The heavy gold watch chain across his waistcoat stopped vibrating as his entire posture locked into absolute rigidity. For several seconds, the only sound in the office was the frantic ticking of the wall clock and the low, steady hum of Lady’s presence outside the window. He stared at me—at my rigid posture, my dark curly hair, and the shadowed, quiet intensity in my hazel eyes—trying to reconcile the human man standing before him with the terrifying, fourteen-legged red tank engine his diesel had reported in the woods.
"You..." Sir Topham Hatt began, his deep voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat and tried again. "You are telling me that *you*—a human being—were the red tank engine our drivers spotted scrambling through the briars?"
I nodded slowly, keeping my hands carefully at my sides. "I know how absurd it sounds, sir. But it’s true."
The Controller stared at me, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked carved from stone. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then looked around the office at the rest of the group, searching for someone to laugh and tell him this was a poorly timed practical joke. Instead, he found only dead silence.
"I don't understand," Sir Topham Hatt said, his voice dropping to a baffled, bewildered whisper. "How on earth does a man transform into a locomotive chassis, let alone one draped in multi-legged machinery? Were you exposed to some byproduct of the ague? A chemical spill from the works?"
I shook my head, swallowing hard as I thought back to the dark stretch of the line and the strange, inexplicable pull that had drawn me into the nightmare in the first place.
"It wasn't a chemical, sir," I explained, my voice carrying that low, resonant undertone. "It started... earlier. I found a rose. Just an ordinary flower growing out by the old tracks, but the petals were covered in a strange, rusted gold dust. I didn't think much of it at the time. I picked it up, and I sniffed it in."
I looked down at my hands, remembering the sudden heat, the way the air had turned to steam, and how the world had melted away into iron and claws.
"The rest is history," I finished quietly. "The ague took whatever P.T. Boomer left behind in that spell and translated it straight into my blood. I became the engine because the dust demanded a vessel... and I only barely managed to crawl back out of it."
The office fell into a profound, suffocating stillness. Sir Topham Hatt stood frozen behind his massive mahogany desk, his monocle slipping from his eye and dangling uselessly against his chest as he processed the sheer impossibility of what he had just heard.
Slowly, heavily, the Controller turned his gaze away from me and looked toward the small group clustered by the door. His eyes settled on Burnett Stone, then on Lily, and finally on Mr. Conductor, looking for any sign that this was madness.
One by one, they nodded. There were no denials, no nervous laughter. Just solemn, confirming weight.
Sir Topham Hatt let out a long, shuddering breath, sagging slightly against the edge of his desk. He reached up, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to massage away a sudden, blinding headache. He paced the length of the carpet twice, his heavy shoes clicking against the floorboards, before finally coming to a halt in front of me.
"Well," Sir Topham Hatt muttered, running a hand over his face. "In my years running the North Western Railway, I have dealt with runaway coaches, cheeky engines, pompous diesel directors, and magical railways hidden behind magic buffers. But I must confess, a gentleman sniffing enchanted roses and turning into a fourteen-legged tank engine is entirely a new operational hazard."
He let out a short, dry chuckle, though there was no humor in it—only the grim realization of the world they were all now forced to survive in.
Sir Topham Hatt straightened his jacket, crossed his arms, and looked me dead in the eye with a gaze that suddenly carried all the immovable authority of his office.
"We cannot pretend like this didn't happen," the Controller said firmly, his voice steadying once more. "The government is watching the quarantine lines, the drivers are talking, and a man who shifts between flesh and iron cannot simply hide away in a cottage forever. But... we can fine-tune the finer details. Official records can be amended. To the mainland and the board of health, you are simply a specialized restoration consultant who was trapped on the line during the outbreak."
He paused, offering a faint, begrudging ghost of a smile as he extended a hand toward me.
"Sodor has always been an island of misfits, stranger things have found a home on our metals, and goodness knows we are desperately short-handed," Sir Topham Hatt said. "How would you feel about a job on the North Western Railway?"
[Image ID: a steam locomotive with one large driving wheel sits on a monorail and is attached to a track running above. It has a double-deck cab, with one man (the fireman) on the bottom and another (the engineer/driver) on the top. The Wikipedia caption explains the locomotive belongs to the Boynton Bicycle Railroad. End ID.]
And now I’ve made an OC out of her! I’ve decided her name is Bessie. Enclosed below the cut is my story for her. Hope you enjoy! :)
Bessie steamed to life in 1889, in Portland, Maine. Her creator, Eben M. Boynton, believed the monorail was the way of the future, thinking it would be cheaper to build than regular tracks. He built her to fit with that early monorail vision.
She ran for a few weeks on the Boynton Bicycle Railroad in the summer of 1890. Pulling trains with two-story cars in Long Island, she realized from the odd looks she received that her design was… unusual. She developed a shy, soft-spoken personality as a result.
Bessie also worried about whether her “experimental” nature would be deemed a success or a failure. The entire railroad was something of an experiment; each train was a test run. So while often silent, she worked very hard. She kept to time and never complained. She felt like she had to be perfect.
And she was right to worry. After several weeks of easing into a routine, of learning how to be an engine, the railroad pulled her from service. The experiment was over. They had no more need of her.
As far as anyone knew, including Bessie, she wasn’t bad at her work. But they decided they could improve on her design and on their monorail model. She overheard talk of an elevated monorail and an electric locomotive as they pushed her into storage, shutting the doors behind her.
Bessie awoke an indeterminate time later to the sound of doors opening on rusty hinges. “I say!” said a voice.
As it turned out, Sir Robert Norramby was in the midst of his travels around the world. While in America, someone told him about a bicycle locomotive and a summer’s experiment. He became intrigued and managed to sniff out her location.
She braced herself for a confused stare. But Sir Robert had a wide smile as he walked around to her smokebox. “Hello! What’s your name, my dear?”
It took her awhile to remember how to speak. But he waited, beaming as her hoarse voice rattled out, “Bessie, sir.”
“What a lovely name. Tell me, Bessie, however did you wind up in this place?”
They got to talking. Bessie felt herself relaxing around Sir Robert, bewildered but also glad to be spoken to like any decent engine. And she gradually realized this was her chance to escape storage.
In the end, Sir Robert took her to Sodor at her request. He had a monorail with an overhead guiding track built at Ulfstead so she could pull tourists on a small line around the estate. On occasion, she also pulled goods trains as well.
It took some time for Bessie to settle in to her new life. For one thing, she only had a few weeks’ worth of experience from 1890. Everything was new again and she had learn as well as relearn things.
For another thing, she was still on-edge and reserved. Sir Robert seemed nice, but so did Mr. Boynton. And she knew what storage was like now. She never wanted to go back to it.
The result was Bessie holding herself to impossible standards and being too afraid to ask for help. Every slight mishap — missing platforms, not starting after the guards’ whistle, etc. — only made her more anxious and withdrawn. At night, she was the first back to the sheds and the first one asleep so no-one could talk to her.
Stephen, Glynn, and Millie noticed all of this and worried about her. They debated how to break the ice. Stephen wanted to race her, Glynn wanted to have a chat, and Millie wanted to leave her be until she made the first move.
In classic Sodor fashion, it didn’t happen as any of them suggested.
You see, one of the few comforts Bessie had was that she wasn’t too out of place. While she was a novelty, so were most of Sir Robert’s other engines. Tourists took her photograph and whispered about her, but they moved on to someone else a few minutes later.
One day, Ulfstead had special visitors. They were aristocrats from the Mainland, invited by Sir Robert as part of renewing alliances after his time away on his travels. He took them around the estate and introduced them to his engines where they rested in the sheds.
Bessie saw the visitors’ gritted smiles from a mile away. She knew very well what disdain looked like. They described her as “experimental,” “distinctive,” and “so very American,” and she knew it was a backhanded compliment.
It was like 1890 all over again. She felt like she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move an inch under their cool gazes.
And then they turned to Glynn. They called Glynn quaint, a relic of a bygone age. She saw the flicker of naked hurt on his face.
It was the same flicker she trained out of herself all those years ago. It spoke to a greasy, creeping feeling of boiler-sludge she knew he was feeling, because she had been there, too.
Bessie never wanted to be there again. She realized then that she never wanted anyone else to be there, either.
Stephen went red in the face, about to snap something at the visitors. But Bessie spoke up first, quiet and low: “Glynn has years of experience with today’s railroads, sirs. I only have weeks. He’s more modern than I am.”
Glynn’s gaze flicked over to her, startled. “Well,” he said after a pause. His voice softened with his eyes. “You’re a fast learner, Bessie. I don’t think you’re too far behind.”
“Yes, because we’re glad to help each other,” Stephen interjected, scowling at the aristocrats. “We’re one railway, sirs.”
Millie smiled a not-very-nice smile. “Is there anything else you would like to say to all of us, sirs?”
The aristocrats blinked, but Sir Robert — who watched everything with a look of dawning realization — folded his arms. “I think not,” he sighed. “Forgive me, dear engines. I suddenly have a pressing appointment with these… gentlemen.”
Those aristocrats never came back to Ulfstead. As Sir Robert apologized to them again that evening, Bessie kept thinking about they all stood up for her as well as Glynn. For the first time, she felt like she was part of a railroad. She felt like she believed them.
And so, little by little, she began to speak with them more. She asked for help when she didn’t know something. She did small talk with them at station platforms. She smiled at Glynn and Stephen’s silly arguments, giggling at Millie’s dry asides.
She couldn’t help them pull or shunt their trains, but she took on passengers or goods in her double-deck cars when they had too many or when they broke down. She told stories about America when nobody could sleep.
While still reserved in comparison to Ulfstead’s big personalities, Bessie is more at ease today. She pulls her trains without any issues, working to repay everything Ulfstead has done for her. She knows she’s home.
Sheila the NWR T1 is finished! In my AU She is the largest non-articulated British steam engine ever built. She most famously pulls the nightly 'Starlight Express' from Vicarstown to Mantauo, a deep water port in the north of Sodor.
I don’t have any in-universe justification for my thought processes here. All I can say is that I like the idea of Caroline being a long-term pen pal of a 1920s American car.
The car in question is a Duesenberg Model A named Evanora, who worked for a Hollywood starlet. Evanora accompanied said starlet on a vacation to Sodor. There, she was offloaded from a ship so the actress could drive her favorite car around the Sudrian countryside.
It was on these drives that Evanora and Caroline met. Caroline was initially wary; the starlet’s speedy driving and Evanora’s opulent design soured her first impression. But later, Evanora apologized for the recklessness. She proved to be soft-spoken, genuine, and graceful. This disarmed and even charmed Caroline.
Over several conversations, Caroline liked hearing about Hollywood and its big personalities, and grew to respect Evanora’s patience and adaptability. Evanora in turn enjoyed the perspective of a slower, quieter life. And she appreciated Caroline’s willingness to speak her (opinionated) mind.
When the vacation ended, the two agreed to keep in touch. They sent letters to each other for decades. Caroline told Evanora how she was slowing down, how she came to be the cricket club’s car. Evanora told her about the ever-changing Hollywood and the other actors she drove over the years.
They helped each other out, too. When Caroline needed repairs the cricket club couldn’t afford — even after pooling their funds and taking donations — Evanora’s next letter showed up with a check enclosed.
Caroline, embarrassed, tried to refuse the money. Evanora wouldn’t have it.
( “This may be terribly selfish of me,” she wrote, “but I don’t want to lose my friend. Your cricket club doesn’t want to lose you either. Consider the impact losing you would have on us, darling. Consider accepting the money for our sakes if not your own.
“Also, I can’t take the money back even if I wanted to. My driver signed that check. I wish you the best of luck at reaching him on his indefinite vacation in Alaska, at my recommendation.”)
Touched and humbled, Caroline accepted the check, but not without vowing to one day repay Evanora.
That day came in the 1980s. By then, Evanora’s current driver was too old to drive anymore. And any potential new drivers didn’t want her to be a daily driver anymore; they saw her as a collector’s item to hoard in a sterile garage.
Evanora developed a taste for the quiet life in her correspondence with Caroline, but she wanted to be outside, to move. So she took another page out of Caroline’s book and advocated for herself.
Unfortunately, nobody would listen in Hollywood. She considered the Auburn Cord Duesenburg Museum in Indiana, but she would be on static display, fawned over by hundreds of people. And she was tired of the celebrity lifestyle.
Caroline stayed appraised of all these things through their letters. As it happened, she’d appeared by this point in The Railway Series and Thomas the Tank Engine. These were opportunities she took on with Evanora’s advice and industry knowledge in mind — a small taste of the “fast lane” that she found enjoyable. There were also royalties and paychecks in the hands of her generous, loyal cricket club.
In her next letter to Evanora, Caroline enclosed an ocean liner ticket for Sodor.
Thrilled, Evanora beat back the last aggressive offers from collectors before her voyage across the Atlantic. By the time she arrived, Caroline also set her up with an assisted living home, where older folks going into town could get there in nostalgic comfort and style.
It was a slower-paced life in a place where she wasn’t known as a rare car, but would still be appreciated and fulfilled.
(“Are you sure this is what—”
“It’s what she wants. I know it,” Caroline told the cricket player.)
When they reunited, Caroline could’ve fussed about the things that didn’t go right — delayed timetables, muddy roads, etc. — but she didn’t. She only expressed her delight and gratitude at seeing her dear friend again. And Evanora did the same, deciding to take this new phase of friendship and life one wheel-turn at a time.
(Bonus: Elizabeth is intensely jealous of Evanora. Evanora is oblivious and thinks it’s all friendly rivalry. Caroline fluctuates between scolding and reassuring Elizabeth that she isn’t trying to replace her.)
So… it was inevitable that I’d make an OC, lol. Here’s the life story of the Dukedog character that I’ve been puzzling out!
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When steamed up for the first time, Tilly awoke as a GWR Bulldog in 1899. Her early service life centered around passenger trains in Cornwall, England.
Tilly was a clever, silver-tongued engine who could convince complete strangers to do anything for her. To everyone’s relief, she almost never used this ability outside of charming passengers and soothing coaches. (Almost.) She could talk around an issue and make someone think they brought it up instead.
She had no aspirations for an express service or for more prestigious work. Tilly liked her routines and her trains. If anything seemed to upset her sense of normalcy, she would fight to restore it.
While running trains in Cornwall, she befriended a young GWR Duke express engine named Edith. Edith was a plain-spoken, earnest gal with plenty of cheer. While a bit gullible and stubborn, she was kind. She appreciated her position on the express, but she longed to travel further and see more of the GWR.
Edith was a willing partner in Tilly’s pranks and (often) good-natured schemes. Tilly never lied to her about any of it, but Edith went along with it anyway. “It’s fun,” she said, “and I’ll keep it fun for everyone by looking after you! You get so silly about it sometimes, after all.”
In return, Tilly helped Edith finagle more far-reaching runs. She also insisted that some of her parts go to Edith when she was in disrepair. “There’s still life in them yet, thanks to you gentlemen,” she’d tell the workmen. “And it wouldn’t be very Great Western of me if I didn’t help a fellow engine.”
When it came to the Great Western Way, Tilly and Edith followed it more often than not. They respected its focus on inter-engine solidarity and running a tight, clean operation. However, they weren’t above bending the rules if they felt it was for the greater good. And Tilly in particular didn’t understand the GWR’s preoccupation with tradition and its history.
Tilly had many happy years with Edith and her trains in Cornwall. However, when the GWR expanded to the Cambrian main line, she found Edith slated to move there. The Duke engines were the only ones light enough to run on the line, but powerful enough to keep up with the heavy traffic. Edith jumped at the opportunity to see more of the GWR.
It was the only time that Tilly and Edith had a serious argument. Tilly didn’t want an Edith-shaped hole in her routine and felt betrayed that she was so eager to go. Edith was taken aback and hurt, thinking Tilly would be supportive as always. Several days passed before they managed to sort it out, with Tilly admitting she’d miss Edith.
“As if I won’t miss you too! I’m thrilled to run on the new line, but I wish you could come with me. I’m only trying to be brave and cool about it all, like you.”
“…I suppose I haven’t been so cool this time, have I?”
“No. But I shouldn’t have thought you wouldn’t be upset at all. I know you better than that by now. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. I’m a big girl; I’ll be alright. You go on now. I can always make a new routine, after all.”
“Like what?”
They agreed to write to each other. And for a while, they did. Edith gushed about the new sights, the new people, and her new adventures. Tilly kept her in the loop about their Cornwall coworkers
and her own journeys, once she began working on other lines herself.
Those letters became the bright spot in Tilly’s days, especially as the Great Depression hit. She also knew her days were numbered, with her class becoming outdated. Her silver tongue couldn’t change that, she’d come to know. She only wanted to hold onto her correspondence until she couldn’t anymore.
“You and the Dukes are needed,” she told Edith in one letter. “The GWR doesn’t have any lighter engines to run that line. They have to repair you, to maintain you. That’s all I need to know, no matter what happens to me.”
After that letter, Edith didn’t talk about her maintenance anymore. The letters from her stopped altogether a few years later.
Tilly fretted all the way up to her scheduled arrival at the works. She thought she was about to be scrapped, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was to know Edith’s whereabouts before her departure.
Then she saw Edith in the works. She saw the crumbled state of Edith’s frames. She saw the tears glinting in her eyes, the shaky smile on her face. “Hello, dear.”
Tilly stared at her, then swallowed hard. “Well. At least we’ll go out together.”
“Oh, no. I’ll be the one going out, but we’ll be together. I promise.”
“What?”
She didn’t understand until the workmen came over, talking about “putting the boiler and the cab on the Bulldog.”
Before she could react, Edith said, “There’s no money to repair my frames. I’ll be gone soon no matter what. So please, let me go out helping you, giving you my parts. Like you did for me, right?”
After a long pause, Tilly croaked, “Right. Thank you, dear. Thank you so much for — for everything.”
“You too. Just keep on keeping on, you silly goose. That’s thanks enough for me.”
Tilly awoke five hours later with Edith’s boiler and cab on her frames.
When she rolled into Paddington alongside other ex-Bulldogs rebuilt with Duke pieces, she didn’t care about the looks on the board of directors’ faces. She didn’t care about being called the “Earl” class.
But when she overheard workers calling her a “Dukedog,” she cared. She called herself a Dukedog rather than an Earl.
“The Earls on the board gave us nothing,” she told the others. “Edith and the Dukes gave us everything. I’m all of me and near all of her, and I’ll ensure everyone bloody well knows it.”
Tilly the Dukedog (OC), Pt. Three: Bluebells & Sodor
Part One
Part Two
Here’s the final part of Tilly’s background/life story, from the 1960s to roughly the present day! Thanks for sticking with these posts. This is by far the longest one yet, so I suggest you grab a snack and a drink before settling in. I hope you all enjoy!
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Tilly and Earl of Berkeley did their best to settle in on the Bluebell Railway. Like on the Cambrian main line, Tilly worked very hard to make sure all the new engines integrated and got along with each other. The Bluebell was among the first heritage railways; she wanted to make sure the model proved successful, to secure her and many others’ safety.
Earl of Berkeley, however, worried that Tilly was taking on too much by herself. He’d seen how driven she was on their old line, and he respected it very much. But he didn’t want to see her drive herself into the ground. “Everyone here wants the Bluebell to succeed,” he told her. “We’re all in this together.”
“…I know,” she said after a long pause. “I worry, is all. I don’t want to roll away and miss something.”
“We’ll keep each other in the loop, yeah? And you don’t have to go too far away. You can always delegate, give us things.”
The word “delegate” sparked something in Tilly’s mind. It reminded her of when she asked Edith to do something to set up a prank or a scheme in their Cornwall days. Looking at E.B., she knew she couldn’t go back to those days… but she could ensure they lived on.
So Tilly took it upon herself to teach E.B., an already cheeky soul, in all her old prankster ways.
There were practical reasons for doing this. She knew that most of the engines joining them were anxious and traumatized. Giving them things to laugh at, things at which to redirect their focus, would help them settle in and relax. It would make things run a little smoother.
Tilly also missed doing that sort of thing. Her schemes on the Cambrian main line were serious, caught up in the hard times and the desperation of it all. Times were still hard and desperate, of course. But thinking it over, she thought more good humor would’ve been helpful back then. She only couldn’t bring herself to do it again without her partner in crime.
Yet she still longed for a return to something much more lighthearted. She knew Edith would long for it, too. And that was enough for her to push past those buffers.
E.B. proved a skilled student who kept her and everyone else on the outer rims of their wheels. While lacking Tilly’s silver tongue, he had a knack at making people feel in on a joke. He was a class clown at heart, good-natured and happy to entertain. He laughed at himself more than anyone else, and that made him easy to trust.
For the first time in years, Tilly let herself loosen up a little bit too. She let herself grow closer to the other engines, being a friend as well as a counselor. She got in on some pranks and lighthearted schemes.
Nor did she stress over representing her line so much. While she was still representing the Dukedogs, so was E.B. They collaborated on educating guests about the GWR, their class, their lives as Bulldogs, and their Duke friends. And the Bluebell’s officials, unlike the GWR, supported their efforts.
As Stepney became the face of the Bluebell — of preserved steam engines, even — Tilly saw the anxiety under his mask. She shared her past experiences. Whatever reassurance she had, she gave to him. “It’s not the end of the world,” she told him after one gaffe.
“I know it isn’t. I just want to be a good representative for the Bluebell,” he said, looking at his buffers. “A engine losing his temper with the photographers is hardly that.”
“You were stroppy, but that happens to people. You’re a person. And so were our loved ones. Being imperfect and complicated is the best way to represent them, really.”
Stepney blinked, looking up. “I suppose so,” he said after a beat.“Can’t let them think we were all perfect angels, can we?”
“Oh, no.” She grinned. “Worse than historically inaccurate, that’d be boring.”
He barked a laugh at that.
In return for Tilly’s help, Stepney used his influence to push for more institutional support of her and E.B.’s efforts to educate the public. And he encouraged her to have her own fun, joining her and E.B. There were a couple prolific April Fool’s Days on their railway.
Knowing how she wished to respect Edith’s adventurous spirit, Stepney also told Tilly about his visit on Sodor. Curious, she joined him on several additional Sudrian trips.
I could probably fill up books talking about her dynamics with Sudrian engines, so I’ll restrain myself here to talking about her interactions with one character: Duck.
This is spilling over into yet more headcanon territory, but you guys remember how Duck told Peter Sam that “all Dukes were scrapped?” That remark isn’t incorrect, but it isn’t the full story, either.
It’s probable that Duck didn’t want to get bogged down in all the details while talking to Peter Sam. But I also like thinking he didn’t go into more detail because he never quite got over it. What if he had some friends in the Dukes, and was grieved and horrified to see new faces on their boilers?
“It was necessary for the survival of the Great Western,” he’d tell anyone who asked about it. And he believed it. He knew that no Great Western engine is above another, that it’s their Way to help each other in any way possible.
But for all that Duck cares about the GWR, I think he also cares about his individuality, feels the need to express himself in small ways. The idea of his bodily autonomy, already very limited, being disrupted in such a fatal manner for another engine, might’ve disturbed him. He wouldn’t blame any Dukedog for that, but he would struggle to lay responsibility at the feet of his beloved old railway.
Rather than deal with all his complicated feelings about this, I suggest here that Duck suppressed it. He avoided thinking about it, talking about it in detail.
So Duck didn’t speak much to Tilly outside of their first meeting. He was polite and civil in their few subsequent interactions, but always tense. It reminded Tilly of how other GWR engines responded to the Dukedogs in the first few months after the rebuilds.
It took years for Tilly to enact a successful plan to talk to him. He was slippery, but she eventually managed to finagle some down-time with him across several visits. It might’ve been better if she was less insistent, but that wasn’t her nature to let things lie.
Tilly’s first thought was to reassure him the way she did the others, saying she grieved the Dukes too. She tried this when they had a lull in their work together. Duck appreciated this and said so, but he still acted kind of uncomfortable. Tilly soon came to realize that this was tied up with his feelings about the GWR after further conversation.
Her perspective on the GWR — that it wasn’t as special as people made it out to be, often flawed like other railways — was a jolt to Duck. He disagreed at first on reflex, on principle, and Tilly took some offense. Things got heated.
But they managed to calm themselves by the next time they saw each other.
“I can’t tell you how to remember or feel about the Great Western,” Tilly said. “That was wrong of me. I’m sorry.”
Duck looked away. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. I’ve needed to think about it all for some time now, if I’m honest. I’m sorry I was so rude to you.”
“We were rude to each other.” She edged closer. “I… what I should’ve said is that it’s alright to have conflicting feelings about the Great Western. If it weren’t alright, I don’t think I’d still be here today.”
“It’s the Great Western Way to carry on, no matter the fuss or how I feel,” he said after a beat, glancing back at her. “And I’ve done my best at that.”
“Indeed. You can’t be that much of a traitor to the railway, then, if you’re still here.”
“I don’t mean to suggest you’re a traitor to it, or to any of them. You’re carrying on too, honoring your… Edith, was it?”
“Yes.” She drew in a breath, feeling her lower lip tremble all of a sudden. “I — I’m glad you think so.”
Duck rolled alongside her, slow and quiet. “I know so, from what I’ve seen of you.”
Tilly took a moment to recollect herself. Clearing her tubes, she said, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re carrying on the best parts of the Great Western. Edith would be chuffed to see you pushing for solidarity, for respect in the yards.”
“…thank you.” Duck offered a small smile. “I think you’re doing much of that, too.”
“Well. I’m not that respectful if I hounded all this talk out of you, am I?”
“Ah, there’s always next time — especially on this railway.”
Tilly and Duck keep in touch to this day. They enjoy each other’s company and respect each other’s approaches to the GWR, agreeing there’s more overlap than they first thought. Duck’s rigidity on the Great Western Way softened over time. And Tilly grew a better understanding and respect for the ways people carry out histories and legacies.
With her visits, letters, and work on the Bluebell, Tilly rarely feels lonely or unfulfilled these days. She’s keeping on in all the ways she knows how, remembering and loving and learning. She works to honor Edith’s wishes in the same breath as her own.
On the most recent anniversary of her rebuild, she went out on a long run and spoke to Edith as she traveled. She talked about how things were going, about how she looked after the boiler and cab. “They’ve mended it a lot over the years, you know,” she said. “It might not have any of your original iron anymore.”
She paused, feeling the wind on her face. Water sloshed inside her in lazy circuits, trailing a second heartbeat alongside her pistons.
“But that’s alright. I’ve kept your iron in other places, staying ever so busy and silly.” She smiled. “It’s hard work, and it’s worth it. All of it.”
Did any one else accidentally stay up past midnight designing a NWR 4-8-4... No?just me? Sheila started by playing around with extending Gordon's into a Northern. It was supossed to be simple, twenty minutes tops, but the further I got the more I fell in love with the design. I suddenly looked at the clock and it was past midnight. Heres my headcanon. Sheila was designed in the late 2000s/early 2010s to handle the growing expresses on the NWR. In the preceding years, it had been more and more difficult to run expresses without double-heading, with even Henry needing help in tourist season. It was decided to get two new express engines, one steam and one diesel, to easy the workload of the existing engines. A search for a suitable diesel proved successful, the search for the steam engine did not. Very few steam engines of the power and speed required remained that weren't already preserved. In the end it was decided to build. A new engine, but not just a new member if an existing class, but the first Crovan's Gate designed express locomotive.
Design work began in 2013, with the NWR's flagship express engine, #4 Gordon, serving as the basis. The works pulled on over eighty years experience with his design to design a next step in british steam express power. Gordon was officially a NWR A5 Pacific 4-6-2 (LNER A1X). The new engine would be the NWR T1 Northern 4-8-4. Three 25'x32' cylinders, 280psi, 80 inch driving wheels, and a 82 inch diameter boiler made for an intimidating locomotive. The latest improvements from around the world were included, with american northerns such as the NYC Niagaras and UP FEFs serving as references. The engine was steamed to life in late 2014. Many names were suggested to engine, from Athena to Goliath, but a worker who had recently moved from Australia called her a beautiful Sheila, and she loved the term, refusing to answer to any other name.
In service she proved to perform as impressively as she looked, over 60,000 lbs of tractive effort made her the strongest express steam locomotive ever built in Britain. Her first run in official service saw her take a 20 car express over Gordon's Hill without falling below 60mph. She was no slouch in terms of speed either, regularly exceeding 100mph while pulling expresses.
Sheila is soon to go in for her second overhaul, and Crovan's Gate has modifications planned for her during the rebuild to further improve her performance and speed.
