I'm not sure what woke me. It was likely the morning light blazing through the shattered window, over which I'd hung some makeshift curtains, though they seemed to have fallen away during the night.
I yawned, squinting under the retinal assault, as I sat up on my sleeping mat. The carpeted floor of this abandoned house was much more agreeable to my spine than the Vicarstown roundhouse. I couldn't remember anything from the night before, having conked out from exhaustion as soon as I laid down after dinner.
Stretching and cracking my shoulder blades, once my body had unstiffened I began to appreciate my morning view. The sun, low in the sky, skipped photons over the water's surface. Refractions and reflections twinkled like submerged Christmas lights. The sea was deathly still. Sodor's peaceful, tranquil beauty remained intact, irrespective of whatever had ravaged the island physically.
The floor around me was a mess. My mess. Pieces of the night before filtered back, the things I'd began doing before bed. The stove sat, water in the pan to make it easier to clean, with newspapers and my map littering the space either side of my mat. I'd stumbled across the newspapers in an old newsagent down the street. An attempt had been made to archive some copies, but the majority were covered with mold. One paper remained intact enough, so I snagged it for myself. It was a look into the past, a glimpse at the larger jigsaw whose picture I couldn't yet see.
Arthur and Abigail had been right. The front page was brandished with a damning headline:
'PRESERVATION FAILURE: HATT SLAMMED AS WORKERS FORGO RETIREMENT'
The paper at least gave me a date. 10th August 2013. I gave it a quick skim, picking out what I could among blotches of ruined ink.
'The NWRC's attempt at maintaining steam services on 'preservation' branch lines has been branded a failure by the Department of Transport. The initiative has continued to lose the railway money, with remaining commuters opting for reliable cars instead of the infrequent services. Diesel traction on the main line has sufficed, but trade unions have slammed Sir Topham Hatt with concerns over railway workers forgoing retirement to keep services running. "These lines have been running since we were children," one engine driver told us, "We'd be damned if they died before we did."
The nostalgia effect hasn't translated into increased ticket sales...'
I paused for thought, digesting the notes. Diesel eventually won over steam to run the spine of the railway network, with steam being relegated to branch line use only. The feeling towards steam remained strong, personal, so what caused the switch to be made? It seemed to go against the efficacy I had come to know of Sodor - a safe haven for steam. The issue of age stuck out as well. Where were all the youths? Did they not share the same passion for the railway? And 'remaining commuters'... the job sector on Sodor didn't sound like it was in healthy shape either.
Some solid evidence at last, but it only provided more questions.
I turned to my map. Norramby fishing village had been a bust. No industry remained, only the two engines now sharing their final moments. Brushing the depressing reality aside, I retraced my planned steps.
It was time to get back to the plan I brought to Sodor: following the main line. I'd have to backtrack slightly, going cross-country to the nearest bridge over the River Hoo, and then continue down the branch line to Crovan's Gate. Given this was where the narrow and standard-gauge lines converged, and the home to the Steamworks and Transfer Yards, there had to be something there to shed light on the deepening mystery.
I quickly shovelled down some breakfast and gathered my belongings, sticking the newspaper in my bag for future reference. Sleeping in an empty, decaying house hadn't been as bad as one might think. Besides the peeling wallpaper, rotting stair banister and creaking floorboards, there'd been nothing that had leapt out or rattled my senses. The seaside had been as quiet as can be, the skies punctuated only by the light sloshing of waves down by the railway lines.
Stepping outside filled me with mixed emotions. Should I stick my head in on Arthur and Abigail, or was I delaying the inevitable? Our paths would never cross again. Calling upon logic to quell the temptation, I pressed forth down the tarmac and back up the line. Given I didn't know what terrain lay ahead, or what condition the Ballahoo-Crovan's Gate line was in, it was best to save all my time for travel. My head and gut outvoted the heart.
Landmarks from the day before passed as I retraced my journey. The points I'd switched, the Old Pier rotten and riddled with barnacles. From here I went off-track, trudging through rustling vegetation towards the banks of the Hoo, Following the river directly would save time. The nearby Sodor River Bridge would be my crossing point.
The Hoo itself was much higher and wider than it appeared on the map, no doubt the result of rising sea levels, keeping water in the river system. New banks had started to establish. Young silver birch saplings, sparse along the river's grassy fringe, often flanked patches of heather. While wider and higher, the river hadn't gotten longer, and within no time the grey bridge drew into view. Once tall above the river with five proud arches, time and nature had taken control. The arch extensions were now underwater. The arches themselves resembling dam discharge pipes more than a bridge.
Peeling off to the right, I climbed the shrubby embankment until I reached the railway lines again. Soon I was on the bridge itself, which seemed to be structurally sound. Strips of ivy had crept up the brickwork here or there, and there was some external erosion over the brick surface. But it was an antique filter, improving the bridge's aesthetic with age. Whether Thomas had really failed to brake here was a mystery. Special stone blocks may be nestled deep in the waters below. I guessed some of Sodor's secrets would forever remain a mystery.
I followed the tracks down the line and entering a deep and shady woodland. A junction approached on my left, adjoining the line I followed towards what I hoped was Crovan's Gate. Some trees had collapsed, blocking the route. I hauled myself and my pack over them, relieved I hadn't tried bringing Abigail down here instead. A dark and empty woodland was no place for her to remain during her final days.
I followed the track round a bend, realising I was wrong. A lush overgrown meadow stretched out, tall with wildflowers, the surprised heads of some deer jerking up at my intrusion. We remained frozen, the herd staring at me, like a faint memory had emerged from the shadows. Chewing, eyes followed me as I left them to their meal and carried on on my way.
The midday sun was glaring overhead as I emerged from the woodland, glinting off the rails as I looked down the line. A narrow-gauge track had appeared, running parallel to the standard-gauge lines I'd been following. Crovan's Gate was close. Side-by-side, the lines continued, taking me straight into the Transfer Yards. Weeds and horsetails peppered the ballasted narrow-gauge sidings with a patchwork of grey and greenery. Remnants of stone buildings were nestled across the yard, their platforms and doorways blocked by thickets of brambles. The wooden platform between the two railways had rotted, collapsing inward in places. Flaking, rusting green bridges stretched across the backdrop of the site. Nothing had been transferred here for a long time.
Passing beneath the bridges, I prepared myself for the sight of Sodor's massive Steamworks. Subversion struck again.
What laid out before me could only be described as a bomb site. Roofing panels gone, the top of the building had collapsed inwards. The workshop interior was stripped bare of machinery and engine parts. Cluttered with collapsed steel beams, roof segments and rubble, I opted to walk around the outside. Exploring the interior was too risky.
The front of the building was no better. The traverser sat derailed, buckled under its own weight, while the huge Steamworks sign laid brittle and disintegrating on the middle set of rails. Telephone poles had collapsed across roads and rails, loose power lines snaking across any terrain within their range. It defied belief how this could've happened to such a large, important place.
Concluding it was too dangerous to explore, I pressed on up the line. Around the next bend in the tracks was Crovan's Gate, a castle of a station. A glass canopy spanned the gap between the two platforms, the buildings resembling crenellated castle forts. Surprisingly, though not unlike most castles, the architecture appeared relatively intact. The only victim of age was the canopy glass, which had shattered across the rails and platforms below.
Powering myself up the ramp onto the platform, I sought the stationmaster's office. A station of this size, spanning two different railways, was sure to have some records of what was happening in its final days. The office door wasn't hard to locate, but my luck finally ran out.
It was locked.
The door handle and lock had rusted in place, and the hinges were visible to me, meaning the door would've swung outwards, so it couldn't be kicked in from the platform. The screws and hinges had rusted together as well.
Assessing my options, there was nothing else for it. Dropping my bag, I dropped myself down onto the rails, scooping up a chunky piece of ballast in my hand. Taking aim, I launched it at the stationmaster's window. Hitting it dead centred, the glass shattered, and the frail aged wooden cross frame collapsed under the force of my shot.
Draping one of the old curtains over the glass fragments on the windowsill, I climbed into the office. Much remained unmoved, frozen in time, as if left for when operations would start up again. There was a timetable on the wall, left untouched since its last day in service. The whiteboard had lost its sheen. The ink had dried in place. Several names and railway positions were listed, as well as who was off work. Three crew members were listed as taking 'involuntary leave (company mandated temporary retirement)'. Workers had been forced to take breaks, perhaps after pressure from the unions. Underneath, a large angry scrawl read:
'NOT ENOUGH STAFF'
An angry operational point in the past was now a clue to a weary traveller decades later. There was an operational crisis on the railway, something forcing workers to abstain from retirement. Where had all the young people gone, those of working age who would have filled their shoes? Sodor was a magical place, many a child's dream destination.
After some more scouring, the office yielded little else. I moved on, heart tugging stronger than the head, guiding my body, mind following. There was one place I just had to see.
Passing through the office, I kicked the opposite door outwards onto the next platform, across the tracks sat the island platform between the standard and narrow-gauge lines. Much of the wooden canopy and picket fencing had rotted away, leaving the tall lonesome canopy masts as the only objects standing on the platform. I trotted across the standard lines, hauling myself up onto the island, and I dropped down the steps to the lines that had once belonged to the little engines.
My heart ticked, falling into sync with my side-tracked brain. I wondered... it was worth a check. Spying some walls down the line, I hopped off the platform and tracked the rails to the next bend in the tracks. Sections of the walls on either side of the lines had crumbled in spots, rubble blocking the lines. The wall to my left connected to the back of a square building.
I followed the trail, coming to a place that was the staple of my childhood, albeit from an angle I'd never seen. I kept walking, head rotating back and forth, absorbing myself in what remained. The boxy shed, roof crenullated like the station, was one of few where both gauges of engines could come together and rest. Reunions, farewells, disagreements and friendships all occurred here, the heart and souls of the engines on the railway mixing, perfecting the charm that carried the railway's legacy across several generations.
But all good things come to an end. The shed's parapets were almost eroded down to nothing.. Trucks sat on collapsed frames in the shed, shadows draped over them like body bags. A wooden shed on the far side of the yard had collapsed, now nothing more than a pile of splintering boards strewn across the narrow-gauge tracks. Thankfully, the brick sheds next to them seemed to be in better shape. The middle shed, covering two narrow-gauge tracks, had two large wooden doors sealed shut.
My mind, the child of my youth in controls, compelled me to explore. The most pervasive tale in my mind, that of Duke, the Sleeping Beauty, crept back. All remaining engines on Sodor were reduced to that fate now. An old tale that's come full circle. Every shed was a mystery box.
So much happened here. Nancy, a little girl who'd now lived her life, washed old Skarloey in this very siding. Duncan was threatened to be cut down to size. Merry songs about funnels and drains once chorused into the skies here. All that was left now was deathly silence, two railways side-by-side with no running trains.
Now adept at breaking and entering, I heaved the door open again. Not one, but two, sleeping beauties laid inside.
"Finally, I can get out of this old shack!"
"Shhh! We've got a visitor!"