#deltic

Ghosts of the Past II

The National Railway Museum, York - Autumn, 2021

The sun broke over the museum. In the yard, the bunting and decorations had been hung up last night. The signs for the “Deltic Symposium 2021” were just visible in the low morning light.

Royal Scots Grey was already awake. The diesel and his siblings had been staged outside last night - at their own request, for the weather was mild, and they had wished to be together.

“Do you often wake before the dawn?” Gordon Highlander asked, her voice groggy.

“Nay.” He replied. “But my thoughts have refused to quiet. Twould be more accurate to say that my slumber never began.”

“Your rest is not usually turbulent. Something troubles you.” Royal Highland Fusilier was a light sleeper.

“Of sorts.” ‘Scots’ said quietly, trying not to wake the others. “Our spacing has brought about an uncomfortable line of thought, one I have been unable to rid myself of.

The engines had been placed in the yard, lined up next to each other so that they all could be seen equally, however there was a conspicuous opening between Tulyar and Scots that had not been explained.

“Do tell.” Said ‘Fuse’ quietly. “Keeping it inside only delays the pain, it does not quell it.”

“I do not wish to trouble you all.” Scots murmured. “My thoughts run to unpleasant stations within mine own mind - I dare not burden you with it.”

“A burden shared is a burden lightened.” Tulyar said, her eyes still closed.

There was no change in his expression, but a shift in the cadence of his breathing told the others that Scots would acquiesce. “My mind runs to thoughts of loss.” He said finally. “This empty space implies the presence of another, but…”

“Only the dead art absent.” Tulyar’s eyes opened, her gaze soft and filled with empathy.

They all sat silent for a moment, unsure of how to proceed.

“Who was it?” This from Deltic - the first of their kind, and the one with the most hidden scars. “Was it one of us that graced your thoughts? Or merely a great depression over all that we’ve lost?”

“Nimbus.” Scots said after a moment.

A round of quiet and more or less instinctual laughter followed this.

“Of course!” Chortled ‘Gordie’. “Who else but our forever youngest to keep thee from catching but a wink. What about her didst thy thoughts leadeth to?”

“A story about a phantasm.” Scots said, suddenly feeling self conscious. “An oft-repeated and seldom hath believed tale, did spread through gossip. Apparently some time after we were forced from our rails, a group of ‘spotters’ did observe our sister traveling through Hadley Wood station at a great speed.”

Alycidon snorted like the race horse he was named for. “Huh. Such a tame story. Knowing our sister, one would find it most unlikely that she would remain on this damned Earth as anything less than a full-fledged poltergeist, intent on scaring the life out of everything she encountered.”

“Verily,” Tulyar rolled her eyes. “She would not consider her work complete until she caused another to perish from fright alone!”

Everyone else had a merry laugh at this, except for The King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, who was much less merry in the morning. “Might you all not make such a noise before the sun hast fully risen? I wish to catch sleep, not gossip.”

“Fie!” Deltic snorted. “We speak of thy own sister, not tabloid issues.”

“Which one?”

“Nimbus. Do pay attention.”

“Twas sleeping.”

“And now thou art not.”

“One wonders why…”

“Brothers…” Tulyar cut them off. “I do believe that Scots hast not finished his line of thought.”

Scots sighed deeply, hoping that the two would have drawn the attention away from him. “My thoughts of Nimbus endeth there, but she hath caused a line of thought to cross mine mind - how many times hath we heard tales of engines vanishing into the night? Tens? Hundreds? We brush them aside as little more than stories, meanteth to calm panicking engines about their sibling's true fate, but... what if 't be true, that they art not just stories? Certes there can't be that many false tales of engines being pick'd off the dock by a mechanical Charybdis, and spirited away to the lands beyond the sea - some must be true. "

"You think we're to be visit'd by a phantasm made metal? Someone who BR did save without our knowledge?" 'Kings' asked incredulously.

"Who's to say? You knoweth as well as I that we were kept away from the dead lines. Who is to know what might hath happened, once all the eyes of those who care were removed from the equation?”

“You think that more of our number survive out there? That British Rail, of all organizations, would allow itself the slightest bit of charity or mercy?” Kings seemed unconvinced.

“I know not.” Scots said, his tone level, looking at the gap between himself and Tulyar. “But this spacing between us cannot be anything other than deliberate. Whether we art to be visited by spirit or steel, I cannot say.”

“Mayhaps 37 372 shall be joining us.” Gordie suggested darkly. “Rumours of his completion have madeth their way to me.”

A long silence fell at that. After the unfortunate loss of all the Class 23 “Baby Deltics” - their closest relatives - an enthusiast group had set about ‘rebuilding’ an example out of a surviving motor and a most unfortunate Class 37. The engine would be so heavily modified at the end that they’d likely be unrecognizable as their former self when they were eventually finished.

“We would welcome him warmly…” Deltic said, his voice thick. “As twould be unconscionable to do otherwise. But after the conclusion of today, I would most assuredly cause some sort of scene.”

The others quietly agreed - they held no malice against the engine, but they were not one of them, and this was ‘their’ day, as had been agreed for the past few years that this event had gone on for, 2020 notwithstanding.

“I do hope that you art incorrect.” Fuse said once the dark mutterings had subsided. “But it does beg the question: who else couldst it be?”

The conversation continued in this manner for some time, until the sun rose over the museum grounds fully. At this point, the engines inside the great hall awoke… and promptly resumed an argument that had been brewing last night. At this point, conversation in the yard became almost impossible, as everyone was too busy listening to, and then mocking, the arguments going back and forth inside.

-----

Poppleton Station, City of York

Daphne rolled through the last station before York, a happy look on her face and a conflicted feeling in her tanks.

On one buffer, she’d seen her surviving family on and off over the years - the most recent being Tulyar just two years ago, and Gordie (she hadn’t told Sodor’s Gordon about her yet - he’d probably blow a gasket on principle and she wanted to be there to see it) she hadn’t seen in almost twenty years. This was going to be so much fun, and that was before she thought of the prank she was going to have to pull on the NRM staff - for her christmas present to Gordon.

But on the other… the last time any of them had seen her was not only in another lifetime, but in another world as well. As far as they were concerned, she might as well not exist. For goodness’ sake, this ‘symposium’ had been put together just so they all had a reason to see each other! They’d lost so much, and had just each other, and she was going to come bouncing in like nothing was unusual?

The last signal before the NRM came and went in a flash of green. She had to slow to almost a crawl in order to enter the NRM’s yard, and there was a museum employee standing next to the hand-thrown switch that protected the yard. Her driver blew her horn to acknowledge that he’d seen the man, causing the distinctive two-note Deltic honk-honk to ring across the station and yard.

Well, she thought, a massive smile unconsciously spreading across her face. That simplifies things, doesn’t it?

They had to have known she was here, so why not embrace it? She was one of Sodor’s engines - it wasn’t like she couldn’t handle the unexpected and the unusual, after all.

And, she thought to herself as she rolled into the yard, taking in the sight of her seven siblings, each one of them rapidly turning pale. Today is going to be very wonderfully unusual.

--------------------------------------

Dover - 1983

The sky was overcast to the point of being black. No star’s light penetrated it, and the ground was cast into the purest form of darkness. A ferryboat waited at the linkspan, lights off, motors running at high idle, and the French flag hanging limply from the jackstaff.

In the distance, a train could be heard approaching, the drone of the motor echoing off of the low cloud cover.

After a few minutes, the engine, running without lights, became visible in the dark edges of the yard. It slowed but did not stop as it approached the end of the tracks, before rolling over the linkspan and into the empty ferry. Moments later, a Citroen saloon car wearing fake license plates started up, its motor silent behind a deeply modified muffler, and its headlights dark - the bulbs removed. The car followed in the locomotive’s wake, its oil filled suspension allowing it to smoothly roll over the sleepers and onto the boat deck.

The moment the car was onboard, the linkspan was raised, the ferry’s doors shut, and it began to leave the harbour. It lit no lights other than those for navigation, its bulk barely visible from shore. As soon as they were underway, a group of men sprung out of the Citroen, each one wearing bulky night-vision goggles. They swarmed over the engine, joined by men who came out of the cab, and quickly secured the locomotive to the deck with heavy chains.

All was quiet as the ship cleared the breakwater. It took many minutes before any noise was made, and when it was, it came from the ferry herself.

«Commandant, nous avons franchi la frontière maritime.»

With that, the men ripped off their night vision goggles and a rousing cheer went up. The ship’s deck lights snapped on, and a bottle of champagne was produced from inside of the Citroen.

The commander, now looking very pleased with himself, turned to face the engine. “Mademoiselle,” He said, with a thick French accent. “Please allow me to be the first to welcome you to France!”

Nimbus couldn’t repress the broad smile that came across her face.

-

2021 - The French Embassy to The United States of America (Ambassade de France aux États-Unis) - Washington, D.C.

It was a quiet morning in the Ambassador’s office. Paperwork was the fuel that all governments ran on, no matter how much she’d rather it be diesel - or merlot, and some last minute signoffs to an upcoming trade agreement had had her working late. That had turned into working early, and then she’d realized that she was in no shape to get herself back to the shed at the ambassadorial residence, so she’d slept in her office.

Her secretary slipped in, and waved a mug of coffee under the big locomotive’s nose. «Réveillez-vous, nous n'avons pas encore sauvé le monde.»

«Je ne savais pas que les importations de fromage étaient la clé pour sauver le monde.»

«Qui sait? Aujourd'hui pourrait être le jour.»

«Votre positivité à cette heure est dégoûtante. Êtes-vous venu ici pour quelque chose d'important?»

«Pas particulièrement. La Maison Blanche veut programmer une séance de photos pour l'affaire des sous-marins, et vous avez un déjeuner avec la Banque mondiale.» A sheaf of papers was laid out on the desk in front of the diesel.

«Merveilleux. Est-ce tout?» Maybe she could get some rest before the day truly began.

«Pas assez. Un des amis de mon fils lui a envoyé cette photo, et j'ai pensé que vous aimeriez la voir.» A freshly-printed photograph was slid on top of the rest of the papers.

Nimbus sighed slightly at the subject. It was her family - or rather, all that was left of it. Six engines, plus DP1 himself, all lined up in a row in some damp yard in England. She could almost feel the cold seeping into her frames.

Attends une seconde… There were seven surviving Deltics, other than her of course. So why were there eight?

Her eyes widened as she finally placed the last face in the line of diesels.

A dark Christmas night. She’d avoided the dead lines as long as she could, but BR caught up with her eventually. A quiet affair filled with misery and destruction.

A failed Deltic arrived on a late train. Borderer. She’d stayed at the platforms until Boxing Day.

Another engine had shunted her into place.

A flash of light, several hours later.

The diesel was back, older in every imaginable way.

A sobbing apology.

A confused Christmas carol.

A thick fog.

A blinding light.

A Deltic, erased from time and space.

The men never noticed. They assumed she’d been cut up.

It was an inspiration for another to flee.

The secretary looked quite astonished at how pale the Ambassador had become. «Madame ? Est-ce que tout va bien? Vous avez l'air d'avoir vu un fantôme.»

Nimbus’ eyes snapped up at the word fantôme. “I think I have,” She said in English, her Doncaster accent thick and strong. “I need to get to England.”