Chapter 7: Old Iron

"Well, now what do we do?"

James's driver turned to face his fireman and sighed thoughtfully. "The pub's probably open," he said, tapping his fingers on the reverser. James cringed as the vibrations travelled through his footplate, setting his teeth on edge.

Unamused, the fireman shook his head. "Do you think we've been erased from history too?"

The driver paused, resting his hand on the lever. "Honestly? I don't want to find out. On the other hand, I think we really need to speak to the Fat Controller so we can't avoid the matter for much longer."

"No!" James interrupted, hastily. He didn't feel ready to face his owner yet; he was far too bewildered by his current plight to have given any thought to that particular problem. "I want some fresh coal. From the hopper next to the station." He wanted to test his theory about bad coal and as he had last filled his tender from the hopper at the goods yard, he had decided that he was more likely to find unadulterated fuel if he looked elsewhere. To his great relief the fireman acquiesced and nothing more was said about finding Sir Topham Hatt.

Once in position under the hopper, James had a good view of the trains arriving at and departing from Knapford Station. The railway was still unusually quiet. He saw Toby and Henrietta setting off for the branch line and reflected that at least they had seemed happy enough. He prepared to set off again once his tender was refilled but was distracted by some sort of furore coming from the tracks ahead. There, labouring along the line from Wellsworth and dragging a line of recalcitrant trucks behind him, was Douglas, his brows knitted in fierce determination. The trucks were braking as hard they could, their wheels emitting ear-splitting screeches which made James wince, but it was the looks on their faces which really disturbed him. This was not the predictable mischief that trucks were prone to, real malice was evident in their features and the thought of it made his boiler run cold.

Douglas glanced up, James's conspicuous paintwork having caught his eye, and the red engine could almost feel the fury radiating from him. "And what are ye lookin' at?" he roared.

James recoiled, suddenly terrified. Douglas looked entirely capable of inflicting some serious damage and he was thankful that the points prevented the Scottish engine from switching onto the track leading to the hopper.

The thought of his humiliation being witnessed by an unfamiliar engine was clearly too much for what remained of Douglas's patience and he let out an incoherent yell of rage which reverberated around the station's canopy. The sound seemed to act as a signal to the trucks who immediately released their brakes. The train began to accelerate rapidly, its momentum building as the trucks pushed Douglas along. Belatedly realising what was happening, Douglas slammed on his own brakes but he had already lost control. James caught a brief glimpse of his panicked expression before he was gone, careering towards the station.

"We have to help him!" he cried. "Come on, Clarence!"

"You can't go backwards, there's someone here," reported the brake van.

"Don't go after him," said a quiet voice from further back on the line. "He won't thank you for it."

"Emily?" James was astounded at the lack of urgency in the other engine's tone. "How did you sneak up on me like that? Hurry up, Douglas is in trouble!"

"Don't go after him," Emily repeated, no louder than before.

"But we can't just leave him!" James protested.

"You should." The Single Stirling remained firm. "Douglas is a fiercely proud engine. If you rush to his aid, he'll take it out on you rather than the trucks."

James huffed, paralysed by indecision. There was a good chance that Douglas might be off the rails by now – or worse, he realised, reminded of his own headlong flight through Knapford and the resulting collision with the back wall of the sheds. But he had seen the look in the Caledonian engine's eyes and he was loath to do anything which would further incur his wrath.

Behind him, Emily sighed. "I'm waiting for coal," she pointed out, still in that odd, low tone.

"All right, all right, I'm moving," grumbled James, resigning himself to leaving Douglas to his fate. He rolled forward, moving onto the adjacent line.

"Keep going," Emily instructed.

James raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"In the nicest possible way, yes." Emily kept her eyes fixed on some point in the distance. "You don't want to be seen talking to me." She began to move away.

Indignant, James whistled sharply at her. Emily halted again, still avoiding eye contact with him and warily scanning the tracks outside the station.

"Look," snapped James, feeling thoroughly worn down by the day's events, "I've had a very difficult morning. I've had some bad coal or something and this brake van is messing with my smokebox for reasons I'd rather not go into right now. Everything is wrong and I've got absolutely no idea how any of it can be possible. Can't you just tell me what's going on so I can avoid putting my wheel in it with everyone I meet?"

"Gordon's due out of Knapford any second with the express," Emily warned, her gaze still riveted on the lines in and out of the station. "You'll regret it if he sees you speaking with me."

"Well then, save me the trouble and talk quickly. Why didn't you help Douglas? And why shouldn't I speak to whosoever I want?"

Emily finally looked directly at him and her expression was filled with dismay. "Where on earth did you come from?" she muttered. "I'm trying to help you out but you just don't seem to have a clue."

"That's probably because you're not actually telling me anything! You just keep ordering me about without any explanation!" James's voice rose in exasperation and Emily glanced back towards the tracks nervously before smiling ruefully.

"I really don't do myself any favours, do I? All right, then, this is the short version. I'm not popular on this railway. Everyone has their place and mine is right at the bottom. Even Douglas ranks higher than me and you've seen how the trucks treat him."

"Hang on – you mean that's happened before?" James was appalled.

"As I understand it, he had a run-in of some sort with a brake van years ago and there's been hostility between them ever since. Over time the van managed to rile up most of the trucks so now they all hate Douglas and make his life hell at every possible opportunity. Donald, his brother, has tried to put a stop to it more than once but that just undermines Douglas's authority even more."

"This is your angelic friend, eh Clarence?" said James bitterly.

"He is moving in mysterious ways," replied the brake van serenely. "I don't approve of his methods but I'm sure his intentions are good."

"'Moving in mysterious ways,'" repeated James angrily. "He can't move at all without an engine's help. This is a load of nonsense, angels shouldn't be spiteful. Although you're not exactly providing me with a lot of help right now so perhaps-"

He was cut off by a soft groan from Emily, who had caught sight of an engine emerging from the station and stopping at a platform.

"Oh. It's you." Gordon's voice boomed across the tracks. "The red engine."

"Correction: it's 'Splendid Red Engine'," James called back. He winked at Emily and was rewarded with a weak smile. "My friends call me James. You can call me…'Red Engine'."

Gordon was unimpressed. "I suppose you think you're clever."

"With my dazzling wit, magnificent paintwork and undeniable charm, it's hardly surprising that other engines get jealous," James informed Emily in a stage-whisper.

"You really should be more discerning of the company you keep," Gordon remarked, refusing to rise to the bait. "No decent engine would be friendly with that. Unless, of course, you're another one?"

James gasped in mock offence. "Are you suggesting that I'm a GNR engine? How dare you?"

Although he enjoyed winding Gordon up tremendously, at that moment the miserable expression on Emily's face was more of a motivation than his own entertainment.

The insult to his heritage was not sufficient to deter Gordon from what was clearly a self-appointed mission. "Has she told you what she is? She is not a proper engine. She's a facsimile. Not genuine like the rest of us."

"That's what all this is about?" James looked in astonishment at Emily who was inspecting her own buffers, her face flushed with shame. "He's all worked up because you're a replica?"

Emily's history had come as something of a surprise to the engines of Sodor when she had first arrived on the island. Initially, it hadn't been clear why the Fat Controller had purchased her, she had simply appeared one day with no fanfare and little in the way of explanation. It had quickly become apparent that although she was confidently knowledgeable, she lacked the experience the others had expected of an engine of her class. The truth was eventually revealed following some judicious questioning: she had been a special project, built in a workshop somewhere in Scotland with the intention of improving upon the GNR's original design. Although she was judged to have been a success, the modern additions and adaptations having made her far more powerful than the earlier Single Stirlings, her builders now found themselves in possession of an engine but without a railway on which to run her. The modernisation of British Rail was well under way and there was no market for new steam engines when the existing models were being scrapped in favour of diesels. Heritage railways, on the other hand, had little inclination to purchase a brand-new locomotive as their primary objective was to rescue older engines at risk of being lost to the scrapyards. For a time Emily was left in limbo but just as it seemed she would have to be disassembled, the Fat Controller had expressed an interest in bringing her to the North Western Railway, providing her with a sense of security for the first time in her existence.

Gordon regarded James coldly. "I, for one, am not going to allow imitations to replace hard-working original engines on this railway without putting up a fight. It is disgraceful that she should have been gifted a branch line at the expense of another who had run it perfectly well for many years."

The unfairness of this comment seemed blindingly obvious to James. "You can't blame an engine for the Fat Controller's decision," he pointed out. "It sounds to me as though Emily hasn't actually done anything wrong."

"If that's your attitude, so be it." Gordon wheeshed steam as he began to roll out of the station. "At least you have your scruffy brake van to keep you company. You may appreciate that in the weeks to come when the others realise that you're a traitor and refuse to associate with you."

James watched the express coaches depart thoughtfully. It was plain now that Emily was the engine Thomas had referred to earlier, not Mavis as he had initially suspected. You're getting too involved in this, he told himself sternly. It's not real. Don't give them the satisfaction of falling for the prank.

But it was hard to completely distance himself from all that was going on around him when Emily sat on the next line with such deep misery written across her face. "Are you all right?"

"I hate him," Emily said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "He's been like this ever since I arrived and he's turned everyone against me."

"Oh, I don't think Toby feels that way," said James, hoping he sounded reassuring.

"Toby and Henrietta are decent to me but they have to be, we share a branch line and they just want a quiet life." Emily sighed. "Every time a new engine joins the North Western I hope things will be different but Gordon always manages to get to them and distort their opinions of me. Even Oliver can't stand me now and we got on so well when he first arrived."

"Oliver?" James frowned. "But wasn't he here before you?"

"Oh no, I've been on Sodor for longer than he has. I should have been the NWR's number 7 but Gordon was so irate at the proposal that the Fat Controller decided against it. I can't help feeling that if I had a number, my life might have been a little easier. Anyway, James, I'm glad you're able to think for yourself." Emily's voice was beginning to waver. "Thank you for standing up for me. I-I'm not used to having someone on my side. You don't know how much your kindness means to me."

James laughed nervously, worried that the green engine might start to cry and unsure what he should do. "Don't mention it. It's all a bit strange, really. You're not the first engine to describe me as kind today and it isn't something I'm generally known for. Vain and selfish, that's me." A thought suddenly struck him and his eyes narrowed. "Is that what all this is about, Clarence? Some sort of ploy to make me change my ways and become a better engine?"

"That wasn't the intention," Clarence assured him. "I'm trying to show you that… well, that you matter and Sodor wouldn't be the same without you. Of course," he added, his eyes twinkling, "if you did decide to become a reformed character, it might help my chances of gaining my wings."

"Don't be so hard on yourself." Emily gave him another small smile. "I have to collect a goods train from Elsbridge. Thank you again, James. I hope we'll see each other again soon."

James watched her as she rolled away, struck by the fact that she seemed to be moving as quietly as she could, no small challenge for a large tender engine. Emily clearly spent a lot of her time trying to traverse the rails in as unobtrusive a manner as possible. James was well aware that he wasn't noted for empathy but even he couldn't fail to be distressed by the sight, regardless of whether it was genuine or feigned in order to trick him.

The mention of Elsbridge jolted James's memory and he recalled that Percy was still hiding away somewhere, most likely on what he continued to think of as Thomas's branch line, maintaining the pretence that he had never been brought to Sodor to replace Thomas as station pilot. If James could find him, the plot would be exposed and the truth would be irrefutable. James scowled, annoyed at himself for not making this connection earlier. "Clarence?"

"Yes, James?"

"Where's Percy?"

The old brake van looked uncomfortable. "Oh, well, I can't…"

"I don't know how you know these things, but tell me," James said, trying very hard to keep a lid on his frustration, "where is he?"

Clarence sighed deeply and James could hear the reluctance in his voice as he began to speak. "The engine you know as Percy was never purchased by the Fat Controller. Instead he was bought by a mining company and sent to work shunting coal trucks at a colliery on Tyneside." The brake van paused. "He was there for a few years but eventually the pit closed down and he was scrapped."

"That's a lie!" James cried in desperation. "There are some things you just don't joke about, Clarence. Tell me the truth!"

"I'm sorry, James, I really am," Clarence replied sadly, "but look around you. This isn't the Sodor you know. You have every reason to believe me."

The shock was almost physical, like a hammer blow to James's funnel, sending his thoughts reeling. Percy, gullible little Percy who always seemed so much younger than his years – he couldn't be dead. It surely wasn't possible, but then, James genuinely had no idea what was real any more. He groaned as he realised that the last brief conversation he had had with his friend ended with him rejecting Percy's attempt at kindness. He shouldn't have doubted his sincerity: after all, the tank engine had risked his own life to save James from that disastrous landslide at the Clay Pits despite having been the target of his jokes for several days beforehand. He'd always been a much better friend than James had ever deserved and the possibility that he would never have the chance to make up for his unpleasant behaviour weighed heavy on the tender engine.

As he sat in silence, debating whether to mourn his friend or continue to mistrust Clarence, another equally horrible consideration unfolded itself inside James's consciousness. "Who else?"

"I'm not supposed to tell-" Clarence began, worried.

James cut him off brusquely. "There are hardly any engines here. If they're not on Sodor, they must be on the Mainland and I know what that means. So I'm asking you again, Clarence: who else?"

Clarence hesitated and James considered bashing into him to loosen his tongue, an idea he promptly abandoned as he remembered exactly what had led him into this situation in the first place. Instead he remained quiet and waited for Clarence to speak.

"Harvey was lucky," the brake van said softly. "His unusual design attracted the interest of the National Railway Museum and he was purchased for their collection. Arthur's spotless record saved him and he now works on a heritage railway in the Midlands. Charlie was sent to the scrapyard but he kept his sense of humour, kept telling jokes until the workers took pity on him and found him a buyer. He's now a static exhibit outside a rail museum in East Anglia, greeting the visitors as they arrive."

James contemplated this, allowing himself to be distracted from the dreadful thought of Percy's fate. He had mixed feelings on the subject of preservation. The thought of being put on a pedestal and admired by a stream of appreciative visitors did sound rather appealing. Despite that, he didn't think he could tolerate a life in which he had to remain stationary. He'd miss the thrill of racing along, air flowing past his boiler, pistons flying back and forth.

Clarence's next words brought him abruptly back to the moment. "But the list of those who didn't make it is quite a long one, I'm afraid. Stanley, BoCo, Molly, Scruff, Murdoch, Derek… Trevor, the old traction engine, never met Edward and so was never rescued from the scrapyard. A road was built some years ago through the area where Hiro was abandoned. The construction company realised that no one knew he was there and quietly sold him for scrap without informing anyone representing the railway. You may not believe this, but there's a tank engine in Kenya who's facing an uncertain future right now because you weren't here on Sodor." Clarence paused again to let this sink in. "Strange, isn't it?" he said gently. "Each engine's life touches so many other lives, and when he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

James looked up at the overcast sky, fighting back the tears he could feel stinging the back of his eyes. "But I haven't done anything, Clarence," he said quietly, his voice unsteady. "I meant what I said to Emily. I… I'm not a good engine. I didn't intentionally help Douglas with the Spiteful Brake Van, I didn't allow myself to crash so Thomas could save me. I was just… there."

"Sometimes being there is all that matters," comforted Clarence. "But look at Gordon. You may not have actively tried to make him a better engine but it happened in part because of you. The two of you are quite alike in personality, you know, you are both rather proud and boastful. I'm sure you've heard the saying 'pride comes before a fall'?"

"You would not believe the amount of times I've been told that," James told him solemnly.

"Exactly. The consequences of your vanity always come back to haunt you and Gordon has seen you fall many a time over the years. It has taught him to have a degree of humility, believe it or not. He's still convinced that he is the superior engine on Sodor but he hasn't isolated himself because of it and he isn't quite as pompous and arrogant as he could be. He appreciates other engines as friends rather than lesser beings. That has to count for something."

James lapsed into silence again, trying to put the maelstrom of his thoughts into something resembling order. As he did so, it occurred to him that one of those who predated him on Sodor was still unaccounted for. "Edward," he said quietly. "You haven't said what happened to Edward. Is he…?"

"Edward is still on Sodor," admitted Clarence slowly.

"Good," James said, relieved. Edward could be relied on to give sensible, considered advice. He probably wouldn't understand James's position or be able to offer a practical solution but James was certain that the old engine would hear him out with sympathy and provide some form of reassurance. "Where is he?"

"You're not going to like it, James," Clarence warned him.

"Please, Clarence!" James growled. "Tell me where he is!"

Clarence sighed. "He's at Tidmouth, at the sheds."

James was moving instantly, his driver having released his brakes as soon as he heard the destination. Clarence grimaced as they hurtled along, swaying wildly as the engine picked up speed. "There must be some easier way for me to get my wings!" he called to the guard as they raced away.

xxx

Author's note: Working out how Emily would be affected by James's absence has been the biggest challenge in writing this story. The lack of a canon backstory for her and the scarcity of fan-made content left me without much to go on. The theory of her being a replica is one that I've seen floating around in a few places as an attempt to reconcile the fact that she is portrayed as relatively young although her basis is older that those of Edward and Toby. It isn't my own idea and I don't know where it originated so I'm not able to give credit where it's due.

Just in case anyone's interested, all of the non-Sudrian locations mentioned are based on real places. The railway which purchased Arthur is the Severn Valley and Charlie is at the East Anglian Railway Museum which in reality has a tank engine named Jeffrey on display outside the entrance. Percy was employed at the Algernon Colliery in Shiremoor which closed in 1966.