Author's Notes:

1. THANK YOU CUTCAT FOR DOING A BETA READ SO FAST AND CATCHING SO MANY LITTLE THINGS TO FIX AND STRAIGHTEN UP

2. A tip on reading: I know we are squeezing in a lot of characters, but I promise you don't have to remember them all. Right now the major character underlying all the commotion and chatter is just the railway itself. The overall dynamic and atmosphere of the F.R. is what's important. If it feels like everyone is running together, that's mostly because they are meant to! This series is going to be very much about culture. The ways in which it's fragile, and the ways in which it's resilient, and how change can both refine and break our bonds with each other. Yes, I suppose that's a pretty heavy theme to hang on fanfic of the talking choo-choos, but that's where this series is going and you can pull the 'stop' cord and get off any time you like. For anyone who stays aboard, I promise I will do my best to set up the reader accordingly when any of these figures become important as individuals.

3. Which brings us to Edward. I should have clarified from the first that, in this universe, he is not 125 (the number I usually assign him in my fics). Currently he is anonymous by design, and his identity won't be revealed until we near the end of this story. Until then, maybe you'll see him; maybe you won't. Circumstance hasn't set him apart yet, so I very much want him to be indistinguishable from the rest!

3: The Feud

Coppernob was staring at Poppet unseeing, blinded with dismay.

There was nothing to say. And even if there had been, an incoming train whistled its approach and Stationmaster came out to oversee the arrival. Poppet, seeing no point in staying just to watch Coppernob's frozen face, scampered away.

Thursday. Thursday!

'Seagull' 37 whooshed in neatly, and the porters unleashed the throng. At first Coppernob took no notice of any of them (Interfering with the railways, and inspecting perfectly sound steelworkers—could the Admiralty find nothing better to do with its time? Didn't they have a warto conduct?!), but a familiar knot of gentlemen had come out from the first coach.

They stepped out of their way to see him, distinguished by the especially thick clouds of cigar smoke that accompanied them. "Ah, dear Coppernob!"

He had forgotten that this train would of course be bringing in a good many of the directors. Much as he'd forgotten other trivial details such as the time of day, which way the sky pointed, and where he even was.

He only came back to his own greenhouse, and his own pointless stubby rails, at the second or third greeting.

When he did, he found that he was facing the mayor of Barrow, the owner of the munitions company, a general manager of Vickers Limited, their very own Superintendent of the Line, plus a couple lesser railway directors… and that fortunately he'd already greeted them in turn. A good gate guardian could do no less. There was a sort of role—not a rule; those no longer governed his life, but a role—that he was expected to play. It was simple and false and relatively easy to perform without thinking. Indeed, the less he thought about it the easier it was. "Ah, yes… yes, indeed, sir… good day, sir… meeting of the board today, is it, gentlemen?"

(Thursday!)

Coppernob was too preoccupied to even take his usual secret, petty pleasure at the position of the stationmaster… who came over as usual to hover dutifully and uselessly around the edge of the crowd.

One of the perks of his post should have been the chance to make these unofficial little reports to distinguished personages such as these. But they invariably ignored the dutiful company servant in favor of the engine.

"Hrrrrrrm, yes," coughed the scion of the ironworks in North Lonsdale. "Always a good excuse for me to travel into town. How are things going here at your station, number Three?"

"Oh, well enough," said the engine, affecting indifference and disapproval. "Terrible lot of foreign engines on our metals. They weren't built with the weights of those great Claughtons in mind, sir!"

There were appreciative chuckles and murmurs.

"Needs must and all that," smiled the superintendent of the line. "We ourselves have foregone our usual saloon, as you can see—it's been pressed into service by the War Office."

"Yes," said the mayor dryly. "But somehow we make do with first class, and soldier on."

No one else seemed to catch it. But it was not the first time that the old engine thought that he rather liked this mayor.

"And those new Seagulls of Mr Pettigrew's are the flightiest yet," Coppernob grumbled, knowing it was still his cue. "New Shedmaster should really keep all the main line engines in better order. In my day—"

"I'll speak to him," promised the superintendent, and perhaps there was indeed a glimmer of use in the old charade they liked so much. At least, it had been months and months since Coppernob had last heard the superintendent laugh. (And he was a man made for laughter: he took after his venerable mother in that and in so many other ways. One could hardly see anything of his late father in him…) "But times have changed, you know, and people like seeing the engines in high spirits."

"Lately there are few other bright spots in the day," agreed the Vickers manager grimly, and there was the usual indistinct harrumph of agreement.

"I do hope you are otherwise keeping well, Coppernob?" asked the superintendent, with a bit of a twinkle in his eyes.

It was all of a piece. The real answer was not wanted. Coppernob had learned that the hard way… and the long way.

"Oh, well enough, sir. As long as I can see my railway carrying on in style, it hardly matters how many Jerries are rabble-rousing in 'Pryz' or whatnot!"

There was a laugh at that. Quite right—quite right…

"But, if I may, sir," the engine added, an instant before they began to wander off towards the exit, "how are negotiations coming along with the new railway?"

There was some faint surprise somewhere behind all the cigars.

"Ah, humbug," muttered one of the gentlemen. "The No-Where Railway…"

"Oh, it's very much Some-Where," said the mayor, brow furrowing, "and our city stands to gain much from the rail link."

"Is the link made then, sirs?" pressed Coppernob. "The engines and coaches tell me the construction looks quite complete."

"Seems to be," said the munitions owner carelessly. "We didn't know you would care much about it, though, number Three!"

"Don't want us to send anyone so far away, is that it?" asked the superintendent.

"Rather, sir, he wants to send off a couple engines in particular, I don't doubt," the stationmaster made bold to contradict. Coppernob wished he hadn't. Stationmaster was shrewd—and, unlike the gentlemen, he did not want to be lied to.

But Coppernob could remember Stationmaster as a gawky, gangly youth. As a nuisance and a general safety hazard among the sidings of Moor Row. As the notorious culprit who had once accidentally stripped rather than polished old number Twelve's dome.

The day Coppernob couldn't outmaneuever that boy would be a sorry one indeed.

"That I do, sirs," he said firmly, without missing a beat. "I hope you will consider sending a couple of the original 'Sharpies' over. They have been waiting for the day we extended over the channel all their working lives, and we can be confident that they would represent the Company well."

Most importantly—should, by some miracle, they be able to send the southern tank engine over in time—the eldest Sharpies were familiar with their old escapades in the engine-smuggling line, and they could all be trusted to keep a secret with cool composure.

His confidence squashed the stationmaster for the rest of the interview, but the directors mostly lost interest. The proposal obviously did not suit them.

"My dear engine," said the mayor, "we couldn't possibly. We did at first offer a couple of our class 29 'Sharpies'. But it seems any engines we loan them will be responsible for fast trains."

"Oh, they all have a good deal more speed in them than you might think!" said Coppernob, hearty, but the mayor shook his head and the Vickers manager explained:

"Their main line is as long as ours, with an incline on the western end hardly any less arduous than our own Lindal Bank. That's rather a lot to ask of fifty-year-old engines!"

"Faugh, but they're—not…" Coppernob trailed off, doing some alarming mental arithmetic. The few directors who had yet not wandered off smiled. "Well, Mr Pettigrew had them rebuilt, not too long ago."

"Ah, but that was also twenty years ago," said the Vickers manager gently. "No, we couldn't do it to those faithful old machines."

"We might have to," said the munitions owner, biting with a sort of thoughtful violence upon his pipe. "We can hardly spare any suitable engines."

"I won't hear of it," returned the superintendent of the line. He and the mayor seemed to have found instinctively themselves shoulder to shoulder against the rest—and, for just a moment, despite the differences in build and color, he looked very much his father's son. "You are a newcomer to Barrow, sir, and in time you will come to appreciate that we have always done our due diligence before sending any of our engines away. We have never let loyal F.R. stock come to a cruel end, and never will."

Such outrageous denial or astounding ignorance—whichever it was—nearly rendered Coppernob speechless.

But he saw stationmaster open his mouth. Even now, spiteful reflex didn't fail the engine, who cut him off effortlessly. "I understand, sir. Whomever is sent, I hope we can look forward to it happening directly after this meeting."

"Oh," grumbled the Vickers manager, "we'd like to have done with it, just to get the Admiralty off our necks. We've offered to lend them some 'Radials' and even a 'Seagull' or two, passenger receipts being so thin on the ground just now. But the Sudrians are being quite absurd."

"They haven't got the message that beggars can't be choosers!" scowled the munitions factory owner, and there was another round of affirming harrumphs.

"What do they want?" asked Coppernob, brows knit.

Stationmaster looked over at him with some suspicion, but the directors took it in good humor.

"Ah, they insist that we loan our 3's! The new ones, you know," added the Vickers manager, with a nod of respect to Coppernob. (Of course he knew. How could he be confused on that point?) "They must know it will never happen, but I really fear they plan to hold out for at least one. It's absolutely…"

"Greedy," said a director Coppernob couldn't place.

"Grasping," said another.

"Galling. Utterly shameless! You must understand, my dear engine, we have not allowed the Midland, nor the real 'North Western,' to quite browbeat us all these years, and we certainly aren't about to let some ignorant islanders who have run every railway they've ever built to the ground to come in and play us for fools. But never mind, number Three—we will get there in the end. There's no hurry."

"With respect, sir, I think perhaps there is," said Coppernob quietly. He gave a bit of a self-deprecating smile at the looks he got, hoping to deflect disapproval. "I don't know how to explain it, sirs—just a sort of feeling you get in the axles, at my age. Better to get the thing over with. This very week, for choice."

He had lost a good bit of his audience, though the mayor looked thoughtful. "It must be owned," he said, "we need to open a valve on the housing situation here, as soon as we possibly can…"

"Hrm." The superintendent, like the rest, was frowning with offended dignity. An engine might be a source of idle entertainment, even vague wisdom of a kind, something of a railway oracle—but they were not supposed to tell men their business. A line had been crossed. "Well, we'd better get on, Albert…"

They strolled on without further farewell, meeting their fellows who had disappeared among the station and proceeding to the board room.

Coppernob had done what he could. But, although his disapproval was much better veiled than theirs, there was just as much as he eyed them leaving.

At least Stationmaster seemed peeved as he stalked off. Coppernob hoped the neuralgia of which he complained so often kept him good company.

Poppet bustled in importantly, and eyed the still waiting and steaming 37 with annoyance. "Your 'down' isn't due out for thirty-five minutes," she observed. "You may go."

"Who are you to be giving orders?"

"Just common sense," Poppet said crisply. "When you visit the yard to get turned 'round you should have them buff your right-hand splashers; they look filthy."

37 huffed a good many things about station pilots who were too big for their wheels, but they ignored him.

"News?" Coppernob murmured, once the Seagull had left in a cloud of offended pride.

Poppet made an idle what-do-you-want-from-me expression. "Oh, not really."

Coppernob's strained nerves couldn't take such a departure from their usual habit. "Then why did you send him away?"

"Eh? Oh, I don't know," said Poppet, looking worried. "I just hated to have him there next to you fussing over the stupid island job… You always seem so tired, after some of the directors come to visit."

He hadn't realized that, but he knew at once that it must be true and he scowled darkly at her. "Tired, am I?"

"Hmm-hmm." Poppet, not displaying the least awe, looked a troubled mother hen. "Or, you know… melancholy."

His first glower having been insufficient for the job, Coppernob gave her a second and fiercer one. "The problem was not that I needed you to use a bigger word, 19."

That wiped the gentle concern from her smokebox. She rolled her eyes. "Or just plain prickly! How about that, old crosspatch?"

"Better," muttered the static engine. He still hated the idea that she had seen through him, and apparently for some time, with him able to do nothing about it but to hope that she was the only one who had any inkling of how dirty and defeated he felt after each one of these interviews.

"Maybe it's for me, too," Poppet added hopefully. "I could use a break from their bother."

"You!"

"Me." She gave a long-suffering sigh. "When Yardmaster asked who would go over, he told them all a bit about what kind of engine was wanted over there. Now all the night long you can hear someone in the sheds going on about it. Wish I could sleep here! By the way, Mary—Marypont and Carlisle No. 13," she interrupted herself, with a roll of her eyes, upon seeing Coppernob's expression, "is coming through in half-an-hour. War Office commandeered our 122 for the day so she has to take his train. Do you want me to have her routed to track one? None of the lads will be about when she's here," Poppet added, with another eyeroll, "so she'll likely be talking sense again."

Coppernob was thoroughly puzzled over that remark, but affirmed that he did indeed wish to speak with her. Time for the Brighton engine was now very short, and he certainly couldn't throw away any opportunity at wheel.

In the meantime, he had nothing to distract himself from the unpleasant aftertaste of the directors' visit except the usual ins and outs of the main line engines. Happily oblivious of secrets, they blew off steam, rattlings, and general self-importance. All of them tried to hail and then pester Poppet, who usually wasn't nearly so popular with them. But they seemed to have the idea that she knew things before they did.

It wasn't as if Coppernob had lied to the board. (Not that he should have felt very bad, if he had.) But it was very true that the matter of the first "No-Where trains" interested the fleet greatly. With the construction on the bridge appearing complete, the Furness engines had grown frustrated at the apparent delay in letting anyone run over it.

Rumors flew thick and fast. But Barrow sheds had become quite clear on one thing: It would not be one of their tank engines. The point of the loan was for an engine to be able to take main line trains, and some tightly-timed ones at that. Apparently the new railway already had some tank engines of its own… seemingly the only engines it had to its name.

So the tank engines sighed for another lost chance of glamor. And then, as they always did, got on with things.

This left the honor up for grabs between the Sharpies and the Seagulls.

After ninety minutes of the usual non-stop pestering, Poppet's nerves were starting to fray. "As if," she groaned, "they needed another thing to fuss about."

"It's truly disgraceful," agreed Coppernob.

"Nobby," Poppet asked, with perfect seriousness, "the next time one of them asks me for news of the thing, mayn't I wheesh them? Or would that be disgraceful, too?"

"I'm afraid it would be very much so. But tell them you're too busy about your work to listen to gossip, and they ought to be just the same."

"That's a lot of words!" wailed Poppet, bustling off to push a rake of coaches out of the way.

In the end, she settled on telling any of the tender engines who asked "whether Stationmaster had heard word" that they could go and ask him themselves! Which was indeed a shorter way of settling the matter.

They stopped asking her, but they also didn't ask Stationmaster. Coppernob and Poppet were agreed: They rather liked not knowing. They were all keen to be chosen—engines on their railway didn't exactly do much travelling, and even in this Great War those opportunities were limited. But perhaps, deep in their boiler, they understood any individual's likelihood of being sent was low.

In the meantime, however, every engine jack of them could have the fun of taunting the opposing clan. As they had all done at every available opportunity for decades.

The Sharpies were the older and by far the most numerous class. They took great pride in handling the heavy mineral traffic that was the backbone of the railway. A steady, sturdy, to say nothing of stubborn lot. A bit private in their doings—properly private, in Coppernob's view; their traditions went so far back that they were similar to his own. Many of the Sharpies had been built in the era of Sir James and Mr Mason, though more had been added to their number since the turn of the century, and very large, powerful things their newcomers were. Most of the new Sharpies were in fact made by builders besides Sharp's, but they were accepted into the clan just the same, as the latest generation of six-wheeled goods engines… most of them, anyway; four of the newcomers were mixed-traffic, and very proud of it. But they were just as proud to identify themselves as Sharpies, and to scorn the thought of ever being mistaken for a 'Gull—whose work they were confident they could do better, if ever given a chance!

The 'Gulls were fewer in number and accounted quite vain and flighty, but they were absolutely determined to never give them that chance. These were four-wheeled passenger engines with double leading bogies, and made very much of by the railway's directors and promoters, which of course had gone straight to their smokeboxes. When they were in good humor they were sunny and sociable; visitors loved them. But they were also prone to mood swings, requiring their crews' indulgence and petting to a degree that simply wasn't tolerated in any of the other engines. One thing, however, could be said for them: they weren't ones to rest on past laurels. From their first days, when it had been just the four of them against masses of sceptical and suspicious Sharpies, they had set out to prove that they were every bit as good as promised.

Any year that the old wheels began to cherish fond hopes that both sides were beginning to settle down and learn sense, Mr Pettigrew would go ahead and have new engines built for one clan or another. Naturally, the newcomers rolled out of the shops fresh, hot, and stupid, and the entire feud seemed to reset overnight.

On that tense morning more than any other, it was a relief when they all thinned out, leaving a quiet lull behind them.

And it was during this time that the spring-green M. & C. engine whistled her arrival, bringing in the parcels train right on time at quarter till.