The Arrival:
Piccadilly had fallen fast asleep behind the tender of that goods engine, and nothing Wandle could do would wake her. Engines usually do become very drowsy after a few days out of use, but will always liven up once re-steamed. Wandle had been fired up the other day to get them into Ilfracombe (although this journey had been erroneously made), and was still largely conscious, though she wished she was not as the trip was becoming somewhat tedious. The scenery was beautiful, the weather cold and crisp – but her heart wasn't in it. It was a pervading mixture of homesickness and anxiety that filled the engine's mind as they clanked along, and the cylinder beat of the tender engine was giving her a headache. There was still some very stale water in her tanks that kept sloshing around, which she hadn't noticed before; however it was now more irritating then ever. Her firebars were uncomfortably cold and her valve gear was revolving between her frames in such a way that she was becoming disoriented. She had never liked long sustained runs – she was never able to make them without stopping for water every 20 miles or so. It was a long, slow, monotonous trip. At least the long journey on the Brighton slow goods had the added interest of pausing to shunt at most larger stations, but now it was just her, her sister and the tender engine. And the rails. And the noise.
As they went, Wandle thought. About her life before this point. About what was coming. About this and that and her sisters and her friends and the Owner and the Owner's Friend. They were on the footplate of the engine pulling Wandle and her sister. The rumble created by the passing of an east-going train startled her from her mind, and she discovered that the sky was growing dark. It was not long thereafter that she found the cavalcade slowing, and the beat of the engine died away. They groaned to a stand at last. They then spent some time wandering back and forth in sidings, before the clank of the coupling was heard and the bark of the engine pulling away faded into the black of the unfamiliar yard in which they stood. Wandle finally slipped into sleep, in the silent siding.
When she came to again, she discovered her and Piccadilly were standing bunker to bunker on a wharf, exactly as they had been left the last night. Wandle had not realised they were by a canal, but she did not suppose it was unforgivable that she had missed that detail. There was a sizeable crane on the wharf near them. Soon, the Owner came back to her - on the deck of a steam tug? He was standing on the prow, his top hat in hand and waving to his prized pair of Stroudley terriers. Wandle chuckled as the craft moored up at the wharf. It was towing in its wake a great barge bedecked with two lines of rails. The Owner clambered off the tug and began fussing around Wandle and Piccadilly, the latter of which was still asleep. Some dock workers began shackling Piccadilly to the crane overhead, and by this agency was lifted, much to Wandle's surprise, down onto the barge. It settled worryingly low on one side. She became very alarmed when she herself was lifted, and shut her eyes very tightly. Being suspended made her feel ill, and she was fighting the urge to swear loudly. She was glad when placed onto the rocking barge, which was now settled evenly but disconcertingly low in the water. It was still sickeningly unstable but it was at least better then being dangled mid-air.
The canal journey was – when you got over the uneven motion – remarkably peaceful. Everything passed gently by at a comfortable, steady pace. Wandle surprised herself by enjoying it so much. After a while her senses became null to the desultory pitching movement and she decided she very much enjoyed the idea of being carried from place to place. Being towed on rails was something she'd always hated, so it was nice going somewhere without so much as a turn of her wheels. Piccadilly was fluttering in and out of consciousness – something to which all were oblivious until she gasped, swore loudly, mumbled, and went back to sleep. Wandle was, truth be told, getting to a similar state of unsteamed sleepiness – she doubted she'd have enjoyed the journey half as much if her brain was all 'there' at the moment. As it stood, the journey was for once going slower then her brain, so she could process it all to its fullest, while simultaneously unable to register some of its nuances – the occasional washed wake over her wheels being the most egregious of these. The repetitive thrashing of the tugboat's engine had gone, to her ears, almost as silent as the grave. She spent some time reflecting on how long the trip from New Cross to, well, wherever they were now had been. On about 4 separate journeys pulled by other engines, a leg under her own steam (a leg which she now cursed as it was thanks to this that she was still even half-awake,) and now a long, slow trip on a canal. It was an experience that she would never come to have again. She thought about just how fortunate she was to have been purchased for good work on a railway – although she did not yet know it's nature and she cursed it for being so far from her old home. The nickname it was said to bear, the 'Awful, Floundering, Jostling Railway', gave some clue as to its character, but she did not long dwell on this for at that juncture she fell asleep.
When she awoke some time later, but still in daylight, she found herself still on the barge, which had moored on a small wharf, which sported a couple of buildings and a single line of track. The tugboat had gone. The rails on the wharf, which only constituted one line, were partially occupied by wagons. She heard the distant sound of an engine whistle. Protruding from an A-frame on the wharf was a single wooden arm, stretching over the water towards the barge. It was lifted by a cable and pulley system, presumably requiring a horse or engine to work it. The water of the river was flowing incredibly gently, and it seemed to wander endlessly through the trees ahead of her. There was no sign of human life. She was left to her thoughts as usual, Piccadilly being unresponsive as usual. Wandle would be relying heavily on Piccadilly's more advanced social skills to do well here – Wandle herself was hopelessly shy around other engines and could not fathom the idea of being the one to 'break the ice', with unknown, and (as she had heard) very old engines. She was not able to worry for long, as the siding towards the wharf was being traversed by a tank engine. She was unfamiliar in shape, painted in the same blue livery (with red borders and white-black-white striped lining), sporting a very open cab, merely a curved weatherboard, and... Eight brass whistles?! All lined up in row, in order of descending size, sizzling steam at the joins and shining in the sun. As she approached, the unfamiliar engine sounded the smallest of these whistles – a clear, high note that pierced the air. The crew of the engine were clearly unbothered by the freezing weather, despite the fact they were exposed to the elements in almost all directions. As she pulled up, the Owner clambered down from the footplate, followed by his jovial fireman friend. There was much fuss as some workmen were retrieved from the buildings and the rope of the pulley that worked the A-frame derrick crane on the wharf was fastened over the coupling of the engine with the eight whistles. The other end of the rope wad attached to a 'tree' of four diverging chains that were fastened onto four different points of Wandle's frames. The eight whistled engine was beginning to look extremely nervous. Wandle heard the Owner say to her:
'Now, Foxhill, very gentle pulling please, nice and slow... There's a good engine.' The engine, 'Foxhill', an 0-6-0T, as Wandle noted, took up the slack of the chains very slowly, vibrating with nerves as she went, but when the fastenings at last went tight upon Wandle's frames, Foxhill seemed to be unable to go further. She did not seem to have the strength to lift Wandle even with the pulley. She tried. She really did. But the old engine could not exert enough force to hoist the 27-ton terrier from the canal barge. So the Owner sent Foxhill away to go and get some heavy lifting jacks and sleepers. When she returned with a wagon containing these items, they placed the four jacks beneath Wandle in more or less the same place that the chains had been attached. Wandle found herself being ever so slowly lifted up on jackscrews in a most uncomfortable fashion by four men armed only with expletives and endless cups of tea. When the jacks reached their limits, sleepers were wedged most uncomfortably below her, and the process repeated. They continued like this until her level was the same as that of the wharf. Using the jacks to pick her up once more and swing her across on the wharf inch by inch was enough to finally wrestle her onto the rails. At sodding last... She was glad when 'Foxhill' drew her away up the short wharf branch, but still dared not say a word. They passed over some very sharp points, joining another single track line. Foxhill then changed direction and pushed Wandle, who was now travelling backwards, through a station that sported two platforms and a couple of sizeable buildings. The station nameboard read 'Ashwell'. They kept going into some small sidings behind the station. There was an engine shed on Wandle's right, but Foxhill left her under the water column opposite it, facing towards the shed door, which was on a siding parallel to one of the platforms. Foxhill then departed back the way they'd come, presumably to fetch Piccadilly, who she imagined was being unloaded at that moment. The engine shed was built of stone – only single-road, and could probably accommodate two smaller engines placed buffer-to buffer. Wandle wondered how many engines the railway owned. She noticed on the inside wall of the shed, a couple of paintings hung up. What they depicted she could not fully make out. Two men walked over to Wandle, examining her, and pointing and muttering at a distance. They then approached closer and one spoke directly to her in a strong Cornish accent:
'Now – are you the one what used to be named Wandle?' The little engine was taken aback;
'Um, y-yes sir, I am.'
'Good – we've got some numberplates for you – ain't they shiny, all brass look. You is the AFJR's own 2B. You'll get used to the numbering system, it's quite illogical. We're just fitting them on your bunker – hold tight love.' And the workman set off to fit her new numberplates. She was quite surprised – such a process back home would mean at least three day's faffing at the works to get them made and the paperwork sorted for the engine's new identity – but here they carried out the operation on the spot in the open next to the water column. Now, Wandle was too modest to ever mention it, but she reckoned she looked very good what with the livery and the handsome brass oval-shaped plates – but more was to come:
'Now, m'dear, part of policy with you living here is you gets to be named – now obviously you was Wandle, and you can stay like that if you like – but if you want a new name then the boss'll have you some plates cast a'fore Christmas – call it an early present on behalf of the Company. Any name you had in mind while we're here?'
'Please sir – if I may, could I be named after my old driver's daughter – her name was Abigail and I've always liked that.'
'If you say so me lovely - I'll see what I can arrange with Mr. Cutler, he's the boss-man.' And the workman ambled away – followed by his colleague who had been busying himself in the cab examining the gauges and levers, making sure everything was still free and functional. Wandle – or Abigail, as was her name now – thought she would like living here very much. She was thinking upon the recent developments she'd experienced since arriving at Ashwell – though she'd only been there for four hours; and the more she thought the more she felt comfortable and settled. She was also extremely tired: and fell asleep where she stood not long after the workman had gone.
When Abigail awoke, it was dark, and she had been shunted onto a siding that extended from the left station platform (the water column siding where she had been left was on the right.) She could feel her rear buffers pressed against those of another engine – she sensed it was her sister, Piccadilly (who, she thought, may also be about to have a name change) – and at once felt somewhat safer. She was rather exposed for her liking – although she had spent about 5 consecutive nights in the open, and a warm shed would not go amiss about now. She wondered who was occupying the small stone construction on her right. Just then, she heard the scuffling of boots on ballast – and voices talking in Cornish accents:
'So, these are the two Cutler wants trialling today?'
'That's right, the new engines, that's what he told me.'
'Right, get a fire in 'em, might as well start now.' At this juncture, Abigail felt someone scramble up into her cab, adding what felt like charcoal to her firebox. She was confused – she'd never known someone use charcoal to light up a steam locomotive before. She soon discovered why – that particular charcoal must've been covered in paraffin or something, for it caught like a firework and she heard an exclamation of surprise as some flames licked through her firedoors! Despite these minor contretemps, the pleasure of being steamed was a very great relief to her, and she supposed that Piccadilly would finally be able to wake up and render her some support. Piccadilly had always had more courage and would be far better in this unfamiliar environment. Soon, dawn began to break as the warmth of Abigail's fire spread slowly through her boiler tubes and the water began to heat up ever so slowly. Before long she had raised a few pounds of steam and there was mild surprise at the speed with which she had begun to build up pressure. From what she could hear of the conversations between enginemen, she and Piccadilly were far quicker to start then the other resident engines. Abigail heard a yawn behind her, and a voice said:
'Wandle, where the bloody hell are we?'
'Oh!' exclaimed Abigail, 'This is Ashwell, on our new railway. I've had a new name since we arrived, I'm Abigail now – you need to get a new name too, now I mention it.'
'Erm, if you say so sis – I tell you what, it ain't half lovely to be steamed up again, must have been days now,' – this last part was murmured to no-one in particular. Abigail thought just how happy she was at this moment – she was warming up for a day's work on her new railway which she'd yet to explore, her sister (they'd always considered themselves twins, mind you,) was awake and the air was crisp and sharp in the cold December air. This was lovely...