Chapter Eight

While Abigail had had an eventful morning, playing with passenger trains and wagons of doubtful contents, Nicola had been wrangled (very cleverly, she fumed to admit) into helping Foxhill do all the coal movements that day.

The latter had come up very quietly onto Nicola's siding and made a show of bidding her a pleasant 'good morning' and thence started on a most bewildering explanation of how many wagons from the colliery had to go where, the net result being a groggy sound from Nicola that seemed to say, albeit much abbreviated:

'Whatever, give us a minute, let me learn my own name first.' The next thing she remembered clearly was going down the line to a point just outside Foxhill Station, where there were about 25 trucks, 1-, 3- and 4-plank, all very battered and groaning under mounds of coal, on a siding. It was snowing and cold and she was very cross indeed.

'Right - first job, four of these, in the goods siding, just up there in the station look. How far would you say, Nicola?'

'Pghff, 150 yards? Being generous?'

'140 yards to be precise, or about 33 wheel-turns. Assuming, of course, that your wheels and mine are both four feet in diameter. Get me some of them wagons out.'

Nicola went forward, ducked into the siding, plucked out four wagons, and placed them on the mainline in front of Foxhill.

'Very good, now out the way.'

And so back into the siding Nicola went, to watch whatever was about to happen. Foxhill, with a touch on her deepest whistle, pounced forward and collided with the wagons - the nearest jumped up as it began moving, and all four started rolling down the line. The pointsman stepped off the platform and dutifully opened the goods siding turn-out, and the wagons, travelling slowly with the wind behind them, coasted sedately down the line, through the platform, then swung into the siding, stopping just beside the little goods shed.

Foxhill looked proud of herself, and touched her whistle again, making a sound akin to the satisfied call of a raven. Nicola couldn't help being rather impressed by the performance, and Foxhill made a very good effort of blushing modestly at the other's impressed expression, before sitting a bit straighter somehow and resuming a business-like manner.

'Right, we need to take about half of these down to 'Pool, 'cos the docks takes some and homes need heating. Careful on this coal siding's points, by the way - they're wobbly where Ash stacked it.'

She then moved foward over those points, and she did indeed pitch over a bit, before reversing, buffering up to Nicola and the train, and whistling up for the road. Taking around a dozen of the wagons with them they went on to Jocyspool, and ran well for all the journey. Foxhill's coupling rods knocked and banged where their brasses had worn, and the small ends of her connecting rods lifted and dropped and rended against the crossheads.

Stopping in the goods loop they left the wagons and Foxhill went for a drink. Jo came up to collect the train shortly, and whistled to Nicola (the poor saddle tank had seen Abigail earlier that morning, and swore she was going mad), before bounding away again, almost piling herself into the weeds several times on the unsettled track. The complaints of the wagon wheel-flanges were audible all the way into the dockyard as they grated against the wrought-iron rails.

Jo wasn't gone for long though - in fact before Foxhill was finished at the water column she'd returned, and pressed two dozen empty coal wagons onto Nicola for the return, as well as handful more loaded with bricks, to go to Ashwell. Nicola didn't have time to argue, before Jo scampered off.

Foxhill returned soon after, with a face like thunder:

'And might I ask where these have come from?'

'Umm, Jo, errr, look, it was like-.'

'It was like nothing. You absolute creature, we've got even more work now. We'll have to hang on to these empties until after going up to the top station and back, there's no room in the coal siding for them, - there's still loadeds there. And you managed to get hold of a load of bricks!'

Nicola said nothing at all, merely looked at her buffers. Foxhill, though, had more to add:

'Can't go now, anyway. There's a train due down - it ought've been mine - textiles for export. However it'll be either my sister on the front, and it better not be 'cos I've a gland to pack with her, or it's your Abigail running the train and I advise you don't start on her - I suspect Ash gave her little choice about bunking in the shed last night.'

Nicola remained quiet - she had been fuming about being abandoned all morning, and didn't really trust herself to follow what Foxhill had said. She didn't get long to consider the point, for a piercing whistle came echoing down the valley - which Nicola didn't recognise - and soon appeared the train in question, a line of vans, in the AFJR's favoured red colour, as expected, but the engine was a surprise.

'What on God's earth is Jess doing here?'

The little 2-4-0 saddle tank stopped ahead of the goods loop, with no-one on her footplate, and looked shyly at Foxhill and Nicola, before saying nervously:

'Umm, Ashwell was b-bringing this train down, but sh-she's gotten disabled. I was j-just having my brakes tested, so th-they telegraphed for me to finish the journey...'

'That raises more questions than answers, love. Where's Cornish, why's he not with you? Why did they not send for any of us? What do you mean your brakes were being tested?'

Jess practically shivered at all of Foxhill's questions.

'Errm, Mr. Kernowek is up at the colliery, he en-trusted me to manage on my own. My steam brake pipe failed the other day and with it being winter I needed mending fast. This was the first opportunity to get me out of the colliery yard...'

'Who arranged the coal wagons for us earlier? There were twenty-five in the siding as there are always. If you didn't bring them, who did?' Jess blinked.

'Errm... Gravity, I expect...?'

'Right. Just you get off home then, tell Cornish hello from me, and, Jess?'

'Mm?'

'Good to see you out and about. Nice day for it, bit of snow on the ground, look.' Jess smiled, and blushed a bit, before whistling, and shuffling away, trying not to lose her footing on the icy rails.

'Always be nice to her. She's a treasure, really, but chronically unsure of herself. Jo can keep those vans, let's go, Jess'll stay here for water and breakfast so let's get out and doubling, make up a bit o' time n' that. Oh, and we'll have to collect my dear old sis' at some point on the way.'

So, with a train of 17 empty and four loaded wagons, they set off up the line. It was starting to dust with snow, and it suddenly occurred to Nicola that Christmas was but a few days away. She thought she'd better not start singing just yet.

Not too much time had elapsed before they were back at the middle station, where they found a very cross Ashwell on the goods siding with steam roaring out of her blow-down valve, and the remnants of her fire smouldering in the snow.

'Bloody hell, Jess weren't lying when she said you'd disabled yourself! What did you do?!?'

'Burst, didn't it? Not a word from you. Take me home please.' Foxhill and Nicola put Ashwell on the front of the empty wagons, then they nipped away to collect the last of the full ones on the coal siding, and soon the train was very long indeed.

'Erm, Foxhill,' said Nicola, quietly, as not to let Ashwell hear, 'what's the guv' gonna say when he sees her in that condition?'

'He's going to go off like a ten-pound gun.'

And with that rather dire prediction they started. The two six-coupleds worked very hard indeed for the first couple of miles, dragging Ashwell behind them, still blowing steam, and further behind still a twisting, rending line of trucks. It was heavy going, snow had slipped down into some of the cuttings and occasional bursts of ineffectual slipping would echo about the valley.

Soon they began climbing the longer, northern side of Manor Bank, and had just passed the colliery junction when with a short, sharp bang of catastrophic finality and then the sapping sound of escaping steam the train came to a stand. Foxhill had blown a cylinder cover.

'Hullo?!'

'All-right up there?!'

A quick inspection to take stock of the damage left some rather dire questions. Nothing in the cylinder itself was amiss, the front end cover, or maybe its fixings, had simply shattered, and been blown out into the 'four-foot' by the steam pressure.

Foxhill herself was grimacing, yet by no means was her spirit broken. There was a silent intent to continue as she had been, even if on a cylinder and a half.

It had just dawned on Nicola that she was the only working engine on the train, and a small, brash part of her thought that perhaps this railway really was on it's last legs - certainly the light, wavering track seemed to agree.

For a few moments everyone stood still where they were, communicating by head scratches and gentle wisps of steam. Then Nicola and Foxhill, having had a silent and indiscernible conversation, whistled up and began to move.

It was painful going - Nicola slipped violently and shot a shower of sparks out into the snow, while Foxhill in front blew great gasps of steam from one cylinder where it should have been contained and acting on the piston.

All the way up they never did better than four miles per hour, with over a second between each deafening bark, or blast of steam, from each engine. There must have been two hundred tons to drag up that hill, and only three and half small cylinders harnessing two hundred pounds of steam between them to do so. But against such trivial things as mathematical odds they made it over the top.

From there the running was a little easier. The line comes down steeply through the smart little halt for the Lord's Manor, and thence up and back down a short but fierce gradient. Foxhill used enough steam for this section to keep herself going, and Nicola rose very admirably to the work of pulling the train, although it took them nearly 20 minutes to cover the mile to the river crossing.

Another hour's struggle up the cutting into Ashwell brought them face to face with Mr. Cutler - on the platform with his face set like a stern mountain crag.

That was before he noticed Foxhill. Then the usually composed, straight-stood manager's jaw dropped and his expression changed to one of appalled disbelief. He had been notified by wire of Ashwell's relatively minor failure - inconvenient, but not catastrophic – the only result was a thorough removal of any sediment from her boiler. However nobody at Head Office had heard of the more serious damage to the second of the Company's ancient engines.

Foxhill was always adept at brushing off her doubtful mechanical condition, but she couldn't realistically cover this one up. So she presented herself with a weak but none-the-less brave smile, and let Mr. Cutler run a shrewd, appraising eye across her.

He bellowed for the fitter, then clambered down onto the line and had a good look at 'his' engine for himself. He ran a possessive hand over the underside of her buffer-beam, the wood of which was badly marked from the flying lumps of cast-iron that had smashed against it. He looked closely, too, at her cylinders, but did not touch them for they were of course very hot.

He went off stormily, into his office in the station building, and returned shortly in a cloud of cigar smoke. The fitter had also come out, as well as Abigail's crew from their scoff break, and the air was blue with foul language as they each inspected the remnants of gasket material and protruding, broken bolts decorating the front of the cylinder block. Foxhill did not seem to mind the attention, not flinching when the fitter started poking about at her with various home-made instruments.

The manager sent Nicola away to deal with the wagons, perhaps more brusquely than he meant - she retired looking quite frightened - then he ordered Ashwell and Foxhill be moved out of the station and into the engine shed, to be seen to later.

At this juncture it is necessary to assert that Mr. Cutler was not angry at his engines - he almost never could be - but instead rather at the world in general, with a special dedication to 'that cut-throat cheapskate --, --!, the Company's Finance Officer.

Abigail, on being awoken, coughed in surprise and produced a cloud of ash, which was followed by a loud and rather un-becoming sneeze, which blew a column of grey and black six feet high from her chimney top.

'God's sake love, I'll have to clean all that off later. Never-mind. Look, we need to get our mutual friends inside, they're damaged.'

'Damaged? Wait, what's up? Who's hurt?'

'Breakage of a blowdown valve on Ashwell, nothing too severe - she'll be all-right, and Foxhill converted one cylinder into a shrapnel cannon,' the driver answered.

Abigail, looking quite alarmed, collected the two old engines as gently as she could and placed them in the engine shed. The fitter, Mr. Owenson, was there, staying warm by the stove – he looked up in alarm at the sight, and then disappeared into the workshop.

The 'workshop' as it existed, was an extension of the engine shed - containing a lathe; a forge, with bellows; various drills and saws, a block and tackle; grindstone; steam hammer (no boiler); and in the corner a set of mobile shear-legs. All this equipment dated from the 1860s at the latest, and the earliest, a set of taps and dies, had been bought second hand from a local blacksmith at the time of the railway opening and were probably about 70 years old.

The walls were lined with shelves - old drawings, bits of oily metal with no use left for them, sandpaper of various kinds, and various other stores, including paraffin oil and rags were piled thereupon. There was also no track in the 'shop, and to fit a part made therein to an engine in the shed required the piece to be manhandled through the door.

The fitter came through that door in quite a passion, and was not seen for some time. The noise of heavy tools striking unyielding metal pieces began shortly thereafter.

Concurrently, in Mr. Cutler's office, a very careworn General Manager was draughting out just what he would say to the aforementioned Finance Officer, when next they met. The latter's maintenance budgets had always been unrealistically tight, and the bane of both the Permanent Way Department and anyone on the mechanical side. There had always been contention, and this was, so far as Mr. Cutler was concerned, the last straw. He knew the Company had no undue financial difficulty, it just needed investment - something Mr. Kelley simply failed to understand.

He had just finished this draught, and was about to start on another - an order for some materials from a nearby foundry, when he heard Ashwell's distinctive whistle, blowing in a slightly watery way across the yard, and in through the open window - the man smiled, he knew getting her ready for the road would not be very difficult. He looked up, at a sepia-toned photograph of her, framed on the wall - she was a different-looking engine then, with a tender, and there he himself was, at a very young age, stood on her footplate.

Ashwell's blowdown valve had become stuck open thanks to a small lump of scale no bigger than a grain of rice lodging on the seat and preventing it from shutting properly. Once the piece cooled it was the work of a moment to remove the offender, and raising steam again was easy with some warm water and fire borrowed from Foxhill's tanks and firebox. As such the next passenger train went away in good time, with the old 2-2-2T gleaming on the front, whistling fondly to all concerned.

Meanwhile, Abigail was sitting outside the engine shed, in which Foxhill was now alone - she considered continuing her nap, but a voice spoke up:

'Couldn't come in here a minute, could you?'

And so Abigail did, with some trepidation, greeting the other with a simple 'Hullo.'

'Look, Abi, if you're thinking I'd be upset with you about the shed, I'm not bothered. I knew Ash'd try it on one of you. She'd have done well to check with me, first, but that's not your fault. I've my own shed, for what it's worth, down at the 'arbour. The only reason I stay up here most nights is 'cause, well, Ashwell...' She chuckled, and went on:

'Requires constant supervision. Between you and I, it was nice to have an evening in my own company. Thanks, by the way, for looking after her for me. She's an annoying little twerp, but she is my sis, at the end of the day. I think you'll do alright 'round here, anyway... And between you and me, you didn't arrive a moment too soon...'

Foxhill looked at her front footplating, but her gaze was of course indicating her cylinders. Abigail said nothing - she didn't really need to, Foxhill seemed to understand her quite better than she thought. The enigmatic old goods engine was quite nice, really, and despite earlier uncertainty Abi decided she rather liked her after all.

The two sat in companionable silence for a moment, when there came a characterful 'peep-peep, pip-pip!' Foxhill acknowledged it with a blink, but Abigail looked a little worrisome. Nicola had, in her earliest years, developed that cheery little whistle pattern, with which she would announce her approach. Foxhill, noticing Abigail's consternation, commented:

'I didn't think you two were getting on, so I did try and tell her that she shouldn't be cross with you, and that it was sort of Ash's fault, but I'm not sure she was very convinced.'

'Oh. Well, thank-you for trying... Nicola is quite headstrong, and I do feel I'm not entirely blameless... I didn't really try and argue with Ashwell, and I ought've stuck with my sister on that siding, it can't have been nice for her, on her own...'

'Don't be so hard on yerself, you're hardly the first to be captured one way or the other by that old teakettle's charms - I'm not sure how she does it, myself.' Foxhill chuckled, a surprising lightness in the old engine's eyes, 'I don't know your sister too well, but she'll come 'round soon enough. She's easy enough to work with, 'specially in mornings. Can't believe how easy I put her to work on them coal trains...' She gave another soft laugh, her crow's-feet standing out.

'You did? How? Getting her up to work passenger trains was always trouble enough, and she's younger than me.' Then Abigail went red, adding, 'but I mustn't speak of her like that, she's wonderful, really.'

'I wouldn't have guessed she was younger - you have the same eyes. Round, blue - matches our paint quite well, now I say it.' Foxhill said this so plainly that the terrier blinked owlishly - it was true, in fact the facial similarities between Abigail and Nicola were a long-standing topic, but the ancient six-coupled must have been bloody quick to notice it so fast.

'Most people couldn't tell us apart back ho-, that is, on the Brighton, unless they read our names, or builder's plates. There's actually two years between us.'

'That wouldn't have helped me much, can't read too well.'

'Really?' Abigail thought this quite impossible.

'Was built in '56, weren't I? Not sure anyone who put me together here could read, either. Can just about manage some small words, but it don't make a difference to me. I'm alright at arithmetic, I reckon that's more important any-way.'

Abigail couldn't help but concur, and having said as much, a comfortable pause ensued. The sounds of the fitter clanging away next-door and Nicola clattering about nearby were the only sounds to be heard.

Abigail was moved outside soon after, so that Mr. Owenson could have some space to work on Foxhill directly - he said that within the hour she'd be ready to go again. It was snowing again, and the terrier was quite chilly - her fire could only keep her hot internally – and before long, noticing the brazier was lit by the water column, she settled down next to it so she could keep warm.

Nicola wandered over for a drink about ten minutes later, looking sheepish and preceded by a rather ominous splash from the direction of the wharf. She skated to a stop upon seeing Abigail.

'Hullo.'

'H-hullo.'

'You left me.'

'Sorry.'

'Yeah, well, y'know, it was bloody 'taters-in-the-mould last night, you might at least have braved it instead of slidin' orf inside wivout telling me.'

'S-said I was sorry, didn' I?' Abigail retorted, but without much conviction, and she was quite red. Nicola just laughed:

'Winding you up is great fun, y'know that don't ya?'

Abigail chuckled a bit, and blushed brighter still, and with that the two were quite all-right with each other again. They remained by the brazier for much of the afternoon, toasting nicely, for little engines like nothing more than a warm fire on a cold day.

Soon enough Ashwell got back with her train, and Foxhill came out of the shed, having accepted only enough attention as would get her running again, and soon there were four engines and nearly a dozen trainmen stood around outside. Ashwell led a surprisingly tuneful chorus, of a very old song the lyrics of which were best known to herself and Foxhill, Abigail and Nicola thought it the happiest little congregation they'd found themselves in, and the snow set such a perfect mood for the time of year that any extra decoration would not have enhanced it even slightly. The little group stayed together for some time, and after it broke up the afternoon's work was wrapped up with neither complaint nor care in the world. The two 'terriers', but lately arrived and as yet unfamiliar with this little railway, thought that there was nowhere more peaceful in the world.