It was a dark, winter evening on the Island of Sodor; Christmas had passed, and the New Year was on its way. The snow had kept up, and by the end of the day, the island had been blanketed.
Douglas was resting in his berth at Tidmouth Hault. He'd had a long, hard day of work on the Little Western, and was glad of an early night in the warm, dry sheds. His crew, however, were still busy; earlier that evening, just as they finished their final run, something had fallen down Douglas' funnel. Now the two men were busy clearing his tubes and smokebox.
Douglas drowsed comfortably.
"Easier tae breathe know . . ." He sighed contentedly.
Soon, his crew had finished with his tubes and went on to clear the ashes and clinker from his firebox – this always made Douglas feel sleepy – the tap of the poker Fireman used to size up the fire pots and the dull clunk of the shovel used to carry the clinkers out.
Douglas sighed again as he began dozing, wisps of steam streamed from his funnel and cylinders.
'Lovely . . .' He thought.
Douglas allowed his mind to wander. He remembered, long ago when his life on Sodor began; when he and Donald were nearly sent back to Scotland, and how the other mainline engines stood up for them.
He remembered Thomas' funny accident.
Meeting Stepney, then BoCo, and Culdee.
He remembered the Arlesdale Miniature Railway, and Duck's prank on Henry when Flying Scotsman came to visit.
Then he remembered what happened after.
'Oliver . . .' He thought nostalgically.
His drowsiness faded quickly, and now Douglas felt colder. He looked unhappily down at his buffers; he felt a little guilty. He wished he had done more to convince Oliver to stay.
His thoughts were interrupted when he noticed Duck and Donald backing towards him, they sounded tired too.
"Evenin' Brother." Wheeshed Donald.
"Good evening, Douglas." Yawned Duck.
"Ahh," Grunted Douglas, "Evenin tae ya both."
The two engines stopped before entering the sheds.
Douglas was more awake but didn't want to lose the drowsy feeling in his boiler – of course it was a little too late, and now he was sure he wouldn't get to sleep until much later. Neither Duck nor Donald spoke, they simply waited for the crews to clear their ash and clinker.
Douglas wasn't sure when he'd started, but he found himself gazing up at the night sky; it stopped snowing about an hour ago and the clouds had parted.
He could see the bright sliver of the moon, and the shadow of its darker half – if only quite vaguely – and the infinitely deep blue of the night sky behind it. The bright little flecks of starlight peppered the blackening field above.
"It's no' been the same." He murmured to no one in particular.
"What hasn't?" Asked Duck.
Douglas was startled, but he quickly recovered.
"Yon branch." He answered quietly, "It's no' been the same since he won away."
Now Duck was perplexed,
"Since who went away?" He wanted to know.
Duck had a feeling he knew who Douglas meant, naturally he didn't want to say anything in case he was wrong. But Douglas didn't speak for a moment. Donald understood at once.
"Ye mean Oliver?" He asked knowingly.
Once again, Douglas said nothing for a moment, then he sighed again.
"Aye." He replied, "He's been awa' fer nearly five years know. An' we still don't know where he is . . ."
"Ah." Duck said, gazing at the ballast ahead, "I miss him too. I still just can't understand why he left . . ."
Donald sighed too.
"I wish he had'ne." He remarked, "Still, ye ken hoo he was."
Then he looked at Douglas.
"Ye coonted tha days?" Donald was surprised.
"T'was nae challenge." Snorted Douglas, "We were all a sorry sight that day."
"It does stand to reason." Put-in Duck, "You were the one to rescue him, after all Douglas."
"Aye." Returned Donald, "An' he livened up yon line somet fierce. I'd be hard-pressed not tae miss 'im, mysel'."
"Och aye," Douglas smiled wistfully, "He was a braw wee lad."
At last, their crews clocked off for the night. The engines were given a final cleaning before they left; their cab floors were swept a final time, their windows were wiped, and their moving parts were oiled up before they were backed into the shed and tucked in, ready for tomorrow.
The three engines sat alone in their berths. Douglas turned his gaze back up to the sky; the wind whistled faintly, and the moon seemed brighter than before. A glint of melancholy came into his eye, and he watched as their smoke and steam mingled and swirled in the cold night air, playfully cascading from the lums in the shed roof.
"I can see why some o' the other engines took 'im fer 'snobby'." He mused, breaking the silence and looking back down at his buffers, "He 'ad quite a way aboot 'im. A huff an' a puff so unlike oor own."
"Oh aye" Donald smiled ruefully, "He'd mosey aroond the yards like a man in a park wi'out a care or a worry in the world. There was nothin' could bring him doon fer tae long."
". . . He did, didn't he?" Duck smiled fondly, "That was our Oliver. The way he carried on, you'd think he'd had an invincible coat that'd shield him from anything, anywhere he went."
"Ye dinna say," Yawned Douglas, "I think it's completely fair to say, we all liked Oliver from the start."
"Aye," admitted Donald, "He was brave. It's even thanks to him we've less trouble from the trucks."
"Indeed." Agreed Duck, "Out of us all, I think he was the bravest engine on this line."
Donald hummed.
". . . Nae . . ." Douglas corrected them, "He is brave. He's still aroond, I know it."
By now, all three engines were getting sleepier and sleepier. Together, they gazed up at the sky, tenderly lulled by the faint sparkling of the wheeling stars; a few clouds blocked many from view, but the engines were too tired to care about that. Besides, they could still see the stars, and that was all that mattered.
Five years ago, Oliver the Great Western engine had left the Island of Sodor. Despite having once escaped the Cutter's Torch by a hair's breadth, Oliver wanted to go on more adventures, confident enough he could take on the world. Toad refused to leave Oliver to his own devices, so he asked permission to go with him.
Duck, Donald, and Douglas was upset when they heard the news, but all the same, they let him go.
After speaking to The Fat Controller, he was allowed Oliver and Toad to leave, but not his auto-coaches
"They'll be needed here, after all." He said.
Isabel and Dulcie were heartbroken.
After he left, Duck had to look after the passenger services on the line; sometimes he went out with Alice and Mirabel, at others he went out with Isabel and Dulcie.
Occasionally, on Special Holidays, Duck would take all four of them out, he didn't mind of course, he thought it was great fun
"They're good company!" He would say, "And strangely, I like being in between them."
Duck never could explain why, but his driver understood.
"It's that feeling of hustle and bustle." He would reason.
Duck agreed; being busy felt good. But soon, he began to feel the strain – Many holidays are in the Summer, and Donald and Douglas were often busy with their own work around the island – so The Fat Controller ordered for another engine to join them; he didn't want the engines to think they would work themselves to bits.
The other engine who came to help was kind, but she didn't stay long – Isabel and Dulcie didn't like her very much, they thought she was loud, obnoxious, and far too excitable. Her sense of tact and humour also left much to be desired.
They all longed for Oliver to come back.
All the engines wondered what had happened to their friend, but before Douglas could ask, Donald and Duck fell asleep.
He sighed as he began to drift off, he hoped beyond hope that their old friend would come back to the island someday .
The old church clock soon struck midnight. The wind whistled, and an owl's wing brushed the air. A few squirrels were out too, squeaking and scraping their way through the night.
The Mainline was silent, almost eerily so. There were no services running at this hour; Gordon had already gone home, and all the other engines were tucked away in their sheds.
Except for one.
Nearing Crosby Station, a little tank engine was steaming bravely on. The on-duty night-staff – few as there were at this hour – could hear it puffing, and they could see its faint outline in the waxing lamp light. A mounted headlamp on the middle iron shone through the darkness, indicating a 'light engine' movement. The staff paid the tank engine little mind and went about their work.
The tank engine had two coal trucks and a brake van in tow, and they rocked easily along behind as they closed in; the Driver shut off steam and they cruised smoothly through the platform.
The station lights lit the little tank engine up. It had been give a fresh coat of paint at the works; a lovely shade of red from smokebox to bunker. It had a tall funnel, polished brass and copper, four black driving wheels, and a pair of braked wheels behind them. On its side tanks, the words 'LONDON TRANSPORT' had been stenciled on in cream lettering. Just before the cab mouth were the digits "S.11".
Sodor. Eleven.
As they cleared the Station, the Driver opened the regulator again and the little engine forged ahead into the night.
"Almost there." He panted, "Crosby, Knapford, and then comes Tidmouth . . . Two more stations . . ."
The engine glanced back.
"Y'hear that, Toad?" He called, "We're almost there!"
Toad didn't reply.
At first, he was worried, but soon found he needn't be; he could faintly hear him snoring. The little engine smirked and chuckled quietly.
"Never change, Toad." He whispered happily, "Never change . . ."
The engine picked up speed and tore down the line. Soon, they would be home again.
