Chapter 5

Morning Goods

As Abigail was later informed, Piccadilly had been helping Foxhill prepare for the departure of the first goods train for some time. Foxhill, the engine who carried an array of different whistles and who was ostensibly quite powerful, turned out to be labouring under a number of audible and visible mechanical problems. She had, it seemed, developed quite a knock in her motion somewhere, but Piccadilly (who was technically between names at this point) could not quite place it. Foxhill spent some time (after the passenger train had gone) showing her mentee around the yard. The branch down to the wharf ended upon the stone-built harbour, which had a very modest set of sidings. One radiated about 500 yards and terminated up by a cattle dock. Foxhill spent some time nattering to the farmer over the fence, while Piccadilly stood blowing off steam at the safety valves. By the time they drew away, water was a bit short, and it seemed that neither engine had live steam injectors. They spent some time scuttling up and down to the wharf to work axle-driven water pumps. Piccadilly had been subject to this difficulty on the LBSCR, and she wondered why Wand-, er, Abigail seemed to have better boiler management then she herself did. They were supposed to be identical after all. She did not get long to spend dwelling on this, for, her boiler water replenished, they started to slink around the wharf sidings to collect the wagons they needed for the train. The layout of the sidings was poor, with some tight radius curves that squealed when either engine navigated them. The rails were largely laid out directly onto the masonry, no sleepers or ballast, so the track was very 'clunky' and the terrier physically could not navigate it without the rails trying to force themselves apart. They drew one wagon out of a reversed siding by a rope that was passed around a small iron column on the ground, so that an engine reversing could pull forward the wagon. It was quite dangerous but Foxhill showed no qualms and Piccadilly had never yet objected to a bit of danger in life. By the time they'd finished, the train only amounted to about five wagons. Piccadilly was a tad underwhelmed:

'Say, Foxhill, you don't get much freight 'round here, do you?'

'Not from here, no, we're propped up by the coal traffic really. They used to run that from the colliery by gravity - until some lone wagons got stuck in the valley and, well, I may have demolished one or two...' Foxhill was grinning sheepishly at her memory, before continuing, 'They laid in a siding at the middle station and nowadays Jess, the colliery shunter brings them down. We collect them and take them to the wharf. However, the communication between places here is awful, so we never know how many there are to collect. I do need help sometimes...' The old engine looked at her buffers for a moment, gave a barking couple of laughs, before clanking away for a drink at the water column. Piccadilly followed shortly after.

It seemed that the shunting by then complete was all that had needed doing in the first place. They were due out after the passenger train had returned, and Piccadilly was growing impatient. She never said much but her crew could feel she was tense and her safety valves were feathering. They had just started blowing when Foxhill, who was on the front of the train (which they had rejoined) noticed the drifting steam rising from the cutting, created by the approach of Ashwell and Abigail, running bunker-first. Foxhill spotted something at that moment, and at one spoke:

'I don't know what Ash's done to your sister, but yon thing's cheeks are all red look.' Piccadilly didn't answer immediately - her sister was usually at least a bit pink during normal conversation - especially in cold weather. If complemented - she was known to turn the deepest shade of crimson (it made Midland engines seem dull by contrast!) She gave a small chuckle at this thought - before Foxhill started quite suddenly from the siding and lurched the train forth with her. Piccadilly got the picture quickly enough and followed. What authority they started on was unknown to her, until they passed a grubby grey flag raised up on a pole that protruded from a building on the wharf. As they passed it, it was run down. Piccadilly had not seen fantail flags in use as signals in all her life - she was told once that it had been an early railway practice - from the days when 'old Geordie Stephenson' was about. Foxhill was bouncing visibly on the rough grass-grown road, and her engineman was huddled behind her weatherboard staring through the little spectacle glass. The fireman was swinging his shovel with some vigour, until Piccadilly could see the coal at the firedoor level. She never saw him add more for the whole journey after that. They rattled along the line with few words between them, except the occasional mention of place or person. They stopped at Foxhill Station, and began to shunt. Foxhill picked up two old vans of fruit and a sheeted wagon of something or other from the line by the goods shed, while Piccadilly grabbed a few of coal from a siding on the other side. These must've come from the colliery, which they had past the points for on the way down that steep incline. She supposed to herself that it was those gradients that had allowed gravity trains to run at all. The train was reassembled and started at the drop of a signal, the weight on the coupling being stronger then before. The barking of both engines was quite audible, as well as Foxhill's somewhat inauspicious clanking. Foxhill did not acknowledge her condition, it seemed, or she had gone deaf to the noise, for she powered out of the station with maximum effort. She took no notice of the dodgy bridge that Ashwell had pulled up at, simply forcing over it and dragging Piccadilly with her. Foxhill was stubborn and imperturbable like a bulldog for the whole journey up the valley, summiting a small adverse gradient with a proud feather of steam at her valves and sparks issuing brightly from the chimney. Piccadilly almost couldn't keep up! They couldn't have exceeded 25mph for the whole trip, but the way the old tank engine up front went on you'd think it was a mainline express freight. Even descending the bank she gave no indication that Piccadilly was even behind her. They roared through the short tunnel to the sounding of several different whistles (Foxhill seemed to pick three to use at random for any occasion she could), before crossing the stone river bridge, for the line crossed the river three times in its ten and a half mile course. It was from that third bridge that they passed the lake and descended towards the station. However they were routed on a line that carried on in a straight course adjacent to the platforms. It split into quite an ambitious set of sidings, on a dockside. They pulled up on a siding with a passing loop - but did not get time to shunt for there was clank and something hit the rear of the train. A deep whistle was sounded and the wagons were drawn away roughly, before being barged into sidings at great speed. This caused much consternation among the wagons, but then there was a shout:

'Shurrup you grimy buggers! Get in your sidin's! Go on!' The voice was female, with a Yorkshire dialect, distinctly locomotive in tone. Once it had finished policing the wagons, which had been reasonably behaved for the down journey, it pulled up on the line next to Foxhill and Piccadilly.

'Hi, Fox, who's this you've dragged with you?'

'Hullo, Jo, this is Piccadilly, new arrival. She's got a sister, too, as you'll find. Be nice.'

'I'm always nice you silly bugger - suppose you want your return train? You'd better, because its ready. If you don't mind, you're in the way, so hop it.' Foxhill didn't answer, just reversed off the siding, pushing Piccadilly with her. When they were out of earshot, Foxhill muttered confidentially:

'That's Jocyspool, Jo for short. Resident shunter - bit bossy but she does her work. Also a grimy sod but let's not dwell on that.'

By the time Piccadilly had processed this, the rather dishevelled saddle tank (only an 0-4-0ST) had readied the return train. The two six-wheeled tank engines dutifully moved up to collect it. They readied for the return, but not before Jo could bounce over to Piccadilly at the water column, to which the terrier had nipped for a quick drink.

'Oi,' began Jo, shortly, 'Foxhill is a stubborn old mare - stop her from knockin' 'erself apart for me, would ya?' Then the shunting engine bustled away again, swaying and swivelling badly on the dockside trackwork. Piccadilly rejoined the up goods, and prepared for the off. They were waved out of the harbour by the guard this time, and set off. Piccadilly was determined to get a wheelturn in edgeways, for she had been somewhat hilariously shown up by Foxhill on the downward journey, something which was plainly a great joke of Foxhill's crew - who she had plainly seen laughing on the footplate for some time. They rumbled over the points where the line into the passenger station joined the 'mainline', and Piccadilly launched into full second valve, blasting with much force and a proud, distinct, even bark in the direction of Ashwell, taking the weight of the train and, indeed, a very surprised Foxhill on her front coupling. She wasn't really paying attention to the scenery, or the composition of the train, or to the stunned look on Foxhill's fireman's face - she was concentrating hard on her boiler pressure - it was dropping faster then she might have liked and the last thing she wanted to do was run short of steam. Regrettably - or perhaps deservedly - she did. It was in the broad, steep valley, having run up through the tunnel, that pressure sank to only 75lb, just over half of normal working steam pressure - and they ground to an ignominious standstill. Piccadilly cursed her complacency for some time, unable to raise any more steam. She had thrown quite a bit of fire straight up her chimney - which she hadn't noticed but it was still true, and replenishing the fire to keep it alive had cooled it somewhat. Just then... The fierce whooshing of excess steam from Foxhill's own safety valves startled her - and Piccadilly at once looked very sheepish. Then, the ancient engine's driver advanced the regulator and the train clanked back into motion. Piccadilly was at once sort of regretful that she had disregarded Jo's instructions to keep Foxhill in one piece. If the old engine failed now Piccadilly would not forgive herself readily - and from the feeling of the motion she didn't think Foxhill would either.

It was through a combination of blind luck (the fireman's words) and consumate skill (driver's) that the train did just about crawl into Ashwell Station... Only just, but they had done it. Foxhill stayed on the train to catch her breath - she couldn't remember anything about the journey up. How they had made it up Colliery Junction Bank was unknown to everyone - but they - well, Foxhill, had done it. Piccadilly scampered away with as much discretion as she could - seeking out Abigail by the water column. Abi was sat waiting for her next turn, looking pleased about something. Piccadilly could tell by the way the she was ever so subtly 'sat up' on her springs - only by a sixteenth of an inch or so - almost imperceptible.

'Hey sis'' began Piccadilly, 'you look happy.'

'I am - its, well...' She went very red but said nothing else, only looking to her left where a 2-2-2T was stood near the carriage shed.

'Ah, I see - I imagine you enjoyed your passenger run then?'

'Yeah - its a beautiful railway, isn't it?' - but evidently the railway wasn't all Abigail thought was beautiful, yet she did not let on verbally. 'So, how did your goods run go?' she asked next.

'It was fine on the upward trip, and I met the harbour shunter - ran out of steam on the way back though, Foxhill basically dragged me all the way here...' Foxhill must've heard this, for she trundled over at this juncture:

'You did alright youngster - for a mile or two!' And the old engine clanked away, chuckling. The two terriers exchanged a significant glance - before Abigail asked another question as it occurred to her:

'Say, Pickers, have you got a new name for yourself yet?'

'Honestly - I haven't given it much thought - I like the name 'Nicola' - what d'you reckon?'

'Mm... Abigail and Nicola - got a nice ring, hasn't it?' Abi mused, the other making a noise of agreement. They hadn't long reached this conclusion when Ashwell sidled up, wheezing steam at her cylinder glands and looking especially enamoured at the sight that must've looked to her like a pair of identical Abigails more then anything – without nameplates the two did look very alike.

'Oo, Abi, sweetheart, have you multiplied? You said you had a sister but I didn't think you'd be so alike!'

'Well, Ash, we are kind of twins – we say we are, at any rate…' She trailed off at that, looking a bit distant.

'I'm, err, Piccadilly, for now at least. I'm leaning towards Nicola as new identities go - we'll see, either way.' Ashwell flicked her eyebrows up to show she'd registered this information, yet evidently seemed a bit unsure as to what to do with it. The conversation seemed a bit strained – until joining the congregation came Foxhill again, who seemed to be leaking a bit from a valve on her boiler side – though she disregarded it. Nicola, or Piccadilly, however you may address her, being somewhat more outspoken then Abigail, mentioned this at once:

'Erm, Foxhill, you're clack valve is, er-'

'Yes, it's buggered, I'd noticed, it's not debilitating, I'll be fine. There's another one just like it in perfect order on my other side.' ('Jo was right'; thought Nicola – 'she really is stubborn. Still, she seemed to manage fine earlier…') Foxhill evidently had more to say, however, and had certainly not joined the conversation to discuss her obviously poor condition:

'Say, Abigail?'

'Mm?' the terrier replied.

'Ash says you did well this morning; I do wonder what things she might've been saying to you,' - Ashwell looked a bit miffed - 'but I'm sure you'll do fine here.' Abigail did her usual look-at-buffers-and-turn-red maneuver, which raised Foxhill's eyebrow. Piccadilly, remembering how poorly her first trip had gone that day, suddenly seemed greatly interested in the sleeper directly below her coupling. Luckily, the moment was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Cutler – accompanied at the heel by a Retriever – the animal was quite unbothered by the noise of the engines – merely sat panting on the ground. Mr. Cutler sent Ashwell and Foxhill away for an ostensibly arbitrary reason and they did leave rather hurriedly, eyebrows raised with significant looks at each other. The man then turned to his terriers:

'Now, you two – your work to-day has been good – Abigail, your performance was impeccable, Ashwell delivered to me the specifics of your journey – you shall do well. Piccadilly – well, you need your new name - we'll get to that shortly – but any-way I'm told you ran out of steam up the line – is that quite true?' He sounded concerned more then cross, so Nicola answered:

'I'm afraid so sir – I, um, overdid it a bit leaving the harbour and kind of stalled… My fire wasn't really right and I was probably launching most of it out…'

'I see, couldn't be helped I suppose. We only run one goods service per week – except in harvest season of course. You'll do better with passenger work undoubtedly – it is what you were designed for. Now, names. Have you decided what you are going with, Piccadilly?'

'I like the name Nicola, sir, if I may?'

'Of course, dear, of course. I'll talk to the workshop and see what I can arrange. You should, with luck, be carrying nameplates by Christmas. All my engines have them – if I had my way every engine would be named – just not right for a living locomotive to be identified by number like a common convict.' At this stark conclusion, he walked away, whistling for the dog to follow him. Abigail and Nicola said nothing to each other – but a single glance to each other was plenty good enough. They could hear over the breeze the noise of Ashwell and Foxhill having some sort of debate but they could not determine more for they were too immersed in their own thoughts.

A/N - Here we see all four of our main characters come together for the first time. They all have their own dynamics and none of them really 'get' each other yet. Everyone at least has a semi-consistent name by this point, which helps at least establish everybody as existing in some form or other.

I wish to thank one mean-scarlet-deceiver for leaving me some very kind reviews, and in answer to the query you posed about Wandle - she was sold in late 1901/early 1902 (sources vary) to the same scrap merchant that we mentioned in Chapter One. Not wanting to change too much real history - I dumped her on the AFJR. Poor girl she is.