A/N: Thank you for the kind, lovely reviews. They were completely unexpected. :D Just a quick reminder that I am following the dates in Sodor: Reading Between The Lines, which places Henry's rebuild in 1951. Though this is probably a misprint, I used this dateline just for my own preferences :)
Part II: Time To Go Home
Christmas came and went; the freezing winter weather slowly melted into spring. Finally my father and I were travelling to work in daylight again. This was my final year of schooling, and obviously upon my leaving I was intending to take an apprenticeship at the railway works1 to live my dream and work alongside my father.1
Henry the Green Engine was still with us at Crewe Works – though he was almost finished now, and was expected to be ready to return home to the Island Of Sodor by the end of the following week.
Henry was a far sicker engine than any of the workers at Crewe had expected; they'd been told the details about the apparent damage caused by his accident with the Flying Kipper (I myself had been told a firsthand account of the events by the engine himself) but had uncovered many other problems along the way.
The main cause for concern was actually nothing to do with the accident – the workmen were more worried about the Henry's breathing difficulties due to that blasted design fault of such a poor-sized firebox. There was a very worrying period for everyone when it was suggested that Henry still might have to be scrapped anyway – it would be cheaper and more economical, they said, to simply start from scratch and build the Fat Controller (the director of Sodor's railways) a brand spanking new engine. This was met by such protest from everyone at the works that the idea was quickly scratched – we were all far too fond of Henry already to even think of doing such a thing.
They – the main people in charge of the project, that is – decided eventually to completely remodel Henry into a proper Stanier Class 5 – one of the most successful mixed traffic engines ever to come out of Crewe.
Time to say goodbye and good luck was drawing nearer – Henry was undergoing final tests and checks to ensure everything was going according to plan. It had been a strange, albeit rather delightful experience to watch the engine blossom under the skilled hands of the workmen. He had arrived a poorly creature with a rather bleak outlook on life; but as the months had passed things had only got better once the initial plan of action had been got under way.
The workmen had fixed all the exterior problems and cosmetic damage, which had made Henry look better physically, but he only really began to improve in himself when the new firebox had been completed. It was all a bit magical (as if a living steam engine hadn't been magic enough for one lifetime) when he was in steam for the first time; colour flooded into his face, his eyes shone with a new-found sense of well-being. I had lingered around all day to see the workers fire him up; I must have brought the staff endless hot drinks and made countless excuses to be in the area when the event actually took place. Henry had already cottoned on to what I was up to; and whenever I looked across to him he winked at me almost cheekily.
We had become good friends; this was true of almost everyone who had worked on Henry and had spared the time to talk to him. After the initial surprise when he had spoken to me on that very first morning many months ago, we'd actually got on like a house on fire – like I'd been chatting to steam engines all my life.
My father had watched me with interest; and one night I asked him why he'd never told me about the Island Of Sodor before – everyone else seemed to know all about it. His face coloured a bit and he thought it over before speaking.
"I didn't even believe it existed myself," he explained simply. "Other people had told me things about it, even that they had visited – but I always was a bit cynical. I mean, talking steam engines? I've worked with them since I left school; to my mind it seemed like a joke. If it were true, wouldn't all locomotives be living creatures?"
He got up from our old wooden kitchen table and patted me on the shoulder as he went to leave the room.
"It's not all good," he added quietly. "At least with our regular engines we don't get too attached – if one of our 'normal' engines is involved in an accident or suffers irreparable damage; or even if their working lives are over due to wear and tear…we can send them for scrap or re-use old parts without feeling as though we've…" his voice tailed off.
I knew exactly what he meant; I'd never given a thought to the engines at our works who we'd been unable to repair and had to be sent for scrap – the most that had ever crossed my mind was something like, "Oh dear, that's a shame." Maybe it was a good thing that not all steam engines were conscious beings. It would feel like committing murder every time something went irreversibly wrong.
My father was still standing by the kitchen door as I ran all this through my head. He grinned at me.
"Ellie; I told you back in December not to get too attached to Henry; I hope you were listening."
I nodded forcefully, but I think he knew I was lying. Even back in December it had been way too late – I was already attached to Henry.
The day that Henry was due to go home arrived much too quickly; all checks and tests had been completed, as well as any unfinished little jobs (mostly cosmetic) that hadn't been done before. When there was a lull in the hustle of activity – I think it might have been during the dinner hour – I forfeited my meal and made my way to the green engine to finally say goodbye.
My pace slowed down greatly as I approached the back of the bright green Fowler tender. Everyone had to admit Henry looked splendid; he'd been given a belpaire firebox and a top-feed. All the superficial problems had been sorted out – he was practically unrecognizable from the engine that had come to us all those months ago.
I climbed up onto his frame at the side, feeling more than a little déjà vu. I touched the gleaming paint on the boiler; they had only lit his fire very recently to get him ready to return home (he would be going under his own steam this time) and he was barely warm yet.
"Don't burn yourself, Ellie."
The familiar voice seemed to vibrate against the metal, and I smiled to myself. I didn't quite know how it was that Henry knew who was touching him, giving that an engines' peripheral vision is very limited. I skittered down to the front of his frames as I now had many times before, to sit on the edge for our last chat.
"Are you looking forward to going home?"
"Yes. It seems I have been here for ever such a long time; it will be nice to have a good run."
"It's been lovely having you here. I…I'm glad you're feeling better."
"Thank you."
He grinned at me – an expression I didn't think I'd see cross his face when I first met him. There were plenty of unspoken words between us at that point, but I could already feel myself going red in the face, and I felt I'd said enough. I patted the side of his smokebox.
"Good luck, Henry. Stay well."
"I'll try. Thank you, my dear."
Those were last words we said to each other – save for a goodbye whistle – before Henry went home for good.
A/N: 1 Yes, women were employed at Crewe Railway Works in the 1950's; I did look it up just be sure :D I found this chapter much harder to write. I didn't want it to turn into a teen-angsty, Mary-Sue style pile of mush that would make me cringe when I re-read it, so I tried to keep it short and sweet. Constructive critiscm is always welcome. A very short epilogue to follow.
