The Awful, Floundering, Jostling Railway Chapter 6, a thomas the tank engine fanfic

Chapter 6

Jess

Abigail had been feeling odd about something ever since the manager, Mr. Cutler, had spoken to them earlier. She couldn't place the feeling – she chalked it up to unfamiliarity. The AFJR was certainly nothing like anywhere she'd seen before, and considering she had worked in London, that was saying quite a bit. A further observation was that the unfamiliar feeling was at its strongest whenever Ashwell was around. Again, she put it down to the fact that Ashwell was, compared to anybody else she'd met, a bit extra. That was the only word she could think to use. Most engines from the era of Ashwell's construction were, according to her experience, taciturn and terse. Ashwell was very 'singular', by comparison, always very much a joy to be around (Abigail did legitimately enjoy all the complimentary names Ashwell gave her, even if she did blush at them profusely,) but there was something about the 2-2-2 that seemed to defy convention. Her external appearance was, if anything, alluring; polished brass cylinder covers, dome, and safety valve casings seemed to accentuate the little engine's already graceful curves, which were formed around her driving wheels. She decided when her thoughts reached this point to stop them, and instead directed them to work out exactly what this unfamiliar feeling was trying to convey. It felt for all the world, she realised, like her fire was doing somersaults on its grate. She did not get long to consider that development, however, for her internal monologue was broken when she heard the telephone ring in Mr Cutler's office... The next thing she knew he was crossing the yard very quickly with a pair of very confused enginemen, and approached her. He spoke quite rapidly and without greeting:

'Jess has failed up at the colliery, they need an engine sharpish, can you do it?'

'Erm, yes, sir, very well.'

'Good, here's a crew, be quick now.'

And so, as soon as the two men were on her footplate, she went of her own accord; she didn't know who 'Jess' was, but she must be an engine of some kind. It occurred to her she didn't really know where the colliery was either, but it must be those points on the hill between the Manor and Foxhill Station, she reasoned. There was no other likely location, surely. The next thing that occurred to her was the apparent spontaneity of everybody leaping into motion like this (not least herself!) Back in London, an engine failure anywhere would be treated with typical bureaucratic pacing – several hours spent faffing about to organise a relief and its crew. Here, it seemed, the incident had occurred, and within five minutes an engine was on its way. Abigail decided she preferred this system – being sat idle was not something she greatly enjoyed – although she supposed it gave one plenty of time for reflection on one's emotions – exactly what Abigail had been trying to do without success. Perchance, she thought, this 'Jess' would be at least a bit insightful, and could help her with that. It was a forlorn hope, perhaps, but still, it was at least something.

When they reached the trailing points to colliery, they found a ground frame lever by the line to change them that her fireman got down to switch over. When he let go to come return to the cab, they switched back again. Must've been sprung. After making himself look 'a bit of a Charlie' in this endeavour, the hapless fireman realised you had to hold the lever. They eventually did get past them though, and started, in reverse, up the winding, undulating, very, very unstable line to the coal pit. The rails climbed steeply for some time, twisting around some very sharp curves that Abigail found most disagreeable. It seemed to take an unduly long time to reach this colliery, climbing all the while at a gradient so stiff it seemed to defy comprehension. When she got to the sidings, which seemed in extreme disarray of layout and organisation, what Abigail found surprised her. A trim, six-wheeled saddle tank, looking very, very close to tears, and extremely frightened. It was issuing thick clouds of steam from somewhere between its frames. The engine seemed to shrink at Abigail's approach, and she tried to advance as gently as possible. This, she thought, must be 'Jess', for there were no other engines present. Plenty of run-down, very old coal wagons though, and some were laughing cruelly at the saddle tank's predicament. A few men were gathered on and around the engine, but they clambered down at Abi's arrival. One of them took a position at the failed engine's front, waving Abigail forward. She approached, as carefully as ever she could, buffering up with as little force as possible. She then drew the small industrial engine back, placing her neatly on a siding out of the way. Abigail tried to muster a sympathetic look, but it wasn't much use. The terrier then spent the next half an hour being waved wordlessly around the colliery by hand signals, arranging both empty and loaded wagons. She had no qualms about this, she honestly enjoyed shunting. It was therapeutic, and helped her to unwind. That morning had been eventful – she hadn't even finished her first day yet and this little Cornish light railway had made more of an impression upon her then London Victoria had over the course of years. Before long, there were no more wagons left to shunt – which she considered a great shame as she might have continued all afternoon. So she turned her attention to Jess, who had been cooling down on the siding for a little while now. The steam leak had subsided slightly, but the engine still occasionally winced in discomfort. Abigail tried to break the ice:

'Err, umm, hullo, there, J-jess, isn't it?' (Blast, she thought, her nerves were back – damn her shyness.)

'Y-yeah, th-that's me. Th-thanks for tidying up the yard for me.' (Phew, thought Abigail, this engine is just as jittery as me, it would seem. Oh well.)

'You're welcome, I do hope you're alright... D-do you know what's happened?'

uldn't place the feeling – she chalked it up to unfamiliarity. The AFJR was certainly nothing like anywhere she'd seen before, and considering she had worked in London, that was saying quite a bit. A further observation was that the unfamiliar feeling was at its strongest whenever Ashwell was around. Again, she put it down to the fact that Ashwell was, compared to anybody else she'd met, a bit extra. That was the only word she could think to use. Most engines from the era of Ashwell's construction were, according to her experience, taciturn and terse. Ashwell was very 'singular', by comparison, always very much a joy to be around (Abigail did legitimately enjoy all the complimentary names Ashwell gave her, even if she did blush at them profusely,) but there was something about the 2-2-2 that seemed to defy convention. Her external appearance was, if anything, alluring; polished brass cylinder covers, dome, and safety valve casings seemed to accentuate the little engine's already graceful curves, which were formed around her driving wheels. She decided when her thoughts reached this point to stop them, and instead directed them to work out exactly what this unfamiliar feeling was trying to convey. It felt for all the world, she realised, like her fire was doing somersaults on its grate. She did not get long to consider that development, however, for her internal monologue was broken when she heard the telephone ring in Mr Cutler's office... The next thing she knew he was crossing the yard very quickly with a pair of very confused enginemen, and approached her. He spoke quite rapidly and without greeting:

'Jess has failed up at the colliery, they need an engine sharpish, can you do it?'

'Erm, yes, sir, very well.'

'Good, here's a crew, be quick now.'

'Err, umm, hullo, there, J-jess, isn't it?' (Blast, she thought, her nerves were back – damn her shyness.)

'Y-yeah, th-that's me. Th-thanks for tidying up the yard for me.' (Phew, thought Abigail, this engine is just as jittery as me, it would seem. Oh well.)

'You're welcome, I do hope you're alright... D-do you know what's happened?'

'N-not really, s-something's burst and it hurts, I swear it h-hurts... O-oh, I just realised – I don't know your name?'

'I'm Abi, I'm sort of new 'round here – it's kind of still my first full working day, actually. Save to say it's been eventful...'

'Oh, I see... I hate to have been all this trouble...'

'Don't worry about it – you couldn't help it. Not your fault, just bad luck, that's all.' Abigail tried to speak as gently as possible but she wasn't sure she was getting very far. Jess hadn't answered her last sentence but merely returned to looking at her buffers. The buffers themselves seemed to have a bit of a listless droop to them. Abigail noticed the saddle tank also carried a somewhat dulled brass nameplate, and was, in fact, all together somewhat unkempt. She was coated in coal dust and rust, and her running board was battered upwards on one side as though she'd had a mildly violent sidelong collision with a wagon. Her front set of coupling rods were missing, effectively rendering her a 2-4-0. Abigail wondered if this was to allow easier navigation of the twists and turns on the colliery line. They stood for some minutes until a little man in a tall hat walked over, looking very refined but also somewhat incongruous. It was a colliery, not a gentleman's club, for Christ's sake. He hurried over to Jess, and, despite being dressed in a very formal and undoubtedly expensive attire, began rigorously examining her. He made occasional fierce mutterings in a language Abigail didn't recognise, and occasionally clambered onto the engine's open footplate to retrieve some tool or other. (Abigail noted that she and Nicola were the only ones who seemed to have enclosed cabs – how did the footplate crews survive around here?) She hadn't formed a conclusion on this until the well-dressed man reappeared from between Jess' frames, coated in oil, and stated crossly to the colliery at large:

'You bloody fools, you've managed to completely destroy her steam brake feed – I don't know how you planks do it! I've seen some locomotive failures in my time – but this one takes the cake for clear negligence and lack of any due care or attention! If I find out which one of you clowns was responsible for this, your feet won't touch the ground, understood?!' The workmen who had been standing about disappeared, the whole yard cleared like magic. Now, Abigail couldn't hear the rest of what he said – for the man hoisted himself onto Jess' running board and began speaking to her very gently in that foreign language that Abigail neither knew nor even recognised. Still, Jess apparently understood fine, for his words seemed to soften much of her discomfort. Even from this distance, and despite not knowing the exact words spoken, Abigail could tell this was a man that knew Jess inside and out and could easily recognise all of her emotions at a glance. Once he'd finished with the saddle tank, climbing down and giving her a light pat on the running plate, he spoke cordially to Abigail:

'Now, keresik, I must thank you for your help here, we couldn't have managed this afternoon's shunting arrangements without you. You are clearly quite the efficient little engine, hweg-oll, I shall strongly commend you to your worthy Mr. Cutler, he is a good man, a very great friend of mine, and, as you are his engine, you are my friend as well. You may return to your home, now, the lovely Ms. Ashwell will surely be wanting you back, is that not so? I do not see her so much, she does not come up here often; do tell her Mr. Kernowek says hello – she's a delightful engine, she'll remember me. Good day now, Ms. Stroudley, good day.' And Mr. Kernowek strode away, collecting his hat from Jess' lamp iron as he passed and straightening it on his head as easily as one would replace the lid of a jam jar. Abigail rather liked this man – he was kind and conscientious, seeming to care more for railway engines then for humans – a quality that not many of his fellow-men seemed to share. Anyway, thought Abigail, she had technically finished her work here, so, giving one last, small smile to Jess, who gave an almost imperceptible reply, she departed down the line from the colliery.

The trip back to the top station was uneventful, and when she pulled back up in the little spot by the water column, behind Platform One, facing towards the engine shed, it was as though the whole thing had never happened. Her crew did a brisk inspection, before clambering down and leaving her to rest in the siding. However, Abigail had no intention of falling asleep or anything inane like that – she had an itching need to get to the bottom of the strange feeling which had been present to a greater or lesser extent for the entirety of the afternoon. This feeling was exacerbated, to the sensation of a colony of fireflies fluttering away in her firebox, when Ashwell approached, looking, to Abigail's eyes, like the most beautiful thing that she had ever seen. Ashwell may or may not have noticed the latter looking at her, for she seemed to be in an incredibly good mood and was apparently holding herself in as elegant a fashion as she could. She drew up with a contented sigh of steam, and greeted Abigail warmly:

'Hi there, Abi, darlin', I must say you look simply gorgeous in this afternoon sunlight – quite the image I must say.'

'O-Oh, erm, thank you, Ashwell, you, err, don't look so bad yourself.' (Abigail then proceeded to run the following thoughts through her head – 'oh-bugger-oh-bugger-oh-bugger you silly tosser why did you say that! You've only known this engine since this morning and you come out with that!' Before she became very interested in the ballast below her front.) Ashwell gave a satisfied sort of giggle, as though that was not something she had ever heard from a newly arrived engine before. She then answered:

'Woah, steady on their sweetheart, isn't it a bit early in the day for that?' With a look that said it was the perfect time of day, in her opinion. She followed this comment with a remarkably normal and gentle enquiry about Abigail's recent visit to see to Jess' mishap: 'So, I heard lately that you're not long back from a trip down the colliery, that right?'

'Yes, the engine there, Jess, had blown her steam brake feed pipe – she was ever so upset. Then that bloke with the suit, Mr Kernowek, came along and spoke to her, not in English, but she seemed to feel a bit better afterwards. He says hello, by the way. Says that you ought to remember him – what does he mean by that?'

'Oh, Mr Kernowek's a delight – before he got a job at the colliery – he's 'Locomotive Department Manager' there – even though there's only one engine and he's basically a fitter, but still – anyway, before that, he worked for our railway Company, started when he was about 14. He became my driver for a while – he was very good at it, actually...' Ashwell trailed off. Abigail allowed her some time for her reminisces, the 2-2-2 seemed to be ruminating slowly about something.

'Abigail?' She asked at length.

'Hm?'

'Did you have a regular driver on your old railway?'

'Yes, in fact, Ed Jones, a Welshman. He was my only driver from the day I left Brighton Works to the day I was sold. I suppose you've had a couple yourself?'

'Yeah... My first was a bloke called Connolly, and he'd come from Whitehaven with me, to put me together. I came in segments, you see, they couldn't bring me in as one piece. Anyway, I got assembled, and he was the first person I ever saw... He retired in '73, oh how I do miss him...' She paused for a moment after this, and Abigail wondered if she'd pick up again. She did, eventually: 'Then Mr. Kernowek took over, and he was just as good but also quite a lot more sensitive. Why ever he chose railway work I'll never know but he made good of us one way or the other. Must be, oh, twenty years ago now he went up to the colliery, as you saw, and I'm now in the charge of L. Anderson, who, as you may see, is trying desperately to work my blower handle...' The driver spoke up then:

'So, maybe tell me how it works? Or else open it yourself? I've been struggling with the damn thing for five minutes now!'

'Mr. Anderson, you should know by now my dislike for forced drafting. It won't open because I'm not letting it open. My fire is burning just fine as it is and making use of the blower you like so much will only use excess steam and fuel – which, Mr. Kilkenny, would go a lot further if you stopped shovelling every now and again.'

At these words both her crew members looked at each other in a resigned sort of way. There was some muttering between them and eventually they left the footplate, making a beeline for the station café. Abigail looked on with raised eyebrows but said very little. For a moment, the two unattended engines sat in companionable silence, (well, relatively, disregarding the usual level of steam locomotive sizzling) sort of just minding their own business, until they accidentally caught each other's eyes. Then Ashwell chortled slightly. Followed by an involuntary snigger from Abigail. And before long both the little engines were laughing hysterically about absolutely nothing at all. Some young-faced cleaners poked their heads out of the engine shed to see what on earth was so funny. The station-master installed himself in the office window with eyebrows raised, growing steadily more confused. It took almost a full minute for either of them to recover, by which time they were issuing large plumes of steam from their safety valves and both were bright red in the face. The two young cleaners shared a significant look, and one pointed with a thumb towards the year upon Ashwell's works plate, then tapped his forehead. Somehow she did not notice this. Before long, evening began to fall, and Abigail made to leave for her current resting spot on the siding across the yard, but Ashwell must have found this objectionable somehow, for she at once went:

'No, no, you stay in here, where it's warm.'

'Won't Foxhill mind at all?'

'Prob'ly, but she's too proud to say so. There might be room in the carriage shed for her.'

'Errrrm, right... Well, I suppose I'll join you then...'

So Ashwell and Abigail moved (autonomously, might I add) into the little engine shed. It was, Abi thought, quite cosy. The roundhouse at New Cross where she had once slept was somewhat cramped, especially with the heat and smoke and confusion from having a whole fleet of identical engines corralled in there together. However, tucked in this little, single track shed, with just one other engine, was not unpleasant. The atmosphere was a mite on the side of quiet, Abi being generally self-effacing and Ashwell being worn out for the day, and while the whole ensemble was layered at one point with a sharp set of whistles and a bit of pungent language from someone outside ('Only Foxhill,' murmured Ashwell drowsily,) once after this had passed there was little stimulating conversation left, and before long Ashwell had fallen asleep all-together. Abigail followed not long thereafter. A hard frost came on and raindrops began gently falling upon the little slate-roofed shed, and ran down upon the grass-grown ground surrounding the building, saturating the ground of the yard, muddying the Old Man's broom and working the whitewash off Mr. Cutler's coal... And before long the little town of Ashwell was asleep, under thickening clouds and sheeting rain, on the evening of December 19th, 1902...