"T-to Barry, sir?"
Southall shed's manager nodded. "Management's words, mate."
"Isn't it–well–a little far?"
"It's just three hours, that's not all bad is it?" the manager asked.
Barry was always reasonably cold this time of year. It was December 1964 and steam was dead on the lines of the former Great Western.
Hah, not so great now, is it?
2873's driver and fireman came that morning to make the trip.
They fired him up and tried pushing him forward. He refused to cooperate, and they had to explain to him that they didn't want to do this either but Management's words were final, and they'd lose their jobs otherwise.
"I'm sorry," his fireman said, "but you've got to go."
2873 closed his eyes in understanding. With a quick tap to the regulator the heavy freight locomotive was to carry its last load. At the colliery, 2873 was more impatient than usual. "Come on, can't you work any quicker?" he demanded.
Finally sick of being berated, the hopper operator asked "Hey buddy, what's your deal?"
"I'm being scrapped today."
The operator just went back to work, muttering something like "serves him right".
The Collett engine grunted. Was his age really all that bad? Many people don't even reach how old he is. It's not all bad.
Hey, being dead means not having to deal with assholes.
Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
Their journey was as smooth as a grave trip could be. He passed through Swindon one last time which was a nice thing. He knew he could never come back, but he didn't mind if death was the end. He wouldn't be able to mind very much sooner. It doesn't matter, he served his country and if it meant his death, he might as well go out with dignity and serve one last time.
They made it to the Welsh power factory—he couldn't be arsed to learn the name in service, why learn it today?
His job was done and he was uncoupled from the trucks. He whistled his goodbye to the factory foreman and transport crews, and left for the scrapper's.
He heard tales of Woodham Brothers scrapyard, about how they don't scrap their engines for a long time, and how he might just see some other Collett engines to keep him company.
Maybe it wouldn't be all bad.
He puffed into the metal gates and one of the Woodham twins talked to his crew. He took control of 2873 and pulled it to a siding with other big steam engines. He could name each type he saw on the spot—another 2800, a few 6100s, some 4300s.
His fire was dropped and he could move no more.
Their condition was dismal.
Many of them lacked tenders, but all of them had their paint rusted off and their iron corroded. One or two of them even had a caved-in boiler. Many of them didn't have pistons anymore, just cylinder cases, and all of them looked miserable.
They talked harshly about the Woodhams, about how they don't put engines out of their misery for years, and that the runours eeryone hears are all true. Another younger engine piped up that he saw an engjne get cut up last week.
"Pah, unlikely," spat out an old, bitter engine.
"How long has he been?" asked another.
He hoped he'd be a case of the latter.
He really hoped.
