Work Text:
"I don't need you to tell me who I am!" Wilford interrupts. For emphasis, he drops the package that was posted to his office, letting it land with a THUD on the work bench. Inside is nothing short of the ravings of a lunatic. A lunatic savant, make no mistake, but a crazy person nonetheless.
"I need you to tell me who you are," he goes on, rubbing dirt between his fingertips. "Or maybe I should say, tell me who you think you are, putting something like that into the hands of the US postal service."
Melanie stares at him. She's seventeen years old, and a mess after working in the fields all morning. Sweat glistens along her hairline, a ratty braid snaking over her shoulder. After a pause she says, "I'm an engineer."
"No."
"I am. You’ll see. I can fix anything."
"Mechanics fix things. Engineers build things. What have you built?"
"You read my work. You saw my designs-"
"Those doodles, yes. They're adequate, the sort of thing one's parents put on the refrigerator. But I ask again, what have you built?"
Once again, Melanie falls silent. She has nothing. She is nothing, but her chin stays high. She's proud, Wilford realizes. He rather likes that - her audacity. He takes a moment to examine her further, his gaze travelling from her face down to her feet, taking in threadbare coveralls and boots caked in mud. No - he corrects himself - that's not mud.
He retreats half a step and smiles, sliding his hands into his pockets. When he finds Melanie's eyes again, her veneer of confidence has cracked a little.
"Let me tell you what I see," he says. "I see a high school dropout with a juvenile record. For theft." Off her expression of surprise, he explains, "Oh, I do my research. That's something we have in common."
He nods over her shoulder, to the corkboard on the opposite wall of her workshop, which might be better described as a shrine. A shrine to him - filled with newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and maps of his freight and passenger lines. Front-and-center is his Time cover profile, which was rightly titled, 'The Great Engineer.'
"You dropped out of high school," Melanie reminds him. "And, in June 1988, you were arrested. In Dublin. For assault."
"I was in a barfight. You stole a train. As a man who owns trains, you might see how that would concern me."
"I borrowed it. I brought it back."
"So it was a joyride, then?"
"It was research."
"Oh?"
"You said it yourself. In October 1993, to Desiree Forster of Chicago Tribune, you said, you can't build trains if you don't know how to drive them. You started out driving."
"I started out punching tickets."
“At fourteen, for the Sheffield District Railway. You lied about your age to get the job. And then, at sixteen, you started driving for BR. You said it was ideal, because the train gave you someplace to sleep, and you could eat the leftovers from first class dining, and during the long shifts, when there was nothing else to do, you could spend your time reading."
Melanie goes on to list his greatest influences, or at least, whatever silly books he happened to mention to journalists over the years. Wilford hardly listens as he shifts his attention to her desk, where she's amassed quite a library, mostly technical manuals, but there's some history, philosophy and economics mixed in. Principia Mathematica. A biography of Nicola Tesla. And right under her soldering lamp, with the spine nearly snapped in half, is a worn copy of The Fountainhead.
"You're self-taught," she's saying. "Self-invented, you called it. You came from nothing. You had no money. Nobody to help you. Nobody thought you'd amount to anything, but then-"
"So that's it," he cuts her off. "That's the answer."
"The answer to what?"
"The answer to the riddle. Of who Melanie Cavill thinks she is. She's thinks she's Joseph Wilford."
"I don't think I'm-"
"Yes, yes, you do. You think you're me. Or a knockoff American version, anyway. After what you people did to rock music, you really have some nerve."
"The Beatles ruined rock 'n roll."
"Pardon? You're mumbling, I didn't quite catch that."
"I said, I don't think I'm you. I don't want to be you. I just..." Melanie trails off, searching for the right words. "I don't belong here," she starts again. "I've never belonged anywhere. And I know it sounds crazy, but the closest I've ever been to feeling at home is when I was stealing that train-"
"Borrowing."
"Borrowing, yes, thank you, that train. I knew I was in a world of trouble but when I put my hands on the controls... I could feel it, you know? The engine... the track... all the pieces of the train and all the pieces of me, working together, like we were a single thing. Fast and still at the same time. Seven thousand horsepower pushing at my back-"
"Do you need a moment alone with this memory?"
"Mr. Wilford, I know I'm must look like nobody to you, but I'm not. I know I'm not. I'm talented. I know I'm meant to do something important with my life. You know that feeling, too. You called it, the pull of destiny."
"Did I really say that? God, I'm unbearable."
"You're not. You're amazing." She catches herself. "Sorry. I meant, inspiring. I've been following what you're doing, laying track through the arctic where the temperature makes eco-trains more efficient. It's brilliant. Please. Let me be part of it."
"As what? You're not an engineer, Melanie."
"I'll punch tickets, then. Or, I'll scrub the control decks. Or... anything. But I will be an engineer one day. And I promise, if you give me this chance, I will build you the most incredible train anybody has ever seen."
Wilford raises an eyebrow. The truth is, she had him at 'you're amazing'. But the phrase, 'the most incredible train anybody has ever seen' has its own kind of pull. Except, the language needs tweaking. The most incredible train the world has ever seen... no. The most magnificent train of all time... no. The greatest locomotive in the history of... locomotion. No, still not right…
As the silence stretches out, Wilford realizes he hasn't given Melanie an answer yet. She's looking at him like a dog begging for scraps. "Oh, very well," he provides, still distracted. The train to end all trains... the Behemoth. The biggest, the most luxurious, the fastest train ever made. It goes around the world. No. It goes around the world in 80 days. No. It goes around the world in 80 days, without stopping.
"Mr. Wilford?"
"Yes. Yes, I told you, you're hired. As a... well, whatever."
"Really?" Melanie smacks her hands together, laughing and jumping. "Are you serious? Oh my god, thank you! Mr. Wilford, thank you so much! You won't regret this, I promise!”
She extends her arm to shake on the deal, presenting him with the filthiest hand he's ever seen. "I'm not touching that. And you're not getting in my car in those clothes, either."
"You want me to come with you… right now?"
"Of course." Off her hesitation, he adds, "Unless you have some other plans. Some train to kidnap and molest."
"No."
"Good. Then hurry up, I've spent enough time in this backwater."
"It's just..."
"Yes?"
"Well…"
"What is it?"
"Could I... maybe have an advance on my salary?"
"Salary!" he balks. "There's no salary, Melanie. You're an intern. I'll feed you, and you can sleep in the coal car."
"But, Mr. Wilford-"
"You'll be like Cinderella. At least until you apologize for what you said about the Beatles. Then, we'll see about a bed."
"Mr. Wilford!" Melanie blocks his exit from the workshop. "Wait. Please. I can't take a job without a salary."
"Have you lost your mind? I just gave you the opportunity of a lifetime."
"It's not for me. It's for my... father. I'm his only help around here, and there's no money to hire anyone else. The mortgage is months behind. I can't just leave."
Wilford smiles. He knew about John Cavill's financial situation when he came here. What he didn't know was if Melanie would be forward enough to tell him about it.
He pretends to think it over before asking, "How much?"
"How much?"
"Yes, how much are you worth? Or how much do you think you're worth…"
"Whatever you pay a first year."
"No, I want to hear your number. Say, for the next six months. That gets Daddy through the summer and the harvest, right?"
"Yes."
"So?"
He watches as she wrestles with the question, a myriad of emotions playing across her face. She's so expressive, he marvels, dissecting her like she's been trying to do to him for who knows how long. Frustration, ambition, pride, analysis, and finally, resolution. Melanie looks at him right in the eye and stands as tall as she can as delivers what she must suppose is a large sum of money.
"Ten thousand dollars."
He laughs. He doesn't mean to. He can't help himself. "Oh, I like you, Melanie," he tells her as he pulls out his checkbook. "Really, I do. We are going to have some fun together. I can tell."
He makes out a check and cuts it free, handing it to her. "There's fifteen," he says. "That's more than I made at your age, so be prepared to earn it."
Melanie doesn't say anything. She runs her thumb over the shiny, embossed lettering of the check, staring at it like she can't believe it's real. He grins, and is about to ask if she'd like a moment alone with the money as well, when, without warning, she leaps forward and hugs him.
"Thank you," she says, squeezing as he tries to get away.
"No! NO!" he shouts, squirming, dipping and darting. "NEVER!" he exclaims, pointing a finger at her. "Never, EVER, do that again! Do you understand me, Melanie? NEVER!"
"I'm sorry."
"There are no hugs in engineering! That's the first rule of engineering! There are no hugs, and there is especially no crying! No crying is rule two!"
Melanie wipes her eyes. "Sorry. I'm so sorry," she repeats. "Never again, Mr. Wilford, I promise. No hugs. No crying."
"I'm going to have to burn this suit."
But she's hardly listening anymore. She can't stop looking at the check. Never has he seen a more ravenous expression of joy. If she didn’t need to take it to the bank, Wilford imagines Melanie might shove the paper into her mouth and eat it.
“I’ll be waiting in the car,” he says on his way out the door. “Don’t be long, or I might just leave without you.”