The Island's Swansong

VII - Sleeping Beauties

I'm not sure what woke me. It was likely the morning light blazing through the shattered window, over which I'd hung some makeshift curtains, though they seemed to have fallen away during the night.

I yawned, squinting under the retinal assault, as I sat up on my sleeping mat. The carpeted floor of this abandoned house was much more agreeable to my spine than the Vicarstown roundhouse. I couldn't remember anything from the night before, having conked out from exhaustion as soon as I laid down after dinner.

Stretching and cracking my shoulder blades, once my body had unstiffened I began to appreciate my morning view. The sun, low in the sky, skipped photons over the water's surface. Refractions and reflections twinkled like submerged Christmas lights. The sea was deathly still. Sodor's peaceful, tranquil beauty remained intact, irrespective of whatever had ravaged the island physically.

The floor around me was a mess. My mess. Pieces of the night before filtered back, the things I'd began doing before bed. The stove sat, water in the pan to make it easier to clean, with newspapers and my map littering the space either side of my mat. I'd stumbled across the newspapers in an old newsagent down the street. An attempt had been made to archive some copies, but the majority were covered with mold. One paper remained intact enough, so I snagged it for myself. It was a look into the past, a glimpse at the larger jigsaw whose picture I couldn't yet see.

Arthur and Abigail had been right. The front page was brandished with a damning headline:

'PRESERVATION FAILURE: HATT SLAMMED AS WORKERS FORGO RETIREMENT'

The paper at least gave me a date. 10th August 2013. I gave it a quick skim, picking out what I could among blotches of ruined ink.

'The NWRC's attempt at maintaining steam services on 'preservation' branch lines has been branded a failure by the Department of Transport. The initiative has continued to lose the railway money, with remaining commuters opting for reliable cars instead of the infrequent services. Diesel traction on the main line has sufficed, but trade unions have slammed Sir Topham Hatt with concerns over railway workers forgoing retirement to keep services running. "These lines have been running since we were children," one engine driver told us, "We'd be damned if they died before we did."

The nostalgia effect hasn't translated into increased ticket sales...'

I paused for thought, digesting the notes. Diesel eventually won over steam to run the spine of the railway network, with steam being relegated to branch line use only. The feeling towards steam remained strong, personal, so what caused the switch to be made? It seemed to go against the efficacy I had come to know of Sodor - a safe haven for steam. The issue of age stuck out as well. Where were all the youths? Did they not share the same passion for the railway? And 'remaining commuters'... the job sector on Sodor didn't sound like it was in healthy shape either.

Some solid evidence at last, but it only provided more questions.

I turned to my map. Norramby fishing village had been a bust. No industry remained, only the two engines now sharing their final moments. Brushing the depressing reality aside, I retraced my planned steps.

It was time to get back to the plan I brought to Sodor: following the main line. I'd have to backtrack slightly, going cross-country to the nearest bridge over the River Hoo, and then continue down the branch line to Crovan's Gate. Given this was where the narrow and standard-gauge lines converged, and the home to the Steamworks and Transfer Yards, there had to be something there to shed light on the deepening mystery.

I quickly shovelled down some breakfast and gathered my belongings, sticking the newspaper in my bag for future reference. Sleeping in an empty, decaying house hadn't been as bad as one might think. Besides the peeling wallpaper, rotting stair banister and creaking floorboards, there'd been nothing that had leapt out or rattled my senses. The seaside had been as quiet as can be, the skies punctuated only by the light sloshing of waves down by the railway lines.