The Island's Swansong

III - The Lost Diesel

Racking my brains as I approached the engine, I couldn't place it in any Thomas or Sodor media. From what the torch revealed, it was a Class 23 Baby Deltic, still in BR two-tone green. The sheds, being newer than the roundhouse in Vicarstown, had kept the diesel in better condition than Rosie. There was no visible rusted paint or parts; the engine appeared to be in full working order, though who knew how seized up the internal mechanisms were. A number adorned the side, D4. They were an NWR engine through and through. But that didn't help with identification.

I approached the front, peering at the large rectangular face and closed eyes. The nose was wide but shallow. A thick lower lip and thinner upper lip formed a wide mouth. Two long, slender eyebrows perched above the drawn eyelids, giving the whole face feminine vibes. Whoever they were, I hadn't startled or woken them from their indefinite slumber.

Lightly tapping my torch on the tip of the buffers, the eyelids flicked open and shut. The lips parted, mouth gaping as the engine let out a silent yawn. Taking a step back, the eyelids rose. Black pupils searched from side to side looking for the source of the disturbance. They zeroed in on me. "Oh," the engine said, female voice low but relaxed, "Hello. Erm, who are you?"

"Just an explorer," I answered, "Inspired to come here after reading stories about Sodor."

"Oh!" the engine looked me up and down, "You didn't strike me as an engineer. Good thing I didn't assume you were my driver."

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Abigail," the diesel replied.

"Nice to meet you. I don't recall seeing you in any of the books or television adaptations."

"Not surprising," she averted her gaze, "I arrived on the railway after the author stopped writing. Or at least that's what the other engines said."

"What year was that?" I pulled out my notebook and pen.

"Shortly after I was withdrawn, and put up for sale or scrap," Abigail sighedd, "It feels like a lifetime ago now."

I deduced from this she must've arrived on Sodor in the early to mid-seventies. "There were more books written. In the eighties, by a different author."

"There was rumour of a new author," Abigail admitted, "But the engines said he would only ask for stories from the same engines the previous author used. Gordon said children wanted more of the engines they already knew, not more faces and names to remember. It's not their fault. I didn't have as many interesting tales to tell. My job was important but monotonous, and I had the luck to avoid any of the mishaps that did occur."

"What was your job on the railway?" I leant against the massive, cold buffer to take notes.

"I worked in the dieselworks mostly," Abigail began, "Taking scrap parts to the scrapyards or waste dump. I helped Clive with collecting new parts from various docks or those brought into Vicarstown by rail."

"Clive?" I stopped her. Two engines not recorded in the books... Sodor seemed to have plenty of secrets left.

"He was a blue diesel, Class 47 if I remember correctly," Abigail racked her cab for memories.

"With yellow ends?"

"Yes!" she beamed, "Was he in the books?"

"He was, very briefly, and never spoke," I jotted down the name, "He was only ever referred to as 'the Works Diesel'. James either mentioned him or he featured in some illustrations."

"Huff, typical James," Abigail pouted, "Clive never mentioned it to me. Maybe he didn't know. Well, there were more of us working here."

"How many?" I brought the conversation back into focus.

"Three. We had a small shunter who took care of all the trains we brought in and took out. He used to race around the yard like a lightning bolt. He had two settings: stopped or full speed, there was no in between. We called him Dart."

"I know Dart!" I made a note, "Bagnall?"

"I think so?"

"Was there another shunter, a Sentinel under the name of Den?"

"Doesn't ring a bell," Abigail replied.

"Interesting," I scrawled it down. 'Dart, no Den.' It seemed odd the show had taken a real-life dieselworks resident, but changed the structural design and added new characters instead of the others here. Perhaps it was the powers of marketability, the appeal to the modern child audience, that drove such decisions. "How did you find it, the three of you?" I continued.

"There was a sibling dynamic," Abigail's eyelids fluttered above a growing smile. "Dart was the impatient, energetic young'n who got annoyed with his wise, bigger, older brother and sister. He was great at his job, and made sure the fuelling points were clean and full, as well as the general upkeep and tidiness of the yard and sheds."

"Did you ever do any jobs not related to the diesels?"

"Sometimes I trotted down the line to the goods yard at Vicarstown, did some shunting there to organise larger, mainline freight trains," Abigail mused, "That became more frequent as they scaled back steam. More diesels were moved onto the main line. More work led to more breakdowns, so work here increased. That was my duty, keeping the main line diesels running with our know-how. I kept at it right up until the end. I'm just grateful I avoided scrap."

I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to say anything about the fate of the railway. Not all engines would take it as well as Rosie had. I wanted to ask what happened to Dart and Clive, but perhaps that was digging too deep. "So, do you have any of your own stories?" I asked out of curiosity.

"You mean interesting tales of working on the railway, starring me?" Abigail's face lit up, "Could it end up in a book, or on TV?"

"No," I backpedalled, "There's been no new books for close to thirty years. And the TV show has become far removed from truthful and realistic recollections. In fact, that's been off the air for almost two decades as well."

"Oh," her face fell into dismay, "I thought, if I could get into a book or on TV, someone might come and put me on a new railway. I could be useful again."

"Well tell me a story anyway. You must've had one day on this island that you'll never forget," I tried to lighten the mood.

"Hmmm," the diesel thought hard, "There is one day that springs to mind."

"What day is that?"

"It was a during a summer many years ago..."