Archive of Our Own

Yet this one was of particular note. He was absolutely filthy. A peculiar little diesel — well, mid-sized, Gordon supposed — with a peculiar shape, its cab in the middle and two absurdly long snouts protruding from each end. Gordon could not discern his number or his British Rail insignia under the dirt. He wasn’t even entirely sure of the diesel’s color. Green, possibly? But just then he was much more brown and china-clay-colored than anything else.

“What happened to you?” he grunted, as he eased into the siding beside, readying for a wash-down.

By the time Gordon had settled, a remarkable change had gone down in the diesel’s demeanor. The dejected expression was replaced entirely by raised, alert eyebrows and an sharp, eager smile.

“Oh, to me? Well, you know — rough day at the pits!”

“I can see that,” observed the express engine dryly.

The diesel didn’t miss a beat. It chuckled, rueful yet merry, and to all appearances unfazed. “Why, yes — I suppose you can! Teething troubles, you know… you win some, you lose some…”

Gordon considered the newcomer. The diesel’s words stirred something in his recent memory, but he didn’t trouble himself to chase down whatever thread of gossip he may have been unable to avoid hearing the night before. Instead, behind his bored mask of indifference, and underneath the ministrations of the cleaners, he was carefully drawing his own conclusions.

And he was intrigued.

He respected an engine who could keep up appearances — and those were very uncommon on Sodor indeed.

Nonexistent, in Gordon’s book. Oh, there were people who seemed to think some of the smaller engines were very good at it. They were wrong. Edward wasn’t quite as embarrassingly transparent as once he’d been, but to his old friends he certainly remained an open book. Duck could hold his tongue only when he was plotting some insubordinate scheme. And Gordon supposed that no one who ever believed it of Toby had ever met the forthright steam tram.

But this diesel knew what it meant, to put on a brave face.

Keep calm and carry on, and all that sort of thing.

“You must be Gordon,” the diesel went on, after the cleaners had wiped down Gordon’s front, and the big engine could open his eyes again. “The pleasure is mine! I’ve heard of you, of course.”

“Of course you have,” agreed Gordon, flatly. “But you didn’t answer my question. What manner of teething troubles are you suffering?”

The diesel’s smile may have frozen, but it did not flicker. “Oh, I’ve been having a spot of bother about my cooling system. Sometimes it forgets where the hot air goes — you know how it is.”

“I do not,” Gordon reminded him. “When my kind can’t cool down, our boilers explode. And that’s that.”

This time the diesel did blink. Gordon supposed he might have said something surprizing. He seemed to do that a lot, but he could never predict when some perfectly matter-of-fact comment of his would upset another engine.

Still, he supposed it would be only civil to put himself out and carry the conversation a little past this sticky point. “Will they be able to mend your cooling system here, or must they send you to the Works?”

“Well,” began the diesel, and for the first time a blush crept into his face. “They could fix it here — we’ll have to see, though, if your controller will bother, or if he’ll send me back. It’s only my second day on trial, and…”

His face began to fall.

“Don’t go fretting,” Gordon reproved. “Wait till you hear word. Our controller is a broad-minded man, and won’t send you away because you failed one time.”

The diesel gave the ghost of a grin. “Well, as to that… it’s already been more than once!”

This time his chuckle was feeble, but Gordon had to admit there was cause. “You did say,” he queried, “that this is but your second day?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll be frank, I’m surprized you didn’t hear word — I know it’s the sort of tale that travels! Yes, my system failed yesterday too. Going up Maron, I believe it’s called?… I’m — well, I’m afraid that hill did me in… ”

Gordon snorted. “Never you mind. You’re not the first to fail on that confounded hill, and you won’t be the last.”

“Oh! I’m not, then?”

Gordon frowned thunder, eyes shooting over to examine the diesel from cab to wheels.

And yet, he saw nothing but an flare of apparently genuine hope.

Gordon supposed he was rolling right into it, but he took a chance. “Why,” he began slowly, “do you suppose they call it ‘Gordon’s Hill’?”

“Eh? Why, I supposed it was natural enough — they must have needed an engine as big as you, to manage the express over a gradient like that.”

The diesel was perfectly blank and sincere.

For once Gordon was sure. Not a particle of cheek there.

The big engine exhaled slowly.

“Don’t fret,” he repeated. “Our controller will see to it that you get a fair trial, especially if someone vouches for you.”

The diesel smiled, this time tiredly, but Gordon didn’t feel the slightest need to look down on him for it. “That would be a relief,” he admitted. “I didn’t really care to return to the aluminum works… not so soon as this…”

“Aluminum works! You’re not British Rail?”

“Oh, they sold me on ages ago! I’ve hopped a fair few jobs since then.”

“A fair few?” Gordon stared in some amazement. To his way of thinking, mainline diesel engines were still a brand-new technology.

And yet a little mental calculation reminded him that this engine may well already be twenty-five years of age.

Which was still, to be sure, rather young, to have hopped a fair few jobs.

The diesel must have known it, too. His blush deepened, but he insisted, stoutly: “Oh, yes! The aluminum works, and Hemelite before that, and a cement factory before that. Nice posts — good fellows all around.”

“They sound horrid,” said Gordon, with the blunt incomprehension of an engine that would sooner face the acetylene torch than be relegated to a branch line… let alone to industry.

“Well, it’s a matter of perspective, isn’t it? It’s good to be useful — and I’m sure some would argue that I was better suited there. Where it’s… flat…” Despite his best attempts, the diesel trailed off, his eyes roving wistfully around the bustling big yards.

“And dull,” put in Gordon, understanding.

The diesel chuckled. “Well, as to that… perhaps I’ve had enough excitement the past couple days…”

Gordon was not normally considered a paragon of perspicuity. As a rule, he could scarcely understand engines he had known for sixty years, let alone about a quarter of an hour.

But, this once, he got it completely right.

“Don’t talk arrant nonsense!” he snorted. “You mustn’t give up before you’ve even begun. They’ll see to it you have a fair trial here, if you’re a willing worker, and don’t cause trouble.” Maybe even if you do. “We’ve had another green engine here who failed on the regular, and now he’s the backbone of our main line operations… my own expresses excepted, of course.”

“Oh,” the other laughed, with real delight, “that’s quite nice to know, thank you! I do hope I can be useful here — I’ve liked my work in private industry — but I was usually the only engine on site, and it gets a bit lonely, eh?”

The life and fight were returning to the vigorous little (very well, mid-sized) engine. He was not altogether a bad-looking fellow, for a diesel. The middle cab still struck Gordon as quite odd — but at least he had a shape, and wasn’t merely another breadbox.

Yes, they could use an engine like this around. Gordon would talk to the Fat Controller.

“You were pulling a train, I suppose?” asked Gordon, mentally preparing for that despu… dyspe...  ('dieselisation'? — no). “What happened to it?”

“Oh, it went on,” said the diesel, though his face went its pinkest yet. “The two little saddletanks from the China Clay Company — they were heading the train, I was only there to assist, and they took it on. So the job was finished on time, at least.”

“Nonsense! They couldn't have!”

“Yes they could,” said the diesel earnestly, in the face of Gordon’s splutter. “Brave little fellows, those two — a very fine effort!”

“Why, they’re little demons on roller skates,” scoffed Gordon. “Your weight, too? — No. Someone must have come to assist at the front.”

“No, I don’t think so. They, uh… they were very celebratory about it, you see.”

Gordon snorted. “What is your name, diesel?”

“Oh — erm — Paxman they called me, at the aluminum works.”

“But is it your name?”

“I was called Derek when I was with British Rail,” said the diesel, then added with a brisk frankness Gordon respected, “and I miss it.”

“Of course you miss it. It’s your name. Well, Derek, those two murderous little bugs — ”

“Murderous! Dear me, that’s a bit much — ”

“It is not a bit much,” Gordon declared darkly, with a great and awful solemnity. “Why, the stories I could tell you, my dear Derek — !”

And he did.