#I think I've stolen as many characters as stephen hatt has | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

joezworld · 2 years

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Sodor in the days of Privatisation

Hey so this is actually a fic, but unlike just about everything else I've written, which is inspired by the fact that nobody can stop me, this one is actually a bit of a spite project.

So, like most of you, I'd assume, I've read the Extended Railway Series (ERS) and the ERS Novels (ERSN) on the Sodor Island Forums (SiF). And I super duper don't agree with them on how they portray... well anyone really.

There's a couple of reasons why, but the main thing is that they just... do not understand how the interpersonal relationships between the engines would be - and I'm not saying that how I interpret it is better, but like, each and every one of these engines has been through a literal or emotional hell at least once, sometimes twice, and yet in the ERS, they continue to be jerks to one another with surprising regularity.

That's not how those relationships should work - that's not how we've seen it happen in canon:

It takes all of two pages (54 & 56) in James & The Diesel Engines for James to become friendly/on-board with diesels. They're literally the only two pages in which that even comes up, and from that point onwards, I really can't find many stories featuring the engines having actual malice towards each other like they did in the early books.

Why? Because they like each other now!

They've spent 50+ years right next to each other in the same damn shed - it'd be stranger if they hated each other, and I find it really hard to believe that they'd continue having such bad blood (or oil) considering what they've all collectively gone through, and what they've all lost.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't bring this all up unless someone asked (or if you're @mean-scarlet-deceiver at which point I bombard your DMs) but I figured I should mention this because at this point I'm blatantly stealing characters from the ERS and I figured you should all know why: Because I'm tired of seeing these fucking trains be unhappy for no damn reason.

-------------------

October, 1990

“I’ve done it!” He exclaimed, slamming his briefcase on the thick oak desk and extracting an even thicker sheaf of documents.

The special train had barely stopped rolling when the door to the inspector’s saloon coach was thrown open. Stephen Hatt, the director of the North-Western Region of British Rail (for now) charged out of the plush pre-grouping Pullman and stormed into the station office complex. He was so intent on getting there that all other sights and sounds were ignored until he finally reached the door labelled: “Arthur Agnells | Legal”

Arthur, who had nearly gone through the ceiling when his door was thrown open so suddenly, did not need more than a moment to get up to speed. “No!” He gasped, the adrenalin already running through his veins. “They agreed?!”

“Every. Word!”

Arthur let loose a cry of wordless laughter and practically ran round the massive desk to embrace his employer and friend. It had been a massively risky gamble, but it had paid off.

In the next few days, a memo was faxed, mailed, and in a few cases hand-delivered to every station, shed, office, depot, warehouse, union hall, workshop, and signal box across the region. It had two sections; The upper portion was typed, but the lower was written in extremely elegant handwriting - clearly done just before the memo had been run through the Xerox machine.

OFFICIAL NOTICE ON THE PRIVATISATION OF THE NORTH-WESTERN REGION:

As of 19 October, 1990, an agreement has been made between the management of the North-Western Region and the British Railways Board. This agreement - of which copies are available to read in main-line station offices - stipulates that as of 3 April 1993, The North-Western Region will be privatised into its own independent railway company. This company will consist of the following:

All British Railway Board assets on the Island of Sodor

All British Railway Board assets located west of the easternmost point of Barrow Station - with the exception of tracks Four and Five, which will be rerouted outside of the sorting yard to allow for uninterrupted British Rail access of the Cumbrian Coast Line.

The Sodor Motorail terminal at London Kensington Olympia Station

The Sodor Motorail terminal at Stirling Station

The Sodor Motorail terminal at Aberdeen Station

The Sodor Motorail terminal at Barrow-in-Furness Station

The British Rail Booking Office in Tidmouth, Sodor

The British Rail Booking Office in Douglas, Isle of Man

The British Rail Booking Office in Belfast, Northern Ireland

The new railway company, tentatively known as the North Western Railway Company, will be chaired by the current leadership structure of the North-Western Region.

The British Railway Board wishes the North Western Railway Co. the best of luck in their new endeavour.

We've done it! Anything on this island come 3-4-93 is ours! Free & clear! Start requesting equipment transfers posthaste! - S.T.H.

Equipment and rolling stock began coming in almost immediately. At first, it was small things - a coach here, two wagons there, and so on. The motorail terminal at Kirk Ronan made the first big play, requisitioning an entire rake of newly rebuilt Cartic wagons, which was approved without delay.

Following that, bigger acquisitions began to be made…

---------------------

January 1991 - Barrow-in-Furness

The first locomotive acquired under this scheme showed up in the winter. Bear collected him as part of the morning goods train. “Hello, what are you doing up there?” He asked the small six-wheeled shunter strapped to a low loader wagon.

“Currently?” He said with an accent that seemed to be half-Southampton and half-seagoing scallywag. “Freezin’ me axles off! Name’s Salty, by the way.”

“Bear. Nice to meet you. I assume that you’re our new harbour engine?” The harbour at Tidmouth had been rapidly expanding thanks to growth in both containerized freight as well as bulk commodity shipments, and the current shunter could not keep up on his own.

“Aye!” He said as the shunters connected the wagon and the diesel’s crew began running a brake test. “Though I unno how long I’ll be ‘ere for - I’m a bit o’ an unwitting journeyman - every few years I get sent somewhere else - no respect for us old salts eh?”

Bear laughed. “As much as I want to relate, I’m afraid I can’t. Us ‘old salts’ are the ones running this island - you’ll fit in fine!”

“Izzat really?” Salty asked, a little surprised.

“Oh yes!” Bear chortled as he was throttled up to leave Barrow yard. “In fact, you and I are practically spring chickens compared to some engines I can name!” He directed that last comment to Bloomer, who was steaming into the yard with a short passenger train from Norramby.

“I can work you under the table any day, youngster!” The old single harrumphed as he steamed by. “An’ don’t you forget it!”

Bear laughed - partly at Bloomer’s antics, but mostly at the gobsmacked expression on Salty’s face at the sight of steam traction with a TOPS number - and powered across the bridge onto Sudrian metals.

--------------

April, 1991 - BREL Crewe Works

The foreman stared at the list of items that had come off of the teleprinter. “They want this junk? What for?”

“Search me.” Said his secretary. “But they were very insistent about it.”

“Well, I suppose it does keep it from going to waste...” Most of the old works complex was being torn down to allow for new commercial development, and anything that wasn’t involved with the Class 91 programme or couldn’t be sent elsewhere would likely end up in a skip.

But seriously, the man thought to himself as he went out to inform his underlings. What could they possibly need with this? Old casting molds from the steam era? Sulzer engine blocks? Crown sheets? Wheel truing machines? Wheel drop tables? Steam heating boilers? Everything here is decades old! We found them in the weeds! What could they possibly be maintaining? Steam engines? Vintage diesels?

It took a week for everything to be loaded into a load of wagons that had also been specified on the transfer orders, and things became more curious when a freshly-painted Class 46 came down especially for them.

She was sparkling from buffer to buffer, and smiled and laughed as she was connected to the long train of old rubbish. It took only a few minutes for the train to be assembled, and then the diesel roared away without a hint of clag or a single misfire - implying much better maintenance than just about any other engine the men at Crewe had seen in months!

Also… “Didn’t they scrap those years ago?”

------------------------

November, 1991 - Crovan’s Gate Works

The works foreman examined the rake of coaches carefully. “Wendell,” He said slowly. “These are the coaches they told you to take, right?”

The big diesel blinked slowly. “Yes? Why wouldn’t they be?”

“These… aren’t Mark 2 stock.”

This drew a chorus of jeers from the coaches:

“Of course we’re not!”

“How dare you!”

“We’re better than those old wrecks!”

“You weren’t actually going to put those heaps on mainline services?”

“You should consider yourselves lucky that we agreed to come along!”

“Mark 2 stock indeed! We’ve just been built!”

Man and engine exchanged a look. “They said that they were the only proper coaches in the yard…” Wendell said, realizing his mistake all too late.

King’s Cross Station, London

“What do you mean, ‘they’re gone?’” The stationmaster asked. He was a very busy man, and didn’t have time for nonsense like this.

“I mean,” Said the head of the rolling stock depot over the phone. “That they aren’t there. We can��t find them.”

“You lost two rakes of Mark 4 coaches?!”

---------------------------

February, 1992 - Tidmouth Docks

“I must say Stephen,” Jim the Harbourmaster said as he led the Fat Controller around the docks in his car. “I didn’t think that we’d be able to handle all the additional expansion - what with the automobile unloading dock and whatnot, but that extra engine has certainly done us a treat!”

“You have no idea how glad I am to hear that.” Stephen visibly relaxed into the car seat. “Out of everything, the expansion has been one of my biggest worries - we don’t need any problems here.”

“And thanks to you we haven’t got any.”

“Thank heavens for that. How is the new one settling in? I know Merlin worked alone for so long, but Salty seemed quite knowledgeable. I hope there haven’t been any issues.”

Jim pulled a face. “Salty is getting along great, but… I wouldn’t say he’s fine.”

“Oh?”

“His axleboxes.” Jim said severely. “Anything over twenty and they just start to fail from the heat. Crovan’s has been working on a solution but it’s severely limiting his range; we certainly can’t send him further than the big station, and the ferry boat trains are right out.”

Stephen stared at his subordinate, a picture of bafflement. “But you said that everything was going well..?”

“Oh yes!” Jim was not at all concerned. “That’s all Marina, not Salty!”

“Marina?”

“Oh, the Class 33 you got from Eastleigh.”

“What Class 33?”

They found Marina shunting trucks with Salty out by the aggregates yard. Both engines were engrossed in a raucous sea shanty, and didn’t notice the men.

Stephen actually gasped when he saw the engine, and Jim made a noise as he realized that he should have spoken earlier. “Ah, yes, I - perhaps I should have mentioned that earlier… You see, the works was full at the time, and she wasn’t all that bothered about it…”

At an almost total loss for words, Stephen could only glare at the harbourmaster in a way that screamed In What Universe Is That An Appropriate Response?!

This response was somewhat understandable. At some point in the past, some amount of calamity had befallen Marina - what kind exactly, she’d refused to elaborate on - and caused significant cosmetic damage to her front.

Quite significant and deeply concerning cosmetic damage.

Her “A” end cab was basically destroyed - all of the windows were gone, with not even jagged glass remaining in the frames - and in some places the frames were gone! There were deep gouges in the metal of her bufferbeam and up her front - mercifully her face was untouched - to the point where bare metal was showing all over. The damage was so bad that drivers had to use the “B” end cab whenever possible, leading many trucks to think that she’d driven herself out of the scrap heap, and causing them to give her a nickname: “The Haunted Disaster”!

Despite all of this, however, she seemed happy. Her blue eyes sparkled like they were filled with a million stars, and her voice was clear and bright as she sang along to the chorus of whatever song Salty was singing.

Then like Mary Ellen Carter, rise again!

Rise again, rise again!

Though your heart, it be broken, or life about to end

No matter what you've lost, be it a home, a love, a friend

Like Mary Ellen Carter, rise again!

The song finished as Stephen strode insistently across the ballast. “Excuse me,” He said, trying his best to be polite. “But who are you?”

“I’m Marina.” She said happily. “I’m the harbour engine.”

“For this harbour?”

“Yes, but not originally though - I was the Harbourmaster of Weymouth until they shut the tramway. Then I was withdrawn for a while, but now I’m here.”

“I… I see.” It was rare for Stephen to be so off kilter. “And may I ask who approved your transfer to this harbour?”

“I did.”

“You did?”

“Yes. Another harbour engine was needed, so I came here.”

Stephen’s mouth flapped open and shut several times. “I see.” He lied. “And was this… before or after you… damaged your front?”

“Well after that, sir.”

“I see,” He was saying that a great deal and it had yet to be true. “And you haven’t been mended?”

“No sir. I’ve been quite busy.”

“I see…” The Harbour was a three-engine job, that much was clear. And he hadn’t been able to find a suitable type three for love or money… “I would ask you if you will work hard, but somehow I feel like I know the answer to that.”

She smiled, and one of the depot allocation plates on her side sparkled in the sun. It was from Saltley MPD - notorious for being one of the hardest working depots on British Rail. “I get the job done, at all costs.”

Several days later

“Stephen, why the fuck is there a bagpiped 33 in my repair bay? And why does she look like you dragged her out of a scrap heap?” Leigh Hunt’s voice crackled over the phone. The head of the Crovan’s Gate diesel shops was a cantankerous old man who held very little respect for anyone who wasn’t a locomotive, and such exchanges were normal.

“Oh, Marina?” It had been several days, and Stephen was now much calmer about his mystery locomotive. “She’s one of ours.”

“I’d’ve never guessed. What am I doin’ to her? The usual?”

“If that’s what’s needed, then yes. She seems to be working perfectly, damage aside.”

“Ah was to ask about that - She’s bein’ awful tight lipped ‘bout that.”

“Then you know as much as I do, Leigh.”

“Huh. Figures. We’ll get ‘er done in a week so long as nothin’ calamitous happens. Oh, by the by, how’d ye swing one of these? London’s got it out for any type three that ain’t a tractor - I’m surprised she isn’t razorblades yet.”

Stephen sighed, not entirely sure how to explain this. “Sometimes, Leigh, you just come into engines…”

------------------------------------

July, 1992 - Crewe Electric TMD

“No, Hatt.” Bruce - the head of Crewe Electric Depot said in greeting.

“Bruce! You didn't even know what I was going to say!” Stephen protested.

“Don’t need to. You’ve been getting everything between hither and yon for your Nowhere Railway and I’ve not got a steam engine hiding under a cover or anything like that - I run an electric depot, in case you didn’t know.

“And that’s exactly why I called - you see, I have an electric branch in need of-”

“Absolutely not.” Bruce’s eyes widened at that. “I’ve barely got enough engines to go ‘round, and I’ve got those new leasing companies crawling up my arse every other day trying to inspect things! I do not need to go transferring assets off to your little hole in the ground!”

“Fair enough.” Hatt said as though Bruce hadn’t just massively insulted his region. Bruce wondered exactly how many phone calls he’d made in order for statements like that to go unnoticed. “Do you know of any other TMDs that might have excess motive power?”

“Not off the top of my head; the 91s and the 90s are sending everything else into out-of-use. You’d have to call around and see who’s got what on their storage lines - and that’s only if you need a locomotive.”

“That I do. You see, I’m in need of a higher-power unit to use for heavy goods services. A 90 would be perfect, but everyone I’ve spoken to has been reluctant to part with theirs.”

“Good luck with that.” Bruce scoffed. “I only have three of the damn things and I’m across the bloody railway line from the works! I’ve to make do with some clapped out 85s for the time being.”

He surveyed the yard as Hatt tried to wheedle a pair of ‘clapped out 85s’ from him. The electrics had been getting grubbier and sadder as the years had been going on - lack of maintenance expenditure from management, coupled with a lack of care (also from management - his crews hated not being able to fix something) had made the engines a damn sorry sight.

Sending them off to the Island of Woebegone Locomotives would be a mercy, really. He thought to himself, before stopping as something registered in the corner of his vision. He suddenly had an idea.

Hatt was still blathering on about how he ‘needed’ a suitable freight engine (don’t we all, Hatty), when Bruce cut him off. “Actually, I might be able to help you with your issue.”

“Do tell…”

“You still run the Island of Misfit Prototypes, right? Or have you finally gotten some standard stock?”

“I wouldn’t exactly characterize it as that-”

“Well you’d better,” Bruce sighed as he looked at a particularly sad-looking engine sitting by itself on the weed-filled out-of-use tracks. “‘Cause I’ve got one and she’s yours iffn’ ye want her.”

Crovan’s Gate Works - a week later

The engine had been towed in on an extremely delayed goods working - so delayed in fact, that the mainland diesel who had brought it to Barrow had run all the way down to Wellsworth under the cover of darkness in order to make every station stop. (The diesel had also been offered a place to stay the night, and had instead fled the Island as fast as he could! Perhaps the region’s new reputation was growing…)

As such, it was only in the dawning light of the morning that anyone from the North-Western Region actually saw what Crewe had sent them.

“Land’s sake!” Rolf Tedfield, the works manager said when he laid eyes on the engine. “She’s huge!”

“I will admit,” Stephen said as the two men walked over the sleepers, headed towards the engine. “I was not expecting such a… sizeable engine.”

“Not expecting - Stephen, you had this engine transferred! What did you think it was?”

The Fat Controller ignored him and approached the engine. While not the biggest engine in the world, there was a certain… mass to the engine, perhaps brought on by its bogies, that made it appear powerful; they were three-axle Co-Co trucks, instead of the smaller two axle Bo-Bo trucks that every other diesel and electric engine - save Delta - sat on. It also might have been the size of the engine - while no taller than the other engines, it was a good ten feet longer than Abbey and Dane - the Island’s other electric locomotives - and overall she looked heavier, faster, and burlier than most of the other engines on the Island. Painted in bright white Intercity livery, the engine’s name was stamped on a brass plate in the center: Avocet.

Already present at the engine - who hadn’t said a word the entire time, choosing instead to stare at them with bright blue eyes - was Mr. Williams, the chief electrical traction engineer for the works. In charge of maintenance for the railway’s small electric fleet, he was an excitable man with hair that stuck up in every direction. His first name was Emerson, but this was only theoretical, as he never used it, instead preferring a nickname that seemed appropriate both because of his chosen profession, and also because he’d electrocuted himself so many times that he could stick a penknife into a live electrical outlet with no adverse effects: Sparky.

“Sah!”He shouted, springing to his feet from where he’d been inspecting a traction motor. “Do you truly expect me to repair this engine? To turn this malfunctioning pumpkin of an aardvark into a carriage fit for the royal ball?”

The engine - Avocet - looked offended at that, but Stephen and Rolf were used to the man’s antics. “Yes, Sparky, I do intend for you to return this engine to traffic. Is that going to be a problem?” Stephen asked.

“Sah!” Sparky said, bounding around the engine like a man possessed by himself. “You have just asked me to accomplish what BR cannot - nay, what the manufacturer of this stock cannot! And turn her into a proper goods engine at the same time!”

“Can you do it or not?” Avocet finally lost patience with him, revealing that she spoke with a melodious London accent. “You’ve been bounding around here talking about thyristors and chopper circuits for twenty minutes! I’d very much like to not go into the out-of-use lines again, so out with it!”

“My Lady!” Sparky hopped around, balancing on one leg atop a rail. “I’ve only been asked to perform the impossible! Please allow me some room for gesticulation!” He didn’t sound put out over this.

“Emerson…” Rolf said quietly. “She’s new. Don’t drag this out.”

“Ah yes! Of course!” Sparky said, spinning himself on the rail so he faced the engine directly. “My lady, you have it on my word as an electrician and a gentleman that you will be operational post haste!”

With that, he spun around a third time before bowing deeply to both men and the engine. “Now, if you will pardon my absence, I must prepare my staff.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and bounded off towards the electric depot at the corner of the yard.

“Is he… always like this?” The engine asked, watching him bound across the rails like a stag prancing across a field. When he reached the building that said “CROVAN’S GATE TMD: ELECTRIC DIVISION”, he kicked the door open and disappeared inside with a flourish. “MEN! GATHER YOURSELVES! WE HAVE A CHALLENGE!” Echoed out from the open door, followed shortly thereafter by cheering from the staff within.

“Unfortunately yes.” Rolf said, burying his head in his hands. “But let it be known that he’s a very skilled electrical engineer… who most certainly would be fired if he wasn’t.”

This did not convince Avocet, and Stephen tried to be encouraging. “If it makes you feel any better, he is more excited than normal - we haven’t let him work on a prototype in a while.”

That did not help, and Rolf again had to calm the wide-eyed engine. “Ignore him - well, don’t, because he’s your controller - but for right now pay him no mind.”

He paused to give an innocent-looking Stephen a glare. “What he means is that we’ve only got a few electrics - most of whom are standard production units.”

This did calm the engine, for all of a moment, before her brows furrowed. “Most? Who’s the prototype? Did E2001 survive?”

“Ward - our Class 370.” Stephen said blithely. “You will meet him in time.”

Avocet stared at him. “No. No. You do not have an APT on this pokey little island!”

--------------------------------

January 1993 - Peel Godred

“Stephen, what is that?” Gareth choked out.

The Fat Controller looked over at the suddenly-red representative from BR’s head office. “What is what?”

“That!” The man sputtered, pointing towards the passenger train that had rolled out of the tunnel and was coming to a stop at the platform.

Stephen blinked. “That’s Ward - he’s our class 370.”

Gareth choked some more. “Class 370?! You daft old man, that’s an APT! We scuppered that program a decade ago! What’s it doing here?!”

“Running our 13:30 passenger service, by the looks of it.”

“Don’t you play coy with me! That trainset was supposed to be withdrawn and scrapped! Not shuffled off to your little island fiefdom! You’ve still got three months before we’re free of you, and we will not let that thing keep running!”

The uppity young corporate drone continued raving like this for some minutes, promising that a large amount of inevitable doom would come down upon the heads of the Region’s managers as soon as he got back to London.

When he reached a lull in his threatening, a much sterner Stephen Hatt drew his attention back to the platform of the station, where a crowd had now gathered, looking at the two men in the station’s carpark. “Aside from the fact that you are now causing a scene, I would like to remind you that Avocet was transferred to us with the full cooperation and knowledge of London.”

“Avocet- what? - WHAT?!” The man shouted as he turned around to look at the platform again, almost jumping out of his tailored suit in the process.

There was no APT at the platform any more. Instead, Avocet was running around a few coaches, giving the younger man the evil eye as she did so. “You would do well to calm down,” She said in her snootiest accent as she rolled past. “Excitement is unbecoming of you.”

Gareth looked like the rug had been ripped out from under him, and frantically looked around the yard for any sign of the train that had been there just moments ago. It did not calm him to find nothing other than Abbey and Dane, who were backing a long string of wagons across the yard switches and into the sidings for the Alumina Plant.

He continued sputtering and shaking for several more minutes before he left, leaving Stephen in the carpark and stalking across the street towards a pub.

Everyone waited until the door to the establishment slammed shut, before collectively exhaling a sigh of relief.

“Am I ever glad we’re going private…” Avocet muttered.

“Glory, that was one of the worst ones yet.” Abbey sighed. “Thank you for going along with it sir.”

“Not a problem.” Stephen said. “I will admit, I had thought your… protectiveness of Ward to be somewhat unusual, but I can see that it’s not undue at all.”

“I’m just glad that we managed to find something big enough to hide me behind!” Ward called from behind Abbey and Dane’s train. “Normally it doesn’t work.”

“That’s because you’ve got me now,” Avocet said seriously. “The three of you could get lost in an empty shed with a map.” She looked over at Stephen. “I’m the brains of this line, sir.” She said without a hint of cheek.

Almost unconsciously, Stephen turned to the others. On the main line, such a statement would bring forth a host of jeers and corrections, but Abbey and Dane were all smiles.

“Yep!” Abbey Chirped.

“And most of the brawn.” Said Dane.

“Don’t forget the looks!” Called Ward. “At least a quarter of that!”

Stephen shook his head. Once they were free of BR, he’d have to spend more time on the branches!

-------------------------------------------------

2 April 1993 - Barrow-in-Furness

It was almost midnight, but the yard was alive with music, engines, and lights. It seemed like half the Island had made their way out to the mainland to watch as the first step in BR’s privatisation took place.

A stage had been assembled at the station throat, and many speeches had been made. Coffee was flowing liberally, and members of the press were on hand.

Many of the engines had elected to attend: Those who remembered the time before BR like Gordon, Edward, Henry, and Toby, and those who had never experienced anything but, like Delta, Bear, and Daisy, were all parked end-to-end in the station platforms. In the yard, those who had been saved by the Fat Controller from BR, like BoCo, Marina, Avocet, Douglas, Donald, and Oliver sat with baited breath; they held no fond memories of BR, and were waiting to be rid of it.

At twenty minutes to midnight, a quick headcount was performed of all the engines and staff who were in attendance - namely to make sure they were on the correct side of the station!

At ten minutes to midnight, The Fat Controller ordered a track crew to sever the tracks on the “mainland” side of the station.

It took several minutes to unbolt the rails and lift them out of the way, and at two minutes to midnight, Sodor was officially separated from the mainland rail network.

At one minute to midnight, a countdown began, while the stationmaster and his staff began pulling down BR logos from the station. The largest sign was a light-up model on a pole above the carpark, and when they thought nobody was looking, Leigh Hunt and several others from Crovan’s Gate retreated outside, pulling an air rifle from the back of Leigh’s BMW.

He took aim at Thirty Seconds to Midnight.

The first three shots missed. Twenty Seconds.

The next two chipped holes in the BR arrows. Ten seconds.

The next one opened up the hole to the point where the bulb could be seen. Five seconds.

As the crowd in the station began counting down from five, Leigh took aim once more, and fired.

The station clock struck midnight, drawing jubilant cheers and deafening whistles and horn blasts from the people and engines. Sodor was officially free from BR.

Stephen Hatt had taken a proffered bottle of champagne and shook it to the point where the cap would come off easily. At midnight, he popped the cap, and was quite surprised to hear a much louder BANG, followed by tinkling glass.

Looking around, he saw that the station sign had suddenly exploded. From where he was standing, Leigh and his celebrating conspirators were invisible.

Glancing down at the ‘magnum’ of champagne, Stephen decided not to question it any further, and poured himself a drink. “To the North Western Railway!” He shouted.

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