The Island's Swansong

XX - The Last Leg

Carriages stretched beyond and behind me on both sides. Weeds tickled their underbellies, while paint peeled and curled at almost every edge. Among the long rectangular shapes around me, it was no wonder I'd overlooked what had to be the source of the voice.

I drew up alongside a long diesel, coloured in rust-mottled two-tone green with flat cabs at either end. His bogies were distinct, with one bearing three axles and the other bearing two. There was nothing else he could be. A Metropolitan Vickers Type-2 Diesel-electric.

As I stepped into his field of view, BoCo's eyes flicked towards me. "I knew I heard someone," he said, "Are there others with you?"

"No," I shook my head, trying not to dash any more hopes, "I'm just exploring." I looked him up and down. "Why aren't you tucked away like the other engines?"

"I was shunting the coaches away when my brakes jammed on," BoCo replied, "Sir Topham told me not to worry, and that I'd be moved when the railway reopened. But it never did."

I looked the unlucky soul over. His bogies were rusted into single, dense metal units, never to move again. Bird droppings ran down the side of his paint from the roof, and his old BR logo had all but vanished.

"Do you know anything about why the railway closed?" I asked, "I know all about diesels taking over the main line, engines going up for sale, being cannibalised or scrapped, but nothing explaining why."

"Tourists dwindled, and began passing up the island to go on holiday elsewhere," BoCo added, "Planes became popular, and could take them to farther, more exotic destinations. Our passengers chose to go elsewhere. I think that may be behind the railway's money problems."

I thought back to Crovan's Gate, about the shortages of staff and 'forced retirements'. Something drove people, residents and tourists, from the island. Perhaps the why that explained that would link everything.

"I'm sorry I'm not more use," BoCo added.

"Please don't worry about that," I said, "It's a pleasant surprise to meet you in person."

"I'm glad I'm remembered," the big diesel smiled.

Henry's tender pressed on my mind. "Do you know where Henry's old tender might be?"

"Erm," BoCo mused, pupils swaying side to side like pendulums as he thought. "I can tell you its not with the coaches. The far left track goes to a siding that slips behind the sheds. Most excess rolling stock was put there until we decided what to do with it."

"Thank you," I tipped my head in appreciation.

"Before you go," BoCo's voice caught me mid-turn, "Are the remaining engines doing okay? What about Edward?"

"All those I've come across that weren't scrapped are tucked away in sheds," I reassured the big diesel, "Edward is fine. He's in his shed at Wellsworth."

"Good," Boco gave a small smile, "I wanted to catch up with him, but never got the chance."

I watched the small smile vanish as quickly as it had appeared. I wanted to do something, but I had no idea what. "Is there anything I can do for you? To make your outside surroundings more homely?"

"Thanks for the offer, but I can't think of anything," he reflected my struggle. After sitting for so long, knowing he'll never go anywhere again, what exactly was there to want or look forward to? I'd tried, but not everyone could be helped.

Leaving BoCo behind, I worked my way back through the sidings until I found the area behind the shed. Space on the two sidings here opened up, with shrubbery and weeds flowing across the ground. Sitting there, among the fledgling garden and saplings standing at human height, was a single tarpaulin-covered piece of rolling stock. As I passed by young trees, almost as tall as a man, I peeked into the tarp wherever I could. Green paint, and red lining, were visible in the shadows of the tarp. This was the single remaining piece of Henry.