Chapter 2: Brown Birds, Letters, and a Christmas Away

"So this little girl I spoke to today had me thinking: If there was such a thing as a Father Christmas Engine," said Thomas out loud, "And he knew that engines liked coal, what do the naughty one's get? Candy and toys?"

His fireman snickered. "Another puzzler from the likes of Little Tenderheart."

After the branch trip that night, Thomas was resting in his shed, with his crew keeping him company. His fireman had kept his fire going for a little while longer, so that he could go to sleep with a comfortably warm boiler. Between minding the coals, he sat on the floor of the cab, with his feet hanging out of the doorway.

The driver was busy washing the salt from Thomas' wheels with a sponge and a bucket of water. Occasionally, he'd look up from his work and look the fireman's way. He was waiting patiently for his partner to ask to help, but he didn't know why he bothered.

Thomas had long forgotten his anger from earlier that day, and his mind was elsewhere.

His driver looked up from his mess of suds with a snicker. "Little what did you call him?"

"Little Tenderheart," the fireman repeated cheerfully. "That's Thomas' Indian name. I think it suits him, don't you?"

"Fancy you to take an interest in American history all of the sudden," the driver said, looking up from Thomas' wheels. His eyes narrowed when he noticed the pen and pad of paper in the fireman's hands. "Who're you writing to?"

The fireman tried to act nonchalant, but pulled his notepad up to his chest instinctively. "What do you care? You never ask about my penpals."

"I never knew you had any," the older man replied. "And the only reason I'm asking is because I am insatiably curious if it's the President of the United States, or Betty Paige who could be so urgent as to keep you from helping me clean our engine."

"Well, she's not American."

"So it is a woman," the driver clucked, folding his arms across his chest. "Heh. I figured as much."

Thomas was surprised. "Another girl?"

His driver shook his head. "See? Even Thomas has an inkling of your ways by now."

"I'd be surprised if he didn't have some worldly knowledge at fifty," the fireman retorted.

"Huh. That's right," the driver said, looking Thomas up and down, impressed. "Heh, you've passed your golden jubilee, Thomas!"

"Hard to believe we've worked together for so long," said the proud tank engine, who had not forgotten. Since engines didn't have birthdays, Thomas had quietly adopted the day his driver was born as his birthday, though that'd been back in August. When he had wished the driver a happy birthday, it was sort of like wishing happy birthday to himself, too.

In his much younger days, his driver had a reason to be concerned with being seriously on the railway—young drivers being seen as inexperienced, lazier, and too relaxed with their engines. To counteract this, Matthew always had a no-nonsense relationship with the notoriously cheeky tank engine. And if this had earned Thomas' cold shoulder, he wouldn't have blamed him. So Matthew was actually taken aback the first few years Thomas had wished him a happy birthday. While he didn't let it show, it had touched him to realize how close a driver in their engine could grow. And he felt fortunate to work with one that was so warm hearted—not that he'd spoil Thomas by letting him know that.

At last, the driver got up and leaned over the fireman's shoulder, trying to peek at the paper. "Love letters are a bit elementary, aren't they? I'm almost afraid to ask how young this one is."

"You're disgusting," the fireman said, insulted at last. "For the record, it is a grown woman. And I am speaking with her over letters, because she's overseas, and not always near a phone."

"Color me impressed," his driver said, slowly and sarcastically. He put his hands on his hips and tried to work out a kink in his back. "Well, do I know her?"

"We all do. Actually," the fireman replied reluctantly. "Even Thomas," he said, pointing the end of his pen at the engine.

Thomas jolted at the mention of his name. "What? So… who is it?"

The fireman thought carefully before deciding on the words to use. "Mmm, let's just say that she's got fiery red hair and a personality to match."

Both Thomas and the driver knew exactly who the fireman was talking about. But the engine was too anxious to say it out loud. Afraid that he'd be wrong. He held his breath like he'd never held it before.

"We wouldn't happen to be talking about that Irish woman with the little brown tank engine, would we?" the driver asked with narrowed brows.

The fireman just grinned at him.

Thomas' driver let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Oh, lord..."

But Thomas was so excited, his boiler began shaking. "I-I didn't know you were writing to her driver! W-Why didn't you say anything?"

His fireman was a little flustered. He rubbed the paper in the pads of his thumbs. "Ah, well, I didn't want to tell you and get you all rattled up."

"Too late," the driver said. "He looks like he's about ready to come off his rails. And when he does," he pointed an accusing, but playful finger at the fireman, "it'll be your fault." He rubbed the back of his neck. "And if it's such a big secret, why did you bring the letter here?"

The fireman smirked. "I was, uh, going to wait so I could read the paper out loud to Thomas and see if he thought it sounded... Y'know. Good."

The engine was flattered.

But the driver was noticeably a little offended. He wrinkled his gray, mustached lip. "You mean, you were going to wait until I went home so the two of you could chat about it in private."

Thomas thought he knew why, but he let the fireman explain. "Thought you wouldn't approve."

The driver neither confirmed nor denied the suggestion. If he was hurt, he didn't show it. But there was a long silence before he spoke again. "And I don't. But still… you're a grown man. You can do what you want. So… where exactly is the elusive, crass redhead, now?"

"Somewhere in the midwest," the younger man explained. "Nebraska, I think?" He turned over the envelope in his hand from her last letter. "Yes, that's it. Nebraska, US."

"Well, that explains why you've got cowboys and indians on the mind," the driver said, rolling his eyes, and bending down again in front of Thomas' wheels.

"Like you didn't play cowboys and indians when you were a child," the fireman shot back.

"I do sometimes wonder what it's like in America," Thomas thought out loud, if only to break the lingering tension.

"Loud. Obnoxious. Smelly," the driver responded. "A lot like London. Except without the fog. Don't take your home for granted, Thomas. This is a beautiful place. I moved here from the big city when I was young, and I wouldn't go back for anything."

"I suppose," Thomas said. "Still, Mira's lucky, getting to travel to and fro. Sir Topham's engines never really get to do work off of the island. I've always wanted to see what it's like out there…"

"Don't persecute the guy for wanting to see the world outside his window," the fireman told the driver. He rubbed a bit of lint from his soot covered suit jacket in his fingers. "I myself wouldn't mind getting to Athens or Rome before I get old."

"Alright, Chief Wonderlust," the driver said, looking exhausted. "Do you plan on sitting there all night in 'Tenderheart's toasty cab, or are you going to help me finish cleaning his wheels?"

"Alright, alright!" The fireman put his stationary away. "Hand me a sponge."

And the two men got busy cleaning. Soon, Thomas' wheels were lathered with warm, soapy bubbles, their smart blue paint beginning to show as the salt dust ran with the water to the shed floor. There were workmen in the sheds whose job it was to clean the engines from time to time. However, Thomas thought they never did as good a job as his own crew. An engine lived for moments like this, so calm and peaceful and secure.

Even when the crewmates butted heads with each other.

"So, if you don't mind me asking," said the driver, "What exactly is it you plan on gaining from writing a woman who's living half a world away?"

"You speak as if you doubt that I could have a meaningful relationship," the fireman replied.

The driver's eyes were glazed over. "I don't doubt it. It would just be out of character for you. Y'know—no instant gratification," his eyes flickered to Thomas, whom he wanted to remain innocent—if he even still was. "If you catch my drift."

The fireman scoffed. "Well. Maybe I've grown up. Maybe I'm in it for the long term."

"Oh, come on, David!" the driver said, slapping his sponge back into the bucket of water to look at him. "Don't tell me you're actually pursuing that woman for the long term. She's at least a decade younger than you, on top of everything else."

"Love doesn't know age, Matthew," the fireman remarked. "Chemistry is the kindling that keeps a fire ablaze, even from a sea apart." He gestured towards Thomas. "Even engines know that."

Thomas smiled back at him.

But the driver just shook his head. "You two disappoint me."

"Hey," the fireman pointed a finger at him. "You're married. Leave us single blokes alone to dream."

The driver rang the rag out in his fingers, and hung it on the edge of the bucket before putting his hands on his hips. "Some dreams only serve to hurt you. You both are better off keeping your heads on the island, where you can actually make plans for the future."

While Thomas couldn't promise to keep his head Sodor-bound, for now, his wheels were planted firmly on the tracks. And as soon as they were sparkling like new, the driver left for home.

That left the young fireman, who turned to Thomas. "Don't listen to that ol' curmudgeon. You keep dreaming as you please, Thomas. You did the right thing and let your little brown bird go when it was time. If she comes back to you someday, you know she was yours."

Thomas grinned as the fireman patted his left wheel covering. "Thanks," he told him.

"Now get some shut-eye. I'll be back tomorrow, bright and early, again," he told Thomas. "Or your driver will chase me down screaming to the Viaduct."

With Thomas' boiler nice and warm, the fireman put out his fire, and then headed for the doorway.

But just as he reached the doors, Thomas stopped him. "David, wait—"

"Yes?" he asked, turning around.

"Please," Thomas said sheepishly. "When you write to Mira's driver, could you… ask about her, for me? D-don't say that I asked, just—"

The fireman put his hands up to shush the engine. "Already done," he said with a wink. "And I've made it discreet. Goodnight."

Thomas watched him close the shed door with a sleepy grin. Maybe it wasn't the same as being able to see Mira for Christmas, in the steel and bolts. But a word from her would still be a wonderful thing.

That night, he dreamed of brown birds, handwritten letters, and whatever Christmas might look like far away, in a land overseas.

Whereas Thomas the Tank Engine had slept like a baby, elsewhere on the island, Emily had had a miserable night. And it wasn't long before the doors to her shed were opened, morning light harshly flooding her face.

"Up and at 'em, my dear! Another day is upon us!"

Emily cracked open her sore, tired eyes to see her driver standing in front of her boiler. "Nooo…" she groaned. "I just fell asleep…"

Her driver frowned. He could see that she was genuinely exhausted. "Another bad night of sleep?"

"It's those compulsive thoughts of yours," the fireman declared, callously shaking his head. He hopped into her cab and began building her fire. "They're keeping you from getting any rest."

Emily scowled, but stayed quiet. She didn't care to go into it. Even if these men cared a great deal about their engine, they wouldn't understand.

Her impatience and need for things to be neat and tidy, even shunting her cars in order, attributed to something she often brushed off as compulsive thoughts. When her crew on Sodor had inquired about her habits, that's what she called it. And they didn't question it much.

So when she had a bad night of sleep, that's what she blamed it on. It was easier than telling them the truth.

How could she explain that what had kept her up half of the night was trying to remember the words to a story that had comforted her as a younger engine, many years ago? That the stress from her recent workload, coupled with upset from the fight with Thomas yesterday, had made her once again desperate to remember the pretty words?

How in any way could she, an engine of her age, be taken seriously with such a childish desire? How could she maintain the little responsibility she'd been granted after such an omission?

"Well whatever it is," her fireman went on, "you'll have to learn to deal with it."

"Don't be so cold, Kyle," her driver scolded. "Come on, Em. Some fresh air and new coal in your firebox ought to do you some good."

Although those things did sound lovely, Emily wasn't so sure. Regardless, she was quiet as her old coal was shoveled out, and was replaced with new coal. Soon, her fire was lit, and her tank began to boil.

By the time she was ready to go, her eyes were red, and she chuffed out of the shed, slow as ever. She was already running late for her first job, which meant that yet again, she'd have to skip a bath at the washdown.

Emily really wished she didn't have to. She was covered and dust, dirt, and soot from funnel to footplate. She felt disgusting. Even Cinderella got a bath once in a while. And being painfully aware how visible her filth was to everyone else only made her more irritable.

When James and Toby went by, their whistle and cowbell were a little louder than normal, as if they were trying to draw attention to the dirty little engine as she crawled along the line.

"Might want to get cleaned up there, Emily!" James called. "Don't want Eddie to see you in a state like that!"

And even Toby chuckled with him as he disappeared around the bend with James.

Emily seethed. Damn Thomas, and his big fat mouth. This is all his fault. He can have the stupid smelter's job to himself. Hope 'Arry and Bert come by and knock something over to scare his little fenders off.

At last, Emily arrived at the yards. She came up behind a group of rowdy cars, taking pleasure in the thought that they were a bothersome little tank engine who couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"Hey!" the cars cried out in surprise. But before they could retaliate, Emily shunted them into their siding, dangerously close to a mountain of snow. Their buffers slammed against the flimsy steel barrier at the end, making it wobble back, before coming to rest, the cars

"No chanting. No fuss. Not a word out of any of ya," she told them, her voice like ice, even as the warmth of her breath gave off smoke. "Try and biff me, and I'll make Oliver look like the Lord of mercy. Understand?"

The cars grumbled, but eventually fell quiet. They didn't know if Emily was capable of what she said, but something in her tone made them believe her.

Still, she knew it wasn't wise to antagonise the cars. She didn't care if they'd try to get back at her later for it, when she let her guard down. She didn't care about anything right now.

"Whoa! What did those cars do to you?"

Emily froze, her wheels grinding to a halt. She knew that voice.

Before she could think of a reply, Edward puffed up, inspecting the line of cars. Though a little concerned, he maintained an air of humor, hoping it would rub off. "Someone's got their boiler in a fizz this morning," he noted. "Or maybe the lady just doesn't know her own strength."

Emily blushed and looked away. Ever since word had got out about her feelings for him, she had a hard time looking him in the eyes. "Oh… hi Edward," she said, her voice rapidly softening.

Thankfully for Emily, Edward—if he did know—didn't seem to think anything of it. In his good natured way, he behaved as if he were oblivious. "Had a bad night?" he asked.

Emily groaned. "Bad week. Is it that obvious?" she asked shyly.

"You do look a little tired," he noted. "But never less fair."

A shy smile found its way to Emily's lips. "That was so kind of you to say," she told him. And she fought back a blush.

Emily's driver and fireman left her cab to have a word with the yard manager. While they were alone, Edward shunted a pair of cars on his own line and came up to her side. "Come on," he said, gently. "Talking about it might make you feel better."

With a sigh to start, she explained the situation—just the part about the job switch yesterday anyway. She didn't dare go into what led up to her and Thomas' fight in the first place.

Edward, who'd overheard the tail end of the argument yesterday at the sheds, thought over what she said carefully before responding. "It doesn't sound like he was very considerate about it."

"Don't I know," Emily sighed, glad to have an ally.

"But don't you think Thomas had a right to be a little annoyed?"

Emily was taken aback. "Why? Because me and James were chosen for the special, and he wasn't?"

"Because you made a promise to him," Edward said, firmly.

"So? Sir Topham Hatt knows all about his job!"

"Does he, though? Or is it possible he forgot?"

"Well, it's not my responsibility to remind him!"

"Maybe not. But you could have."

At last, Emily ran out of arguments. She sighed, as a big hiss of steam escaped from under her wheels. "You're right. Maybe I should've… spoken up at least. I was just upset with him at the time and I wasn't exactly keen on turning down an excuse not to be around him."

"But if you don't clear the air now," Edward told her, "It's going to be a long time before you are keen on working with him again. And him with you. The railway is a much better place to be when you are among more friends than enemies. Trust me, I know."

After a moment of contemplation, Emily sighed. Edward was right. Of course, though. He was always right. He was wise and practical and empathetic. Though it was hard for Emily to imagine an engine like him would ever know what it's like to hold a grudge, for any reason. It didn't seem possible.

She didn't mind being put with James for the evening, but she wished it had been Edward. Edward rarely complained about anything.

Edward would be a delight to work with. He always is. And Emily would be more than proud to chug alongside him for the Christmas train run, no matter how the other engines giggled at them.

And then, suddenly, the lady engine had an idea. And a broad smile crossed her face.

Seeing that something was up, Edward became a little nervous. "What? Emily, what are you thinking?"

"Sorry, Edward, I'm going to be late to the mills! Thanks for the help!" she said as she hurried away.

And she left a confused, but bemused Edward in her wake. "Well, then," he snickered to himself, satisfied. "I think you did the right thing, Edward. Least I hope I did."

He took his line of cars and moved them into place, alongside Emily's.

"That was easy," he said to himself. "Now onto…"

And then, his smile dropping, he remembered what task was next on the schedule. Even for as good natured and mature as Edward was, he had to grimace.

"... James."