The Island's Swansong

XX - The Last Leg

After Gordon's recollection, I had nothing to say. There was nothing to say. The Sad Story of Henry was left in the dust. What I'd just heard defied belief, but not logic.

Henry, a character who went from vain to irritable to easily scared in the show, turned out to have a heart bigger than almost every other engine. When push came to shove, his true colours were a shade that could never be painted on him, or ruined by rain or shine. Gordon wasn't sure where to go with words either. He'd said his piece, however haunting it was.

I muzzled up a 'Thank you' for his time, but he could see my emotional struggle.

"I've had that feeling ever since," he mumbled, "The guilt with every trip I made, but the relief and gratitude that he'd given me every last one. Even now I've found no reconciliation for it all."

I gave a measly nod, still none-the-wiser about what to say. The show cut Henry down and out. It felt sinful to the extreme. I would make sure the world knew the truth.

Then a thought, related but curious, came to mind. "What happened to his tender when the railway closed?"

"I don't know," Gordon sighed, "I think it could still be around the yard. But I've not moved since that fateful day. Sir Topham kept his promise."

"You were running until the last day," I perked up, "Do you know what caused the railway to close?"

"I don't," Gordon sighed, "I'd barely been brought up to steam for my special when the orders came through. 'Stop all trains. Railway closed until further notice.'"

Rats, I thought to myself. So close, but Gordon never managed to leave the sheds.

"All I know," Gordon continued, "was that Sir Topham came to see me. He looked and sounded as I've never seen. Shaky, panicked. He told me I would remain in the sheds for now. He couldn't bring himself to sell me, knowing his late father and grandfather would never forgive him. He told me to sit tight. And I never saw him again."

I gave another nod, knowing what I needed to do. There were no answers here, but maybe Tidmouth had more to offer. The diary, and Gordon's memoirs, were reason enough to dig deeper. "I'm going to go have a look for Henry's tender, to see if I can track it down."

"If you do..." Gordon started, but he held his tongue, "Nevermind. Thank you for the visit. It's a shame I can't take you anywhere. You've heard so much about me, but all you can see of me is..." he shuddered, "This."

"Seeing you was enough," I smiled, "Whatever happens, you'll always be fastest and best."

The big blue engine smiled, and remained happy, maybe on the verge of spilling a tear, as I turned back to the entrance of the shed.

Stepping outside, I looked upon the yard with new eyes. Somewhere here was a treasured item, the last piece of an old friend whom I'd never meet. The flakes of green on Gordon made sense. The parts were not originally his, and were specs of Henry shining through. Living on, and holding up one of his oldest friends.

The sidings full of coaches drew me in. They were closest, an obvious starting point. Ballast crunched underfoot, a sound so familiar it went without saying, but it roused a response I wasn't expecting.

"Hello?"

I paused, looking between some rusty coaches.

"Who's out there?"

Slipping my bag off my shoulders, I passed between the coaches, slipping under buffers and couplings, emerging into another gap between the sidings. There was another engine here somewhere.