As astonishing as the windmill discovery was, there was nothing there. I'd fully explored it within minutes. The wooden stairs had rotted apart, while wood and stone debris littered the exterior of the roof. In another few decades, there would be no windmill to see.
As I continued my trek towards Knapford, I chewed on the fate of the blue number one tank engine. If he had been scrapped, there would've been uproar internationally, not just on Sodor. And if he was sold into preservation, I would've heard about it. Perhaps he was tucked away somewhere on Sodor, and I surmised Tidmouth sheds was the safest bet of all for his final resting place.
Signs of the famous tank engine's incredible life continued to reveal themselves. I'd arrived at the remains of a level crossing. Bertie must've cursed their existence so early on in the famous Ffarquhar branch races. I crossed the lines with no issues (as the gates had collapsed), and to my left, in the distance, I caught my first glimpse of the Knapford skyline.
Pushing onward, the countryside soon gave way to more architectural carcasses. Empty buildings huddled together. There was much more variety than I'd seen elsewhere, except perhaps Vicarstown. More than one line ran through the town (city?), and there were houses, shops, churches, garages and car parks. A partially collapsed red brick church spire stood out to me against the rest of the skyline. I followed the roads west, and found the junction where Thomas' branch line met the main line. The bus depot was there, just as the map suggested. Weeds crept through the tiniest cracks and gaps in the tarmac as I made my way towards the garage, none of which were shuttered down. A quick peek inside revealed no buses. Bertie was nowhere to be found.
With the main line relocated, I stepped over a section of collapsed fence, and followed the tracks up towards where the station should be. Everything looked how I'd come to know it...
...which is why you must understand my shock when I discovered no big station. A retaining wall to my right led to a right hand curve in the track, which I assumed with take me there. But there was none.
A small two-platform station, as seen in the Railway Series, was all there was. No yard, no arching glass roofs, and no courtyard with a lion statue. Knapford, one of the most recognisable locations in the show, was a lie.
Whatever wind had been put in my sails by the discovery of the windmill was knocked right back out. I'd been hoping to find the Fat Controller's office, to look for more files and clues. Some more characters could've been in storage around the yard. But despite its sprawling streets and heavier industrial footprint, Knapford seemed to be no more important a station than Crosby, Wellsworth or Cronk.
Climbing onto the island platform. I dropped my bag, snatched a snack, and sat, collecting my thoughts. It made sense. Tidmouth was always the large station in the books. Knapford harbour would also give the town a second station and some shunting and storage facilities, so there was no need for a sprawling station worthy of a metropolis. A quick check of the map indicated Tidmouth was only a couple of miles away. Pushing onward, I decided to make it my final destination for the day.
Purply and orange hues swirled like watercolours above my head as I approached Tidmouth from the tracks. This was the big station at the end of the mainline. It was monolithic compared to every previous station (bar Vicarstown). It reminded me of the book illustrations, which coincidentally shared many features with the television rendition of 'Knapford'. Three triple sets of tracks passed underneath domed glass roofs, the steel frames of which were a deep green. The central track triplet served as a terminus, with the outer triplets of track passing through the station. One set, I deduced, led up towards the little Western, while the other probably led off towards the shunting yards.
As I scaled the far right platform ramp, it became apparent more glass now laid on the floor than above. The glassless canopies themselves had partially collapsed at various angles, the middle and left hand ones almost completely. It made for a haunting photograph. Rocks, branches and other debris had been blown or dropped here by storms over the years. Turning to the various doorways in the main station building, I searched for somewhere to bed down for the night. There was so much to explore here, but rest was needed first.
Light scattered across the interior of the station as the sun crept up the next morning. With a stretch and yawn, I got myself up and ready to nose around the deserted town. The names of various shops, and signs to various parts of the station, were much easier to see than the night before. The one that caught my attention most was the one saying exactly what I'd hoped for.
'Controller's Office'
Abandoning all my belongings, I trotted across the station to the door that bore identical words. Locked, I strongly questioned whether I had the gumption to break into Sir Topham Hatt's office. Like Sailor John, I was too looking for treasure of a different variety. But I had no dynamite, and wasn't the type to cause excessive property damage.
While the lock was 'locked', it came apart relatively easily with some shaking and force. The bolts and screws holding it together had rusted their threads away. The door opened, and I stepped into a real fantasy.
The telephone sat on the desk, enduring the longest bout of silence it had probably every experienced. It didn't bother me, that's for sure. A hat stand stood bearing no top hats. Some of the wooden wall panels contained more damp-ridden areas than clean. A faint whiff of mold hung in the air.
I stared at the chair, the back and seat dressed in dark blue leather, cracked and split. I could imagine the big man sitting there, writing timetables, reorganising trains, and cursing a telephone call reporting an incident. This place was sacred. Part of me didn't want to violate it. But I'd come for answers.
Digging through some of the drawers, I found a bound book labelled 'Work Diary'. Once the railway closed, there was no use for it anymore. That was why he left it, I told myself. Withdrawing it with the care of one handling a historical, divine text, I opened it up, beginning about two thirds of the way through. The page I fell on contained a list of reference numbers, purchase numbers:
'AE/01967/0 – Four 15" steam locomotives (sold)'
'SR/01011/0 – Single 2'3'' Hunslet (sold – lost in transit, refunded)'
'FR/01961/0 – Single Unit Class 101 'D1' (sold)'
'This is too much'
The last words plucked a heartstring. Whatever was happening, whyever was happening, the man in charge couldn't keep it out of the formal pages. I checked the date. June thirteenth 2021.
I flicked forward to the final entry.
'There's no point delineating between work and personal memoirs anymore. All my life they've been one and the same, no matter how hard I tried. For the Hatt legacy to collapse, under my watch, is unforgivable.
To talk about the mental toll this has taken on me falls far short of what it actually feels like. The lines outside, all over this island, are alive. They are the real nerves of my being, what triggers the thrill of excitement within me. They're losing their jolt, falling quiet, fizzling into nothing. Without them, I don't know if I'll ever feel again. Without them, I don't know how I'll live.
Selling these engines, or 'repurposing' them (a circular spot on the page indicated where it had been wetted, perhaps by a tear), is almost too much for me to take. My doctor has forbidden me to undertake the task myself as the stress has triggered an aneurism. For the first time, I told him to shove it. This is beyond the understanding of medicine. It is voluntary deconstruction of my very being. But administrators order liquidation, and the NWRC has to make payments, or livelihoods far beyond the railway will be ruined.
I did the best I could. I've searched far and wide, despite my health, for good homes for my engines. The simple truth is, I've rovided a home for many that far exceeded what the rest of the world has to offer. In the end, my greatest success has become my greatest failing.
The board have pushed for sales, but there are not enough buyers. Hobbyists, with more money than mind, and private 'collectors' come by, taking what they want for as little as they can. Some offered big money for some. But, despite the direness of everything, my mind proves stubborn, resilient. There are some engines I will not sell, no matter the desperation. To lose them is to lose Sodor, and myself. A fine line it was. A fine line indeed...'
The book in my hand trembled so much that I couldn't read on. I put it down, taking deep breaths as I processed the literary sorrow I'd ingested through my eyes. The Fat Controller was always a stern, resilient, authoritative but caring figure. To see his thoughts, his essence, so broken and beaten all these years later; it was soul-crushing. A black hole of despair.
I put the diary away. The content was too personal, too raw, for even a stranger like me to handle. It was forbidden knowledge.
Placing it back into the draw, its rightful resting place, I left the office, closing the door behind me. Looking around the station, I pinpointed the tracks I wanted to follow. The set on the far side of the station, which should lead to the Little Western. I recalled in the show how Duck used to take the line past the sheds, so that seemed like the obvious route to pursue. The sheds, the resting place for many engines of the years, would hold some artefacts of Sodor's later years. My gut told me that for certain.
The yard was dead, silent, as my footsteps crunched on ballast, disturbing the peace. Like Tidmouth station, the site was a cocktail of everything I'd come to know. On the right of the yard was what I presumed was the original shed. Open-ended, four parallel tracks ran inside, each filled to the brim with old express carriages. With glass shattered, flooring collapsed and bogies and buffers rusted, the express was nothing to shout about any more.
On the left side of the yard was the newer roundhouse, but not as it had appeared on TV. It was fully enclosed, the entire building exterior circular, stonework painted cream, with a grey slate roof that rose to a single central point. A single track led inside, onto what I expected was a turntable surround by berths, as in the later books.
Stepping inside seemed to shrink me. It was the largest building I'd ever set foot in. The turntable had much of its floor collapsed into the well, looking more like a cluster of sprung pitfall traps than a workable contraption. Full length berths spread out on all sides. Sticking to the solid concrete floor of the berths, I stared up at the roof above. Spots of light shone through the gaps left by dislodged and missing tiles, peppering the floor with white spots. The silence continued to deafen, but every sense of mine was focused on him, sitting alone on one of the berths.
Fast asleep, I gently strolled around the floor, not wishing to wake his grace. The big blue engine sat, boiler partially covered by a tarpaulin near the cab, as I edged closer. Given his grumpy reputation, I pondered over how to wake him. An evil grin crept over my face.
There was only one way.
"Wake up lazybones!"
Gordon spluttered away in shock. "I beg! Huh, whatever do you..." His voice trailed off as he spied me, eyes wobbling as he realised he'd jumped back to another life, reacting on ancient instinct. "Oh. That wasn't a tricky tank engine waking me then."
"I'm sorry," I put my bag down, "I'd regret not taking the opportunity."
"You must be from beyond Sodor," Gordon huffed, "A sense of humour is awfully out of place these days."
I looked him over. Largely immaculate, his side rods looked like they'd been misted with a light orange hue. His wheels had speckles of green close to the rim, likely moss or lichen making themselves at home. His red lining had started to fade, with some of the blue paint atop his boiler beginning to blister as it sat beneath holes in the roofing. "What brings you to my shed of solitude?" Gordon asked indignantly.
"I'm an urban explorer," I answered, again, "Curious to see what's become of the island."
"Curiosity? Pah," Gordon exhaled, "There's nothing curious about it. Everything's been left to time. There's nothing here anymore."
"You're here," I stared at him, "You're something."
"I was something," Gordon corrected, "I was the pride of the line. The fastest and best. Guardian of the express. I put the wind in the railway's sails. But now..." He looked down, as if mourning his pistons and rods, "Now I'd be surprised if I moved at all."
"You're still all of those things," I pulled out my notepad, just in case, "All the children who read and saw your tales know that."
"They know my history," Gordon grumbled, "If the world saw my sorry state now, they'd pity me. But only for a second. Attention moves surprisingly quickly, and it left Sodor in the cold as soon as we hit hard times. There's a newer, faster engine out there. I'm a mere artefact."
"Old or not," I cleared my throat, "You are still an icon for this island. I'm still none-the-wiser on what brought the railway down."
"Gremlins of the highest degree," he sighed, "They got into everything. The businesses, the finances, the weather, the railway... Everything began to... rust away."
But why? I couldn't help but wonder. Such a melting pot of problems didn't just happen, all at once. Something seismic must've sent off a chain reaction.
"What does it matter?" Gordon continued, "Perhaps us steam engines lasted too long. The happier days were far behind us at that point anyway."
"How so?"
"Before I was shelved in the final years," Gordon spoke, deep and slow, "I couldn't run without help. The last proper run I had unaided, probably my slowest, was also my finest as well."
"Can you tell me about it?"
"Of course."