Chapter 4: Backseat Driver's Regrets

"It's about time I got a little recognition around here!" James declared with pride.

While Emily had been rather quiet about being chosen as one of the engines for the special Christmas trains, James was the opposite. He couldn't resist bragging about what he considered to be—or at least, what he talked up to be—such an honor. And as such, he did so all day. Every day.

Especially to Edward.

That said, the oldest working engine on Sodor awoke the morning of the 23rd feeling cautiously optimistic. After his first job had gone well, he chugged on over to the docks, where James was waiting. The mixed traffic engine was scheduled to push a long freight train. The train was full of iron, and very heavy, and so Edward was assigned to help him push James at least most of the way, so that he wouldn't tire out. Of course, if James had any help at all, it was unlikely that he would.

Despite his resolution yesterday, Edward, per usual, smiled and tried to act as if he wasn't anticipating hell looking ahead. "I'm happy for you," he told James wearily. He'd had just one job earlier this morning, but he was already tired.

Edward was coupled up behind the train, and on James' mark, they were off. Normally, Edward would announce when he was ready, but after working with James for so long, he knew it was pointless. James left when he was ready.

On a day like this, he was thankful to be the back engine. At least James would be forced to do some amount of work by pulling the train forward. And the good thing about their being so many cars was that it put the most distance between himself and James' boasting mouth.

James stormed on ahead, not once stopping to ask Edward how he was doing, or if he was going too fast. Whenever he passed another machine, he found an excuse to stop, and proceeded to brag about his Christmas train gig.

"Congratulations," said Harold, hovering in the field near a crossing.

"Thank you, my good engi—erm, helicopter," James said, correcting himself coolly. "Consider buzzing past Knapford tomorrow night. Maybe you'll catch sight of me in all my velvet adorned glory."

Oh, mother of mercy, thought Edward, gagging.

"I'll see if I have time in my busy schedule," Harold told him, in his self important purr. "Well, I must be off. Things to do, people to save. You know how it is."

"Absolutely!" replied James, smiling as he watched the helicopter climb higher into the sky. "Tally ho!"

But when Harold was gone, James dropped the smile and snorted.

"Snotty, overgrown beatle," he said. "If I could fly, I'd be doing a lot more important things than bobbing in the air like a bored house fly."

Somehow, Edward doubted this. Greatly doubted this, in fact. But once again, he said nothing, and kept his comments to himself. Even if James could hear him, between their distance and his own seemingly impenetrable ego bubble, there was no point.

When it was time to finally leave the crossing, James began picking up speed. At first, Edward was relieved. James was taking the bulk of the weight and he wasn't even complaining about it. Maybe this dizzying ego boost of James' wasn't such a bad thing.

But Edward soon realized how very naive he was. As they headed into the valley, there were no stations around. And no engines, either. With no one for whom to stop and chat with, James powered on hungrily. Edward followed because he had no choice. But he was straining. He panted as his wheels were being dragged along the rail, coupling rods pounding at a speed he could never reach on his own. Not anymore. It was getting harder and harder to catch his breath.

James wasn't just pulling the weight anymore. He was making Edward feel like he was one of the cars! But of course, why was he surprised? It was times like these that made him wonder why he'd even come along in the first place.

Finally, they curved around a bend, and as his wheels hissed, Edward decided he'd had enough. "James!" he called. But his voice was feeble. Suddenly, he remembered being reprimanded before for telling James to be careful when it wasn't icy, and they had no reason to slow down. When they were late to their destination, Edward knew it was his fault.

Just because it was too fast for an old hunk of junk on wheels like himself didn't necessarily mean it was too fast, period. And if he kept slowing trains down, what would that say for his usefulness?

So despite his ill ease, not to mention his exhaustion, Edward zipped his lips. He had to keep on.

As they finally approached the next station, James caught sight of the end of a big, silver, rectangular steam engine, and his eyes twinkled. "There's Spencer!" he said excitedly, just loud enough for Edward to hear. "Oh, he'll bust a buffer when he hears this—"

Edward panted as he followed along. "What?—OH!" He came to such an abrupt halt that his front slammed into the back of the train, his back wheels lifting from the tracks. Thankfully, his crew stayed on their feet inside of his cab, and his buffers saved his nose from a painful collision with the non-sentient breakvan.

James' mind was too preoccupied to even notice, let alone apologize. He had slammed on his breaks and stopped with his buffers in line with Spencer's. "Hey Spencer! Guess who's gonna be the Father Christmas engine?"

Spencer rolled his eyes James' way, yawning boredly. "The Father what?"

"Haven't you heard? Sir Topham Hatt has arranged for two of his favorite engines to pull Mr. and Mrs. Claus themselves on the last train heading out of Knapford on Christmas Eve," James bragged. "And I am one of them. And I thought you were up to date on the gossip."

Though it was no surprise to Edward, Spencer was miraculously unimpressed. He couldn't have looked more disinterested if he had a pair of arms and was using them to stir a sugar cube into a cup of tea. "Well, that will be exciting. You steamies hardly have any excitement at all these days, do you?"

James was speechless.

"You get one little special train and you act as if the Queen is coming," Spencer went on. "I mean, I don't blame you for your excitement. Getting covered in tacky little ornaments and pulling a couple of little carriages is much better than hauling rowdy freight. And that's all I seem to see you two do these days."

Even Edward was offended. He couldn't believe his ears. His valves began to hiss. Why, that pompous, presumptuous—

But James was outraged enough for the both of them. As soon as his driver released the break, he rocketed out of the station, leaving Spencer to be blinded by his steam.

Once again, Edward was violently yanked forward, like a man being dragged through the park by his own leashed canine. They were speeding so fast, Edward could barely tell what landmarks they were passing.

Neither could his driver, who, unlike Edward, could actually turn to look to his left and right. From the cab door, he called to his engine. "Edward! You'd better tell James to calm down!"

"I'll try!" Edward replied. Engines were capable of having louder voices than their operators, and could hear each other better in an emergency. "James? James! Slow down!"

But James couldn't hear Edward, or his whistle. The train between them was long, and loud, and especially louder, with how fast the lead engine was going. He was banging the iron rods in the cars around in such a way that they made a tremendous racket.

And all the while, the red engine was fuming. "If I ever. EVER. See that miserable, smug, happy go lucky, excuse for a steam engine—"

"James! Slow. Down!" Edward shouted again. He didn't care if he got in trouble for bossing James around again. He knew they were heading too fast, now. "Oh, it's no use!" the older engine told his driver. "He can't hear me!"

With the help of his crew, Edward fought for control. He tried to apply his breaks, but James had the forward-rushing weight of the train on his side. And he was younger and much stronger than Edward.

James' driver and fireman didn't like how fast they were going, either. They worked his controls, but he was still storming along. Eventually, they began shouting at James, but it was no use. Everyone was under James' control.

Except… no… they couldn't be. Edward realized in horror that the reason the train felt so light was because the troublesome cars were pushing themselves. The momentum and the weight of the freight was what was controlling the train now, not James himself.

Edward felt his wheels lift from the track as they thundered down a hill. They had to be going fifty miles an hour. He screamed until his throat hurt. "JAMES! YOU HAVE TO BREAK! THE CARS! THE CARS HAVE CONTROL!"

Now James heard him. And now they could both hear the cars. They'd played possum! Pretending to be non-sapient, just to wake up when the moment was right for trouble!

James finally attempted to use his breaks, only to find that they were useless. His wheels sparked against the tracks, and the cars laughed at his effort.

James was paralyzed with panic. The sparks gave him flashbacks of his very first crash on the railway. He felt sick. He began to cry out.

And things were only getting worse. The train stormed right through the next signal, which was set at danger. James couldn't see what the obstruction was, but he felt the jerk of his train being violently pulled onto the next leftside track.

And Edward knew exactly why the signal was up. "We're on the main line! We're gonna hit GORDON!"

"WHAT SHOULD I DO?!" James cried helplessly.

From a distance, they could already see him. Gordon's eyes widened as he saw the freight train, and his driver began working towards an emergency stop. But it was no use. He was at max speed, and it would take a long time to slow down.

And James wasn't anywhere close to stopping either.

Gordon slammed on his whistle, not that it did any good. Both engines and their crews were painfully aware of each other.

James, the cars, and Edward all thundered through the next station. He was so close to Gordon now. Edward puffed and breaked as hard as he could, until his face was as red as a tomato, but it was no good. He never felt more like dead weight.

The mischievous cars didn't really want the engines to collide—just wanted to shake them up a bit. And between the cacophony of whistles and shouts, they started to become afraid for their own lives. "Stop! Stop, you idiots!" the head car hollered. "We're gonna become splinters!"

James and Gordon drew nearer and nearer. Gordon shut his eyes. James shut his eyes.

Edward braced himself, and prayed. Please...

Suddenly, Edward felt a jerk, and his wheels rolling over switch points. He opened his eyes, and found that he had crossed onto a different line of track, along with the train in front of him.

The signalman in the tower had been alert and watching the tracks. He had seen what was going to happen, and he switched James onto a siding.

Gordon thundered through the station, the shadow of the train cast in front of his face. His whistle was booming, his eyes still glued shut. And then, sunlight hit his eyelids. He opened his eyes.

In front of him was a clear track, the sunlight smiling down on him.

He panted and let out the longest whistle of relief in his entire life. He and his passengers were safe.

But the same wasn't true for James and Edward. Their train soared through the siding without a hint of stopping, right through the buffers, and finally came to a stop.

Thereby happened a tremendous crash that could be heard throughout the station and beyond.

Edward slammed against the rearmost car. This time, he did fly forward, the tip of his nose grazing the van in front of him. He quickly came back down, his own weight pulling him right back down on the rails.

Fear. Then dazement. Then fear again. "JAMES!" Edward shouted. "James!"

But James did not respond.

"Felix! Roger! " His driver and fireman both called. As soon as they got their barings, they ran to James' cab.

Gordon's driver, seeing that there was a crash imminent, pulled the great engine to a steady stop down further on the main line. The station master kept the signal at danger to prevent any other engines from pulling onto the line. As quickly as possible, Gordon was uncoupled from the coaches, pulled onto the nearest turntable, and ran around the track from the other direction until he could approach the siding face-first.

Edward was trying to pull away the freight train, but it was too heavy. Every second of James' silence was agony. Edward couldn't bear to look ahead, even if he could see him.

Until finally, Gordon was coupled to his back buffers, and began pulling him away. "Calm down, Edward," he commanded, gruffly.

"But James—!" Edward cried.

"Shush," Gordon cut him off, putting on his most authoritative voice. "Screaming his name won't help him."

But Edward couldn't help it. If anything happened to James, all he could think about was how if he were stronger, he might've been able to hold the cars back.

James might be talking right now.

Edward called out James' name, pleading for a response, until his throat was raw and his voice was raspy and ragged. Gordon deposited him safely on the signal locked main line with the coaches before going back to pull out the cars. Edward strained his eyes, trying to see the front of the train, but the line of cars was too long. He'd seen the building that James had crashed into—which, miraculously, was still standing—but he couldn't see the red engine himself. He felt helpless, watching Gordon pull the train out the wreck, like it was nothing.

At last, when all the cars were moved, Edward could see James. His front end had crushed into the buffers standing in front of the building. If the buffers hadn't been there, the brick structure would've surely given way. Beneath James' speed and the train's weight, it didn't stand a chance.

And James wouldn't have stood a chance against it.

Gordon said nothing as he pulled James from the broken buffers. And it wasn't until the red engine was facing the others did he finally open his eyes.

He looked at Edward, and then at Gordon, and then at their crews, standing near them on the tracks. "Funny…" he said weakly. "Heaven looks a lot like a train station…"

The building that James had crashed into had been the old signal tower, before the station had been remodeled. It was no longer in use, so even if James had destroyed it, thankfully nobody would've been inside, anyway.

Edward's driver and fireman, who'd bunkered down and braced for the impact, walked away from the crash with nothing more than rattled nerves. And maybe a nightmare or two to come.

Edward had left the crash unhurt, too. His buffers were sore, and his axels ached like a son of a gun, but he was alright.

James' crewmen weren't so lucky. His driver had gotten a cut to the forehead, not unlike the one on Edward's cheek he'd acquired in the springtime. And his fireman had a nasty bruise on his right kneecap from slamming into James' gauge wall. But they, too, walked away on their own two feet.

Fittingly, the only ones truly injured from the crash were the ones responsible. Half of the cars were destroyed or broken, and sent for repairs.

And James was a sight to behold. Red as a rocket, twice as fast, and twice as stubborn. His face was covered in snow that had collected along the buffers. His cardinal colored paint was scratched and mangled where the cars and buffers had sandwiched him in. Front and back, he was mangled, his buffers crushed inward like a tin can.

But he was alive. And for Edward, who thought he'd witnessed his demise, that was enough.

But the trouble was just beginning. It was decided Edward only needed a day of rest to gain his strength back, and maybe a tune up. But James was totally unfit for service.

Duck arrived to finish pulling Gordon's express to the end of its journey, while the bigger engine and Harvey cleaned up the mess. Percy was snatched up in between runs of his own work to help finish pulling the unhurt cars to their destination. And it wasn't long before Sir Topham Hatt arrived to inspect the damage.

He took one look at Edward, and one look at James. But he had nothing to say to either engine.

Yet, anyway.

"What do you suppose I'm thinking right now, James?"

The fatt controller had waited until it was late in the afternoon, when all of the engines were back at Tidmouth sheds, before speaking directly to him.

James was propped up on a flatbed, brought by Gordon, chained so that he wouldn't roll loose. He dared to take one look at the man's face, and gulped like he never gulped before.

The other engines, sitting halfway in their sheds, exchanged nervous glances. It was deathly quiet. They wished they weren't here to see this. They didn't like seeing anybody get chewed out. Especially when their condition spoke for their humiliation.

James was in disgrace. It took no time at all for Sir Topham to learn who was at fault for the crash. A veteran steam engine with years of experience should've known better than to let their train cars take control from them.

The fatt controller's arms were folded across his chest, and his eyebrows were narrowed. But his voice was not one of anger. Just disappointment, which was somehow so much worse. It was the very same voice he'd used when speaking to his own children. "James," he spoke again. He was waiting for an answer.

James finally worked up the courage to reply. "I think you're thinking…that I'm quite a naughty engine..."

"Uh-huh," Sir Topham Hatt nodded.

"... And that I should know better..."

"Uh-huh."

"... Because I've only been doing freight work for over four decades…"

"Uh-huh." Sir Topham Hatt broke in. "And what do you think I should do now?"

James' eyes glistened with tears. "Send me away forever?"

The fatherly controller rolled his eyes and sighed. "No… no… James. Don't be dramatic." He dug his hands in his pocket and shook his head. "It's just that one would think after all your exploits that you'd learn to be more careful with your freight trains."

"Yes, sir," he sighed, looking down at his front. The workmen had given him a look over upon his return to the sheds, but they could tell it wasn't going to be an in-house job. He'd need a proper repair. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are. But you're going to be a lot more sorry when I tell you that I'll have to make an appointment for your mending," he said. "Thomas, if you wouldn't mind, I'm going to have you forget the Smelter's job tonight. I need you to take James to the works."

James was horrified. "B-but the Christmas party! I'm going to miss it!"

"And so will I," Thomas moaned. Things were getting worse and worse by the minute. "Sir, with all due respect, can't this wait until after Christmas?"

"No, it can't," Sir Topham Hatt said, matter of factly. "I need James back here for the New Years deliveries, which means I need him repaired as soon as possible." He shifted his gaze to the red engine. "I hope this reminds you for the upteenth time to be. More. Careful."

"Yes, sir," James sighed helplessly. Even as he was calming down, a leftover tear rolled down his cheek. Respectfully, The other engines acted as if they didn't see it.

"What's more, this leaves me down one engine for the Father Christmas trains." He rubbed his chin, then, to everyone's surprise, he shifted his eyes to the smaller blue tender engine. "Edward, you've been working hard nonstop, especially since your return home this spring. You haven't been given many passenger coaches. Would you like to pull the Mr. Claus train?"

"Me?" Edward asked, his eyes wide.

"Come on, Edward!" Thomas grinned. "This is your chance!"

"You earned it, Edward," Percy chimed in. "You work hard."

"Harder than any other engine on Sodor," Emily stated, smiling at him. "What do you say?"

Edward had grown nervous all over again. Any anxiety he had about being chastised for the crash earlier had gone away. Now he was wishing he were being chewed out instead. "Do I… have to?"

Sir Topham Hatt frowned. "Have to… what?"

"...Do... this job," Edward said at last, his face burning.

The engines nearly rocked back on their wheels with shock. Even James' mouth fell open.

Never had any of the engines present heard of Edward, the oldest, most loyal engine on the railway, refusing a job.

Instinctively, Thomas' eyes shifted to Emily. To say she looked offended would be overgeneralizing. Her expression evolved between disbelief, disappointment, and finally, irritation. And Thomas could read all three as clear as day.

She was doing all while staring at Edward. But Edward couldn't look at her. Once he'd said those words, he was too embarrassed to look anyone in the eyes. But especially her.

Sir Topham Hatt watched all three of these engines suspiciously before speaking again. "Well, I do suppose that I phrased it as a voluntary task, so… no. Edward, you're off the hook. But you'll have to forgive me for asking: Why won't you do it?"

"It's personal, sir," Edward told him. Simply, but dutifully.

Sir Topham Hatt was impressed. "Oh?"

He paused to hear more. But Edward left it at that.

"I understand," Sir Topham Hatt replied, though it was quite clear from the tone of his voice that he couldn't actually wrap his head around it at all.

Thomas believed he'd never seen Edward look so uncomfortable. Whatever the reason was, he would not say it out loud.

Regardless, Emily was suspicious. The whole situation was painfully awkward. Tidmouth sheds was suddenly so quiet, one could hear a sewing needle hit the stones.

Edward sighed. "Thank you."

"But I still need a replacement engine for James," the fatt controller declared, rubbing his chin.

Thomas couldn't believe what he was saying until it came from his mouth. "Sir, if you let Edward take James to the works tonight, and rest tomorrow, I'll pull your Father Christmas train." He eyed Emily warily afterwards. He didn't know why Edward was refusing this job, but knowing him, he had to have a good reason. The last Thomas could do was bite the bullet for him.

Edward was stupefied. "You'd do that for me?"

"Of course," Thomas told him. And then tossed a glare at Emily. Anything for Edward.

"Well. Right then," the fatt controller said, clasping his hands. But he didn't look happy. "You're all dismissed—except for Edward, Emily and Thomas. I want a word with you three alone."

The other engines puffed off towards their next jobs. Percy gave Thomas a questioning look before, he too, left. Thomas was nervous. Edward looked nervous. And Emily appeared to still be trying to process what had happened.

Once everyone else was out of earshot, Sir Topham Hatt put his hands on his hips, and gave the three a thoughtful look as he stood between them. "It's not my place to ask about the personal decisions that take place between my engines, unless it concerns their work," he said, low and stern. "That said, if there is anything I need to know about, I sincerely hope you plan on telling me."

Edward and Emily wouldn't speak. Thomas couldn't either, even if he knew what to say.

Sir Topham Hatt fixed his gaze on Edward. "Edward, if you need to confide in me, you know that you can."

"I know, sir," Edward told him.

Realizing that he was not going to be getting anywhere, Sir Topham Hatt shook his head. "Very well. The switch has been made. Eh, Matthew? David?" He pointed to Thomas' crew. "Make sure Thomas gets a washdown tomorrow before he comes to the station for the decorations. Be there at 8. Sharp." He shook his head and looked at the pebbled ground. "I knew this was a bad idea," he muttered to himself. "I just knew it…"

Thomas watched the man leave, hobbling back to his car on that bad knee of his, and taking off for home. How mortal he seemed then, Sir. Topham, caught up in his confusion and weariness. Just like one of the dozens of workmen Thomas rarely got to know by name.

Decades of maturity had allowed for the engine to see the humanity behind the controller they knew so well. Their defender, their protector, their advocate, was getting older, too. Like the engines, someday, he would be gone, too.

And the knowledge unsettled him.