Chapter 1:
New Cross Gate, 1902:
'So, Shoreditch, who do you suppose you'll get sold to? Me and Piccadilly have already been auctioned off to some bloke in Cornwall, we're leaving next week.'
'Oh, I don't really mind, I'm not bothered where I end up as long as I'm still at work.'
The discussion between these three Stroudley tank engines had been continuing for some time. The LBSCR had ordered that most of their 50-strong class be sold off, and, seeing that they had worked for around 25 years, none of them were really surprised. They had worked the London commuter railways for quite long enough, and had been outclassed by larger tank engines. The thing they'd miss most about it was each other - they'd been thick as thieves since the last of them were built in 1880, for two happy decades had joked and bantered together about anything and everything, often to the chagrin of older engines. Now, they were in that position, listening to the 'E's and 'D's chatter away amongst themselves. However, now there was a distinct family resemblance between old and new, unlike the old pre-Stroudley fleet of unrelated, un-standardised engines that bore minimal likeness with the 'A' Class tanks.
The first of the terriers to be sold was Fenchurch - to the Newhaven Harbour Co. Followed in 1899 by a couple to the Isle of Wight Central Railway. An 1876 example called Rotherhithe had gone in 1901 no-one had seen her since. Leadenhall had been sold on as well; they next heard she'd been broken up at Redhill. A few tears had been shed that night. The engines currently conversing were sat in a row by the shed, Shoreditch, who was as yet awaiting sale, along with Wandle and Piccadilly. They had been recently auctioned off – they narrowly avoided being sold to the same Redhill scrap dealer as Leadenhall – but ended up in the ownership of a small railway company in Cornwall – the Ashwell, Foxhill and Jocyspool Railway. A purchase incentive that the Brighton company had promised was a full repaint into the livery of the purchasing party, along with a mechanical overhaul if desired. Apparently, the AFJR was in dire need of fresh motive power, and the terriers were evidently considered suitable. The two little engines were lightly overhauled as to get all their motion in perfect order, before painting them in the delightful AFJR blue livery, with white-black-white striped lining and red borders. All the brass was polished and copper gleamed in the sun. Tomorrow, they were departing for their new home. They were infinitely grateful for this - with their sisters starting to drop from the LBSCR's favour and a couple of them scrapped, Wandle and Piccadilly were relieved to be clear of the metaphorical firing line. They had been talking all day with Shoreditch, another sister of theirs, who was being auctioned that very day. Prospective buyers were examining her carefully and she relished the attention. However, they all three had noticed in the crowd one George Cohen, the man who owned the company in Redhill that cut up Leadenhall (some thought that Rotherhithe had gone the same way but no-one yet knew for certain). Cohen was wearing the same scruffy suit as always, but a fancy looking man in a top hat with a walking stick was walking gracefully around the engines, scrutinizing Shoreditch carefully, while occasionally pausing to admire the two blue engines, who were stood with bated breath, waiting for the auction to begin. At two o' clock, it finally did...
Shoreditch was clearly much in demand; Cohen kept bidding, but he was not alone. Men from all around the country were after the little engine, although not all looked very affluent. Except; of course, the suited man with the walking stick, who seemed to be trying exclusively to outdo Cohen. They all hoped he was not a rival scrap dealer. Eventually, the bidding was going entirely between him and his adversary. In the end, the bidding got up to £450, only a quarter of what they were built for - when old George Cohen shook his head. The suited gent banged his cane on the ground to bid one last time - he was the one who'd won it. The crowd, before long, dispersed, and the man at once engaged to speak with his new acquisition. He spoke gently to Shoreditch:
'Now, my dear, you will work well on my little railway - we need an engine sharpish - the company I used to hire them from has wound up! I trust you won't object to lugging coal wagons about?'
'Oh no sir, I'll do anything you ask, honest!'
'Wonderful, now, you seem to be in excellent mechanical condition, so all you'll be needing is a new coat of paint. As you're my first privately owned engine - you can pick a livery - anything you'd like?'
'Hmm... How about crimson red? With gold lettering if possible?'
'Very well my dear - if that's what you desire.'
And so Shoreditch was taken into the works by the little shunter for her new livery. Wandle and Piccadilly were ecstatic for her - she had been bought by a kind man who would look after her. All was well for the three of them - for the time being at least.
It was a cold night that evening, in bleak early December, and before long a snow was coming down hard and a bitter frost was settling. Piccadilly and Wandle shivered in place, trying to desperately to fall asleep. They were sat outside by the shed wall, the wind swirling snow into them and rattling the slates of the engine shed. They had only just got to sleep when the morning cleaners turned up, spreading hot clinker over the points and under the shed doors to melt the ice. Wandle was woken up by the pleasing sensation of red hot coals being spread around her wheels to free them of ice. Piccadilly experienced the same shortly after. They were not expecting this, they were not sure if they were supposed to have been moved just yet. However, the little shed pilot, an ancient engine designed by J.C. Craven before Stroudley's time, took them over to the goods yard, where they were placed onto a goods that was stood on the departure road. They asked no questions, they were too sleepy were not quite conscious, not being in steam. Piccadilly wasn't even facing the right way, having been marshalled facing the wagons of the goods. They were vaguely aware of things moving around them, but had not gone anywhere since being attached to the train. The little shed pilot was long gone by now. Suddenly, there was a clunk, and the two engines shifted. They jolted up, for the first time registering what was happening, and discovered that they must finally be departing for their new railway. Wandle started having a mild panic, but her sister tried desperately to calm her a bit, but as they were stood back to back it was not much use. The engine of the goods they were on was a C1, typical of the quintessential English 0-6-0, sturdy and dependable, but the weight of the goods with two half awake, half frozen engines on the front proved a struggle. Wandle watched the driver open the regulator steadily, the coupling tightened ever so gently, the regulator eased open further, then there was a noise of wheels spinning and sparks were blasted up the engine's chimney - yet of movement there was very little. The steam was slammed shut again, the driver and fireman both cursed loudly. The fireman got hold of a fire iron and began vindictively stirring the burning coal to liven it up a bit. The safety valves of the goods engine began feathering little bursts of steam, as it again tried to gather up the train and start moving it. But the wagons were locked in place by ice and the rails were as slippery as cylinder oil. The engineman at that point jumped from the footplate, and went forward to open his engine's smokebox door. She complained bitterly at this, there was a cold draft coming into her boiler tubes now and her vision was stuck suddenly at 90 degrees. The driver gathered hot ash from the smokebox, and went along the train putting it down to melt any offending ice or snow. He paused to look at the two blue terriers on the way back. He smiled and gave Piccadilly a pat on the running board to calm her, before returning to the footplate, shivering in the cold. He put back the shovel, gave the whistle a fierce prod, then again opened the regulator, with the fireman sent round to operate the sandbox. The little tender engine strained on the coupling, and with much shouting and swearing, got at last into motion. The train started wagon by wagon - the brakevan coupling snatched - and at last the slow goods rumbled out of the yard.