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, "And he knew that engines liked coal, what do the naughty one's get? Candy and toys?"

"Another puzzler from the likes of Little Tenderheart."

That night, Thomas was resting alone in the Ffarquhar sheds, with his crew men keeping him company while they waited for their ride home. His fireman had kept his fire going for a little while longer, so that he could drift off to sleep with his boiler still warm. Between minding the coals, he sat on the floor of the cab, with his feet hanging out of the doorway.

Matthew was busy washing the salt from Thomas' wheels with a sponge and a bucket of water. He was waiting patiently for David to inquire if he might be a help, but he didn't know why he bothered. "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 snorted and peered up from the sudsy mess of Thomas' wheels. His eyes narrowed when he noticed the pen and pad of paper in David's hands. "Who're you writing to?"

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

"I never knew you had any. And the only reason I'm asking is because I am insatiably curious if it's Betty Paige, or the Queen herself who could be so important as to keep you from helping me clean our engine."

"Well, she's not famous."

"So it is a girl." Matthew folded his arms across his chest. "I figured as much."

"Another girl?" asked the engine.

"See? Even Thomas knows about your promiscuous ways by now."

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

"Huh. That's right." The driver stepped back, looking at the ever-lively Thomas with a deeper appreciation. "Wow. Our little tank engine is living history."

"Hard to believe we've worked together for so long," remarked Thomas proudly.

Harder it was to believe how far they'd come as a team. There was a time where Matthew had reason to be concerned with being taken seriously. Young drivers were often seen as inexperienced, lazy, and too relaxed with their engines, and some exaggerated their authority accordingly. And Thomas' antics had made earning respect from the elder staff rather difficult.

Yet Matthew recognized soon enough that Thomas' behavior came from the irk and embarrassment of being the then-lone shunting engine. The servant of the house. Rather than shaming him publically for his mistakes, Matthew's lectures always took place in private, away from other staff and engines alike. He was strict with Thomas, and praises were rare. But just like his own children, he never once disrespected him, either, not even behind his bunker.

Matthew never anticipated his method would leave an impression on the rebellious engine. He could be quite cold otherwise. So he was quite taken aback the first time Thomas had wished him a happy birthday. As engines don't have birthdays, they usually don't hold the idea of them to much importance. But Thomas, though still a mischievous, self-important youth with so much to learn, had decided to go out of his way to learn this one, small thing. To demonstrate his appreciation for Matthew's loyalty. Despite the episodes of embarrassment and frustration Thomas had caused him over the years, he never once petitioned to be paired with another engine.

Matthew hadn't realized how close a driver and their engine could grow, nor how considerate engines could be towards their crewmen. And at times, the driver felt rather proud to have been at the controls of an engine as he matured so—not that he'd Thomas smokebox inflate by articulating such a thing.

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

"Don't disgust me. She's a grown woman! And I am speaking with her over letters, because she's overseas, and not always near a phone."

"Color me impressed." Matthew put his hands on his hips. "Well, do I know her?"

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

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

"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 fireman just grinned.

"Oh, Lord..."

But Thomas was so excited, a quiver ran across his boiler. "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 get you all rattled up."

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

"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 beamed.

But the driver 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 David say it. "Thought you wouldn't approve."

Matthew neither confirmed nor denied the suspicion. If he was hurt in any way, he didn't show it—wouldn't show it. But there was a long silence before he spoke again. "And I don't. But still… you're an adult. 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."

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

"Like you didn't play cowboys and indians when you were a child."

"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."

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

"Alright, Chief Wonderlust. Do you plan on sitting there all night, waxing about travel plans in 'Tenderheart''s cabin, 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 salty 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 these two. An engine lived for moments like this. So calm and peaceful and secure. Even when the men continued to bicker.

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

"You sound as if you doubt that I could have a meaningful relationship."

The driver's eyes were glazed over. "I don't think it's impossible. But it's not like you. No… you know… instant gratification." His eyes flicked from him to Thomas, whom he wanted to remain somewhat innocent in the affairs of human beings, if he even still was.

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

"Oh, come on, David!" Matthew slapped his sponge back into the bucket of water. "Don't tell me you're actually pursuing that woman for the long term! She's too stern, too serious for you! You have nothing in common, not even a home address, on top of everything else."

"Ah, but chemistry is the kindling that keeps a fire ablaze, even from a sea apart. 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."

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 rinsed and 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."

"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 snuffed the last of his embers, 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 dragged a finger and thumb across his lips like a zipper. "Already done. 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. But a few words from her would still be a wonderful thing.

That night, he dreams consisted of handwritten letters, brown birds, and whatever Christmas might look like wherever she landed.

Whereas Thomas the Tank Engine had slept like a baby, elsewhere on the island, Emily had had a miserable night. And it was too soon when the doors to the Knapford shed were opened, morning rays drowning her face.

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

Her fire had been started already, the fire lighter came and gone, and she hadn't even noticed. "Nooo, I just fell asleep!"

Once her eyes adjusted to the blinding sunshine, she saw Marty balancing against her buffer beam, an insolvable smile wrinkling his eyes and lining his cheeks. The driver had been up at four A.M. to a single cup of coffee and a series of muscular exercises. As far as the old man was concerned, every day he woke at all with his senses in check was reason to be happy. But through his bottle cap glasses, it must've been apparent she was truly upset. "Another bad sleep?"

"It's those compulsive thoughts of yours." The fireman, with his spotless cap pulled down close over his face, brushed past Marty and stepped up into her cab without making eye contact with either of them. "They're keeping you from getting any rest."

Emily scowled, but she wasn't about to get into it just to correct him. These men cared a great deal about their engine—or, at least Marty did, for all the cues he missed. The jury was still out on Kyle, who openly stated he was only doing this job to appease his parents. But neither of them would understand.

When her cabinmen had inquired about possible reasons for her wretched sleep, compared to other engines, that's what she blamed it on. Compulsive thoughts. Overthinking. 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 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 need? How could she maintain what little responsibility she'd been given after such an omission?

"Whatever it is," Kyle went on, opening her firebox door. "you'll have to learn to deal with it."

"Don't be so cold, son," said the driver. He leaned forward to peer inside the box, finally frowning. "Hm. Turn over her coals—the fire lighter won't do it, but it might help wake her up. Come on, Em! That and some sun might do you some good."

Kyle protested in favor of keeping his uniform clean, but folded under Marty's kind insistence. If he wouldn't do it, Marty would, and he didn't trust Marty to lift all that coal without becoming buried in it. The chemist-to-be swallowed his pride and began taking out her coals to repack them fresh.

Emily wasn't so sure it would help. And she resented the implication that her problems would just disappear with some sunlight. What was she, some stupid flower? Regardless, she was quiet as the fireman reluctantly carried out his job.

Her fire was relit, and finally her boiler bubbled enough for motion. But 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 stop at the washdown.

Emily really wished she didn't have to. She was covered with dust, dirt, and soot, from her cab roof to her running plates. 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 lady 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!"
Even Toby barely quieted a snicker as he disappeared around the bend with James.

Emily growled. "Bother Thomas, and his 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 buffers off."

At last, she arrived at the goods yards. Emily came up behind a group of rowdy trucks, taking pleasure in the thought that they were an immature tank engine.

"Hey!" the trucks 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 wooden buffers at the end of the tracks, making it wobble back, before coming to a rest.

"No chanting. No fuss. Not a word out of any of ya." Her voice was like ice. "Try and biff me once, and I'll make Oliver look like the Lord of Mercy. Understand?"

The trucks grumbled, but eventually fell quiet. They didn't know if Emily was capable of what she implied, but her tone made them believe her enough.

Still, she knew it wasn't wise to antagonise the trucks. But 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 trucks do to you?"

Emily froze, her wheels grinding to a halt.

On the track to her left, a small, blue engine puffed up, inspecting the line of trucks. "Someone's got an axe to grind." His gaze shifted her way. "Or maybe the good lady just doesn't know her own strength."

Emily occupied her gaze with the same trucks she'd just scared out of their wits. Ever since word had gotten out about

her crush, dealing with him was incredibly difficult. Forget looking him in the eyes. "Oh. Hi… Edward."

Thankfully for Emily, Edward—assuming he did know—didn't treat her any differently. He behaved as if he were perfectly oblivious. "Had a bad night?"

"It's just been a bad week," she told him shyly. "Is it that obvious?"

"You do look a little tired. But no less pretty."

A smile found its way to Emily's lips. How did he always know just what to say? And so effortlessly, too? She fought for sensibility as the flames in her firebox flickered a bit brighter. This was a special engine indeed. One she was certain was her best friend for a reason.

Emily's crewmen left her cab to have a word with the yard manager. While they were alone, Edward shunted a pair of trucks on his own line and came up to her side. "Come on. 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'cha know."

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

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

"Because you made a promise to him," Edward asserted gently.

"And I didn't break it! Sir Topham Hatt knows 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."

Emily ran out of objections to make. She sighed, as a big hiss of steam escaped from under her wheels. "Maybe you're right. I should've… spoken up at least. I was just upset with him at the time, and not keen on turning down an excuse to not 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, practical and empathetic. Though it was hard for Emily to imagine someone 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 with James for the evening. She'd always thought him cute, and his work ethic had improved significantly in recent years. The only standing flaw was his inexorable ego, But that only manifested in the form of comments. And comments were harmless.

All the same, damn. How she wished it had been Edward instead! He was someone to be proud to work with, regardless of Gordon and Henry's snubbing. And it wasn't hard to imagine him chuffing alongside herself on an easy, star-lit run to the bay and back. Just the two of them, with all the literal bells and whistles and romance of Christmas Eve. Even if the other engines should giggle at them relentlessly for it afterward.

Suddenly, Emily had an idea. Her smile lines deepened.

Edward took notice immediately, and felt himself becoming 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 bemused Edward in her wake.

"Well, then," his driver chuckled. "I think you nailed that one, Edward. Once again, you are the guru of standard gauge engines."

"I sure hope I did." Edward took his line of trucks and shunted them into place, alongside Emily's. "That was easy," he said to himself. "Now onto…"

And then, his smile dropping, he remembered what job was next. And more importantly, who it was with. And no amount of patience and kindness in the world could keep him from wincing.

"... James."

2/24/25: Chapter 2's been revised a bit. The only significant change is some added backstory between Thomas and his driver. I liked the idea that his driver is all grunt and work and no-nonsense to contrast Thomas himself, and more importantly for the story later on, David the current fireman, the absolute party boy. While Sir Topham and his fatherly patience (and bailouts) gets some credit for Thomas' success, Matthew gets a pretty hefty chunk of that too. Someone had to 'raise' Thomas, so to speak, and in this canon, that same driver he was there for a lot of Thomas' early wins.

I also tried to make Emily's crewmen more defined here, now that I've got a better sense of who they are in later chapters. Don't hate Kyle too much, he gets some much needed fleshing out later on.