. He didn’t want to look cheeky or to make The Fat Controller cross with him. Great Western green was right out.

He supposed he could be satisfied being Just Green. It wouldn't be Great Western green, but he could be the same green that Number 3 was. The Fat Controller said he could be any colour he wanted...

What he really wanted was to be whatever colour The Fat Controller wanted him to be and to leave it at that.

The Fat Controller cleared his throat impatiently.

"Beg pardon Sir," said Duck finally. "I don't look as much anymore, but I am still a Great Western engine. We Great Westerns are proud to wear whichever colour our Controllers want without complaint. I didn't expect to be asked at all Sir," he explained nervously. "I hope you won't take it as shirking an order, Sir, but I'd rather you picked a colour for me."

"You've never once wanted to be painted another colour?" asked The Fat Controller. He seemed amused and maybe a little sad, but he wasn't cross.

"Only when I was being painted black Sir," admitted Duck. "I wanted to keep my old paint, but it’s not an engine's place to argue if he wants to be Useful."

The Fat Controller made a funny snorting noise then and turned away. Duck was worried he'd accidentally blown soot on him, but he didn’t seem cross. He stood there thinking. Duck waited while The Fat Controller thought about what to do.

"How would you like," said The Fat Controller finally, "to be painted in your old colours, Duck?"

Duck was sure he hadn't heard that question correctly either.

"Do you mean," he asked carefully, "in Great Western colours?"

"Yes, Duck. You'll have to wait for it. We will need to bring in someone special to make sure your lettering is done right, but..." Duck didn't hear after that. His old livery! It wasn’t the Done Thing at all, but The Fat Controller offered it so it must be all right. It would be improper to question him even. He had asked The Fat Controller to pick a colour for him and so he had.

Duck was so happy that he accidentally peeped his whistle. It startled The Fat Controller and he stopped speaking.

“Beg pardon Sir,” apologized Duck. “Yes, I would like that very much, Sir. Thank you, Sir!”

“Now Duck,” said The Fat Controller sternly, “if you are wearing Great Western colours, you must be an example of Great Western ways as well as Ours.”

“I always am Sir,” he said earnestly. “But not everyone likes it.” The Other Railway certainly had not much cared to hear about how things were done on the Great Western.

“We shall see how I like it,” said The Fat Controller. “I want you to do your work in the Great Western way and if there is a problem, I will tell you so.”

And Duck did. He ran the Yard in his Great Western Way and though the other engines often grumbled about bustling about, their coaches and cars were on time every time. The other engines soon learned that if they wanted to complain, they should do it quietly where The Fat Controller couldn’t hear.

Chapter Text

Edward chuffed into Wellsworth shed, feeling more his age than usual. He was glad to be home and was ready for a nice rest. Duck was already there, but he looked about as tired as Edward felt.

“What’s the matter, Duck?” asked Edward earnestly.

Duck hesitated a moment, unsure how to answer. Edward was patient and gave him time to collect his thoughts.

“I may have stressed the tension in my buffer springs when I helped Henry with a heavy load of cars today,” said Duck, averting his eyes. “I’ll have to get them checked tomorrow.”

Edward laughed, but it wasn’t unkind. “Oh I see!” he said. “You pushed hard at the start of the hills and all the way to the top.”

“I couldn’t tell how much help he actually wanted,” said Duck, lowering his voice a little. “He wouldn’t say what he wanted done.”

“You shouldn’t take that personally,” said Edward.

“They’re not speaking to me at all.”

“They don’t speak to me either when I’m banking them. We’ve all been doing it so long we don’t need to anymore.” Duck was not convinced by this answer, but he didn’t argue. Edward went on.

“Henry’s slow to start when he takes the hills,” he explained. “Let him take the brunt until he’s partway up, then give it all you’ve got. Your buffers will thank you.” He offered Duck an encouraging smile which Duck returned. “You’ll learn more with practice. Each engine has their own way of doing things.”

Duck looked skeptical. “Their own way?” he asked.

“Oh I just mean," corrected Edward, smiling to himself. “Henry takes the hills gradually, but Gordon likes to run at them all at once. You’ll get left behind or dragged off your wheels if you’re not careful.”

Duck was watching Edward raptly now. “Is that so?”

“Oh yes,” said Edward. Duck’s sincere interest in his knowledge made him feel appreciated. “And James! He likes to slow down well before each station to let the passengers get a good look at his paint, but he’ll speed into curves to make up for lost time. It could give any engine a start to be behind him as he rushes headlong into a sharp turn.”

“Fascinating!” said Duck. Then his face fell. “I’ll remember that if I ever get another chance at it.”

“I wouldn’t give you advice if I didn’t think you’d end up using it, Duck.”

“But what if The Fat Controller sends me away? If I’ve damaged my buffers on top of this mess with Diesel… It’s not very Useful.”

"He wouldn't send you away over jammed buffer springs," scoffed Edward lightly. “Why, the accidents those big engines have had…” Edward trailed off, not wanting to gossip. “The Fat Controller has seen far worse and no one has ever been sent away over it.”

"I wouldn’t worry if it was just the springs, but to be thought a nuisance in the Yard too?" complained Duck. "It'd be less trouble to send me back to the Other Railway. And I don’t want…"

"Go on," prodded Edward.

"You'll think me silly for it," warned Duck reluctantly.

"I'm sure I've seen sillier engines than you, Duck.”

"If I'm sent back to the Other Railway," said Duck, "they'll paint me black again." His face scrunched up in distaste.

Edward considered. And then he laughed! Duck winced at his chuckle, but Edward told him, "I suppose this is the only Railway that would let an engine keep his paint in the Great Western Way."

"It's silly for an engine to mind what color his paint is," said Duck guiltily. "It doesn't make a difference to whether he can get his work done."

"Maybe it does and maybe it doesn't," mused Edward. "When James gets out of line, The Fat Controller threatens to paint him blue. So his red paint must help James get his work done. James is happier as a red engine too and The Fat Controller does try to keep everyone happy."

"All the more reason for him to send me away if he thinks I tell tales about the others," fretted Duck. “If I’ve damaged my buffers as well, he’ll be cross and send me away for sure!”

"You are silly if you think that,” scowled Edward. “He probably has Diesel all figured out and is just waiting for him to derail himself. Just you wait and see. You'll be back to running that Yard in your own way soon enough."

Duck had never seen Edward so annoyed before. It startled him right out of his worrying. Duck’s face must have startled Edward too because he suddenly didn’t look annoyed anymore.

“You’re catastrophizing, Duck,” he said patiently. “You’re working yourself into a panic over nothing and wearing yourself out. Go to sleep. Everything will seem less terrible in the morning.” With that, Edward yawned and settled himself for the night.

Duck considered. Edward knew better than most engines. He knew all the little things about the big engines that they likely didn’t know about themselves. He knew Duck wasn’t horrid, when all the other engines thought he was. He certainly knew The Fat Controller better than Duck did. Edward probably knew Duck had exhausted himself with the working and worrying he’d done that day too.

If Edward thinks I’m capsizing, thought Duck wearily, then I must be. He didn’t want Edward to think he was silly, but it was reassuring that he did. Duck closed his eyes and drifted off.

Chapter Text

One evening, the other mountain engines came into the Shed to find Shane Dooiney already there and looking gloomy. They asked him what was the matter.

“A tooth broke off one of my pinion wheels,” he said sadly, ”and they say they have to replace it.”

“That’s not so bad,” said Patrick. “They know how to mend us at the Steamworks now. You won’t have to go to Switzerland like we used to.” Alaric and Eric agreed reassuringly, but Wilfred, Culdee, and Ernest were more sympathetic.

“Those were Godred’s wheels, weren’t they?” asked Ernest.

“Yes. They say they can’t just weld the tooth back on,” explained Shane Dooiney. “They can’t trust it not to break again. They’re going to give me new wheels instead.”

“When you used to tell me about Godred to scare me,” sniffed Patrick, “he sounded quite silly indeed. You ought to be happy not to have his silly old wheels anymore, Shane.”

“He was silly,” said Culdee, “but our Railway might have closed if not for him.”

“How’s that?” Alaric and Eric were listening raptly too.

“After Godred’s accident,” said Culdee, “they kept him in the back of the Shed. Our Railway had no money to send him to Winterthur, so he couldn’t be mended. And every evening when we would come in, he would grumble about how dull sitting and staying was.”

“We all told him it served him right to have to stay,” added Wilfred, “reckless as he’d been.”

“Just that,” agreed Culdee. “But one day, one of Wilfred’s connecting rods broke.” Wilfred looked away embarrassed at this.

“Wilfred wasn’t reckless like Godred was. It was just wear and tear,” appeased Culdee, “but The Railway didn’t have money to send him away to be mended either. There was too much work to have two engines out of service. Everyone was worried about what to do.”

“That night, we weren’t let into the Shed like usual. They made us wait. Wilfred’s Driver and the Manager were inside, talking to Godred.” Culdee frowned. “He didn’t tell us until years later what they talked about.”

“They told him they were going to take one of his connecting rods and give it to Wilfred. 'And they weren’t asking,' he said. They told Godred that he must help keep the Railway running because if he didn’t he would never be mended himself. As long as the Railway was open though, Godred could still be mended one day. 'But the most important thing,' he said, 'was that they said this was a way for me to be Useful, even while stuck in the Shed.'”

“So he gave his connecting rod to Wilfred and Wilfred was put back to work. And after that, instead of complaining, he would ask what Wilfred and his connecting rod did and saw that day.” Culdee sighed glumly. “It wasn’t very long before he was asking all of us.”

“Godred would say that once he was mended,” said Shane Dooiney, smiling as he remembered, “keeping a Good Look-out on his rails would be a nice change after looking at these walls for so long.”

“But he never did get mended,” said Eric sadly.

“No, he didn’t. I don’t think the Manager meant to lie,” said Culdee gently, “but it was a long journey in those days. We always try to be careful, but breakdowns happen. Every time one of us broke a part, Godred would give us his so we could keep working. But Godred kept getting smaller and smaller in his corner.”

“He didn’t notice at first, but we did,” said Wilfred. “The more of himself he gave away to us, the more he’d need to have replaced later. We tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t hear sense about it though. 'The Railway had to stay open,' he said, 'so that was most important.'”

“When the Railway finally did have the money to send us for overhauls,” said Culdee, “the Manager saw it would be more expensive to replace all his parts than it would to get a new engine. We were out-of-date,” Culdee gave Patrick a rueful smirk at this, “and many of our parts would have to be made special for us now which costs more. Godred became very sad once he understood.”

Patrick, Alaric, and Eric all looked at each other guiltily.

“They would still have bought the lot of you,” pointed out Wilfred. “They couldn’t send us for overhaul without more engines to do our work while we were away.”

“That’s right,” said Culdee. “And Godred had already decided that he was ready to be scrapped before that was ever a thought.”

Chapter Text

“Ready to be scrapped?” The younger engines gasped in horror.

“Yes,” said Culdee calmly. “It was a strange thing. It’s very sad to us, but he was relieved once he’d decided. One morning, he asked for the Manager to come to the Shed. They had a long talk after the rest of us left for our jobs. When we came back that evening, Godred wasn’t sad anymore. The Manager, he said, had made Arrangements for him the next day.”

“Didn’t you try to talk him out of it?” asked Alaric in alarm.

“We know it’s hard to understand,” explained Ernest, “but it would have been Useless to change his mind. It’s no life for an engine to be half his parts in the back of a Shed.”

“Certainly not,” concurred Culdee. “He wouldn’t have listened anyway. He was still King Godred.” He rolled his eyes in a fond way.

“That night,” he went on, “Godred tried to cheer us up. He joked that if we were going to break anymore, we should try to do it in new places, because the Manager would keep what pieces were still usable for us. He told us he was proud of all of us for taking his parts and being more Useful with them than he had ever been. And that we shouldn’t feel sorry for him or guilty that we got mended and he didn’t. The Manager had told him that as long as the Railway was open, he was still being Useful, even after he was gone.”

“None of us wanted to sleep, but Godred insisted. We’d still have our jobs the next day and he didn’t want us there when…” Everyone knew When so he went on.

“Morning came, and they had Shane pull him out of the Shed with the rest of us. That seemed fitting since Shane had his pinion wheels. That’s the most important part of a mountain engine.”

“He squinted really hard,” cut in Shane Dooiney. “He’d been in the Shed so long he wasn’t used to the sun anymore. Once he could see again, he looked every which way! ‘Look at that,’ he said to me. ‘It’s hardly my fault for not watching the track, now is it?” He looked at the ceiling as if he were annoyed, but his bottom lip quivered.

Culdee jumped back in so Shane Dooiney could collect himself. “They had him pull Godred out far away from the Shed so there wouldn’t be any danger of fire. The Manager stayed next to him and shooed us off on our jobs. ‘It will be hard today,’ he told us, ‘and so all of you must be more careful than usual.’”

“Then Godred said goodbye to all of us. We were all worried for him, being alone for… something like that, but he said the Manager would take care of him. So we all set out up the mountain and blew our whistles for him until we couldn’t see the Shed anymore.”

The engines all sat quiet for a moment; the younger ones giving the older ones their time.

“When we came back at the end of the day,” said Culdee finally, “he was gone. They had been very careful to be finished before then so we wouldn’t see any of it. They arranged us in the Shed so Godred’s place was empty. Then the Manager came in. He looked exhausted but he stayed with us and answered our questions and kept us company until we were all asleep. Ernest’s crew found him sleeping in his cab the next morning.”

“Godred was silly, right up to his last,” finished Culdee. “But he was brave too. We’ve all been given second, third, and fourth chances that he never got. Most of ours,” he said, looking around at his fellow older engines, “came at his expense.”

“I’m sorry I was rude about Godred’s wheels,” said Patrick. “I was only trying to cheer Shane up. No one ever told me he was so brave to give all of you his parts.”

“Of course not,” scoffed Wilfred. “You were silly enough like Godred over being named after Lord Harry. Imagine if we’d said you were brave like Godred too.”

“You might never have learnt sense!” said Ernest.

Patrick went pink at being teased, but he was proud they thought he was like the engine who saved the Mountain Railway. Then it occurred to him what might cheer up Shane Dooiney.

“The Manager said that as long as the Railway is open,” he said, “then Godred is still Useful. It’s not using his wheels that keeps the Railway open,” he said to Shane Dooiney. “It’s using the second chance he gave you.”

The other engines stared at him in surprise. Patrick had learned sense, but he’d never been wise before. Shane Dooiney looked thoughtful though.

“I suppose that’s right,” he said, “but I still wish I could keep them.”

When Shane Dooiney went to the Steamworks to be mended, he told them all about Godred’s wheels and how they had kept him in work all this time. The fitters there were moved by his story and arranged with his crew to send him back home with one of the wheels, the one with the broken tooth. When he arrived back at Kirk Machan, Shane Dooiney’s crew leaned the wheel against on the wall inside the Shed, in the place Godred used to sit. This way, all the engines remember how Useful he is.

The other mountain engines were impressed by Patrick’s sudden sense of wisdom. They say he might one day live up to being named after a Lord or maybe even a King. However, Patrick is content to be named after a good friend.

Chapter Text

It was to be the Storybook Festival on the Skarloey Railway. People from near and far would come to admire the engines and hear the stories that had been written about them. All the little engines had received new coats of paint for the occasion, and were quite excited.

Rheneas gave Duncan a bump on accident as he was shunting his trucks into place.

“Mind the paint!” hissed Duncan. “I’ll no’ have it scratched before the Festival. Not that I expect anyone will notice if it is,” he huffed. “Every year they come to see the Little Old Engines, not poor Duncan, no sir. All the work I do, and none of the credit–”

Skarloey was sitting at the other platform watching them. He laughed. “Now, now. I don’t think The Thin Controller would be very happy if his favourite engine didn’t look his best,” he said, and he winked at Rheneas, like this.

“Quit yer foolin’,” spluttered Duncan. “There’s no call for cruel jokes.”

“No need to be cross, Duncan,” said Rheneas cheerfully as he rolled up alongside. “That’s unbecoming behaviour for The Thin Controller’s favourite engine.” He and Skarloey laughed and pulled away, leaving Duncan red-faced at the station.

-

Duncan was in quite a state as he chuffed along the line to the Quarry.

“Favourite, indeed! Favourite, indeed!” he grumbled as he trundled along. At the next station, he found Sir Handel and Peter Sam chatting about the Festival.

“Who do you think is The Thin Controller’s favourite engine?” said Duncan, butting in.

Sir Handel and Peter Sam looked at him, puzzled.

“Well, all us engines are important to the Railway,” hedged Peter Sam. “It’s not so much that he thinks one of us is better than the others–”

“–but it’s you, isn’t it, Duncan?” finished Sir Handel, raising an eyebrow.

“How can tha’ be?” said Duncan crossly. “He’s always scoldin' me. Givin' me the heaviest trains. That’s no way to treat an engine!”

“He scolds you because he doesn’t want you to damage yourself,” replied Peter Sam.

“And he gives you the heaviest trains because you’re the strongest,” said Sir Handel.

“He knows with you, they’ll always get there on time!” added Peter Sam.

Duncan was furious. “You’re both bein’ silly,'' he weeshed. “I’m no one’s favourite!” And he huffed away.

-

At the Quarry, Rusty sat patiently waiting for the trucks. When Duncan arrived, red-faced and spluttering, Rusty gave him a cheerful beep-boop. “Hullo, Duncan! You look ready for the Festival. Are you planning to make that face for the pictures?”

“Everyone is makin’ fun of me, sayin’ I’m The Thin Controller's favourite engine,” fumed Duncan. “Can you believe tha’?”

“I can,” said Rusty. “I expect they said that because it’s true.”

“I s’pose you all think this is a great joke,” said Duncan, miserable now. “Payin’ me out like this when I’ve done nothin’ wrong, makin’ me feel foolish.”

Rusty paid him no mind, instead buffering up to the rear of the train as Duncan was uncoupled.

“It’s ridiculous,” he bemoaned. “I’m no’ some ‘splendid’ Little Old Engine. I’m a plain-speakin’ factory engine. I say what’s on my mind, no bother. I’m no one’s favourite engine, least of all The Thin Controller’s. He probably thinks as little of me as you lot seem to!”

After a moment of silence, Rusty honked loudly.

“You great, silly engine! Were that I you, and I couldn’t see past the end of my own nose! How simple life would seem, indeed!” Rusty pulled up alongside Duncan, puffing a cloud of black smoke in his direction, as cross as Duncan had ever seen. “If you’re so worried about it, go and ask him yourself,” snapped Rusty, rolling away and leaving Duncan speechless.

-

The Thin Controller was on the platform at the station making Arrangements for the Festival with the Station Manager. Duncan chuffed slowly forward, stopping short of them to wait for the conversation to finish. Even after the Station Manager left, The Thin Controller had not looked up from his clipboard.

Duncan's wheels wobbled. He was suddenly quite nervous.

"Hello Duncan." The Thin Controller's words startled him, and he abruptly hooted his whistle in surprise.

"Hullo! Afternoon, Sir," he said.

"I'm very busy, Duncan." The Thin Controller flipped a page over his clipboard. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"No– well, yes. Not 'help' as such, Sir. It's just–" said Duncan, bumbling over his words. At this, The Thin Controller looked up.

"It's the other engines, Sir. They've been teasin' me all day, sayin' that I'm your favourite engine, which of course I said was ridiculous, Sir." Duncan studied the track ahead of him intently. "I didn't want the word to reach you and you thinkin' I was all puffed-up in the smokebox, Sir. I expect they think it's a great joke, seein' as I'm just a coarse and plain factory engine who can't go two days without a scoldin', so they're saying things that aren't true. Can't be true." Duncan closed his eyes.

"An' I figure since you have the Festival to worry abou’, well. I– I wanted to set the record straight, Sir." Duncan chanced a glance at The Thin Controller. Duncan expected him to be cross or maybe even to laugh at him. Instead, he was looking at him in a way Duncan didn't recognize.

"Duncan…" The way The Thin Controller said his name made Duncan's wheels wobble even more. It didn't sound like he was going to be told off but…

"Y-yes, Sir?"

"Do you remember when you first came to the railway," asked The Thin Controller, soft and careful. "And you rode rough at speed and got stuck in the tunnel?"

Duncan wanted to be indignant, but The Thin Controller was still looking at him in that curious way and he found he couldn't be cross.

"Yes, Sir, I remember."

"How do you manage that now?"

Duncan was not sure where this line of questioning was going. "Well, my wheelbase is still short, so I try to take the rough track slower. Means I have to leave early some days," he groused despite himself.

"That's right," said The Thin Controller, eyes crinkling at the corners. "And do you remember when we made our deal that you’d get a new coat of paint if you didn't complain for a whole day?"

"...and I couldn't do it," Duncan muttered, frowning at his buffers.

"But you tried," said The Thin Controller, startling Duncan again. "And you came to me to apologise when you knew you'd failed."

Duncan grumbled something about it being only fair, but The Thin Controller went on.

"You aren't like the other engines, Duncan. It's easy for them. They've been here a long time and they're accustomed to work on a passenger Railway in the outdoors. You came from a factory, it’s true, and that might make you…” he trailed off, looking skyward for a moment with a small smile. “...Difficult, some days.”

Duncan flushed and opened his mouth to argue or perhaps apologise, but the Thin Controller stepped closer, meeting his eyes earnestly. “But you’re as reliable as they come and you never shy away from a job,” he said. “No engine here tries harder than you, Duncan.”

Duncan trembled. He felt like there was something lodged in his funnel.

"And in my book– which, I might remind you, is the only book on this Railway that matters– that's what counts. So I would appreciate it," The Thin Controller said kindly, "If you didn't call the pride of my Railway 'coarse' and 'plain', because I think he's Really Useful."

"Oh.” Duncan felt dazed by such a high compliment. It settled on him heavily. “Y-yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

-

“D’you think he finally believes us?” asked Rheneas. “About being the favourite?”

They sat together, watching Duncan as people milled about, taking pictures and admiring his fine paintwork.

“Maybe, maybe not,” smiled Skarloey. At that moment, Duncan laughed and hooted his whistle at a visitor’s request. “I expect it doesn’t really matter either way.”

“No, I suppose not,” agreed Rheneas. “It’s not like he’s getting special treatment. Might even be more of a burden on him, really.”

Skarloey chuckled. “You’re right! The Thin Controller might be harder on him now. He can’t let it get around that he’s playing favourites!”

The Little Old Engines smiled at each other and laughed.

And in every picture taken at the Festival, Duncan beamed.

Chapter Text

“Diesel told me the silliest story today while I was helping him get his trucks back in order,” said Percy. He backed into the Shed next to Edward. “It was about you,” Percy told him.

“Really?” said Edward.

“Why are you listening to Diesel about anything?” scoffed Henry.

“Because,” said Percy, “Diesel lies and his stories are funny when you know that. Like today, he said that Edward told this story to him, but I know he was lying.”

“I should like to hear this story I told him then,” said Edward.

“Well,” began Percy. “One day, said Diesel, Edward puffed into the docks. Emily and Gordon were there already. Then The Fat Controller arrived too.”

“‘The brand new brass water wheel has just arrived on a ship from the mainland,’ said The Fat Controller.” Percy did a voice to sound like The Fat Controller when he was speaking. “‘It is magnificent! It will be displayed by the Waterworks at Great Waterton. Edward, you will deliver the water wheel to Great Waterton.’”

“Emily and Gordon were surprised, but Edward was very proud to be picked,” said Percy.

“Humph!” Gordon steamed haughtily. “I wouldn’t want to pull goods anyway.”

“There’s no need to be jealous, Gordon,” said Emily. “It’s not as if this was a real Special.”

“‘I’ve chosen you, Edward,’ The Fat Controller told them,” resumed Percy loudly over them, “‘because you are the steadiest engine. You are to take the Express line. It is the smoothest and most direct way to Great Waterton.’”

Gordon gasped.

“My Express line?” he spluttered. “What if the Express were to get caught behind old, slow Edward and this water wheel?”

“It’s not a real story, Gordon,” said Emily, rolling her eyes. “Edward didn’t really take his Special on the Express line.”

“You won’t have to worry about that anyway,” said Percy cheekily. He went back to telling the story before Gordon could ask why. “So Cranky lowered the water wheel onto Edward’s flatbed. It had a shiny - and sharp - brass rim that shone in the sun. Everyone oohed and ahhed at the magnificent water wheel.”

“‘Edward the Steady is at the ready!’ said Edward.” The entire Shed burst into laughter. “That was my favorite part!” grinned Percy.

“You didn’t really say that, did you, Edward?” cackled James.

“I must have,” chortled Edward, “if it’s in the story.” Once the laughter died down, Percy went on.

“And very slowly, Edward pushed his special Special out of the docks. Edward puffed up to the junction for the Express line. Thomas was waiting.”

“What was I waiting for?” asked Thomas.

“I don’t know,” said Percy. “Diesel didn’t say. What he did say was that you said ‘Bust my buffers, Edward! That’s a very special Special!’”

Thomas looked miffed about his small and unimportant role in the story. Percy took no notice and continued.

“Edward was very happy. He looked ahead. If he took the Express line, he couldn’t stop for people to admire his magnificent water wheel, but if he took the other track, he could stop at stations and bridges and sidings. A lot of people would see his special Special.”

“The signal changed,” said Percy ominously. “Edward didn’t take the Express line.”

“But The Fat Controller told him to take the Express line,” scoffed Henry. “Edward wouldn’t take a branch line if he was told to take the Express line.”

“I know that, Henry,” said Percy proudly. “That’s how I knew Diesel was lying.”

“Anyway,” he said, “Edward was having a wonderful time! He went past stations, under bridges, and past farms. Everyone cheered and waved. Edward the Steady was now Edward the Magnificent!” Edward chuckled at this.

“Then Edward arrived at the junction.”

“‘The track ahead is in need of repair,” said the Signalman.” Percy did a different voice for the Signalman. “But the track ahead led to the school. Edward wanted the school children to see him so he chuffed on towards the broken track.”

“That doesn’t sound like Edward at all, Percy” argued Henry. “He would never disregard a Signalman’s warning.”

“I know that, Henry,” said Percy again. He persisted in telling the story. “The track was very bumpy and jumpy. The shiny and sharp brass edge of the water wheel started to cut into the ropes, but Edward didn’t know.”

“There’s no way Edward didn’t know,” interrupted Henry again. “He always minds his freight.”

“I know,” insisted Percy. He scowled at Henry and forged on with Diesel’s story.

“At the school, children cheered and waved. Edward wasn't looking at the red signal coming up.

“‘Flatten my fender!’ said Edward as he saw it at the last second-”

“Edward wouldn’t have missed a signal,” Henry cut in again.

“I KNOW!” snapped Percy. Henry stood quiet. When he was sure Henry wouldn’t interrupt again, Percy continued.

“Edward applied his brakes but too late! The shiny brass edge of the water wheel cut even deeper through the ropes. Edward knew now his long journey had made him late. Then he had an idea.

“I will chuff up Gordon's Hill, Edward thought. It's the fastest way to Great Waterton, and the other engines on the hill will all see my Special!"

“But wouldn’t Gordon’s Hill be in the other direction from Great Waterton?” asked Emily. “If he made it to the Main Line from Brendam Bay at least, shouldn’t he be past it already?”

“This is Diesel’s story,” Percy reminded her. “Maybe he doesn’t know Edward’s line very well.

“‘Edward huffed and chuffed up Gordon’s Hill. Oliver and Arthur passed him coming down. They both thought his Special was magnificent.”

“Wait,” interrupted Emily. “Oliver and Arthur? What were those two doing?”

“I don’t know,” said Percy impatiently. “This is Diesel’s made-up story. You should ask him that.”

“Edward huffed and puffed up the hill. At last, he reached the top. But the edges of the water wheel were cutting deeper and deeper into the ropes.

“Then there was trouble! With a final jolt, the ropes broke! The magnificent water wheel rolled off Edward's flatbed and down Gordon’s Hill.

“‘Fizzling fireboxes,’ said Edward.

“Was that what you actually said?” smirked James.

“Something like that, I’d imagine,” said Edward. “It would definitely begin with an F.”

“Gordon was further down the hill,” said Percy, pausing for effect, “with flatbeds of scrap iron. The water wheel rolled down the hill and bounced onto Gordon's flatbed.”

“Scrap iron!” cried Gordon. “Scrap iron!” Everyone laughed at Gordon’s real indignation over fictitious freight.

“Now Edward's magnificent water wheel was on its way to the smelters! Edward had to get to the smelter's yard before Gordon. Edward puffed and Edward panted along every shortcut he knew. No one saw Edward pass and no one stopped to wave. That no longer mattered to Edward. He had to save his magnificent water wheel from the smelters.

“Gordon puffed slowly into the smelter's yard-”

“I do not puff slowly,” complained Gordon.

“You do,” teased Emily, “if you’re pulling flatbeds of scrap iron.”

“Gordon pulled up outside the smelting shed,” snickered Percy. “Then, suddenly, there was Edward! Gordon was surprised. Edward the Steady had won his race against the fastest engine on Sodor.

“It was hardly a race if I didn’t know I was racing,” said Gordon crossly. “As if Old, Slow Edward could ever beat me in a fair race.” The rest of the Shed glanced around at each other knowingly. Gordon scowled. “Well, he couldn’t!”

“The magnificent water wheel was once again tied down to Edward's flatbed,” said Percy. “With chains this time.

“‘Edward the Steady once more at the ready!’” Edward gave James a winning look. James cackled so hard, he looked as though he would burst a valve. Everyone else laughed right along with him.

“And his wheels clickety-clacked without a cheer or a clap along the way.

“The water wheel was put into place in front of the Great Waterton Water Works.

“‘It looks grand,’ said Thomas.” Thomas’ face perked up with interest at the mention of his name.

“‘It looks magnificent,’ said Edward. And Edward didn't need anyone to tell him that this had been a very special Special,” finished Percy.

“I should certainly hope not,” said Edward.

“What did you do to Diesel,” asked Percy, “that he made this whole story up about you being irresponsible with a Special?”

“He had a Special today,” laughed Edward, “and I gave him some helpful advice about it.” Everyone understood then. Diesel did not like to be given advice. Diesel thought he knew everything already.

“Well, if everyone is finished listening to Diesel’s lies,” huffed Gordon grumpily, “important engines need to get some sleep.”

“Yes, I am tired,” yawned Edward. “Eddie the Steady is ready for beddy.”

The entire Shed burst out laughing again, except for Gordon who grumbled discontentedly.

Chapter Text

Duke had been surrounded by fitters and people from the Railway Board all morning. He was tired of being inside.

“My pistons are stiff,” he groused. “I’ve seen enough of the indoors for a lifetime. I want to feel the sun on my running boards.”

“We can let you into the Yard,” agreed his Driver. “But you’ll have to stay put while we finish the safety checks. Can’t have you breaking down tomorrow on your big day.”

“What cheek!” scoffed Duke. “Are all you Drivers so impertinent these days?” But he was pleased when they released his brakes and let him steam forward out of the Shed.

The Yard was unusually crowded. Most of the little engines had been pulled from duty early for cleanup and general maintenance ahead of tomorrow's celebrations. Skarloey, Rheneas, Peter Sam, and Sir Handel were happy to see Duke out and about.

“Oh, Granpuff!” peeped Peter Sam excitedly. “You do look splendid!”

“Much better than when they found you," teased Sir Handel. "The Small Controller told us you were very dusty."

"Better dusty than rusty," said Duke. "Which is what I would have been if these crewmen had sheeted me back then. I tell you, Drivers and Firemen these days aren't what they used to be–"

Peter Sam and Sir Handel exchanged knowing looks.

The engines carried on for some time like this until they heard a familiar beep-boop.

"Hullo!" Rusty rolled into the Yard, fresh off a final round of inspections. "Oh, Duke, it's lovely to see you out. I don't believe we've properly met, I'm Rusty!"

Duke's eyes flicked to Rusty's sides, then back again. "I can read," he replied curtly. "Tell me, where is your funnel?"

Rusty's face froze in an awkward smile. "My– Sorry?"

"Your funnel. It's missing," said Duke. "And why is your boiler square? Are you some sort of tram?"

"Granpuff!" peeped Sir Handel abruptly. "You can't just ask engines why they're square!"

"Rusty is a diesel engine," soothed Peter Sam. "I suppose you've never met one before, have you?"

"I have not," said Duke, looking Rusty up and down. "So where does your steam come out?"

The sound of stifled laughter could be heard coming from Skarloey and Rheneas's direction.

Sir Handel flushed red and weeshed. "Enough!"

Rusty looked between Sir Handel and Duke before Peter Sam piped up.

"Rusty, why don't you go to the washdown? You must be in need of one after all your hard work."

"Actually, I–"

Peter Sam gave Rusty a pleading look as Sir Handel and Duke started squabbling.

"Uppity youngster! Did you lose all your manners after getting sold off?"

"Talk of manners!" exclaimed Sir Handel.

"You know what, a washdown sounds like a fine idea." Rusty beat a hasty retreat back out of the Yard.

-

Duncan was already at the washdown when Rusty arrived. He was dozing as his crew scrubbed down his cab and boiler. It was rare to catch Duncan with his brow unfurrowed and his mouth not turned down in a scowl. He looked oddly serene.

Rusty gave a hearty beep-boop, startling Duncan and causing him to hoot abruptly in return.

"Hullo, Duncan!"

"Rusty…" replied Duncan gruffly, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

"Did you have a nice run today?"

"Och! Obviously not." scoffed Duncan. "They give those other engines a holiday and work us to the frames. It's shameful! Though–" he said, looking Rusty up and down. "You don't look like you did much work at all. You're hardly dirty."

"Oh, it was just some routine inspection work," said Rusty sheepishly.

Duncan raised a brow. "So why are you here?"

"Well," Rusty's gaze flicked downward. "I think I might have caused some trouble in the Yard."

"Oh? You? Causin’ trouble?” Duncan was very interested now. “What did you do?"

"I don't really know," said Rusty. "Duke was in the Yard–"

"Tin can," muttered Duncan.

Rusty ignored him. "He started asking me questions about me being a diesel. I guess he's never met one before."

"Ha! Like a new engine!” Duncan looked delighted.

“He asked me why my boiler is square and where my steam comes out.”

“Och! Some Duke’s engine!” said Duncan with offence. “Imagine being so vulgar.”

“You’ve said worse to me,” said Rusty crossly.

“Mibbe,” Duncan’s face was thoughtful now. “But only because I didnae know you back then.”

“You said I left an oil slick on the tracks. Yesterday.”

“I were only teasin’!”

“You’re full of it.” Rusty smiled and they both laughed.

“But,” Duncan’s face suddenly became serious, “if that new engine gives you trouble again–” he narrowed his eyes and let off a little steam. “You let me know.”

“Thank you, Duncan,” said Rusty with a little eye-roll. “But he really didn’t give me any trouble. I don’t think he meant it to be rude.”

“But you said there was trouble,” said Duncan, confused. “If Duke didnae upset you, what was all the fuss about?”

“He upset Peter Sam and Sir Handel! He asked if I was a tram and they all started arguing. And then Peter Sam said I should go to the washdown. I think he just wanted me out of the Yard.”

Duncan tutted in a way that reminded Rusty of Rheneas. “Honestly, the way these engines conduct themselves! Is it any wonder their Railway closed down? You have as much right to be in that Yard as any engine. Why, if I’d been there–” and he launched into a long spiel which lasted through the rest of both their washdowns and all the way back to the Shed.

-

When they returned, the sky had already begun to grow dark. Peter Sam and Sir Handel sat outside talking. Sir Handel whispered something to Peter Sam, and they both looked up expectantly as Rusty and Duncan drew closer.

“Good evening,” peeped Peter Sam.

“Only thing ‘good’ about it is that it’s not tomorrow yet,” replied Duncan, rolling his eyes. "But we might as well get today over with. 'Night all." And he steamed past the assemblage into the Shed.

"Goodnight Duncan," called Rusty after him. "Suppose I'll turn in as well, then."

"About that–" cut in Peter Sam. "Sir Handel and I were talking and we– well it's just that your spot in the Shed is right next to where Duke is going to sleep so–"

"We thought it'd be better if you switched spots with me for tonight," finished Sir Handel. He said it as though the matter were decided.

Rusty looked between the two of them, searching for some sign they were joking and finding none.

"Just for the night!" said Peter Sam.

"Or maybe a few," muttered Sir Handel.

“Duke can sleep next to me if he likes,” said Rusty uncertainly. “One spot’s as good as another.”

“Then you won’t mind taking mine!” said Sir Handel. He flashed a smile that wasn’t nearly as charming as he thought it was.

“We just don’t want him to bother you again,” said Peter Sam pleadingly.

Rusty suddenly felt very tired.

“Alright, fine.” Rusty reversed onto an adjacent track.

“Thank you,” whispered Peter Sam gratefully.

“Of course,” said Rusty flatly, pulling past him and into the spot in the Shed where Sir Handel usually sat. “See you two tomorrow.”

“Goodnight!” they peeped back.

With that, Rusty drifted off to sleep, brow creased and mouth turned down in a frown.

-

The morning started early, as it always did for the steam engines. The sun was barely up, but Duke was in as good a mood as the other engines had yet seen him.

“Looks like good weather today,” he said, pleased. “His Grace did so enjoy these sorts of mornings. ‘Nothing like the smell of a steam engine in Autumn,’ he’d say.”

“Oh, is that what he’d say, Granpuff? You never mentioned.” Sir Handel grinned and Peter Sam stifled a laugh.

“It was a morning just like this,” continued Duke, as though he hadn’t been interrupted, “that I once showed a young blue engine how to tackle the Mountain Road, and ended up having to pull him back onto the line when he went over the side.”

This time Peter Sam’s laughter was joined by a hearty guffaw from Duncan.

“Speaking of young engines,” said Duke, his eyes drifting over to where Rusty sat, still asleep. “Where is that engine’s Driver and Fireman? This is not a day for sleeping in. Wake up, little diesel!”

“Granpuff,” whispered Peter Sam, horrified. “Don’t shout! Rusty doesn’t need to wake up as early as the rest of us.”

“Rusty,” yawned Duncan, "doesnae have a cold firebox what needs four hours to heat up." He made no attempt to hide the envy in his voice.

“I don't understand,” said Duke. “If the coaches for the Special are late, that would never suit–”

“Oh, enough about His Grace!” peeped Sir Handel.

Duke spluttered turning bright, furious red. “Why, I never–!”

“Never managed to learn tact nor sense? I’ll say!”

“Please, let’s not argue about it!”

And the Shed erupted into a cacophony of shouts and whistles and steam.

“Enough!”

A little voice from the far corner of the Shed rang out above the noise. The other engines fell silent as Rusty, now fully awake, glared at each of them in turn.

“What on earth are you all arguing about?” asked Rusty crossly.

“Duke didn't quite understand that you don’t need your firebox warmed up,” quavered Peter Sam.

“We were just trying to keep things peaceable,” added Sir Handel.

“Well done,” snapped Rusty. Peter Sam and Sir Handel stood shocked!

“You said you wanted to keep Duke from bothering me, but it’s you two who’ve been more of a nuisance! Maybe if you’d asked me how I felt about it, instead of sending me out of the Yard or playing musical berths, things would be more ‘peaceable’ around here.”

Peter Sam and Sir Handel looked at one another, and then at Duke, who for his part was looking at Rusty with something resembling awe.

“If you see Driver, tell him I’m ready to leave when he is,” said Rusty tersely, before closing both eyes. “In the meantime, I would like a little more sleep. Not that anyone asked.”

The rest of the Shed sat in stunned silence for a few moments.

“This is why,” said Duncan finally, “I believe in the value of plain speakin’.”

No one had anything to say to that.

-

Around mid-morning, Duke arrived at Skarloey Station and took his place at the platform to await the coaches for the Special. A short while later, Rusty bustled in with the train and a suspiciously cheerful beep-boop.

“Your coaches are in place, Duke,” said Rusty brightly. “You are free to back up at your leisure!”

Duke raised an eyebrow but did not reply verbally, instead whistling thrice to signal his intent to reverse. He maneuvered carefully, stopping just shy of the train’s buffers.

“Still got it,” he murmured to himself, whistling once to signal that he was coupled up. The response honk came back louder than expected as Rusty pulled up alongside Duke at the next platform.

“That was grand,” said Rusty, grinning. “You make it look so easy, but I imagine you’re an expert at it by now, not having buffers and all.”

Duke, surprised, only cleared his throat and averted his eyes, mumbling something noncommittal to the track in front of him.

“It’s okay,” said Rusty almost pityingly. “You can talk to me.”

“The youngsters said I shouldn’t,” grumbled Duke. “Said I might offend you. I suppose they think I’m ignorant, now that they’re so worldly.” As he said this, his face fell and he looked a little sad.

“I didn’t know everything when I first came to the Railway either,” said Rusty. “I think Peter Sam and Sir Handel have been here so long, they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be new. But I really don’t mind questions. I’ll try to answer them as best I can.”

Duke looked up at Rusty. He didn’t look quite convinced.

“And then you can tell me how you manage without buffers and what it was like knowing Peter Sam and Sir Handel in the old days,” added Rusty with a wink.

Duke's expression brightened. “Splendid! If you don’t mind my asking, what is it that makes your smoke smell so peculiar?”

Rusty laughed and told Duke all about diesel fuel and exhaust vents and start-up buttons, until it was time for him to leave.

Chapter Text

The rest of the mountain engines teased Lord Harry all night for coming off the rails and jamming the points.

“Old Harry,” chuckled Culdee, “can stand on the points twice as fast as any of the rest of us.”

“And he does it in perfect safety!” added Wilfred. “In fact, the whole line is perfectly safe if no one else can move on it either.”

None of them thought it was funny when they came back from their jobs the next day. While they were out, the Manager had sent workmen to move Lord Harry to the back of the Shed and to take his name away.

Even King Godred had been allowed to keep his name. The other engines were worried for No. 6.

“Maybe he’s meant to be having a Lesson,” supposed Ernest. “There wouldn’t be a point in taking his name away otherwise.”

“Unless they took it because they’re going to send him away,” said Wilfred.

“Wherever would they send him to?”

No. 6 didn’t worry, not even after the older engines told him what happened to Godred. No. 6 thought for sure he’d be let out of the Shed soon enough. The Railway couldn’t run as well without him. The fitters said they could mend him. It’d be a waste to keep him out of service.

He became less sure of this the longer he remained in the back of the Shed.

But you remember that The Manager eventually did let him out of the Shed, don’t you? The coaches didn’t want to be pushed by him so No. 6 was made to push The Truck instead.

The Manager usually reserved the new engines for passenger trains so No. 6 had never met The Truck before. One of the older engines would push it up the mountain early in the morning before anyone else left the Shed. When he first saw it up close, he was surprised.

“You’re… you were…” he trailed off.

“Yes?” drawled the Truck daringly.

No. 6 didn’t want to get off on the wrong wheel with The Truck on his first day back out of the Shed, but he was stuck now.

“You used to be a coach,” he answered delicately.

“That’s right.”

No. 6 tried to think of something to say. The Truck thought of something first.

“I hear,” said the Truck, “from the coaches that you are reckless and go too fast.”

“Those coaches! They’re just-”

“I hope you’re strong as well,” interrupted The Truck. “I’m quite a bit heavier than they are. It won’t do if you can’t get us to Summit in good time. Our train is terribly important, you know.”

No. 6 didn’t know. The Truck didn’t look very important, even once it was loaded with coal and workers. He doubted that he was being given that important job if The Manager was still cross with him.

—

For important work, the job was very dull. The Truck was indeed heavier than the coaches were and it was slow going pushing it up the mountain. There was a lot of waiting as well. Once they’d delivered all the supplies needed at the Summit Hotel for the day and took the previous day’s rubbish back down, there was nothing more for them to do until it was time to collect the workers.

“Do you miss being a coach?” asked No. 6 to make conversation.

“Not especially,” yawned The Truck. It had been resting its eyes.

“...If you were a coach, then you must have had a name.”

“...Yes.” It didn’t sound like The Truck wanted to tell him what it was.

“I had a name,” No. 6 said instead, ”but they took it away.”

“Some of us,” said The Truck matter-of-factly, “are lucky enough to get named more than once.”

“But I haven’t been renamed,” complained No. 6 sadly. “I have no name at all now. And what sort of name is ‘The Truck’ if you’re so lucky?”

“All of my siblings had names too,” said The Truck, unbothered by No. 6’s pique. “There were five of us, one for each engine. But I’m the only one still here to be Useful. And “The Truck” is a fine name for me as I am now.”

“What did you do then,” asked No. 6, “that they chose you to be turned into a Truck out of the lot?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?” he asked incredulously.

“My engine was King Godred,” explained The Truck. “When they decided they needed a Truck, I had no engine so I was available for salvage.”

“Oh,” said No. 6. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. My job is important and only I can do it. It’s why I’m the only one they kept when they bought the new coaches,” said The Truck evenly. “You can see why they’re afraid to work with you though. None of them want to end up like me. Or like the coaches they replaced.”

No. 6 grunted noncommittally at that, but he looked contrite.

“Do you like ‘The Truck’ better than your old name?” he asked after a while. He heard The Truck let out a snort and he suddenly felt very silly for being preoccupied with names. It took its time answering him.

“I’m different now,” it said carefully. “My old name was for a coach. When I was a coach, I concerned myself with being clean and presentable and comfortable. When I was needed, anyway,” it added ruefully. “What the Railway really needed, though, was someone who could get the workers and their supplies to the Summit first thing. You cannot be worried about dust or bumps then.”

“They could have let you keep your name, at least,” said No. 6 sympathetically.

“They didn’t take my name,” said The Truck lazily. “They forgot what it was since it didn’t fit anymore.” It rolled its eyes at No. 6’s misplaced pity. “They took your name,” it explained, “because they didn’t like how Lord Harry was. So now you are No. 6 instead. If you are clever - and I think you might be - No. 6 will be just the engine they needed.”

No. 6 wanted to be cross, but he wanted to be clever too so he kept quiet.

—

A few days later, it was bright and clear but very windy. No. 6 pushed The Truck up the mountain to the Summit. The wind didn’t worry No. 6 and it didn’t worry The Truck until it was unloaded. On the way back down the mountain, The Truck was much lighter without its water and coal and stores. The wind beat against its sides with a threatening force.

“The wind is jostling me,” complained The Truck loudly. It almost had to shout to be heard over the bluster. “Could we go faster?”

“Faster?” asked No. 6. Certainly no coach had ever asked him to go faster.

“Please?,” insisted The Truck, “My wheels are practically coming off the rails.”

No. 6 was torn. He didn’t feel as though the wind was that strong and he wasn’t keen on making another mistake so quickly. He was a lot heavier than The Truck was though. All it had to weigh it down was yesterday’s rubbish. Even though The Truck had asked to go faster though, No. 6 didn’t think The Manager would hear of it if anything went wrong.

She doesn’t complain usually, No. 6 considered, so if she says the wind is too strong for her, it must be. And she’s… well, she’s not nice exactly but she hasn’t been afraid to go with me. She’s not silly about it like those coaches are.

No. 6 did put on a little more speed, but he still kept a close eye on the line and listened for any objection from The Truck.

He was lucky he’d been so careful. All at once, he heard a screech of brakes and felt the weight of The Truck lift off his buffer. The Truck was pulling away from him! Impossible! He braked himself, coming to a stop a few yards down the line from it. From there, he could see that The Truck hadn’t pulled away, but had simply stopped. It had only looked like it was going back up the mountain because he had been going faster than usual.

“6?” called The Truck to him worriedly. “6!?”

No. 6 gave two short blasts on his whistle and drove forward back up the line.

“I’m here! I’m here!” assured No. 6. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” He buffered back up to The Truck to support its weight. It let off its brakes when it could feel No. 6 holding it up and he resumed their descent.

“What happened?” he asked.

“The wind knocked my guard off balance,” explained The Truck, “and he accidentally threw on my brake.”

No. 6 was relieved. It wasn’t his fault.

“No harm done then,” he said reassuringly. “Don’t give it another thought.” They eased down the rest of the way back to the Devil’s Back station. Their crews checked them over to make sure the sudden stop hadn’t damaged them.

“You were very quick to stop,” said The Truck as its wheels were inspected. “You were paying attention.”

“I didn’t want to be in another accident. I only just got back out of the Shed.”

“You were quick to answer too.”

“You sounded worried,” he brushed off, “I didn’t want you to think I’d leave you up there.”

The Truck hadn’t been worried about that but it didn’t say as much.

That night, No. 6 had pushed The Truck back into the Carriage Shed. When he was gone, the other coaches asked after the incident it’d had.

“You must have been frightened out of your wits.”

“I would be, if I had to rely on Lord Harry.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said The Truck. “No. 6 is always most careful with me.”

Chapter Text

Clang!

Duck winced as the rock flew up past his face and struck his funnel at an angle. This wasn't an altogether unusual occurrence, except this was the first time he felt cool air whistle through to the inside afterwards.

"Oh dear," he said.

"That didn't sound good," said his Driver.

"It doesn't feel good," admitted Duck.

"We'll take a look at it once we get back to the Shed."

Duck hoped it wasn't anything serious. The Summer holiday makers would be arriving soon, and the Little Western couldn't afford to be behind schedule.

-

"Well that's done it," said his Driver. Duck frowned as he felt a pair of boots move across the top of his boiler. "Cracked perfectly right down the middle. If I hadn't seen it myself I'd say you did it on purpose, old boy."

"Hairline, I'm sure!" said Duck matter-of-factly. "A simple weld will square that away."

"Not so, I'm afraid," laughed his driver. "I can see sunlight through it."

Duck wanted to weesh but he was wary of startling his driver, so he refrained. "Surely there's something we can do? The summer holiday makers–" he protested.

Just then, Oliver chuffed up. "I know that's not Duck I hear, arguing with his crew!" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"We were not, we– we were having a discussion," said Duck carefully as his Driver clambered down off one of his tanks.

"About that gaping hole in your funnel?" teased Oliver, and laughter could be heard coming from both engines' cabs.

"Hairline crack!" Duck spluttered. "And I don't see what's so funny. This will put us behind schedule unless we can find a way to fix it by tomorrow."

"And what do you know about hair?" asked his Driver, trying and failing to stifle a chuckle.

"A lot more than most engines," chimed his Fireman. "He even went to the barber once."

Duck was not bothered by teasing, but he was bothered by not being taken seriously. "Hilarious," he said, in a way that indicated he didn't think it was.

"Just go to the Steamworks," said Oliver. "They'll fix it."

"And set our timetables back by hours on the first day of Summer? No, sir!" said Duck. "There must be some way to patch it up. Maybe that tape Fireman likes so well?" He looked up, hopeful.

"Oh that will be a sight," said Oliver cheerfully. "Your tall black funnel with a great grey stripe around it."

"Don't you have work to be doing?" asked Duck, scrutinizing him.

"Not at the moment, no," said Oliver, unbothered. "But I can take your next job if you'd like to go to the Steamworks now to have your funnel fixed."

Duck glared. He didn't like the smug look Oliver was wearing.

"No I don't think I will, thank you," said Duck. Oliver's smug smile only grew.

"Suit yourself," said Oliver, eyes looking skyward. "I do worry what the passengers might think though. S'not The Way, is it, to chuff about in obvious need of mending."

“They’ll think I’m Useful and reliable,” dismissed Duck, “and that I don’t let a small thing like a hairline crack make them late.”

“Maybe, maybe,” supposed Oliver. “More likely they’ll see your funnel hangin’ on by a piece of tape and a prayer and wonder what sort of tin-pot Railway this is that can’t keep its engines in one piece. Then they might get to wonderin’ what other slapdash repairs you might be hidin’. If an engine’s crew’ll tape up his funnel, who knows what else they’d do. Why, you could be a deathtrap for all they’d know!”

Duck scowled, but said nothing. He could hear his crew snickering quietly in his cab.

"And then they might start askin’ themselves what a Railway that can’t even keep its engines in proper repair is doing bandyin’ about the Great Western name for," said Oliver as gravely as he could muster without laughing.

"I see what you're doing," huffed Duck. He sounded tired.

"Just go get it fixed," soothed Oliver, all traces of smugness suddenly gone. "Donald and Douglas can handle most of the Goods trains, I can take whatever’s left as well as your passengers, and Daisy and Ryan will be happy to help if need-be."

"I just– There will be delays…"

Oliver rolled his eyes and smiled. "Have a little faith, Duck. The Little Western won't go to pot if you leave for one day ."

"I'm not so sure," said Duck, but he returned a weak smile. "Alright. I'll go. Tomorrow morning," he said firmly. "I'll have Driver call ahead so they'll be expecting me. With any luck I can get back before you run my Branch Line into the ground."

"There's a good engine," said Oliver with an encouraging peep. "I knew you'd see sense!"

Chapter Text

Diesel didn’t much like working in the shunting yard these days. Half the sidings had sad steam engines sitting idle in them. They made him uncomfortable with their long faces and longing looks. When he rolled by to arrange his trucks, they would try to talk to him and ask about the goings on at the station.

“I can’t sit around here with you,” he’d say snidely. “I have work to do.”

He did have work to do, but he also didn’t want any other diesels to see him talking to the steam engines. The diesels were quite proud of how well they were replacing steam. When they worked in the Yard, most of them would leer and jeer and honk their horns at the steam engines. Steam, they said, was going to be abolished soon. Diesel didn’t know what “abolished” meant exactly, but he could guess that the steam engines would all be scrapped because of it.

One night, he was putting some trucks in order for the next day when he heard something along the track out of the Yard.

“They’ll hear us. I’m all stiff.”

“They won’t.”

“They’ll smell us, for sure.”

Someone laughed quietly.

Diesel rolled closer to see what it was. He smelled what it was first: burning coal.

He peered through the gaps in the trucks until he spotted the glow of a steam engine’s firebox easing past. None of the steam engines in the yard should have been in steam. They were all meant to be retired. But this one had a Driver and a Fireman and was creeping along the tracks towards the junction out to the main line.

This one was trying to escape!

Diesel considered. He should raise the alarm and try to keep the steam engine from escaping. Even if he did though, none of them would be fast enough to stop the steam engine. He was already picking up speed, chancing to chuff a little louder about it as he got closer to the junction. None of the shunting diesels would be able to catch up to him once he got going. If Diesel called everyone over and the steam engine still escaped, he might be blamed for letting it happen.

So what if one steam engine escapes then , thought Diesel. No one will know I saw him do it.

“Aren’t you done yet?” complained one of his yardmates, another shunter, as he rolled up behind Diesel. “I’ve been waiting for thos- are you daydreaming over here? At night? What are you staring at?”

The steam engine hurried along towards them on the other track. It was only once he was right upon the two diesels that he saw them. His hopeful face fell at the sight of them, but he didn’t falter.

“Go it! They can’t catch us!” laughed his Driver.

Diesel and the other shunter watched as the steam engine - a worn-looking Jinty they could now both see - flew past them.

“A steamer’s escaping!” shouted the other shunter. “Don’t just stand there! He’ll get away!” He blared on his horn from behind Diesel to call the rest of the diesels, startling Diesel into moving forward. A chorus of diesel horns returned the call in the distance in long bleats that grew louder as they raced over to help.

Diesel went as fast as he could so the shunter behind him wouldn’t bump him, but he knew it was no use. The steam engine was already at good speed and could go three times as fast as Diesel could. The other shunter behind him honked his horn impatiently and berated Diesel for blocking the line. The steam engine was very nearly past the signal, well beyond any chance of them catching him. His signal was down and he ran straight through, letting out a couple tentative victory peeps of his whistle. By the time the rest of the diesels had caught up, the steam engine was gone.

They all demanded to know what happened and the other shunter was happy to tell them!

“He let a steam engine escape. Just sat there and watched them leave!”

“I did not!” defended Diesel. “I- I… It’s dark. I couldn’t see what it was until he was right on us!”

“You hardly need to see it to know what it was,” sniffed another engine haughtily.

“And he took his time chasing him too!” said the other shunter to the crowd. “You’d think he was trying to help how he meandered along in front of me!”

“I can only go so fast,” complained Diesel. No one cared. Everyone argued and shouted around him.

“What’s all this then?” said a voice breaking through the rabble. It was the Mainland Controller.

“He,” said the other shunter pointedly, “just sat there and watched while a steam engine escaped.”

“I didn’t, Sir!” said Diesel. “It’s just that... Well, it’s dark, Sir, and we’re all painted black. How could I even know what I was seeing until it was already too late to do anything about it?”

“Too late?” screeched the other shunter. “So you weren’t even trying to catch him? I knew it!” The rest of the diesels joined in the cacophony again.

“QUIET!” shouted the Controller, silencing all the engines. “I will be looking into this matter, but as of this moment, it no longer concerns you engines,” he said. “Go back to your sheds.”

“What about him?” asked the other diesels. “A traitor in our Shed is certainly our business!”

“I’ll hear no more of it! Off with you!” ordered the Controller.

But he did hear more of it. The next day, none of the other engines would work with Diesel. They sabotaged his jobs, they took his cars and put them in the wrong places, and they refused to speak with him. It caused confusion and delay.

There was too much work in the Yard to take time out to teach all the other engines a Lesson, so the Mainland Controller made Diesel stay in the Shed instead.

It isn’t fair , pouted Diesel. It wasn’t, but it was easier. With Diesel in the Shed, the other engines stopped being naughty and went back to work.

“As you can see,” said his Controller, waking Diesel from a bored sleep, “We’re quite strapped for motive power ourselves.”

“What’s this back here? Not so strapped then,” said another voice suspiciously. Diesel squinted against the light from the open doors to see who was with his Controller. He recognized the tone in that voice just as surely as he recognized the silhouette it belonged to. There at the other end of the shed, talking to his Controller was a short, stout gentleman in a tall top hat.

“Oh, er–” said his Controller and then, more quietly: “Yes, I’d forgotten. We–” but the stout gentleman was already walking away from him and toward Diesel.

“You, there!” he called. “Are you a working engine?”

“Y-yes, Sir!” answered Diesel rather too quickly. And then, more cautiously: “It’s nice to see you again, Sir Topham Hatt, Sir.”

The stout gentleman stopped short with a look on his face that made Diesel tremble as though he were idling, even as his engine stood cold. The Fat Controller did not look happy to see him.

“Ahh yes, I remember you,” said The Fat Controller. Diesel braced for the admonishment but it never came. The Fat Controller instead walked right up to Diesel’s track and started examining his buffers. Diesel watched until the silence became too much.

“Enjoying your visit, Sir?” he chanced to ask.

The Fat Controller did not answer. Instead, he moved on to looking at his side rods and wheels. “You’ve not been in the Shed for too long, then. You’re not in need of repairs, are you?”

“No, Sir!” said Diesel proudly. “Fit as a fiddle, I am! Our Railway is so efficient now, with all us modern engines here, sometimes the Controller doesn’t need all of us.”

The Fat Controller turned back to his Controller, who mumbled something and looked away sheepishly. “There’s still work to be done in the Yard,” the Fat Controller said, turning back to Diesel. “Why have you been placed in the Shed?”

“Ah… well, Sir,” said Diesel with a glance towards his Controller. “The other engines and I are having a… disagreement is all. They say they won’t work with me.”

“Have you called them names?” the Fat Controller asked pointedly.

“Certainly not, Sir,” said Diesel. “They think I let a steam engine escape the Yard.”

The Fat Controller looked suddenly much more interested. “Did you?”

“I… well…” Diesel wanted to say he had because the Fat Controller liked steam engines, but his own Controller was also very interested in his answer. “It was dark, Sir, and we’re all painted black. It’s like I told them,” he added with another glance at his own Controller, “I couldn’t know what I was seeing until it had already passed by me. And by then,” he added imploringly, “it was too late.”

“I see,” said the Fat Controller. Diesel hoped sincerely that he did.

“We don’t have any serviceable steam engines,” offered the Mainland Controller, “but perhaps we could spare this one.” 

“I don’t know…” hedged the Fat Controller. “There may yet be a steam engine going up for sale soon.”

“Or one on your doorstep,” grumbled the Mainland Controller. “Still, you ought to plan a contingency.” 

“Hm…” said the Fat Controller. “My own engines aren’t very keen on this one either.”

“Please, Sir,” said Diesel. “I could be really Useful. I’m the fastest shunter here. I could run your Yard so well, you could open more branch lines for the steam engines. They’d like me more then.”

“I’ll decide the Arrangements on my Railway, thank you,” said the Fat Controller. He didn’t look as annoyed as he sounded though. 

“Yes, well, if you’ll follow me back to my office then,” said the Mainland Controller hurriedly. The two made to leave.

“Goodbye, Sir!” called Diesel desperately after them. “Goodbye!”

“We saw Sir Topham Hatt come in here earlier,” said one of the other diesels as he backed into the shed that night. “Has he come to give you a fourth try then?”

“What business is it of yours?” snapped Diesel.

“Doubtful!” chimed in another diesel, ignoring him. “Not if he finds that steamer you let escape first.”

Diesel hadn’t considered that. He had hoped the Fat Controller would buy him if he thought he’d let a steam engine escape, but he might not if he found the steam engine instead.

“What a shame,” taunted the first diesel. “If you don’t find somewhere to go soon, the Controller will have to just be rid of you.”

“Wouldn’t that be a laugh?” cackled the second diesel. “You gettin’ soft on steamers and then getting sent to the scrap yard right along with them for it!”

Diesel didn’t think it was very funny. He found his sleep that night fitful, but he remained in the Shed the next day so it hardly mattered if he was tired.

He remained in the Shed for so long that he was sure the Fat Controller had found that steam engine and was not going to take him. The other diesels thought so too.

“What’s this load of scrap still doing in our shed?” They hissed when they saw him. “Put it in a siding with all his scrapheap friends.”

One morning, they did just that. A man who was not Diesel’s driver came in after the other diesels had left and started to climb into his cab.

“Where are we going?” asked Diesel nervously. He knew well enough that he wasn’t being put back into service. The man did not answer and Diesel supposed that he just didn’t know how to talk to engines. They drove out to the far end where the steam engines were kept in the Yard. There, the man got out and left him alone.

The steam engines were excited to see him.

“You there!” they called out to him. “You’re the one who let that Jinty go, aren’t you?”

“I… “ dithered Diesel, but the steam engines didn’t give him much chance to decide what to tell them.

“Yes, yes, ‘it was dark and we’re painted black’, say no more, say no more!” they tittered. “You’ve done a good turn for him, you have. He might not have made it if you didn’t hold up the other diesels.”

“I didn’t–”

The steam engines weren’t really listening. They chattered away to each other about how good Diesel was and how he ought to be an example to all diesels. Diesel pouted. Why would he have been left out with the scrap engines unless he was to be scrapped himself? And what until then? He was new and modern and yet he’d just be left here to rust with these antiques? Diesel sniffled to himself pitifully.

“Don’t worry, dear,”  croaked an especially old engine to him. “It won’t be long now.” Diesel wondered what she meant.

Soon it grew dark. Diesel tried to sleep but he was kept awake with worry. The steam engines dozed around him. They didn’t see a lantern swaying in the distance or the crunch of footsteps on the ballast as it approached, but Diesel did.

Was this how it happened? Did they come in the night and make off with an engine under cover of darkness? Did the steam engines just wake up in the morning to find one of them missing or cut up?

The lantern came closer and Diesel could see the beginnings of a shadowed form behind its light.

“Not me!” he cried. “Take one of them!” The lantern and the shadow holding it came closer still.

“Shhh!” hissed the shadow up at him. “Don’t wake the others. We’re trying to leave quietlike.”

“Then take one of them!” begged Diesel. “I'll stay quiet if you take someone else.”

“He can’t use any of these.” The shadow raised its lantern and Diesel saw that it was his Driver. “He bought you .”

“Who did?” snapped Diesel. He was cross that his Driver had scared him in front of the steam engines, who were still asleep and had not seen.

“Sir Topham Hatt, of course,” answered his Driver impatiently as he climbed into his cab.

“Of course? …Really?”

“The Controller says some engine at some museum railway put in a good word for you with him.”

“He bought me? Outright?” asked Diesel again. “ Really? ”

“Yes,” grumbled his Driver. “And the Controller made me come here in the middle of the night so’s you leaving wouldn’t cause a stir in the Yard. So get a move on.”

Diesel rolled slowly along, as quietly as he could, until he came to the signal at the junction. When he passed under it, he couldn’t help but let out a couple taunting toots of his horn on the way out.