The Island's Swansong

XII - Caroline and the Countryside

"Well I'll be..." I couldn't help myself.

"You'll be?" Caroline hung onto my tailed-off reply, "Are you going to tell me who you are or not?"

"You're Caroline."

"I know who I am!" she grumbled, "But who are you?"

"I'm sorry," I shook my head, "I'm an urban explorer from the mainland. I grew up reading and hearing about Sodor so I-"

"Came for a nosy," she butted in, "Well you gave me quite the surprise, and immense disappointment. I thought you were my driver."

"I'm sorry," I recalled the name I heard, "Mr Dalby?"

"Yes," she shut her eyes, "Fine gentleman. Not the sort to take kindly to self-titled 'explorers'."

I feared I'd touched a nerve. "Enlighten me. What was your Mr Dalby like?"

"Well," she began, saying it like she was about to reel of a tale so invigorating it would rival the likes of Tolkien, "He was a bowler for the Sodor Cricket team. I watched him play on the green, day in day out. Arm like a rocket, he had. Knocked down wickets like blades of grass. Eagle eyes. If he didn't get someone out, they're worthy of note for their batting skills."

I sensed the bogginess of detailed, vibrant memories spilling forth. "What did he do outside of cricket?"

"He was an engineer. Worked on the railway, mainly the signalling systems. As the lines got more complicated and trains more numerous, signals needed to work as flawlessly as possible. He was revered. We used to have the Hatts round for afternoon tea from time to time."

"Oh wow," I took out my notepad.

"What are you doing?" she squinted her headlight eyes at my hands.

"Writing down notes, perhaps to be used as memoirs," I answered, "If you don't mind, of course."

"Luckily, I don't," she sniffed.

I scribbled down her ramblings thus far.

"Anyway, Mr Dalby stayed in cricket as long as he could. But soon the young'uns could bowl harder. He bowed out gracefully and began restoring cars during his retirement. I rubbed off on him in that respect."

I nodded along as I noted.

"Try as he might, his hands began to shake. He bowed out of engineering too, keeping himself in the house mostly. I was passed on to his son, who'd also become an engineer, working... somewhere not in signalling. He was a bit more frustrating-"

"What was his son's name?" I asked, fearing I'd missed it.

"Mr Dalby," she sniffed again.

"Oh," I murmured. She was a car of formalities only.

"We'll call him Dalby Jnr if it's too complicated for you."

I let the condescending comment pass without complaint.

"He was a bit more frustrating. A real tinkerer. He liked fiddling with things, trying new ideas. Some pet project he had was ways of making old things run on new technology. He tried his damned hardest to make me into a twenty-first century car!"

I looked her over. By the light entering from behind me, I could see she was in remarkably good shape. While her bodywork seemed original, her visible ball joints and strut assemblies seemed rust free and modern. Almost as if a modern car (well, from the second decade of this century), sat underneath her antique bodywork.

"What happened to him?" I asked.

"From what I gathered the railway was falling into dire straits. He went straight to the Controller, asking to try out his plans. He wanted to use modern materials to overhaul engines instead of traditional ones. He was met with backlash, with railway enthusiasts calling him a 'maverick' who despised authenticity and tradition. It was deemed too financially risky, so he took action."