Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bert the steam engine sat in the yards, being steamed up for his days’ work on the Small Railway. As his fire warmed him up, he saw a young woman, an old gentleman and a youngster all arrive at the station. One had a camera, and the other two both had notepads.

“Who are they?” Bert asked his driver. “They look like they have the same things the Thin and Fat Clergymen had when they visited… but the Thin Clergyman is retired.”
“Those two are the ones who are making the new Sodor TV show,” Bert’s driver explained. “They must be here to look at adding us to the show!” Bert was excited. “How wonderful!” he cheered. “But… who’s the youngster then?”
“They’re the other Author – they’re collecting all of the stories that the Thin Clergyman and his son couldn’t.”
“So we might get a new book soon?!” exclaimed Bert.

Bert’s excitement only grew when the three took his train up to the last station.
“No cars this time!” he crowed as he puffed along. At every station, the gentleman with the camera took pictures, and the woman jotted things down in her notepad.

The three all got off at the Top Station.
“Frank’ll bring them home,” Bert’s driver noted. “He’s got the last train today.”

Bert told Frank the news. Frank immediately went for a clean.
“I have to look good for the three!” he said.

He headed up the line, running as smoothly as he could.
“Should I tell them about how I maintain the rails? Or would that sound too much like Rusty?” he wondered aloud. “Or should I talk about the ballast trains?! They might find that interesting!”

But when Frank arrived at the Top Station, he found that the Gentleman had put the camera away, and the woman had closed her notepad. Only the young Author still looked interested.

Frank didn’t like that.
“I must make them interested,” he vowed.

The train ran smoothly down the hill. Frank was as careful as possible, not wanting to jostle the important guests. Things went well until they reached the farm-stretch. This part of the line had several branches that shot off to the various farms that the line serviced.

These points had to be changed manually. Frank had no idea that Bert had just pulled into one of the farms to collect produce for the markets. The little diesel was heading for disaster.

Frank was so busy worrying about running smoothly that he didn’t see the points set against him until it was too late.
“Ooer!” he groaned, hitting the points and bouncing off the rails. He bumped along the ballast, then stopped. Frank had derailed.

The young woman looked very confused, and the old gentleman was nursing a bruise on his back. Only the young author seemed to understand what had happened, and hopped up to come help re-rail Frank. The woman followed.

“What happened?” she asked. “Aren’t points set automatically?”
“On some parts of the line, yes,” sighed the driver. “But here they are manual, because normally they are always set to the mainline. Someone must’ve forgot to reset them after heading to a farm.”
“Interesting…” murmured the woman, wandering away.

Several of the passengers, the young author and Frank’s driver all got together and lifted Frank up and onto the rails. It took quite a bit of effort, but soon he was back on the line, and the points had been set properly. The passengers boarded the train, and they set off.

Frank felt very embarrassed.

“Now they’ll never include us in the Television show,” he said sadly. He moped all the way home, where the Small Controller was waiting for them.
“This accident was not your fault,” he told Frank. “It was an unfortunate incident, and while we will investigate, I am very happy to hear no one was seriously injured. You will have to be checked over in our workshops though – no more work for you today.”

Frank agreed, and sadly limped to the workshops.

The young author visited him while he was being checked over.
“Thank you for a lovely journey,” they said. “I hope you weren’t damaged.”
“I don’t think so,” Frank replied, “just a bit surprised.”
“That’s good to hear,” smiled the author. They turned and walked away.

The next day, the young woman and the older gentleman left, after speaking to the Small Controller.

“I am sorry to say,” sighed the Small Controller, “that the Television show has decided it would be too difficult to add us to the show. Neither us nor the Skarloey Railway will be appearing in the next season.”
“What about the Thin Clergyman and his son Sir?” asked Frank. “Will they be writing a new book?”
“They may write one, but I don’t know.”

Poor Frank.

Chapter Text

Bert is a very hard-working little engine. When Rex and Mike get into one of their inevitable arguments, it comes down to Bert to keep a level head and find a solution. Once, long ago – he had been reckless, but he had grown up quickly and become a really-useful member of the railway.

But the one train that he hated was the ballast train.

The ballast trains ran from the former mines of the Mid Sodor Railway down to the ballast chutes of Arlesdale. They were often long, heavy and difficult to control – even if the trucks themselves were well behaved.

Only Frank knew about Bert’s distaste for the ballast trains. Bert didn’t want to tell Rex or Mike – they would probably make fun of him for it.

One morning, Bert had trouble getting up steam. His fire wouldn’t burn, and he could not make steam.
“You’re going to have to swap jobs with Mike,” sighed the Small Controller. “The early morning ‘Wanderer’ has to leave soon.”

Bert did not like that! Mike loved pulling Ballast trains, and his day was filled with trains filled with the spoils of the mine, running from the old mines down to the chute. Mike wasn’t happy either.
“Passengers!” he roared. “Why me?!”
“Because Bert can’t make it.”

Even though the two protested, they could do nothing. Mike went off with the morning passenger train, and Bert collected the ballast trucks.

The Small Railway’s Ballast trucks are some of the nicest trucks on all railways. They run smoothly and speak politely. They are well behaved; kind and all the engines like them. All, bar Bert.

Bert met Frank up at one of the mines. The little diesel was repairing a pair of points that had jammed in the cold night air.
“I can’t believe I have to do ballast workings,” grumbled Bert. He banged about the yard, putting together his train before grumbling his way down to the yards. He was rough, and didn’t listen to how the trucks asked for him to be gentler.

“Please Bert,” one said. “We are feeling rather bruised!”
“Could you be gentler?” another asked.

Bert didn’t hear them – he was too busy grumbling about the state of the rails.

The day went on like that, and Bert only got worse. Frank could see the trucks were getting cross, but Bert would not listen to him.

Finally, Bert was coupled up to the last ballast train. He was rough all the way down the branch, spitting complaints. The trucks had had enough.
“We’ll do it when we get to the slope,” they said to one another.

The slope was a section of the line that descended downwards sharply, following the old embankment of the Mid Sodor Railway where it had had to swing round the end of an estate and climb up to the head of the valley from the port.

Bert was preoccupied, and didn’t remember to stop to pin down brakes. The trucks’ chance had come.
“Ready! Steady! Go!” they shouted, charging into Bert. Bert was taken by surprise.
“What are you doing?!” he yelped.
“Faster! Faster!” the trucks chanted. The train picked up speed, flying down the slope and towards the transfer yards.

Bert put every ounce of steam into battling the trucks – but their loads were too heavy, and they were determined.

Bert thundered into the transfer yards, and shut his eyes in horror. At the end of the yard, there was a turntable, followed by three sidings. These stood on a retaining wall – and then there was the Little Western branchline.

Bert’s driver leapt from the cab.
“Stop! Stop!” shouted Bert. A quick-thinking workman dashed over and turned the turntable. Bert plunged into the turntable well and came to a stop.

The Small Controller raced over.
“What happened?!”
“They pushed me!” exclaimed Bert.
“He bumped us about all day!” rebutted the trucks.
“My coupling’s about to break!” one shouted. There was a splintering crack, and the last five trucks rolled back several feet. The others began adding their own complaints – and all Bert could do was listen to them.

When the trucks finished, the Small Controller looked livid – and not with the ballast wagons.
“Bert, I am ashamed. Usually you are so much better than this. When you are mended, you will be working farm trains until I can trust you again.”

“I told you to tell him,” Frank sighed as he rumbled by.

And Bert did. Though he still had to do the farm trains, now the Small Controller understood Bert hated the ballast workings.

Chapter Text

It was a late evening on the Small Railway. The engines were cooling down after a long day’s work. Frank, however, was restless.
“This is silly,” he huffed. “We’re just sitting here – what happened to working? Hard work brings good appetite. Duke would say so.”
“Duke would also say not to go out along our line after dark,” Rex rebutted. “I overheard him telling his stories while I was at the works, and I know for certain there are ghosts on this railway.”
“Ghosts?!” laughed Frank. “On this sleepy little line? Nothing interesting has happened here since Sigrid lived!” The steam engines went silent. Frank was confused.

“There’s something you three haven’t told me, isn’t there?”
“The Sudrian Revolt was centred around this valley,” Rex said slowly. “Duke lived through it… barely.” And Rex began telling the story Duke had told the crowd (See When Duke was a Young Engine).

When he got to the story of Albert, Rex got very quiet. He peered into the night, frowning.

“Did… did anyone else just see… taillamps?” The others all looked out along the line – but saw nothing.
“You’re seeing things!” laughed Mike. “We’re all here Rex.”
“But I – there it is again!” The four all looked back down the line – and saw the smallest flicker of red. Rex, Mike and Bert all went silent for the longest time.

“So…” Frank began slowly.
“Er… right. Albert was a rude engine who worked on the line, and caused trouble for Duke…” Rex finished his story, and an uncomfortable silence coated the yard.

Frank broke it. 

“But what does he have to do ghosts?” he asked. Mike spoke up.
“Duke once claimed that sometimes, when the moon was new and the air was still, he could hear Albert whistling, and the chatter of soldiers. And sometimes… sometimes… he saw glowing red…”
“Eyes,” Rex finished darkly.

Frank fell uncomfortably to sleep, feeling a pair of eyes on him the entire time.

***

The next afternoon, Frank had to head up the line to repair a pair of broken points in a passing siding.
“I’m not the maintenance diesel,” he grumbled. “That’s what the Blister-twins do. And with Jock out for an overhaul, it’s all been rather dull.”

To his surprise, they found that the points were worse than broken: they were mangled! Frank was rather confused by it all – the points had been completely fine the day before.

They went to go get better tools – but just as Frank was pushing the trucks over the other set of points he felt a jolt, heard a loud bang – and then one of his trucks had derailed.

Mike came to collect the unhurt trucks that had passed over the points, while Frank was forced to wait. The engines passed by all day, whistling cheerful hellos to the little diesel.

 He did not see the worried looks they exchanged further down the line.

Night fell slowly – achingly slowly. The wind was still, except for a few gentle breezes that rustled the leaves in the trees. A whistle blew faintly in the distance, accompanied by the roar and cheer of people enjoying an evening out.

Frank took no notice – he had fallen asleep waiting for the relief crew. But when the wind suddenly stopped dead, he was shocked awake by the almost inhuman roar of a steam whistle. The cheer of merry people turned to screams, and then a sudden blast of air almost knocked Frank clear off the line. His eyes were wide, staring all around him.

Two dark red eyes appeared in the gloom. Frank gulped. He looked up – the moon was new.
“Heh… Hello?” he hesitantly called. The hiss of escaping steam filled the air. A spectre formed in the night, puffing slowly into Frank’s view. A steam engine, around the same size as Duke but lacking a tender, appeared.
“You speak to me?” asked the spectre. Frank went as white as a sheet.
“Y… yes?” he replied slowly. The spectre chuckled.
“Interesting… weird little engine. I see old Duke is finally gone. I suppose I will have to find him again. In the meanwhile, tell me – who rules over Sodor?”
“I… do you mean the Duke? Or… do you mean the Prime Minister?”
“Prime Minister? Are we still connected to glorious Britain?”
“Yes,” replied Frank. The spectre grinned, then retreated into the gloom. First, their shape vanished, then their steam, then their pale face – all gone, until only the eyes remained.

And then they too faded into blackness, and Frank was all alone.

Chapter Text

Frank was silent for the next few days. He did his work without a word, not sparing a glance for anyone or anything. He spent his nights at the back of the shed – where it was safe. The other engines were beginning to worry.

“He saw something,” murmured Bert one morning. It wasn’t a question.
“Probably,” sighed Rex. “It’s made him so quiet. I don’t like it.” They watched as Frank wandered past with an empty ballast train, keeping his eyes focused on the track. He seemed to have receded into being the perfect engine – not even one word out of place. It was horrible.
“I agree. But the question is…” began Bert.
“How do we make him feel better,” finished Rex.

Luckily for the two steam engines, the answer came sooner than expected.

***

The author had greatly enjoyed their time on the Island of Sodor. They had spoken with many of the engines, stopping in to talk to some old friends, and some newer faces. They had climbed Culdee Fell one day (and caught the train back), and had gone to Skarloey the next.

They saw the rolling hills, the daffodil-filled meadows, the pleasant pebble beach near Thomas’ branchline – all of it. It was really quite the wonderful experience. Especially the museum tour, which included a visit to Neil.

What fun!

On the last day of their holiday, the author packed their bags and sent them off to the mainland, then caught a train back up the Little Western. The first time they had visited the Arlesdale Railway was for work – but now they had the chance to spend the day enjoying the scenery. They had packed a picnic and everything!

The author arrived at the transfer yards, and overheard what Rex and Bert said. They frowned – clearly, something needed to be done.

“Excuse me,” the author asked, startling Rex and Bert. “But what’s the matter with Frank?”
“We think he saw something the other night. Remember Duke’s story?” The author did. “Well, we think he saw Albert’s ghost.”
“His… ghost?” the author asked slowly.
“Yes,” said Bert. “His ghost. It’s a bit of a local legend.”

The author was intrigued. They had their picnic, then went in search of Frank.

Frank was resting in a siding at the top station when the author found him. He had just pulled a train of fresh fruit and vegetables up to the small villages, and was preparing for the return trip.

“Do you have a moment?” asked the author, an idea already forming in their head. Frank looked up, and frowned.
“I know you,” he said slowly.
“I’m one of the authors – I was here the other week with the producer and the director,” the author replied. Frank’s eyes widened in realisation.
“You are!” he exclaimed. “Um… hello again.”
“Hello,” said the author, chuckling. “I heard quite a bit happened here recently, and I was wondering if you’d tell me about it?” Frank stared at them in confusion.
“Why?”
“I was thinking of writing a book,” the author replied. “After all, it’s often hard to write about hard-working, peaceful railways – but as I said, quite a bit happened here recently.”
“Oh definitely!” grinned Frank.

Frank looked around – as if making sure they were alone, then whispered.
“Bert had an accident.”
“Did he?” asked the author. They had read about the accident in the papers – but hearing about it from Frank was probably going to tell them more.

“Oh yes!” laughed Frank. “You see, Bert hates pulling the ballast trains – but he won’t tell the other steam engines because he think they’ll tease him about it…”

The author listened, jotting down notes in their notebook as Frank told the entire story as he remembered it. Then, the author asked about the incident from their first visit. Frank scowled.
“Don’t include that,” he groaned. “People’ll think I’m some sort of clutz!”
“Perhaps,” chuckled the author. “But then again, that’s only two things…”
“Well, I did encounter something…” Frank began, before trailing off. The author nodded seriously.
“What sort of something? If you would like, I can write about it.”
“I… I would,” Frank said slowly – and he recounted the events of the night. The author smiled.
“I think I have a complete book.” Frank looked startled.
“But that’s only three things!”
“And our conversation today makes four,” the author said. He patted Frank on the buffer, and walked away to the platform.

Frank is a lovely engine – and he asked me to remind everyone that he is not a clutz. So it was to his delight when the draft of the book arrived on the Arlesdale Railway, not with the title More Small Railway Engines, but with the title Frank the Little Diesel Engine.