Author's Note:
Hearty thanks to CutCat for the beta read, and to AngrySkarloey, fishiecap, and Farragh for their help with... *gulps, meets no one's eye*... the part with the dialect. Mistakes are my own; feedback still welcome. It does have a heavy Yorkish flavour to it, by design—I've plans for a future story that will shed light on where the characters got it from, but for now it suffices to say that Barrow's boom-and-bust economy (when in boom) attracted workers from all corners, and the diversity of accents—Scottish, Geordie, and Yorkish all noted—led to most accounts of the town or Vickers shipyards to include the phrase "tower of Babel."
4: Parlour-Games and Prayer
"Hullo, old-timer!"
This unbearably smarmy greeting was not meant for Coppernob, but for an engine not even five years the speaker's senior.
"Shh, don't wake him, you know he doesn't like us!"
"Ha ha. Well, fair enough! Too much to talk over to spare time for a good scolding, eh?"
"Yes, indeed! Have your lot heard?"
"That it's going to be one of us? Of course! Oh, the 115 Sharps are fit to be shunted! It's lovely to see them in the sulks."
"Are you lot at Carnforth going for it?"
"Maybe we are and maybe we're not."
"Coy!"
"Bit rich, coming from you, 36! I suppose you want to hog all the glory."
"It's what I do!"
"Pooh. It'll be our 129, you just watch."
"Nonsense—never! Not with your great clumsy wheels."
"Ho-hum. You sang a different song about our wheels when first you saw them—I remember!"
"Perhaps. But that was before 127 needed to call for a banker over—"
"During the worst storm Lindal had for ten—"
"For an express!"
"It was the only safe thing to—"
"Funny how no engine ever seemed to think that necessary on the 'fast' before. Ah well, first time for everything, I s'pose."
"Now you listen here, you sawed-off little—"
Coppernob couldn't take it any longer. He let out an inarticulate roar that made both Seagulls jump in fright.
" WE ARE BUSY—TRYING NOT—TO LOSE—A WAR, " he reminded the two young idiots, " AND—ONE-TWO-EIGHT—YOUR GUARD—HAS NOW WHISTLED— TWICE!"
128 gave the smallest whistle of acknowledgment, and limped meekly away. 36 did not dare say another word… not until old 121 arrived, anyway; and he was full of merry boasting, so 36's sense of competition soon beat out self-preservation.
Coppernob, unable to summon another such bellow, closed his eyes and briefly indulged a fantasy about a boiler explosion.
Eventually passengers and trains left. Coppernob's lips moved soundlessly with uncharitable imprecations that were best left unheard but which, somehow, helped soothe his jangled nerves. There would be about twenty-five minutes' peace before the next round.
At least, according to the timetables.
"Heigh-ho!" called an engine… carefully not whistling as he stopped at the points that lead from the yard to the platform. Instead his greeting was in the enginey hum and hiss that humans understand so little of.
"Who's there?"
"It's owd Daley, ain't it?"
Coppernob's face relaxed into a smile of great and sudden warmth. "Ah, and what mischief art about, tha lazy good-fer-nowt?"
"Thas," grinned Daley. He was a biggish saddletank inherited from the W. C. & E. R. line. Their managers thought they had sold him off in '98, which was technically true; what they didn't know was that things had been arranged such that their own steelworks had been the buyer. It remained the greatest trick they had ever pulled off. "Tha hast everyone lowpin', has'n tha? And don't tha garn raggin' on me—tha looks just as if tha's only had a right mess o' seagulls fallin' on thy funnel. Lady! Tha'rt inta thick o' them every day here, ast tha?"
"Better than havin' a clumsy Hawthorn wreakin' havoc in every sidin' of me yard." This was a lie, and probably Daley knew it.
"Well, mind this, Nobby. The gamekeepers're all gar'n spare, see?"
"They 're gar'n spare?" Coppernob was cross all over again, glaring into the nothing of the middle distance. It seemed to him the Twenties had the easy part!
In the time since he had spoken with the No-Where engineer, the two railways had come to terms on the engine loan, rumour had it that the train would go out the next day, and Poppet had enlisted the Old Yardmaster for help arranging a suitable distraction. To be sure, they could not yet give the Twenties a precise time, for they were hoping to somehow push back the departure to No-Where till nightfall, and Coppernob knew the uncertainty would trouble Twenty's steady, clockwork soul. Still, all Twenty needed to do was to keep the southern sidetank employed and hidden until Daley came to fetch him.
"Well, the coney knows the hawk has overlooked 'im, and so takes 'em all for loco-nappers, and uz had a fair cry or two…"
"Let 'im cry!" insisted Coppernob… though something invisible in his cold firebox still smote him. "It won't be long!"
"But 'en, they fear he'll be making a great fuss, once we open the coop. And if he don't," Daley persisted, overriding Coppernob's groan, and, at a loss for the right word, looking around to triple-check that the coast was clear, "that fireman o' his. Don't much know the meanin' of discretion—"
"Hoist and torch it all! If he can't be trusted, then the Twenties must to see to it that man doesn't go along that night. See to it he's given some other orders. Surely the driver can be appealed to! As for the hare, they must have him well tired out, so he cannow take any notice where he is. Keep 'im at work from now till the evenin' of! B'ladee, must I think of all't? Tell Twenty to have some gumption!"
"Aye," grinned Daley. "All right, I'll pass that on. He'll have me dome for it—I'll be a charcoal stain on the floor o' that slabbin' mill of his—but all right. Everyone does be sayin' tha'rt a reg'lar Admiral over here. I see what they mean… "
"Aw, hush tha moy…"
"Ha! Right, then. Don't fret, I'll tell 'im. So long for now, Nobbsy." He paused, trying to leave on that casual note, but unable to manage it. "Dockyards ain't ever been the same without'ee…"
Coppernob listened to him chuff backwards into the big yard with an ache of regret.
If by personally delivering the sidetank to a battalion in Verdun he could somehow have one day back at the docks under his own steam… he might well have struck the bargain.
Fortunately no such thing was in his power. As if to remind him of it, the stationmaster strode over to the glass house, looking even taller and more rigid than usual. He was wearing a special frown—no mere absent-minded scowl of inner reflection.
"Why is that shunting engine creeping about my station?" His knitted brow intensified when Coppernob, as he often did when it came to humans on his platform, affected deafness. "Answer me, number Three!"
"As far as I can tell, Stationmaster, he came to visit me."
" 'Only the Station-Pilot, among all the engines ancillary to the running of commuter trains, is to be visible from Barrow Central platforms'," snapped Stationmaster. He waited, but as usual he would have had to wait a very long time before Coppernob knew what response was appropriate when this man quoted the Regulations-Book at him, and a longer time still before the engine cared to get to the bottom of the mystery. "There seems to be an awful lot of coming and going about here lately."
"Sir, this is a railway station."
"Don't play dumb with me!" Stationmaster shook his finger. Coppernob looked at it with indifferent, hooded eyes. "I should like to know what is afoot—no, I must know what is afoot. It is my responsibility."
Coppernob only stopped himself from smarting off with And a jolly good job of it you do by remembering the beaming, grinning sidetank with the southern accent.
If E2106 must panic and weep a little for the sake of his future, then Coppernob could hold his temper.
But it would require careful handling. At last he made reply, with an air of apparent reluctance. "I have been requesting the old crowd to come and pay a visit."
"Visit? As if this station is your parlour-room!"
"I am sure I don't know." Coppernob's voice was still even. Very. "But it has been years and years since that engine and I last spoke."
"Hrm—hrm! A brewing storm of sentiment—is that it?"
"Exactly it," said Coppernob… and allowed a certain genuine bitterness to, for once, stain his words.
Stationmaster, despite the height disadvantage, stared the engine down very steadily. "But why now? No, number Three—I don't buy it. I don't buy it! You'll not pull the wool over old Smotes. There's something deeper in all this."
"This is quite the fanciful notion you've dreamed up, Stationmaster." Coppernob barely contained a malignant gaze upon the little man. "But as you seem to have put a good deal of thought into this and I have nothing but time, do go on. Tell me. What kind of trouble do you imagine I am causing? From inside a greenhouse, no less."
Even when cold and silent iron, a steam engine can be plenty intimidating and it must be owned that even Mr Smotes, that dogged and dauntless company servant, drew in breath under the force of Coppernob's icy scorn and nervously scritched the back of his neck.
But he didn't back down. "You seem awfully interested in that train tomorrow to No-Where. I believe all these touching social calls are connected to it."
Coppernob affected an indifferent little huff. "I sent 19 to ask the dock engines to try and come 'round for a little chat ages ago! That was well before the main line engines all lost their minds about the first train over-the-bridge."
"All that tells me is, whatever is going on, you have been plotting it for quite a long time."
"And it seems to me that, if you have the time to manufacture such tales, you do not have nearly enough work to be getting on with."
It was Stationmaster's turn to scarcely contain a snarl. "Very well! If you will not own to me what you are about, I have no choice left! Duty compels me to refer all my suspicions to the Superintendent of the Line. Then the matter will be—"
The man broke off, seeing the engine's stricken eyes.
A moment too late, Coppernob realised that fear had flashed across his face like a beacon. He tried to rearrange his features into however they looked normally but even as he scrambled he knew how futile it was. Stationmaster's eyes glinted shrewdly.
"Oho," he said. Voice soft in a way Coppernob had never heard in him before.
"Tell him, then," retorted Coppernob, struggling to straighten and steady his voice, reassuming his usual half-scowl. "Tell him!"
It was the stationmaster's turn to consider. "Tell him, indeed," he mused. "But what shall I tell, exactly…"
"Whatever you say, it will sound pretty mad," Coppernob went on recklessly. "It can't be helped, at this point. You've put in enough years makin' a hash o' yer own credit. But yeh're welcome to try!"
Stationmaster's face drained of all blood. "Don't test me, engine," he warned, barely breathing the threat.
"Go on," Coppernob goaded, heedless of the glint in the stationmaster's eye, "go on—call 'im—if his office knows yer name, I'll be much surprised!"
He knew the stationmaster was on the verge of losing all his tightly-wound self-control, and he should have gloried in it, as the nearest chance to think of anything but facing an interrogation by the superintendent.
But at that very moment a bright whistle from the eleven-oh-five presaged the arrival of yet another Seagull.
"Hullllooooo, Barrow!" 124 sang over his screech of brakes and whooshing of steam… which was funny, in an exhausting sort of way. As if he had the faintest idea of what went on in Barrow beyond the sliver that comprised the station and sheds. "Say, if I might ask, is there any word yet on which of us is being—"
"NO," responded Stationmaster and Coppernob alike, still glaring at each other.
But the arrival of the next train at least meant Stationmaster gave up the interrogation as a bad job. He stalked off gloomily, and woe did tide the porters, the crew, and the engine upon that particular disembarkment.
124 was not long squelched, and within seconds of Stationmaster stalking off his penitent expression for whatever infractions had been found vanished, and until the very last second when he was waved and whistled off again, his tongue was clacking away with news from Carnforth nineteen to the twenty. Then little old 120 (as he was called these days—though to Coppernob the days directly before 120's arrival were still clear as a bell, and more real than the present day of warfare and aeroplanes and submarines by far!) came in, and somehow the resulting chatter was not two but somehow eight times worse.
It was really only minutes, but felt an interminable wait, before 124 and 120 were waved and whistled off. But the day was still young, and soon it was another train, another three trains in overlapping succession, yet another pair of Seagulls in opposite directions…
Although on that occasion, 'Sharpie' number 5 was listening in from a nearby siding. He'd been left on standby in case an engine was wanted to pilot an Admiralty coal train. At first he eyed the latest pair of 'Gulls with dull, disgusted resignation, but when 129 boasted about an extra turn of duty he'd volunteered for that morning (which would surely win him the nod over-the-bridge!), 5's will to live visibly returned.
"It's not too late," he soothed young 133, "there's still lots to be done today."
"All our trains are covered," said 133 mournfully. He was the newest 'Gull, not much older than E2106.
"Pooh, who cares about your trains? You know passenger work isn't all that's wanted for this assignment; there's probably only two dozen people on that whole island anyhow. Now, if you were to succeed with a coal train, you'd really set yourself apart from the lot…"
133 frowned, reflexively and not unwisely suspicious of any offer of help from a Sharpie—much less one who looked as much like a triumphant cat as 5 currently did. But when he looked over at 129, his older cousin only looked cautious.
"That… might not be a bad idea," he admitted, reluctantly, " if you really wanted to be chosen, 'Three-Three."
"'Course I do!" said 133. "But d'you suppose it's a trick?"
"Oh, I'm sure he isn't offering out of the goodness of his heart," began 129.
"You needn't talk about me as if I'm not here," observed 5, affecting an injured air.
129 did not dignify this with a response. "And, should you make any mistake, you will be laughed right out of the yard…"
"But?" prompted 133, correctly judging the other 'Gull's line of thinking.
"Well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained."
"Let's do it, then," said 5 positively, his smile somehow even wider than before, and threatening to split his smokebox in two. "Oh, you needn't worry, marra! You'll only be assisting; there's no way to fail so long as you keep puffing!"
"Is that true?" 133 asked 129.
"Still right here," observed 5 to the sky—slighted, but noble.
"Not really," said 129. "But he has a point. I 'd do it, if I didn't have this 'up' scheduled."
"So it's a deal!" smirked 5.
"IT—IS—NOT—A—DEAL!"
The 'Gulls jumped, and 5 made a face. "Aw, c'mon, Nobby—"
At this point Coppernob's voice was quite hoarse—it wasn't easy, to make himself heard at such a distance as 5 was, outside station bounds—but that didn't undermine the effect. Enhanced it rather. "Number Five, I will tell them allthe truth about you. And you two!" he rasped, glaring at the 'Gulls so darkly that they had no time to digest this hint of rich intrigue. "If yeh want to distinguish yourselves from yer lot, perhaps give a thought to arriving to time, or holding yer tongues for five minutes at a stretch— "
"Nobby, it isn't a trick, truly it isn't," wheedled 5. "Besides, it isn't only me who's offered! If all the Sharps at Carnforth haven't already had this idea, I'll eat Driver's cap…"
He trailed off, seeing the truly amazing doom for him and his spelled across Nobby's smokebox.
The subsequent dressing-down was so vicious that the 'Gulls couldn't even enjoy watching it, and were visibly relieved when they were driven away. 5, stuck, had to endure the disgrace of Coppernob's deadly disapproval for another three quarters of an hour.
By the end of the evening commute, everyone who had passed through the station was more or less cross, with the engine remaining behind the most irritated and tired of all. That night it was agreed throughout Barrow, Carnforth, Windermere, Kendal, and Whitehaven sheds: 'owd Smotes and our Nobby' had gone round the twist that day, and no mistake! Regular bears—all teeth and claws.
Quite a few engines crept in with the paint fairly blistered off of them. To be sure, Mr Smotes had inflicted some of these ego wounds—no surprise that; Coppernob and Smotes alike had long been named in some wry whispers as "the two gargoyles." But the stationmaster seemed to have lost interest in this sudden persecution of every worker in sight after tea-time, whereas Coppernob had kept hard at it. He'd snarked when 35 had overshot the platform by about two feet; he'd scolded 132 about his noisy unoiled axles until the big new engine had nearly cried; despite Nobby's known partiality towards the Sharpies even 10, commandeered the day before by the War Office and routed through Central Station, had not escaped a tongue-lashing about his unwashed grime.
It probably hadn't helped the two gargoyles' temper that 5 had indeed not been the only only engine who had seen the opportunity to shift some of his work onto an eager Seagull. It had been an irresistible chance: a load off their buffers, and the potential for great entertainment should the 'Gull fail in any amusing way with unfamiliar stock!
But, in the end, no such blessed event had come to pass. The jobs had been discharged without mishap… even if the 'Gulls had all made ten times as much noise and fuss about them as was necessary. And, all the worse, any unfortunate souls who attempted to strike one of these bargains at Central Station had encountered a certain old bar-frame engine vetoing it with flashes of fury, blasting both guilty parties as effectively as two grenades. Oh, what a mood their Nobby had been in! ("Shewed his undercarriage," as some of the old wheels put it, in their rather earthier fashion, and making poor 132 blush more fiercely than ever.)
At Barrow sheds that night everyone looked upon a work-weary 19 with some degree of pity, and were all unusually considerate of her for a good half-hour… until she realised why.
"Oh, go on," she'd laughed, suddenly a good deal less tired, "don't you all go growing hearts now. It doesn't suit you. Anyhow Nobby never said a cross word to me! "
"He didn't?"
"But you were there all day—"
"How?! "
The note of awe was quite unusual in Poppet's experience, and she was annoyingly self-satisfied about it.
"Some of us," she said loftily, "were built with brains."
She appeared to fall into the deep sleep of the just with cherubic smugness.
Coppernob, on the other rail, had a hard night of it. With nightfall came far fewer distractions in and out of his station. But traffic did not altogether cease overnight, not since the preparations for war had begun, so between the workmen's services and the inevitable through supply trains, he had not the privacy to collect himself or even to rest. Nor, given the likelihood of Mr Smotes lurking and listening, had he gotten his usual debrief from Poppet that afternoon; she had winked reassurance at him but otherwise he had to be left in suspense, as well as with mounting shame as he recalled how many times he had lost his temper that day.
Finally, after the 4.30 post train had swept through, there was at last a stretch of peace. The parcels and letters were sent out for delivery, and after that the station was deserted. It was the same quiet dim hour when he had met the bright-eyed sidetank with the Brighton accent. This time, he was able to doze properly. A short while, perhaps, but he was too old and too idle to require much sleep. An hour here and there was fine.
After it, he felt in quite a different mood, his thoughts quite clear and untroubled. There were indeed so many unknowns left on this, the dawn of the day when they would either save the new sidetank or lose him. One by one he remembered those question marks.
Whether the No-Where engineer had in fact struck the deal in time. Whether the first train over-the-bridge would actually appear on the day's timetables.
Poppet's wink, the night before, promising that something to occupy Stationmaster at the appropriate time was underway. Goodness only knew what that was, or how Yardmaster had arranged it.
Whether the Superintendent of the Line really had been alerted, and if so whether he should credit it as anything worth investigating.
If the superintendent did come to demand answers of Coppernob, they were all quite lost. He knew this now, whereas the day before he had unconsciously been steeling himself to defy and deceive him. But his nerves had only gotten more tangled and frayed the more he tried to build his defenses because the thing was impossible. There was no help for it. Even after all this time, a potent mixture of fear and love made him more the superintendent's engine than he was of any other man alive and these days he instinctively said whatever the superintendent wanted to hear. Fortunately the superintendent usually wanted to hear nothing of any consequence from him—but if James Ramsden's son did come to him asking the truth of the business Coppernob would be quite unable to do anything but tell him.
Resignation to this fact cleared his mind remarkably. It would be what it would be. Nor would he be in suspense much longer. Today was the day—and the sun already rising.
He watched the progress of its timeless triumph, untroubled by the crescendo of the new day's business around him. This was the one great blessing of his glass house: only half his view of the horizon was obscured by the station roof and from the other half he could watch the day break, or at least he could whenever it dawned fair.
This was such a day. The colors of the sunrise were that morning too brave and pure to let the smog of the town obscure them. Lavender and ruby and marigold and spring green; they all flew their flags gallantly.
And then, too. A sight that, between the heavy smoke and his limited view, he hardly ever glimpsed. One star—a brilliant serenity singing low above the harbour. The brightest star in the sky, which the humans sometimes call Venus; but any sensible engine knows better than that.
The morning star is her Ladyship's headlamp.
The old static engine watched it rise and burn and fade again, transported to a world far beyond the rising commotion of Central Station.
He was under no illusions that the arrival of a god promised a favourable outcome. Humans with any power never doted upon the little plans and wishes of a machine and anything divine would surely be even more lofty and indifferent—even Her . When faced with even this one cinder of her glory, you knew better than that.
Still. She was out and about that day, and that was enough. Whatever the coming hours brought, in her inscrutable will the old engine placed all his faith.
He was unsurprised when he heard the men and engines remarking that the schedule for the day now included a mixed train for Vickerstown, due out that evening at 10.15.