Sodor: Modernisation

Closure

January 6th, 1971

6:55 AM

The holiday cheer had evaporated from the Island of Sodor like steam in a drafty shed. Usually, the transition from Christmas to the New Year was a gradual slowing down, but this year, it felt like an exodus. The ports at Brendam were choked with departing visitors, and the air over Knapford was thick with the heavy, black smoke of engines working overtime to clear the backlog of travelers heading back to the mainland.

Down at the Post Office near Knapford, the morning air was biting. A frost had settled over the rails, making them glisten like silver needles under the dim station lamps. Percy stood at the platform, his safety valve hissing quietly as the last of the heavy mail bags were tossed into his vans.

Fred Lewis, Percy's driver, leaned out of the cab, rubbing his gloved hands together. "Right then, Percy. Heavy load today. Seems everyone's sending their 'thank you' cards at once."

"And their bills," Steve Matthews, the fireman, grunted as he swung the shovel, sending a fresh spray of coal into the firebox. The orange glow flickered against the damp station walls.

Percy didn't whistle back with his usual cheekiness. He felt sluggish. It wasn't just the cold or the weight of the vans; it was the atmosphere of the island. For weeks, the Fat Controller had been pacing the platforms with a tighter expression than usual, clutching ledgers and broadsheets from London.

"Come on, Fred," Percy murmured, his voice small against the wind. "Let's just get the run done."

As they steamed out into the gray twilight of the morning, the rhythm of the rails—usually a comfort—felt jagged. Every station they passed seemed quieter, the festive bunting hanging limp and tattered from the lamp posts.

January 6th, 1971

10:30 AM

By mid-morning, Percy had reached the junction near the Skarloey Railway. He was surprised to see Edward idling on the loop line, buffered up to a string of empty flatbeds. Edward's driver, Charlie Sand, was standing on the ballast, talking in low, hushed tones to Sidney Heaver, the fireman.

Charlie looked up as Percy slowed to a halt alongside them. His face was grim.

"You heard the news from the top of the valley, Fred?" Charlie asked, wiping grease from his forehead with a rag.

Fred leaned out of Percy's cab. "No. We've been on the mail run since before the sun was up. What's happened?"

Edward let out a long, mournful sigh of steam. His blue paint looked dull under the overcast sky. "It's the narrow gauge, Percy," Edward said softly. "The Board of Directors had a meeting in Vicarstown this morning. No profits since the autumn. The repairs to the slate mines were too much, and the winter tourists just... didn't come."

Sidney Heaver stepped down from Edward's footplate, looking toward the hills. "They're calling it 'efficiency consolidation.' But we know what it is. The Skarloey Railway is closing. Effective noon today."

Percy's boiler went cold. "Closing? But... what about Skarloey and Rheneas? What about Peter Sam and Rusty? They've been here forever!"

"They're being sheeted up," Charlie Sand said, his voice tight. "Sir Topham tried to fight it, but the money men from the mainland are looking at Sodor with magnifying glasses lately. They say steam is a 'sentimental luxury' we can't afford anymore if the books don't balance."

Percy looked up at the mountains. Usually, he could hear the faint, high-pitched whistle of a narrow-gauge engine echoing through the pass. Today, there was only the sound of the wind whistling through the telegraph wires.