#THIS IS THE ONE I POSTED ON ACCIDENT SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY AND MISHAP ANON. I LOVE YOU.

[mean-scarlet-deceiver]

DUCK-FIC?!! ⊙.☉ I- I need- more!?

LOL. Of course you do. We all do. The supply is way too stingy, seriously.

But, sorry to say, mine wasn’t really a Duck fic! More of a Truro/ensemble fic than anything.

Even sorrier to say, this fic is definitely on the scrap heap.

However, I will cave and post everything I had actually drafted for the Duck-and-Truro scene. I didn’t even bother to finish it up because nothing was really happening here—but it was a great deal of fun to imagine what they would have talked about!

(also, nonny, i'm sorry for the delay—it's my usual song-and-dance of 'dare i disturb the universe with my Stupid Stupid Stupidity? and, if i do, how much rambling must i do first?' but i broke through, in the end. thanks so much for dropping a line, despite all my tizzy and delay it is very very appreciated ♥)

Spring 1957

The Tidmouth engines often complained about Duck’s tendency to natter on. Nor were they the first, in his life, to need to occasionally remind him to shut up.

But the grand celebrity seemed to genuinely not mind.

“Go on,” he smiled, when Duck had caught himself about to ramble. “I’ve been talking all day myself, telling the same old story a hundred different times, and am glad of a rest. Besides, I’m rather curious, about this railway of yours.”

Duck went red, equally abashed and pleased. “Oh, there’s no place like it!”

“I must agree,” said City of Truro. “I don't have quite have my bearings, though. I thought this was the terminus?”

“Oh, it is, really. That’s the western coastal line, but it hasn’t been used since the war. And that’s the switch to the old harbor—but our Controller’s developing it so that it’s based at Knapford, now. And that switch to the north is a shortcut onto Thomas’s branch line—it bypasses the big station, so it’s useful for moving goods to and from the old harbor. The Ffarquhar branch, rather,” Duck corrected himself, but City of Truro smiled again.

“I’ve been rather out of things a long while. But even I know about Thomas’s branch line!”

“What!” Duck had to laugh a little. Of course, Sodor had its children’s books, and Thomas’s stories were especially popular. But the idea that the great City of Truro knew anything about it rather amazed him.

“Of course. I don’t suppose there’s an engine on all of British Railways that doesn’t know Thomas and Gordon.”

“Really? Oh, don’t tell them.” It was hard to predict which of the two would become more insufferable. Duck grinned, imagining it.

“Really. A few of the younger, rostered engines, whose crews read to them, could probably recognize all of you! I’ve met a couple such, who are great fans, and practically have those stories memorized. Evidently they’re very droll. I can’t believe the half of what I hear from them, though.”

“Oh, everything in those stories really happened, at some point. Sometimes the Thin Clergyman—the author—changes around the order a bit, or puts a rather odd twist on things, or invents some of what we say. And it causes quite a lot of bother and fuss among the engines here, whenever he does! But the events themselves all did happen.”

“I’m afraid that they have given the impression that your number one is rather accident-prone, then,” said City of Truro, very grave, and Duck had to laugh.

“Oh, that much isn’t true, quite.” Thomas was probably the engine that Duck got on with the least well of the lot, but Duck was loyal—and had to be fair. “He’s really a very responsible sort of engine, and not half as naive as the stories make out. But he’s very sporting, honestly, about letting the Thin Clergyman make a lot of hay out of his occasional little mishaps.” Which was remarkable, because Thomas was quite thin-skinned in general, outside of this one special arrangement. “There’s nothing Thomas wouldn’t do, if it helped out the railway.”

“Well, of course. That’s true of every proper engine… or, at least, it was.”

“Things have changed, on the mainland,” said Duck, darkly.

“They have,” said City of Truro. “Though one can hardly blame the engines. The railways themselves have changed so much. A nation-wide network is rather too big, somehow, for even their own new standard engines to feel proper loyalty. Were you on the mainland for nationalisation, Montague?”

“Yes, indeed. I worked Paddington station, up until the 08s started to come in. I’ve only been here on Sodor two years now! Where were you, when they made the Great Western a region?”

“I wasn’t on the Great Western at all. I was in store in a L.N.E.R. shed in the Scottish borders.”

Duck was indignant. “In store! Isn’t that just like them, though. How did you wind up stuck on their railway at all?”

“I can’t make any complaint about the L.N.E.R.,” said Truro mildly, “amusing though it might be, to wind up that Gresley Pacific of yours. They were the ones who preserved me, when I was taken out of service, right before the second war. Mr. Collett tried to get our railway to do so, but they weren’t willing at the time. So York took me in. It was very generous of them, to do such a thing for their old rivals, and to even have it printed right in their own museum, that my speed record was likely authentic.”

“They did? The London and North Eastern?” Duck had a good chuckle. “Oh, Gordon would blow a valve, if he knew!”

“A few of his cousins did just about that!”

“ ‘Likely,’ though. How silly!”

“Oh, be fair, now. The Great Western itself wouldn’t own to the thing officially, when it happened. So we can hardly expect the rest of the world to be much more definite about it!”

“But whyever not? I still don’t understand that. Surely it would have been a very exciting thing, to own to having the fastest engine in the world!”

“All the old railways did want to own just that,” agreed Truro. “But they also wanted to have a sterling reputation for safety! Back then, especially, because rail travel used to be a great deal less safe than it is now. Passengers needed lots of reassurance in those days—and deserved it. What driver and I did on those late-night runs was rather reckless, Montague. It would have brought a great deal of trouble down on our railway, if they had publicized it openly.”

“Like the other railways weren’t trying to do the same thing, on their runs!”

“Well, some weren’t. And now, looking back, I respect them rather a lot, for sticking by their principles. But yes, most all the other major networks were doing just the same as we.”

“Excuse me, though. If you were in a museum in York, how did you wind up in a shed at the Borders? That's too bad!”

“They sent a good many of us museum engines away, during the war, because they feared we’d be the target of air raids. Sprouston sheds were very dull, but they were safe—and I made a few friends, among the engines in service there. A good lot, if rather rough. It felt more homey than the museum, anyway, since I got much more railway news. Of course, after that move I seemed to be rather forgotten, but that’s always the danger of being put in store. Maintenance there kept me in good condition even though I wasn’t operational, and I’m grateful, because when our region looked into restoring me it proved a much quicker job than anticipated, thanks to their men. Of course, they’re no Great Western—I saw some appalling mismanagement there, both before and after nationalisation, and I’m sure our engineers were far the cleverer. Our Cities, our Castles, our Halls, and our pannier tank classes,” Truro smiled at Duck, “have all been second to none. But I’d not be here, without the North Eastern. It seems, too, like half your fleet here can say the same!”

“What? No, indeed.”

“Well, your renowned number four certainly is. And quite a lot of the others look Eastern too. At least, above the running board.”

“No, most everyone here is from the Midland region. Almost everyone’s older than me, though, and have had more or less rebuilding. Mostly more.”

“You’re Swindon-made,” said Truro calmly. “You’ll never need much rebuilding.”

Duck grinned. “Well, time will tell, I suppose! We’re a working railway, not heritage, so the first priority is always making sure we stay competitive with the mainland regions. But they do seem to be getting more interested in keeping us newer acquisitions in our original forms, as much as possible, so as to keep some of the old designs alive.”

“I couldn’t believe my eyes, when I saw your Great Western colors. I’ve been watching engines going in and out ever since, and you’re the only one here with your original paintwork. I couldn’t be prouder—but I am surprised, that your Controller allowed another railway’s livery!”

“I was too!” laughed Duck. “They’re very good to us, though. When I arrived here, the head painter told me I could have whatever I wanted. I told him, of course, that he should choose what he thought looked best, and that I’d be much obliged just so long as he got me out of that horrid B.R. black. But he laughed at me—in a nice way, you know—and made some sort of human joke about how I had to learn to dream in Technicolor. Whatever that is. Anyway, the truth was that there was only one thing I really wanted. But, of course, one wouldn't think it possible. So I had thought to ask for green, at least, and had been telling myself that I should soon come to like matching Percy—our number six; he was my first friend here. But in the end the North Western green is just not the same as ours, and it was oddly depressing, knowing that it was close but not quite right. If there had been a standard livery here, I should have been proud enough to wear it, but there isn’t anymore, really. At one point it was to be blue, but that scheme was given up long ago, and anyway I couldn’t help but think I’d look rather silly in that blue. It’s an old L.N.E.R. color, anyway! But the man insisted that I pick something, and so I owned that the only preference I really had was for my old Great Western paint, and short of that he should do as he liked. Much to my surprise, he grew quite excited, and said that it should be an interesting project—and perfectly possible, if I were willing to wait a little longer.”

“I expect you were,” said Truro proudly.

“Oh, of course! It was like a wonderful dream. Nor was it so very long. It turns out that Crovan’s Gate—that’s the workshop, for all the engines on this island, not just our own railway—they had inherited a good deal of things from Swindon, during nationalisation. Our Controller, it seems, is a great admirer of the Great Western, and he didn’t take my request ill at all. I believe he was as interested as we were, and he had a contact who came in specially, to make sure all the lining and lettering was done exactly right.”

“It makes sense, that he admires the Great Western,” said Truro thoughtfully, “for a good deal of our old spirit is quite alive here, so far as doing things your own way, and not letting London and Manchester come in and bully the life out of you. Still,” he chuckled, “although I take great pleasure indeed in seeing your paintwork, I must own there’s an old, fussy little part of me that’s rather shocked, at the idea of letting engines choose their own colors! And yet, don’t get me wrong, it’s a thousand times better than endless B.R. black.”

“Indeed it is! I know just what you mean, though, even if I am of course quite reconciled to the thing, now. I understand I have James to thank for all this—the red engine that you met earlier.”

“Ah. My new friend.”

“Well. I’m afraid he was only flattering you to get a rise out of Gordon.”

“I gathered that,” said Truro dryly, “and, I’ll be frank, I thought he could have been a bit more loyal. Gordon, I understood perfectly well, at least.”

“Oh, James is loyal,” said Duck, reflexively, though there was a shadow of doubt on his face. After all, he had never seen it really tested, although he suspected it was true. “He does stir things up pretty often, but I’m sure that when matters are serious we can all depend on him, and the truth is that he admires Gordon really—although it’s pretty sound policy, not to let on, because Gordon’s ego is plenty big enough as is. Anyway, James is only rather impulsive. He speaks first, and usually regrets it later. When he’s not cross—and, I confess, he often is—but when he’s not he’s good fun, and he is a hard worker, too, even if he does make ten times as much noise and fuss about most of his jobs as we’d think necessary, back home.”

“And it was down to him, that garter blue never quite became the standard around here?”

“Yes, that’s right. Of course, this was ages before I came—a little before I was even made, I think—but when James arrived they were to paint him blue. The engines were all blue at the time, even Henry, and they seemed to be working towards making them all look rather more alike despite being such a motley bunch, giving them the same cabs and tenders and splashers. But James had sheer gall enough to ask if he could have red, having always it seems rather fancied the idea. And the Fat Controller—the one at the time; he was the father to the one we have now—agreed, so long as James was useful and behaved himself, and that’s been the policy for all of us ever since.”

“And which one is this Henry?”

“Oh, the big green one. Number three.”

“Ah. The green three who is actually a Black Five!”

“Yes,” Duck chuckled, “though if you ever had heard the books read you’d know he wasn’t, always. That was a rebuild—the biggest they ever did.”

“Oh, was it, now? I had supposed he was younger than you.”

“No—only acts it,” said Duck wickedly, and then laughed, a little abashed. “I oughtn’t be speaking of them this way. You must think me pretty awful.”

“Not really,” said Truro, with perhaps a touch of wickedness in his own eyes, though he maintained a proper sobriety. “It may not be very Great Western—but then, I get the impression that it is very North Western.”

Duck had a good laugh at that. “Just so! We all rag on each other here, all the time. Everyone is so different from each other, in a way one often didn’t find, at home. That all said, they’re a good lot really, and I should be ashamed to bad-mouth them to strangers.”

“Well,” said Truro, “let’s consider ourselves friends now, instead of strangers, and then you needn’t worry.”

Duck blushed deeply. He had gotten very comfortable chatting away with the legendary engine, but the idea of being City of Truro’s friend brought the difference in their status back to him. “That’s—that’s quite an honor.”

“It’s been a real pleasure, Montague, getting to speak to another Great Western engine. And not a pleasure I expected to enjoy today. Are you here at Tidmouth tonight?”

“Oh, yes,” said Duck eagerly.

“Good! You’ll introduce me to the others, I hope. What about this other green friend of yours that you mentioned?”

“Oh—Percy?”

“Yes. You said he was the first engine you made friends with here.”

“Yes indeed! Funny enough, he worked the Great Western too, for a while. Then again, he’s worked just about everywhere. He was an industrial engine. We’ll see about tonight. There’s so much extra traffic today, with you here. Percy’s been helping me at Knapford, in between spotting in on Thomas’s line while Thomas brings specials down here, and basically being two or three places at once… we’ll have to see where he winds up for the night. The thing is,” laughed Duck, although secretly he was a bit annoyed, “Thomas is very likely to ask to stay here tonight specially and meet you. Percy wouldn’t bother to fuss with him about it. That’s one of the things I like most about him—he’s very down-to-earth, and not much awed by fame.”

“Then I should like him very much indeed,” agreed Truro. “Buffers crossed. What about your number two, is he based here?”

“Edward? No. He’s taken his last train out of here already, to his own branch line.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. I should have liked to speak with him. He looks to be one of my sort, you know, and I was surprised to see another of us. It looked to me as if he might still be in regular traffic, too.”

“Oh, of course he is! He works as hard as anyone here. And he would have loved to meet you too,” laughed Duck. “He’s been that excited, about the news of you coming! He remembers when word was first going around, about your speed record.”

“Is that so? I supposed he was from about my own time, to be sure, but I hadn’t thought he was around quite so long as me.”

“He’s older than you, I’m sure. He was made last century.”

“All these rebuilds,” said Truro, with mock rue. “I'll never keep track of your lot here, if you’re going to keep springing that trick on me. But now I am sure that he and I did similar work in our day, and that under all that Eastern re-modeling he was a light, speedy sort of engine by design.”

“You’re quite right—he was a main line express engine for a time, though I didn’t know that till just recently, for these days he does just about everything but! But he's told me how they all went a little mad, on his old railway, as word was going around about your run. Said everyone spent the rest of the decade debating it, but that many of his relatives were convinced you had done it… and that a few grew rather reckless, wanting to do the same!”

Truro chuckled. “I’ve heard a couple variations of that, from different places all over the country. I’d almost rather be disbelieved and dismissed, than have anyone come to grief in that sort of way.”

“Well, I don’t think anything bad happened on Edward’s railway. He says his managers came down pretty hard on his whole class, and put an end to the thing sharpish. But it sounds like you were much admired, among his lot. He mentioned one brother in particular, who wasn't such a fool as to fight his driver's controls and play speed trial—but he did manage to get all the way down to Great Western territory, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. But, of course, you were based in London, so he never got anywhere close, really.” Duck grinned. “I liked hearing how much our railway was respected, even back then. And I liked, too, that it got him to talk a bit about his time before Sodor. Most of the engines here never do. It’s rather strange!”

“I suppose some of them didn’t see as much service as you did, on their first network. Gordon, I know, was a prototype, and only did test runs on the mainland.”

“Is that really so?”

“I’m certain of it, as I’ve spoken with some of his brothers and cousins, you know. They’re very proud of his career here, for after his trials it was concluded that a good many changes were still needed to the class, and Gordon might have been expected to be taken apart… of course, that whole lot of great Eastern Pacifics are absurdly proud about everything. In any case, Gordon at least hardly knows anything but Sodor, and I suspect he’s not the only re-homed prototype here.”

“That’s funny,” said Duck thoughtfully, “for Gordon’s almost the only other one, besides me, who does talk much about his old railway… of course, now I think on it, it’s always a pretty generic sort of boasting. I suppose I might have guessed that he was never in full service there. Still, I always rather liked him better for such loyalty—and I suppose I still do. James was a prototype too, but he did have about fifteen years on his old railway, and he never talks about it. I can’t understand it.”

“Which railway was that?”

“Oh, the old Lancashire and Yorkshire.”

Truro looked rather serious. “Don’t judge him harshly for that, Montague. The L. & Y. was a bit notorious for being hard on its engines.”

He said nothing more, and for a moment Duck was quite silent too. It had never occurred to the pannier that James could ever not broadcast a grievance—which told him loudly and clearly that, whatever Truro meant, it must have cut James very deeply.

And James would never forgive him, if Duck were to know anything more about it.

“Your lot here hasn’t gone in very much for big engines, have they?” asked Truro, sounding thoughtful.

Duck wasn’t sure how curious the other engine was, or whether he was simply tiding them over the awkward moment. Either way, he took the chance gladly. “Well, we have some, of course. They’re very conscious here, about making sure we’re every bit as efficient as the Other Railway—and then some. If we’re not following their modernisation policies, then we must prove our ways are just as good!”

“The Other Railway,” repeated Truro, amused, and Duck laughed, going a bit pink.

“Yes, it’s what we all seem to call it, over here.”

“It’s still your railway, too! But I can’t help but like that,” admitted Truro. “And you mustn’t be too quick to judge the others here, Montague. I can think of lots of reasons they might not wish to talk much about their old lives. I shouldn’t want you to forget where you came from, but you must be proud of being North Western, too. It’s a fine home, you’ve got here.”

“Oh, I know it!” said Duck earnestly. “I am, indeed, and no mistake. Of course I’d give them my best anyway—but I’m awfully proud, to be one of the Fat Controller’s engines. And don’t take that amiss, either,” he added, with a grin, for Truro looked sceptical, at the cheek of the younger generation. “He knows very well everyone calls him that, and doesn’t mind. A great man, our controller.”

It took a moment, but, visibly deciding to not judge any too harshly himself, City of Truro relaxed into a smile.

“I am,” he said, “very glad to hear it.”

#ttte fic #fic snippet #ttte duck #city of truro #the railway series #ttte #this is ttte #chatter #jobeywrites