The finality and truth of Anne's final line clipped my tongue. There was nothing to say. The reality laid broken all around us. We stood, with the choice of looking at the graves, or the horizon. To me, Anne seemed trapped in this space. Sworn to visit the memories of past lives, yet also forced to keep her foothold in a new, modern world. As long as one foot remained in each, she couldn't escape, nor could she forget. The Sodor Orchids shivered at the feet of the gravestones, tickled by the cold, Island-wide death. My mind slapped the thought into remission. It was the wind, nothing more.
"Did that answer your question?" Anne spoke, wiping her eye. I'd made her dredge up a lot of history, the hardest parts personal. And I'd nothing to offer in return. "It did, thank you."
"Not too surprising?"
"No," my voice trailed off. The truth was it surprisingly unsurprising. She hadn't lied. Sodor's demise was down to things other nations knew so well. Money, profits, climate change. There was no aliens, mystery or magic at play here. It was a numbing kind of real.
"It's funny," she sniffed out a half-chuckle.
"It is?" I squinted at the sea.
"Civilisations have risen and fallen in far grander fashion throughout the centuries. Rome. The Aztecs. Easter Island. Nations and countries have vanished to history, but we never think it possible in the modern age. It strikes us as unusual. But it's happened, and the world simply shrugs and moves on."
I couldn't disagree. The vanishing of Sodor from the public conscience had been unnoticed by many. It dwindled, over years, until it fizzled out. Global politics had bigger fish to fry. The loss of one quaint little island hadn't made a dent on the world stage. Those that did notice probably thought the island and it's addiction to steam traction was a lost cause. A stubborn relic of a bygone time.
"You saw it all deteriorate?" I asked, "While you were growing up?"
"I did," Anne nodded, "My earliest memories are the fondest. Going to work with my father during school holidays, seeing friendly faces pop in and out of Tidmouth. There was always a fresh face to have a conversation with, or an engine with a daring or fun tale to tell. I tried to record them in my own books, much like the Reverend did decades prior. I'd see more engines as we traveled the Island."
"Tell me about them. Where do you go when you think of those times?"
She shut her eyes, getting lost inside her head, dredging up the fond memories that reburied the pain she'd unearthed to give me closure. "The lakeside. The waters lapping against the gravelly shores as the whistles of Skarloey engines echo through the woodlands. The stringing kiss of the chilled air sweeping against me as a carriage crawls up Devil's Back on Culdee Fell. It was a paradise, a-"
"Land of wonder," I cut in.
"It was," the most youthful of smiles, innocent, returned to her face. "It was infectious wonder that's feverish to a child. The rocking and clacking of the express. The lingering smell of salt and fish in the morning after The Flying Kipper's passed through. That was the Sodor the world loved, once upon a time..."
"To you, was it noticeable what was happening?"
"No. It wasn't until we had several consecutive years of low tourist numbers that people got concerned. The railway workers were the same faces you saw every day. There was no shock at how much they aged. Then the businesses started closing. Everyone took notice then, and stockpiled every issue, major or minor. By the time I was old enough, and understood it all, it was too late. What I heard came from either my father or the engines. Soon I heard more about the engines at home than from the engines themselves. I don't know if that distance was a fortunate preparation for what was coming."
"Everything's a double-edged sword," I grimaced. I couldn't imagine myself in such a situation.
"I saw the shift to mainline diesel traction, and by then I was old enough to drive, so I made the occasional foray out to the branch lines to check on the steam engines," Anne continued, "That's all I could manage. I couldn't get around them all as frequently as I'd have liked."
"You're a Hatt," I smiled, "I'm sure you did the best you could for the engines, like your family before you."
"I tried," Anne wiped her eyes again, "My father and I used to make that annual excursion I mentioned, checking in on all the engines we could. Those that were locked up here. But since his health deteriorated, he had a stroke. Legacy effects of the stress put on him all those years ago, and he can't walk or drive unaided now. He's in a hospice, getting the best care we can find, and I do this for him, every year. He asks about his engines, but can't seem to recall what happened to them, or the railway." More tears escaped. Her sleeve caught them too late, partway down her cheek. "Maybe that's for the best. Anyway." She turned, looking back towards the house. "There's one more thing I need to do, so we should probably get moving."
We took a different route than we'd come, following the West coast as we headed South again. Anne hadn't mentioned what her remaining task was, but if it was as personal as the last one, I left her to tell me in her own time. The weight on her, the Hatt legacy, its rise and fall, was clearer now. Her father, with health fraying, was to be buried at that house some day. Anne was living year to year, not knowing which one would be the final trip with the two of them, to lay Hatt IV to rest alongside his predecessors. The strength she'd had, to lock that up and carry it around, was equally inspirational and disconcerting. Resilient, but unhealthy. But I was in no place to judge, nor would it be right for anyone to. People lived with whatever life dealt them, and some were more fortunate than others.
The car journey was silent, the Defender rocking on the cracked roads. I wanted to make conversation, but my mind only produced selfish questions. "Did the world not care for the Eight Famous engines?" I let one escape, "I'd have thought once news got out their railway was closing, a final rallying 'call-to-arms' may have followed."
"The Island's struggles weren't unique enough," Anne answered, "When the fate of the Arctic, Amazon Rainforest and Great Barrier Reef are in the throes of perdition, we never really stood a chance of getting help. Most people were in dire straits around that time, facing uncertainty in their own lives. People don't part with enough to aid others anymore. Their own security is too fragile."
I regretted asking. The answer, again, was too real to hear in words. "I've found a number of the Eight, but not the ones I'd expect. Edward, Gordon, Henry and Duck. James was sent to the Isle of Man, Gordon said."
"That was the plan," Anne shuffled in her seat, "But after Henry... That was when my father realised he just couldn't let some engines go. Losing Henry was hard on him, us, hard on the whole fleet. There was a gaping hole left in the railway, and that hole only continued to grow as more engines had to be sold or scrapped. But my father put his foot down on the remaining Seven. They were not to leave the Island."
"James never went to Man?" I turned my frown to look at her.
"He was added to the Peel Godred line's rota."
"James finally got his branch line," I muttered. He was probably in a shed somewhere in the centre of the Island, one of the few places I'd not properly explored. A shame, though any conversation would've inevitably come back to the state of his paintwork after all these years with no polish. Though if Gordon had matured, perhaps even the splendid red engine had...
I downed some more pain relief tablets, and shifted the walking stick that laid between my legs. The car crested another hill, and down below I picked out some familiar sights. Arlesburgh lay ahead, with the shed I'd visited yesterday jumping out to me. Anne guided her Defender through the streets. "How many did he manage to save?" I asked, "Your father?"
"Most," Anne sighed in relief, thumbs tapping the steering wheel as she thought, "Bill, Ben and Mavis found a Welsh quarry-turned-museum to potter about in. Harvey was enough of an oddball to be snapped up. Spencer was private, so I don't know what happened to him. Pip and Emma were new enough to be bought back by enthusiasts on the mainland. One of the Caledonian twins caught the eye of a Scottish heritage line and migrated back home."
"Who?" I asked too eagerly, remembering the Caledonian boiler I found back at the Smelters.
"Donald, or Douglas..." Anne thought, pausing, drawing in a deep breath, "It wouldn't be above either of them to try trading places to save the other. Swapping tenders and nameplates wasn't exactly new to them."
"Oh," I felt my anticipation deflate. Trust the Scottish Twins to interfere with official orders, to save the other.
"Oliver survived scrap, again," Anne brought the conversation back onto more optimistic turf. "He moved back to a small Western line near Swindon and Cricklade. Toad and Isabel went with him."
"That's a relief," I exhaled a chuckle. Oliver being scrapped would've been a cruel twist of fate. I was surprised I hadn't come across him, Bill, Ben and Mavis on the mainland during my research. I pondered my oversights. Over the years, they would've been repainted, especially those engines carrying private Sudrian company liveries. Pip and Emma would've blended in very easily in the final days of the HSTs.
Toad and Isabel's escape got me thinking. Besides Caroline, I'd not seen any other sentient vehicles, wagons or carriages on Sodor. Perhaps they'd proven easier to sell than engines, or succumbed more readily to the elements.
I became so lost in thought that I lost my bearings in the world outside. Anne had guided us inland again. I could see no railway lines, and no landmarks that I knew. The roads wound through the countryside, but the landscape melded into one messy, thick ocean of grass, upon which thickets of hedge, brambles and trees bobbed. I could see no towns, save for the odd abandoned country house strangled by vegetation, some almost hidden from view.
A little while later, we rounded a curve in the road. My heart exploded with delight as I realised where we were. It was the car park of a station. A faded, peeling sign sat above the station entrance.
'Ffarquhar'
Anne brought the Defender to a stop at the far end of the station platform, and I had the door open and my seat belt off before she could cut the car's engine.
We'd driven directly onto Awdry's original model railway, but in 1:1 scale.
A pair of tracks ran up by the platform, both of which followed the slightest of curves. Ivy-riddled retaining walls stood just beyond the end of the terminus. It was nothing like the show, bearing little resemblance to the single-track station seen the world over.
Awdry had immortalised this station in model form perfectly.
He had been here.
"This is, this is," I tried to talk, but my mind was too erratic to string thoughts into words.
"It is," Anne shut her door and walked over to me, "My grandfather told us how the Awdrys used to come by for tea when they holidayed on Sodor. The Reverend would bring along a replica model of an engine or two for my grandfather to see, and pictures of how his miniature recreation was coming along. My family were all for the books and models, which promoted the railway to a much wider audience than we could ever reach."
"It definitely did," I mustered up an agreement.
"We owe the Awdrys so much thanks," Anne added, "Without them, we'd never have had the best of times."
"Are you still in contact with them?"
"Like us Hatts, they're thin on the ground these days," Anne exhaled, "But not forgotten. Not by us."
"And they never will be," I stood, in awe at the station. One man, his books and his models, had given the world more joy than anyone could've expected.
"Now," Anne patted my shoulder, "How about you help me with my final task."
"What's that?" I tore my eyes away from the station.
She pointed. My eyes followed, and I almost died of ecstasy.
A junction just down from the station split at a pair of points. The track curving right led to a branching set of sidings. Two tracks led underneath a pile of collapsed timber and slate, crawling with brambles and ivy. The shed standing next to it, with two stone berths and one brick berth, was still intact. My heart palpitated as Anne got back in the Defender to drive us over.
The padlock unlatched. Anne used a key over my tried-and-tested breaking-and-entering methods. The doors opened, revealing my childhood inside. You know what I saw.
Six small wheels.
A short, stumpy funnel.
A short, stumpy boiler, and a short, stumpy dome.
Standing in blue paint, with red lining and a yellow number 1, he was here. He had survived.
It was Thomas the Tank Engine.