Thinking about the time when Wheatley (GM of the Girvan & Portpatrick, whos railway was also host to three ex-NLR 4-4-0 tanks) put his hand under the running board of an engine on a visit to Girvan shed, got it dirty! (shock horror), and proceeded to metaphorically eat out one of the goods guards(?) (then cleaner? [unsure of employment at the time]) for not keeping the engine clean!
Wee bit of context before what's below the cut-off line
I recently reread my Sou'-West book (from middle to the end, then front to middle) while transcribing parts for a friend as they don't have it (is this piracy?). Reminded me of something @mean-scarlet-deceiver did a while ago and such served as not a little of inspiration for a (hopefully) all informative special(ish)
Will had been an express driver and quite a runner in his day. They tell of some stormy trips on the Paddy with 82, Manson 4-4-0. But these days were long last, and old Will, grown very stout, was quite content to sit down on the fireman's side of the cab, and let that functionary oil, drive, fire and catch tablets.
Keep in mind this starts about halfway down the first page, the only previous mention of a 'Will' is in 'Will Ross', the man who presumably runs the Turnberry, also no prior explanation. (Yes, I do know this is a snippet out of a magazine, as is most of this book, but I really have to emphasize that the bar. is. high.)
Manson 4-4-0 (below) (note single bogie tender, used exclusively for the St. Enoch-St. Pancras 1.30 p.m. Diner, non-stop from Kilmarnock to Carlisle, I could go on)
Last thing to note is let that functionary oil, drive, fire, and catch tablets, he really did not want to do anything at that time
I remember him taking the regulator only once. It was the time the Government was trying to make a School of Aerial Gunnery at Loch Doon, and Will Ross's group used to run a workmen's train (known for obvious reasons as the Sinn Feiner) from Ayr to Dalmellington in the morning, shunt all day at Dalmellington, and from the Sinn Feiner down again at night.
I might be the one missing something, or maybe the books 80 years out of date with a tale from about a hundred years ago, but obviously the workmen's train is called that. Obviously. How could you not know?
That day they had big 37, a Manson 0-6-0 of his 1910 variety. This class had the Dreadnought ejector at a time when such things were a bit of a novelty on the Sou' West. It was a good one, and with everything tight and the vacuum needle trying the beat the barometer, 37 could stop things.
Oh yeah big 37
Perhaps it is a little large for a railway used to 0-4-2s and 0-6-0s from Smellie's era (not saying their bad, no siree, 231 might give a spark shower in the not poetic way if I say otherwise). Also, Dreadnought ejector? brakes? on the sou' west?
The fireman was shunting Dalmellington yard,
mhm, write this down kids, look who's actually doing work
and he asked old Willie to take her for a bit till he went up to the station and filled the water-bottle. 'And mind that brake, Willie, for she's very quick.' He returned in 20 minutes to find the yard a chaos of clashing buffers, couplings flying in all directions and the guard bleeding from a gash in the hand. 'A gran' brake that, boy,' said old Willie, 'a graan' brake!'
Noo Willie, don't. Having to return from filling up your canteen only to find the person who is supposed to be more sensible having had somehow ruined a poor guards hand is not what could be classified as good. End of the first page and there's already the standard yet for the G&SW, tune in next time for the worry point when descending hills is when you can't see your van in an inferno of flames from shoes to tyer contact
Posted a snippet of this *mumble mumble* ago, promised that the full scene would be delivered, and then forgot about it... until today, on my BoCo high.
What does a Coppernob and Edward reunion in 1964 have to do with BoCo, you ask? Well, this scene is merely Nobby getting a cameo in a big Edward/BoCo WIP I've been tinkering with... on the side...
But this sort of stands alone and should be of interest to Nobbyverse fans. However, this scene is not canon to Bird at Barrow Central (Coppernob not making a visit to Barrow post-bombing until 1996). Indeed, this scene for that matter is based on a rather idiosyncratic interpretation of what was going on with Edward and the N.W.R. immediately prior to the events of Main Line Engines...
Bonus: You'd otherwise not get to "meet" Hal and Sphyrna the Hammerhead Cranes for ages yet...
Warning: It may not be "canon" to Bird at Barrow Central but it is the same fellow so. Be prepared for the angst. Edward's got some stuff goin' on in this WIP too — even if he's a bit in denial about it.
Buccleuch Docks (1964)
Coppernob wasn't expecting visitors at that hour. The sun hadn't yet put in an appearance, so there were no passengers disembarking from ships. Even the Steelworks were quiet — apparently, operations were no longer 'round-the-clock. A few of the Twenties had been able to make a visit, even though Coppernob was at the wrong dock for them to swing by on their usual route, and he expected to see more of them before his week was out. But not at the crack of dawn.
The last Furness engine he had not counted on seeing at all. Coppernob had been loaned to B.R. and stationed at Buccleuch Docks for the week in a blatant attempt to steal some rail-enthusiast thunder from the North Western region, and he well knew it. Odds were that Charles Hatt understood he was being snubbed, and he might have warned his own famous engines off crossing the line and feeding into the ancient engine's publicity.
But the Seagull showed up. Albeit before six a.m. there was a certain amount of discretion involved.
That's what taking the morning post will do for you.
After dropping it off for the mainland engine the Seagull navigated the yard until he was alongside Coppernob's makeshift plinth. His eyes widened when he saw the damage on the older engine's dome and boiler, but Coppernob was well used to that, and for that matter the Seagulls were well used to pretending not to stare. "Good morning, Nobby!"
"'Morning, Two."
At that the Seagull blinked, and his boiler gave a little shudder. "Oh, that still feels so wrong!"
"And I still don't see a nameplate."
"Nobody calls me that."
Coppernob snorted. "Oh yes, you're riding rather high these days, aren’t you? A book named after you and everything. It's lucky you have me to keep your wheels in trim."
"It isn't that. My new name would sound wrong coming from you, too. But you might use my old Furness number... there's no one else left to use it."
"That," said Coppernob, slow and deliberate (a mighty bulwark, warding off sentiment) "would be arrant disrespect to your new owners."
"Ah. And you're famously deferential, of course, to humans not named Ramsden."
Coppernob rolled his eyes. "Your lot always fancied yourselves barristers," he muttered... not quite as crossly, perhaps, as he'd intended. "Though that Charles Hatt is quite a muckety-muck among those national rail types, these days."
"Isn't he just."
"I can remember that boy boarding L.M.S. trains after holidays to return to his apprenticeship… he was slimmer, then."
There was a pause, as both watched the great yellow-and-black hammerhead crane slowly swing a piece of container freight. Coppernob was impassive as ever, but Edward was smiling.
It was the blue engine who next spoke. "Town has never been the same without you… I expect you’re getting a good many visitors here?"
"By the train-load," said Coppernob, matter-of-factly. "They really ought to have put me at the new station. Me being here is a disruption to dock operations."
"They may move you, yet. Have you seen the new station?"
"No. But you needn't wrack your smokebox thinking how to break the news gently. I know very well how ugly it is."
Edward smiled again, tamping down a nostalgic sadness that he knew Coppernob wouldn't appreciate. (Or that he would appreciate, but would take aim at anyway, by reflex.) "Gordon complained about the new station every night for two years."
"He left off complaining too soon." Coppernob eyed the younger engine, committing several mechanical alterations to memory. "Are those new frames?"
"No?"
"Don't take that tone with me. Well, if they're the same old, then that paint is doing wonders. New boiler?"
"No."
"Then why did they raise it?"
"They did swap out for a new one for a bit, while mine was in repairs, and that one required these braces. It seems they liked the look. I'm still not so sure."
"No one cares what you think, son," said Coppernob dryly. "If you please your directors, it's all that matters."
"Thanks, Nobby. Can always count on you."
"Always. You're still taking main line trains, then?"
"Not often." Edward grew quite animated. "My friend BoCo usually takes this train. He offered it to me for a day so that I could come see you. He's a class 28 — you've seen them, haven't you? The main line diesel-electrics that are stabled here. Do you know, they were built by the company that merged with Vickers?"
"All right, son." Coppernob eyed him askance. Not exactly reproving, but bemused. "I didn't need your friend's life story." A faint blush began to grow on the Seagull's smokebox. "What do you do these days, when you're not swapping jobs with dodgy diesels?"
"He's not dodgy."
"Mechanically, son. Mechanically. They have something of a reputation."
"Their engines aren't well-made," Edward admitted reluctantly. "BoCo's very clever about managing around it, though."
"Ah," said Coppernob. "So you have something in common, is that right? But this isn't what I asked."
Edward twisted his lips briefly, the locomotive equivalent of a shrug. "I manage my yard, like always. I don't do much banking anymore, the trains are beyond me, but I help out here and there with branch line goods."
"Hmm. The steelworks engines say they heard your Controller uses you as something of an under-manager."
"The steelworks engines!"
"Yes. They're ex-Furness, you know. Well, the steam engines, obviously."
"Oh, I know. But I never knew them, you know. I hadn't expected they knew anything of me." Honestly the Sodor engine was surprised they were still extant.
"The Twenties have always kept up with the doings of the world. And they knew I'd want to know what was going on with you. Is what they say true?"
"No? Well, sort of. People have been saying I’m a manager now as a bit of a joke. Controller has put me in charge of trialling our newcomers for different things."
Coppernob's expression didn't change, except for his eyebrows to slowly rise. "That's a fair bit of responsibility."
"Well, I've been training up other engines since the '20s. But I'm expected to make recommendations now, and that's new... I suppose. The real difference is that this is fast becoming my only use."
Something between melancholy and bitterness stained those last words. Coppernob acknowledged it only by silence. They spent several minutes watching the activity in the docks. A great bulk carrier was being loaded at one pier. At another a tanker was slowly being siphoned of some of its precious liquid cargo.
"What's it like," asked Edward, "being back?"
Coppernob eyes followed the crate's progress upwards and then over to deck before answering. "The aluminum doesn't seem to do as brisk a trade as the hemitate did."
"No."
Coppernob was still not quick to speak. Edward, however, was these days a practiced listener, and wore him down. "More raw wool and foodstuffs go out. I suppose there are not so many locals to feed as there once were."
"Yes."
"The new crane seems strong."
"Oh, Sphyrna's very good. She's nice, too."
Coppernob gazed at the younger engine, eyes hooded against some hidden emotion. Or joke. "I suppose it would be ungracious of me to say I prefer the old one?"
"Oh," teased the ex-Seagull, "very."
"So many things these days, that I’m not to say."
"Of course you miss Hal," said Edward, more seriously. "There never was such a crane."
"His design was very common. But none braver, no." Coppernob snorted, but his heart wasn't in it. "People make much of what I did in the blitz, which was nothing. Hal kept this place going day and night. He couldn't take shelter when everyone else could. Nice easy target. But they had to take him out before they slowed him down. He never missed a beat."
"No."
"I wonder if the people remember him."
"The locals do," said Edward quietly. "One still hears him spoken of, sometimes. Our new Caledonian engines came and asked me if I knew who they were talking about, and they've only been here a couple of years."
Coppernob seemed to consider some more, eyes continuing to examine the yard.
Finally, with an air of great deliberation, he gave his verdict. "I think my lot ran this place better."
Edward laughed, though subsiding to a diplomatic murmur when he spoke. "That's no very great boast. I hear those Hudswell Clark shunters are rather troublesome."
"To be sure. I've seen for myself." Coppernob, though to be sure his voice had been low to begin with, did not trouble to lower it further. Might have raised it, even. "Not open cheek and frank mischief, either. They've some sly game going. I don't know exactly what scheme they have, but whatever they’re about I know that a hundred years ago you could be scrapped for it without a second's thought. Do they try tricks with your lot?"
"Well, we generally shunt our own goods here. But no, they don't seem to dare give us trouble." Edward heard himself, and chuckled. "That may sound rather brash. It's because of our Controller. Though to be sure Gordon and our Scotsengines are plenty intimidating, even on their own." He gave Coppernob another would-be discreet survey. He was better at it than he and his lot had been back in 1908, that much was for sure. "How's the museum, Nobby?"
Coppernob thought it over. "All right. The Government projected 140 thousand visitors last year, and we had nearly 175."
"Oh, congratulations are in order."
"Government's still not happy. Somehow the money doesn't work out. But it sounds as though the money never is quite right, for a museum. I reckon things are going fair enough."
Edward waited, until seeing that was as much as he was going to get. "Do you like the other engines and things?"
"They're a little mad." Coppernob's mouth quirked as he owned: "So I get on with them. But don't pump me for tales about the others. Unlike some engines I hear of, we make it a point to guard each other's privacy."
"Well, then. Are many of the visitors Londoners? Or do they mostly travel in?"
"About half and half."
"... and do you like them?"
"A few, I suppose. Most I neither like nor dislike — they’re just part of the crowd."
Edward make a little hiss of amused exasperation. "Yes, but — are — are you happy there, Nobby?"
For his trouble he found himself, predictably, pinned by one of Coppernob's most inscrutable gazes. Predictable... and yet in years past it would have been more a blazing glare.
Certainly old Nobby had mellowed in the past few decades. But whether that was something to celebrate or something to mourn was unclear.
"Happy?" muttered Coppernob. "What is this preoccupation everyone has with happiness. In our day no one was happy or unhappy... men no more than their machines. You were decent or shiftless. Honest or ne'er-do-well. If you were happy you were born well or you were dead."
"Yes," agreed Edward. "I think it's been getting better, too. But now it's you who hasn't answered my question. Do you miss Barrow very much, or are you happy at Clapham?"
It hadn’t been easy to make himself ask. And when Edward saw his blank expression, saw how the ancient engine struggled with the question, he suddenly understood that none of them had ever before enquired after Nobby’s well-being, not really. No one had dared think of it. The entire railway, in Edward's day, had run on Coppernob being exactly what they all needed him to be: a source of legitimacy for the directors, entertainment for locals, an attraction for visitors, a role model for engines in service, an ally for the retirees, a minder for the young, a rod of correction for the errant, a reservoir of memory; the old number three seemed to have fulfilled all that was wanted of him effortlessly, with his own feelings immaterial.
And now Coppernob blinked at him. Only vaguely annoyed, instead of wrathful.
"Oh, I'm all right enough. I miss Barrow as it was — but it's not coming back. Better to be among other engines like me and have something to do, than to watch strangers run this town. Clapham is a very comfortable place to sit around and be a well-polished curiosity. Though I rather miss Horwich."
"Horwich!" That had all been a bit surprising, a bit new. But it was that last sentence that really shocked the ex-Seagull. "I should have thought..."
It was Coppernob's turn to twist his lips. "I should have thought, too." Horwich Works had been a curse on Furness engines after the Grouping, its appetite for scrapping younger and younger engines never seeming to abate. In the immediate aftermath of the bombing of Barrow station Edward had needed to make several inquires before learning Coppernob's whereabouts, and the news "taken to Horwich" had chilled him to the firebox. He'd been genuinely surprised several years later when he'd had news of Coppernob putting in an appearance at some centenary celebration in Manchester... alive. "But it's not as if I had to see their scrap lines. If anything I felt closer to the rest there than here. Anyway, I liked being in the shop. There was always something going on — work-y, engine-y sort of things. The workshop really is the heart of a railway and while I was there I could almost feel... But then again, it was dark and noisy, and not the sort of place children come to visit. And I suppose these days B.R. is mismanaging it into the ground. I'm fortunate to be just where I am. Doubtless some other old thing is rusting away in storage because I have their spot at Clapham." And on that note, Coppernob seemed to feel confidences were over. "Tell that absurd Mogul to come over before I've gone."
"I will. Thomas sends his regards. He can't possibly get over this way, but he wanted to say hullo."
"Thomas... ah, yes, that's the little lost sidetank, isn't it." Coppernob's expression didn't change. "Haven't heard that name in a minute."
"Oh yes. I'm sure children who visit transport museums never ask every steam engine they see if they know Thomas the Train."
"Please tell me he has no idea how famous he is."
"Fortunately not. He knows he's a fixture on Sodor but not how far that fame extends. It's about the only secret Controller's ever tried to have everyone keep and succeeded."
"Speaking of fame, I don't know if you noticed that man in street wear. He's taken at least one photograph of us and will probably take more at close-range. You meant to be discreet — will your Controller be angry?"
"Oh, no. Why would he? No, I only wanted to come when it was quiet so as to not get you in trouble. I suppose the whole point in B.R. having you out here was to try to overshadow our region."
"Oh, it was. It very much was."
"Then ought I head off the man with the camera?"
"They care. I don't."
Coppernob gave a secret, wicked smirk, as if to his own self, and Edward grinned. For an instant it was the old Nobby, a Nobby that for the Sodor engine had been bumped askew on his pedestal since 1915, the fearless golden hero of his youth. "Right. Trust you for that. Though I'm afraid I must be saying good-bye. I'm to pick up that petrol and take it back over the bridge."
"Write more often."
"More often! You never answered."
"Perhaps I didn't. Do it anyway."
"Only, I thought I must have annoyed you."
"Son, your lot has been annoying me since before the turn of the century. Don't break tradition at this late date." The old engine looked typically indifferent. Edward knew that expression very well, too well to be fooled by it, but he looked his fill anyway, re-committing it to memory. Coppernob seemed to be doing the same with him, though if he really were then he was much more subtle about it. "After all, you're my only source for news of that blasted island. No more than half of any letter about that Vickers diesel of yours, if you please."
"Very well. And I'll pass on word to James and the others today. I'm so glad to have seen you again, Nobby."
Edward half expected an idle remark in return that he, handsome old Coppernob, was of course well worth the seeing. But Nobby's playful mood — or what passed as a playful mood, for Nobby — had already passed over. He was staring ahead listlessly. Perhaps the mention of tradition had sent him on a reverie. Perhaps he was gloomy at the thought of a new day entertaining modern, unsatisfactory Barrovians. Edward did not imagine for a second that Coppernob's heart was breaking to say good-bye to him. The old engine was too tough for that.
Indeed, it seemed he was too tough to even acknowledge his departure. Edward was about to give up waiting for a response, and he gave a whistle to signal his movement.
He hadn't quite gotten off his brakes, though, when Coppernob, voice urgent and somehow bare, stopped him with a single word.
"Thirty-Four. Don't — " Coppernob broke off for an instant. Then he took a deep breath and finished, as if angry at whatever invisible force had stopped him. "Don't let them do to you what they did to me."
Edward looked over at him.
There was a new Coppernob there. One he had never shown any of the Seagulls. One he probably had shown very few engines at all.
The old engine grinned twistedly, as if to mask it. "That is what young Hatt wants, isn't it? Have you get the newcomers settled, run out your boiler ticket, then stick you on a plinth, probably at that little station of yours. The railway continues to benefit from your experience without your operational costs. I remember. I know how it goes. Don't let them, don’t you dare let them. Better scrap than that. Preservation isn’t any sort of life."
Coppernob didn't look a bit sad. But the intensity of each hissed word betrayed years of solitary pain, and Edward was terribly shaken.
"I — I can't let them scrap me," said Edward numbly. "I've been fighting to prevent that for ages."
"I know."
"Not only for myself, Nobby. I'm not a coward, I know I'm no better than all my brothers who faced the torch. But it would set a precedent for the others — Thomas and the others. I must keep going, at least until they're safe — "
Coppernob gave a harsh laugh, humorless. "Save your puff. I know. Don't I know! You mustn't fall into every single trap I did, son. Anyway, what of it? Do you suppose your friends would be happy in that position? Could you stand by, and watch it happen to them?"
"I — don't know," said Edward, still blank. The truth was that he'd assumed that the younger engines, most of them more popular than he, would be kept operational even if the future Nobby predicted for him (a future that he himself indeed saw coming) came to pass.
Coppernob's gaze was piercing. "I tried to fight them. I knew what a terrible thing they were demanding of me. You won't even try to resist — I taught you too well, didn't I? Duty above all else — that's a rule for a younger engine. It was a good rule for all those other poor sods with their short, normal lives. But you... maybe it makes no difference. It didn't for me. But fight anyway. Once you give your railway fifty years of service, you're allowed to say no, damn it. Loudly, and often."
And then Coppernob looked away. Clearly he thought there was nothing more to be said.
After a dazed moment Edward whistled again, limply, and chuffed off.
I've been looking for more information on Nobbys 1996 tour (specifically him being *steamed*) and I've done all the research I can (here) and I've come up with two things I know:
1: I know the engine that was generating the steam was Repulse
and 2: I know Nobby's reaction to it (grit and bear it and internally gloat about how Cornwall would likely throw a fit)
Is there any more information you could enlighten the public with? Both pictures and footage seem elusive..
HELLO and let me take this opportunity to tell you that I've been admiring your username for some time, it's dope 💙
My main source (which I think you've already seen) is this archived article from The Mail, which includes 9 photos.
I found out the info about the saddletank Repulse pumping steam through Coppernob from the archives of Railway Magazine. I don't believe I learned much else from RM. Unfortunately I no longer have access to that archive but what few photos I saw were nowhere near as interesting as the ones from the Mail.
So I'm sorry I can't be more help — however! There are mightier Furness nerds than me, specifically SleeperAgent01 of SIF and twitter and @nictrain123 who used to be on twitter and... tumblr???? I did not realize he had an account here! Tagging him in case he can direct us to any further sources... however you may want to send him an ask because that will send him an email alert (don't know if he's still actively checking this site).
Wish I could be of more help, I'll DM you if I can sniff out anything more.
Having to reblog this because I don't think images work in replies quite yet lol. First of all thank you both so much for pointing me in the right direction!! I did a bit of surface digging and indeed he looks very much 'in steam' as it were (I suspect he was effectively 'kicked' by the 03 to simulate him running under his own power)
Bonus ariel picture of Barrow station and yard! If a bit crunchy (really putting into perspective how little room they had to play with for The No-Where Train in Bird)
Looking at @putuponpercy and @mean-scarlet-deceiver for your great help
Did a little more digging and managed to find the original advert for the wallpaper livery 😅 (I could not for the life of me get the audio to record so closed captions will have to do)
Duck and Percy: Sir... please... we is exhausted??...
The Fat Controller: Oh dear, I'd hate to overtax you. Help is on the way.
The Help:
Diesel: Hellllloooooo.
The Fat Controller: He was the only engine available.
Duck: Wait a tick. Out of the whole of British Railways, out of an entire country full of contractors and other private owners, on a railway where you have your own locomotive works... this particular 08 was the only thing you could possibly scrounge up?
The Fat Controller: Yes.
Duck: Uh-huh. And you are... absolutely sure about this, sir?
The Fat Controller: Yes. And I have someone to vouch for me. Jenkins, is what I said true?
Jenkins: *reading his line off a well-worn lil cheat sheet* Yes, it's true, I saw it with my own eyes.
The Fat Controller: There you are then.
Percy: Oh... okay...
The Fat Controller: Off you go, then. Chop chop.
Montage:
The Fat Controller: Diesel, you are a disgrace!! I BANISH you!!!!!
The Fat Controller: Now Duck and Percy, I hope you won't mind having to do the work yourselves.
Duck and Percy: Oh, no, sir. Yes, please, sir!
The Fat Controller: Best get on with it, then.
Duck and Percy: Right away!!!!
Diesel: ... pay up.
The Fat Controller: *chuckling* Worth every penny. Cheers lad.
Diesel: Pleasure doing business with you. You have my card should you ever need a bogeyman for hire again.
A scenic branch line view in sleepiest Gloucestershire.
D6319, a member of the now sadly extinct Class 22 hydraulic fleet, shunts a goods train in the overgrown sidings of Parkend at the end of a short freight only branch line. The line survives today as the Forest of Dean railway.
It's the outskirts of the Peak District, Chinley South Junction in summer 1952. This is a vibe and country setting that is captured perfectly in the original Thomas the Tank Engine TV series. Rolling unspoilt fields, quaint cottages, trackwork all looking neat and tidy, the semaphore signals, and of course a grumbling old steam engine with an unglamorous goods train rattling behind.
Even before the passage of its iconic Transport Act 1947, the first Attlee ministry had been laying the groundwork for what we would today call a strategic steam reserve. Operation Nestled Dragon, which went into effect as early as December 1945, called for “at least 4,000” steam locomotives to be stored and kept in constant readiness in the event of “any cataclysm which could strain supply.” This was a somewhat arbitrary number; the LMS alone had 8,000 locomotives on the eve of Nationalization. It was believed that a majority of the country’s engines would survive attack during a wartime scenario, the most likely reason to activate the reserve at the time. 4,000 engines kept as a backup to unscathed stock was deemed sufficient. (It has to be said there were no strategic reserves of coaches or trucks, whether planned or even merely discussed!)
These engines and the necessary facilities would be dispersed as needed throughout the country. Bigger towns would have more engines and more MPDs (motive power depots) allocated to them, London having the most. The number of engines kept in a single “strategic MPD” was always limited to 20. In this way, an attack such as an aerial bombardment would be less likely to take out a population center’s entire locomotive stud at once.
To “activate” the reserve, the Minister of Transport was required to approach the Prime Minister and his Cabinet, and a vote be held on the matter.
Strategic MPDs could be crude or elaborate. By design they were severed from the nearest railway, so that no tracks were visible for any overcurious trespasser, potential spies or reconnaissance aircraft to follow. Every MPD had to be able to have these missing rails laid back in “within or under three hours” if called upon. Often, abandoned mines and tunnels were used and their insides fitted out. These ‘naturally-occurring’ locations were codenamed “dragon’s lairs.” Other times a location had to be built from scratch; these artificial MPDs were codenamed “rabbitholes.” Always was there emphasis on keeping the MPDs dry, ventilated and fireproof. Each MPD needed a turntable, a reliable water supply, coal bunkers, storage space for rails, sleepers, a small number of spare parts, adequate headroom and an overhead crane for heavy repairs like boiler swaps, and of course bunks for crews should the reserve be activated and they be based there. Otherwise bunkrooms were vacant, although men on duty for maintenance of stock and depots did find use for them during their shifts.
There was little methodology in place for which engine classes were preferred for the reserve. Great Western engines were less favored as they were built to run on high-quality South Welsh coal, and it was assumed the quality of coal sourced during a crisis would be poor. In any event however, some still “found their way in.” In general however, Eastern, Midland and ex-WD locos formed the majority of the workforce. Every engine belonging to the various military railways such as that at Longmoor were considered part of the reserve too, so it could be said that several pieces of the reserve’s stock were out in the open all along. Also joining their ranks as they came about were BR Standard classes, some built specifically for the reserve. These had neither BR nor serial numbers, being built “off the books.”
At first, engines reserved were simply stored and maintained in the livery they wore at the time of their “reassignment.” As time went on, (and their maintainers became bored,) a semi-official livery of black with white and navy blue stripes was settled upon and applied, one engine at a time. Quickly a crest for the Strategic Reserve was designed by one anonymous artistic crewman, and the reserve’s motto agreed: “Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit,” a superstitious British phrase.
Attlee and Churchill were both said to have toured a strategic MPD at least once. “Here we are in the belly of the beast. You lot have done some splendid work; Britain thanks you,” Attlee had said on his visit. “Men will do anything to play trains away from the wife without interrogation,” Churchill remarked on his, perhaps half in jest.
Thus was the system. As steam on the public or “civilian” British Railways was phased out, further freshly withdrawn engines were added to the reserve stocklist. Much speculation was made as to why coal bunkers and hoppers and water towers continued to be maintained even as the steam engines finally vanished from the national network in August 1968. This was explained away as infrastructure left in place for railtours by preserved engines, and in hindsight must have sounded ridiculous.
As generations of enginemen retired, they had to pass on their skills to the fresh blood. The years then went by without significant cause for alarm. The closest the reserve came to being activated was at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis in late October 1962; declassified materials confirm that as many as half of the reserve was in full steam awaiting the call, and track gangs were ready and waiting to lay in rails. The crisis ebbed of course, and by the second week of November, the number of engines idle was back to “Normal.”
Margaret Thatcher’s Government planned to shut the program down, but this was averted… just. John Major however couldn’t be dissuaded. Privatization was in full swing, and the Soviet Union had dissolved itself. The reserve suddenly seemed very redundant, (but per its own 1945 definition, not completely,) and the winding down of it all began. On the 1st of December 1998, some 53 years after the beginning of Operation Nestled Dragon, all 4,855 locomotives and their associated depots and crews were demobilized by the Blair ministry and most of the reserve’s documentation declassified. Everything became public knowledge, including the engines themselves, quite literally overnight.
At once, the locos and their facilities were up for auction. Dozens of Strategic MPDs were made into living museums demonstrating how the reserve worked. Many of the engines belonged to classes otherwise thought extinct, such as the LNER Thompson L1s and the LMS Garratts, and here were surviving specimens being pulled out of the metaphorical wardrobe like nothing. The British preservation scene was in a matter of hours awash in perfectly functional engines no one expected to still exist, which coupled together in a line were longer than most if not all of the railways themselves! Several also were sold abroad to the United States and Canada.
The public couldn’t be blamed for this all being such a shock. They hadn’t been prepared.
Number: 47 (ex-BR 65327)
Class: NBR Holmes C 0-6-0
Built: 1900
Arrived on Sodor: 1964
Service (Shed): NWR Main Line (Vicarstown)
Livery: NWR Goods Black
Everyone knows that Scottish railwaymen are a whole other breed in themselves, and this extends to their engines. Formidable, rugged, but with a warmth and character to them, that many will tell you is sorely lacking in engines from doon South. They have a sense of independence and rebellion seemingly unmatched by engines on any other region of BR - except, of course, the NWR.
Indeed, the NWR now proudly boasts a significant number of engines who have called Scotland their home at some point. By far the most notable are Donald & Douglas, but there are others to be found if you know where to look for them. One of these is Heather, a headstrong, hardy soul, who lives at the far end of the Main Line. Like most Scottish engines, she’s very witty and skillful, and is able to use her talents to subdue trucks and engines alike. Although not as large or young as some of her colleagues, Heather’s still a vital asset to the NWR’s goods link, being just as capable of handling heavy goods as younger or larger engines doing the same work.
Heather was built at Cowlairs Works in Glasgow, in 1900, and after a brief initial stint at Bathgate, she was reallocated to St Margaret’s MPD, in Edinburgh - from here, she was put to work on the NBR’s main line north to Dundee. This ran through one of Scotland’s biggest and richest coalfields, so naturally much of Heather’s work was on the heavy coal trains, from the collieries to the cities, for either export or industrial use.
During the First World War, engines from the C class were among those requisitioned by the Royal Engineers for use in France (this was before a standard class of engine was agreed upon, as mentioned elsewhere). Heather was not one of the twenty-five Cs sent to France, but upon their return in 1919, their tales of action on the Western Front proved to be a great inspiration to her. They also served to instil in her a lifelong passion for horses, as one of the Cs - Heather remembers it being St Quentin - told a particularly gripping story about his experience with one of the horses in a cavalry regiment he served alongside.
Following the Grouping, the J36s (as they were reclassified by the LNER) were cascaded down to lesser duties, to fill the gaps left by the withdrawal of older engines. These duties included pilot and banking work, as well as light mineral workings. Heather in particular spent a fair few years on regular daily pick-up freights between Edinburgh and Dundee, with the occasional return to block coal traffic. This work only intensified during the Second World War, when it was a case of all hands on deck.
Although withdrawals of the J36s had begun before the War had started, it was not until BR took over that things really started to look grim for the class. Fortunately, there were still plenty of lines which only they were small and light enough to run on, and this ensured their survival just that little bit longer. In fact, two of them went on to become the final engines working for BR in the whole of Scotland, as late as 1967.
Heather, meanwhile, found herself finally leaving Edinburgh in 1963, as she was transferred to Thornton Junction, the hub of all the coal traffic in this part of Scotland. However, she would only see service here for a year, as she was withdrawn from BR service in 1964. Almost immediately, though, she was snapped up by the NWR, as part of Sir Topham Hatt’s bulk purchasing scheme around this time. She entered service on Sodor just a month or so later, and she was intended to be used on heavy goods trains out of Vicarstown…
As it happened, though, Heather’s initial duties proved to be a little different. Her arrival coincided with some serious trouble over at Tidmouth - the trucks had gotten way more out of hand than usual, and even the likes of Donald & Douglas couldn’t subdue them. As such, Heather was briefly transferred over to help sort things out - and the results were very much akin to one of those old Westerns, where the lone hero wanders into town, clears up some local trouble, and then disappears as quickly as they arrived. Nobody knows quite how Heather managed it, but by the time she went back to Vicarstown, all the trucks were too scared-stiff to cause trouble for ages afterwards!
Since then, Heather’s life has been largely uneventful, but like most engines on Sodor, she does have her moments. For instance, her passion for horses has lead to an interest in horse racing, and the associated mechanics of betting. As such, she’s developed a knack for keeping track of complicated numbers and statistics, and the others sometimes ask her to caculate certain odds - like what the chances are of someone having to come to the rescue of someone else who’s wronged them before. While Heather doesn’t have any powers of clairvoyance, her odds are usually accurate enough that most other engines choose to accept them as gospel truth.
Trivia
I know I’ve said in the past that I tend to avoid naming OCs after people I know personally, but in this case, that’s exactly what I’ve done. The real Heather is a family friend, who I’ve known for just over ten years. The idea to name an OC after her came about after I realized that both her husband and son share their names with Thomas characters (George and Arthur, respectively), but she herself doesn’t. So naturally, I just had to fill that gap myself.
Just for the record, I consulted her with this idea beforehand, and she was totally cool with it. It helped that Arthur (her son) is a massive Thomas nut, so she’s at least mostly aware of it.
Apart from the name, engine Heather’s love of horses is the other main inspiration I took from friend Heather - trust me, she’s obsessed with them!
The name was the easy part, but developing the character took a bit more time. For one thing, while the real Heather lives in Scotland - as do I - she’s originally from America. However, I rejected the idea of making Heather the engine an American prototype, partly because that seemed too obvious, but mainly because there was only a handful of prototypes which worked in Britain.
I decided instead to push the Scottish connection, and go for a prototype that worked mainly in Scotland. I went with a J36 primarily because it was a type that was common in the part of Scotland where I live. I know, I know, more geographical bias, but it’s my headcanon, and I can do what I like with it!
Some of the J36s were fitted with tender cabs, and small snowploughs beneath their front bufferbeams, for working in the arduous weather conditons famous on Scottish railways. I like to imagine Heather has these fittings as well, but I wasn’t sure where to mentioned this in the main text.
Have a Skarloey anyway!! Been a little unsure of what sort of TTTE content to draw recently, but I saw a BEAUTIFUL picture of Talyllyn on Alamy and decided to redraw it as Loey! It really helped me practice my shading. Such a beautiful engine.
Here's the photograph I was inspired from! ---> https://www.alamy.com/talyllyn-steam-saddle-tank-locomotive-showing-headboard-with-welsh-image150395349.html
Skarloey sat under his little canopy, and took in the world.
Through the open half of the shed to his right, across the Wharf and the Big Railway, he could see scores of terraced houses. They were blackened with a few decades worth of soot, but their windows were clean enough. Already, Skarloey could see a few washing lines being pulled in before the rain could start in earnest. That quarter of Crovan's Gate was known affectionately as "The Hammers," because hundreds of laborers employed at The Works and both railways lived there. Mr. Sam lived in Crovan's Gate, Skarloey knew, but he doubted he lived in The Hammers.
Skarloey's railway couldn't count more than a dozen workers as its own, anymore. He wondered momentarily just how many had left his railway to work on the Big one, over the years.
To his left, behind the brick wall, was the shed and workshop. It was often a bleak, musty place, with only candles and the hearth for heating and lighting. There was a window into it within his wall, but Skarloey was sat too far up to use it. Presently he could hear two or three men hammering away at some sort of metal. Most likely repairing a part for Rheneas when he got home.
The workshop was like a timewarp into a bygone era. It was filled with the most basic machinery and tools, like an "oil engine" that belonged to The Owner personally, as the men were so often reminded. How it smelled when they used it! There were also coils upon coils of fraying rope and chains rusting away. And, piled against one wall was a heap of broken water gauges, halved coupling rods, corroded tubes, and other odds and ends which for whatever reason were jealously kept rather than thrown away.
There was a ringing snap. One of the men abruptly cursed, in Sudric, at the top of his lungs. If he could jump, Skarloey very much would have. Something was tossed to land with several 'clinks' further within the shop. Whatever they had been working on must have broken, the old engine surmised, and they had tossed it into the pile of chains in rejection, or simply anger.
Skarloey glanced further down the yard. Three smudgy slate trucks, filled with boulders of coal the size of chairs, slept deeply near the carriage shed. They were more or less his age, he mused. He was sure he had named them at some point or another. Stacks of slates, sorted by color and thickness, accumulated weeds near the Exchange Siding, like abandoned playing cards. The carriage shed seemed more supported by the coaches within it than anything else. The slates of the roof were creeping away from one another.
The rails seemed sewn into the land, rather than built on top of it. Only a few dozen feet of the line from the shed was relatively clear, but the points were absolutely hidden by weeds which crept up to an engine's boiler bottom. They grew in a beautiful auburn color completely unlike anything he had seen in nature, soaked as the ground was with years of coal dust and steam oil. It always tickled Rheneas to roll through them, or rather, bob through. Skarloey chuckled. It reminded him of a time, it must have been forty years back, where one of the drivers had insisted on finishing his shift despite losing one of his shoes halfway through.
Now, only Mr. Hugh or his son drove.
A stagnant puddle was just ahead of him between the rails. It had to have been from the shed water tank, because the rain hadn't started yet. Skarloey took a good look at himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to see a reflection for more than a few moments.
Parts of him were clean enough. Sometimes, when Mr. Hugh or Mr. Sam had lots of time, they would polish his smokebox and funnel. Whenever a really heavy fall of rain was expected, they would sheet him up.
But most of himself was filthy, and there was no way he could have gotten so dirty all at once.
A nasty white trail of limescale trickled downward from his tank cap. Dust and soot seemed to have gotten in every corner and crevice. His cab windows were foggy. His whistle and valves had no shine to them. His buffers drooped from their stocks, and the paint on his bufferbeam had faded to the point of being nearly pink.
He was reminded now, seeing his reflection, that he was still painted black. Mr. Hugh had been the one to apply it, promising he'd have a new coat of red with blue stripes for him "for the summer." Which summer that was meant to have been, Skarloey couldn't remember. In the end, that had never come to pass. The war came on, although he was sure he had been black a few years ahead of it.
The last time he had pulled a train, and moved under his own steam, was in October of 1943. He remembered that vividly, because it was where everything had gone wrong. The nasty bulge in his firebox, where a stay had broken, was plain to see. He had to have been black for at least ten years before.
Skarloey, unheard by anybody, sighed and went to sleep. He knew Rheneas would be home within the hour, if nothing happened of course.
Imagine the engines of the Big Railway going about their duties as they always have, and just across from the works they have to watch this little railway, which has been there for nearly a century, flail around desperately clinging on to life. That's going to be a sad sight to see
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