Huddersfield finally loomed ahead, it's sooty cathedral spire jabbing the sky like a middle finger you wholeheartedly agreed with all too well. The coaches behind you tittered something about "charming industrial heritage," again, blissfully ignorant of the fact your firebox was currently hotter than Satan's shitty smelling armpit. A porter—some gangly kid with a Bradford accent thicker than axle grease—waved his flag with all the enthusiasm of a dying coma patient, and you resisted the urge to chuff straight through the buffers just to watch his face crumple oh so satisfyingly.
Platform three smelled like wet wool and regret, which was fair all things considered with this railway that you have seen so far. The passengers disembarked at the speed of continental drift yet again, their endless bloody fucking umbrellas catching on everything from your rivets to each other's faces. The lead coach—that buff and brown menace—had the audacity to simper again, "Oh, wasn't that just a *spirited* run?" as if she hadn't spent the last hour squealing like a piglet at slaughter mixed with a stupid school girl every time you hit anything over barely twenty miles per hour at most.
Somewhere behind you, somehow, yet another fucking Manchester Clipboarder was having a full bodied conniption over a microscopic scratch on coach number three's paintwork—probably from when you'd "accidentally" backed into it with slightly more enthusiasm than strictly necessary when she was somehow getting even more annoying. The bastard was down on his knees with a magnifying glass like some kid railway series book themed version of Sherlock Holmes, muttering about "standards" and "disciplinary reports." You contemplated rolling forward just enough to trap his stupidly polished shoes under your wheels—purely by accident, of course—but the sudden blare of a goods train whistle from the adjacent platform snapped you out of your homicide fantasy.
A Liverpool Porter materialized beside your cab with all the subtlety of a firecracker in a library, his grin wide enough to showcase at least three missing molars. "Christ alive, Dreadnought, tha' face could curdle milk at fifty paces," he crowed, slapping your cabside like you were some sort of particularly surly pub regular. His accent stretched the vowels into something that sounded like "Dreeeadnert." You considered blasting him with a faceful of soot from your smokebox, but the little bastard had the reflexes of a cat on fucking amphetamines—already ducking with a cackle before your safety valves even twitched.
The goods train whistle shrieked again—a deep, throaty bellow that made your own whistle sound like a tea kettle in comparison—and suddenly you were staring down the barrel of a YATES 0-6-0 Saddle Tank, its driver leaning out with a grin that suggested he'd been drinking since lunch.
"Ey up, Dreadnought!" The Saddle Tank hollered, her Leeds accent thick enough to spread on toast. "Heard tha' were playing babysitter for t'posh coaches today!" She joked, not amusing me at all—just roll me off a bridge already. Her smokebox door was half hanging off like she'd backed into a warehouse at speed, and the smell of cheap engine oil clung to her like a bad reputation.
The Liverpool Porter chose that exact moment to vault onto your running board, his boots scraping paintwork you didn't even know you cared about. "Ey, don't sulk," he said, flicking a lump of coal dust off your number plate with infuriating familiarity. "Leastways tha's not stuck shuntin' pig iron like some of us." His breath smelled suspiciously of stolen station tea—over-brewed and bitter. You'd have snorted steam in his face if the YATES saddle tank wasn't already wheezing like a broken vacuum cleaner at his own joke.
Huddersfield's signal box finally clanked to life—twenty fucking minutes late, the useless bastards—and the points squealed as they grudgingly shifted for your return back to shunting yards, where you belonged. Sadly you had to take the coaches back with you to where you picked them up.
Why was it always you?
You chuffed down the line as you came to the nearest point switch, already feeling the wheels screech against the rails like a knife dragged across a cheap plate. The coaches behind you giggled at the sound—fucking *giggled*, like you weren't hauling their useless asses up and down hills with the grace of a somehow still competent drunken bulldozer.
You waited for the lines to change with all the patience of a lit firework, wheels grinding against the rails as if even the track itself was conspiring to piss you off today. Somewhere ahead, a signalman took his sweet fucking time—probably brewing another pot of that piss weak tea they all seemed to worship around here like it was liquid gold.
Behind you, the coaches tittered again—something about "such *character* in these new engines"—and you could only sigh internally while watching the signalman drag himself out of his hut with all the urgency of a constipated sloth. The Saddle Tank's laughter echoed down the tracks like a loose piston rod as she shunted her goods train onto the adjacent line, her Leeds vowels dripping with mock sympathy. "Aye up, love, tha'll get used to it!" she called, her whistle letting out a wet, phlegmy toot that made your buffers ache with secondhand embarrassment.
The Liverpool Porter was still perched on your running board like some sort of malignant gremlin, picking at the peeling paint on your cabside with a filthy thumbnail. "Ey, reckon they'll have thee on dining car duty next," he mused, grinning as your safety valves hissed in warning. "All posh-like, wi' little napkins folded—" You cut him off with a sharp blast of steam that sent him scrambling back onto the platform, his laughter dissolving into coughing as coal dust filled the air.
The signal finally clanked over—green, at last—and you didn't waste a second, heaving forward with enough force to make the coaches' couplings groan in protest. The lead coach gasped dramatically, her buff-and-brown panels quivering. "Oh! Such *vigor!*" she trilled, and you fantasized briefly about uncoupling her at full speed and letting Newton's first law do the rest. But no. You were a professional, goddamn it. Even if professionalism in this godforsaken place meant tolerating idiots who treated you like a glorified trolley with delusions of grandeur.
After the last coach was on the new line with you, you started to chuff backwards to the first station to drop the coaches off. You weren't happy, but at least you could finally leave soon—until you heard the Liverpool Porter's voice echo down the platform. "Ey, Dreeeadnert, forgot to mention—foreman wants thee on passenger service again tomorrow! Same posh lot!" His grin was audible, the bastard. Your boiler pressure spiked so violently your safety valves screamed like a scalded cat, sending pigeons exploding from the station roof in a panic of feathers and indignant coos.
You had to deal with these fucking coaches again. Great. Just fucking great.
The Liverpool Porter's laughter echoed from the platform like a loose wheel bearing—the kind that screeched just enough to drive you mad but not enough to justify stopping the train. You simply decided to continue to chuff backwards.
Your pistons throbbed with every yard gained, steam curling from your vents like suppressed curses. The coaches behind you swayed with all the grace of drunken debutantes, their prissy little couplings clinking in a rhythm that made your rivets itch.
Liverpool Porter's voice chased you down the tracks—"Don't forget thi' manners, Dreeeadnert!"—as you bullied the points into submission with a screech that would've made lesser engines wince. The signalman—finally awake or maybe just momentarily sober—gave you a half-hearted wave that you answered with a plume of soot directly into his signal box window.
Halifax Junction loomed like a bad decision, its labyrinth of tracks gleaming dully under a sky the colour of cold porridge once more. You reversed with the precision of a surgeon performing their fiftieth amputation—just enough force to make the coaches gasp at every jolt, not enough to actually derail the prissy bastards. The lead coach twittered something about "vigorous handling," her buff panels practically glowing with misplaced pride, while you fantasized about coupling her to a runaway goods train headed for the scrapyard. Somewhere in the distance, a Lancashire-accented signalman shouted obscenities at a stray sheep on the tracks, and you almost—*almost*—felt kinship.
The gradient bit harder in reverse, your wheels slipping just enough to send a shower of sparks skittering across the rails like malevolent fireflies. The coaches gasped in unison, their reactions synchronized like a particularly annoying choir. "Oh! How *dramatic*!" cooed the second coach, her voice dripping with the sort of faux excitement reserved for terrible amateur theatre. You answered by venting steam directly onto a patch of wet leaves, creating a miniature hellscape of boiling vegetation that made the Liverpool Porter—still clinging to your cab like a fungal infection—whoop with glee. "Bloody *artistic*, tha' is!" he crowed, as if you'd done it for anyone's amusement but your own.
Platform Two materialized through the haze like a recurring nightmare, its peeling green paint and cracked tiles exactly as depressing as you remembered. The same Manchester Clipboarder was waiting, tapping his pencil against his teeth with the rhythm of a man who'd long since lost the will to live. You halted with a hiss that fogged his spectacles, relishing his muffled curse as he fumbled for a handkerchief.
The coaches uncoupled themselves with all the grace of a drunkard leaving a pub—slow, unsteady, and prone to sudden lurches. The lead one had the audacity to trill, "Do visit us again!" as if this had been some sort of pleasure cruise and not a four hour exercise in masochism.
You reversed away with a vicious hiss of steam, wheels biting the rails so hard the track groaned in protest. Halfway down the spur, the signalman—some toothless old bastard from Barnsley by the sound of him—yelled something incomprehensible about "bloody temperamental tanks" before throwing the points with enough force to rattle every rivet in your frame.
A goods train whistled mockingly from the adjacent line—one of those ancient Caley pugs with a Bolton driver who sounded like he gargled gravel—as you bullied your way back onto the main with a shower of cinders. The fireman shoveled coal like he was punishing it for existing, each clang of the iron against your firebox doors punctuating your simmering resentment.
The Yards loomed at last, its cracked tiles and soot stained awning a welcome sight compared to the prattle of coaches and clipboard wielding parasites. You rolled in with a hiss that sent rats scattering from the tracks, your firebox still pulsing with the sort of heat that could melt rivets. Somewhere in the gloom, a Bolton fireman was singing "On Ilkley Moor Baht 'at" off-key—each flat vowel landing like a hammer on your already frayed patience.
The foreman—a slab faced Yorkshireman with eyebrows like storm clouds—ambled over chewing what smelled like a rancid pork pie. "Tha made good time," he grunted, which translated from Yorkshire to *you didn't derail anything expensive*. His clipboard was suspiciously absent, replaced by a mug of tea black enough to be classified as industrial runoff. You vented steam pointedly at his boots, watching with grim satisfaction as the leather darkened.
Somewhere behind the coal stage, Henry the bloody drunk decided now was the time to start singing "Ilkley Moor" even flatter than the Bolton fireman, his coupling rods clanking out of sync like a drunkard's knees. The sound made your rivets vibrate in sympathetic agony. The Liverpool Porter—who'd somehow teleported ahead like the gremlin bastard he was—chucked a lump of coal at Henry's cab with unerring accuracy. "Shut thy cake hole, tha sounds like a cow calving!" he bellowed, which only made Henry sing louder through what sounded like a mouthful of axle grease.
The foreman spat a chunk of pork pie onto the tracks with the precision of a man who'd spent years perfecting the art of expelling unwanted things from his life. "Tha's on coal duty tomorrow," he grunted, jerking his chin toward the towering black mound by the water tower. You'd have protested if the bastard hadn't already stomped away, his boots leaving prints deep enough to plant turnips in. The coal heap loomed like a petty insult, its jagged edges catching the last of the afternoon light in a way that made your fireman sigh like a man sentenced to hard labor.
The Saddle Tank from Huddersfield chose that moment to shunt past with a string of empty cattle wagons, her driver dangling a flask over your cab like some sort of sadistic peace offering. "Get this down thee, love," he slurred, the smell of cheap whisky rolling off him in waves. You seriously considered blasting the flask out of his hand with steam until the Liverpool Porter materialized—again, like some sort of curse—and snatched it with a cackle. "Ey, don't mind if I do!" he crowed, taking a swig that made his eyes water.
From the shadows of the coaling stage, a pair of railway cats watched the proceedings with the detached superiority of creatures who'd never had to haul a ton of suburban pretension uphill in the rain. One—a scarred tabby missing half an ear—licked its paw with deliberate smugness. Oh well, at least it's smugness was cute.
You rolled into position beneath the coal chute with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man mounting the gallows, your buffers scraping against the iron cradle hard enough to leave paint flecks on the rails. The foreman didn't even glance up from his rancid sandwich—just jerked his thumb toward the towering black mound where a gang of soot-faced lads lounged like they'd been sculpted from coal dust and bad decisions. "Get thi' bunkers filled, Dreeadnert," one of them drawled through teeth the color of old brake blocks, already reaching for the overhead chute lever with the lethargy of a sloth on sedatives.
The coal came down in a choking black avalanche, each lump rattling into your bunkers like mocking applause for today's performance. Through the gritty haze, you caught sight of Henry attempting—and failing—to couple to a brake van without smashing its buffers clean off, his drunken warbling now punctuated by the stationmaster's distant swearing.
Liverpool Porter reappeared with his usual supernatural timing, perching on your sandbox like a soot-streaked gargoyle. "Ey up, reckon tha'd rather be scrapped than do another run wi' them coaches, eh?" he cackled, dodging the jet of steam you aimed at his ankles with the reflexes of a man who'd spent years dodging matrimony.
From the water tower, the Saddle Tank's fireman was arguing with a signalman about cricket—or possibly cheese—their Yorkshire vowels colliding like poorly-shunted wagons. You focused on the satisfying clatter of coal hitting metal, drowning out their inanity with the rhythmic destruction of your last shreds of patience.
The foreman's whistle blew—three short blasts that meant either "get moving" or "I've sat on my sandwiches again"—and you rolled forward with enough force to send Liverpool Porter scrambling for balance, his laughter chasing you down the tracks like a particularly persistent case of boiler rash.
You coupled the wagons back to the saddle tank's rear buffers with a clang that sent pigeons scattering from the station roof—fuckers had been watching you like jurors at a hanging. The coal dust clung to your flanks like powdered resentment, every shift of your pistons grinding it deeper into your paintwork. Somewhere up ahead, the Bolton driver was still butchering Ilkley Moor, his heavily off key warble bouncing off the brick arches of the goods shed like a drunk in an alleyway.
The stationmaster's whistle cut through the din—two shrill blasts that meant "get this shit moving" in any railway dialect—so you heaved forward with all the grace of a sleep deprived bullock. The wagons groaned into motion behind you, their couplings shrieking like gutted pigs, while the saddle tank up front wheezed something about "bloody hurry up" in a Leeds accent thicker than her own boiler scale. You fantasized about ramming her buffers hard enough to pop her damn smokebox door clean off, but settled for venting steam directly onto a gang of porters lounging by the signal box, their yelps almost drowning out Henry's drunken rendition of *God Save the King* from three sidings over.
Coal dust itched as you helped the saddle tank get started on her way. You were more than happy to be rid of all of them. The wagons groaned but gradually settled into the rhythm of the rails as you watched them pull forward, each clank of the couplings resonating through your frame like a dull headache.
Behind you, the Liverpool Porter was still cackling—probably at some fresh indignity—but you ignored him, focusing instead on the rhythmic chuff of your own pistons. The scent of hot oil and scorched metal filled the air as you rolled back toward the water tower, steam curling from your vents like the last remnants of your patience. The foreman's whistle screeched again, this time with the urgency of a man who'd just realized his flask was empty, and you responded with a sharp hiss that sent a flock of pigeons scattering from the tracks ahead.
At the water tower, the attendant—a wiry old Yorkshireman with fingers permanently stained by grease—grunted something unintelligible as he swung the hose over your fill port. The cold rush of water hissed against your boiler plates, a brief relief before the inevitable next shift. You caught your own reflection in the murky puddle below—emerald paint, coal streaked flanks, and a smokebox door that looked like it had been kicked in by a disgruntled shunter.
From the signal box, the Lancashire signalman leaned out, his vowels thick as clotted cream. "Ey, Dreadnert, din't tha hear? The Big Controller wants thee on t'milk run tomorrow—wi' *them* coaches again." He jerked a thumb toward the platform where the buff and brown nuisances were still preening. Your safety valves screamed before you could stop them, sending a startled rook tumbling from the water tower's rusted ladder.
The foreman spat on your front coupling—a gesture somewhere between blessing and threat—and slapped your cabside hard enough to leave a palm shaped coal smudge. "Tha's got till tomorrow afternoon to cool thi' bloody jets," he growled, stomping off toward Henry who'd managed to derail himself attempting a three point turn near the ash pits.
You simply chuffed back to the wider shunting yards in silence, your pistons pounding like an accelerated migraine. The Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway Hughes 4-6-4T design was built for hauling, not for tolerating idiocy—yet here you were, an overqualified coal dusted workhorse trapped in a circus of ineptitude. The Liverpool Porter had finally left—thank God for small favors, you supposed—but not before kicking over an oil can near your rear buffers, leaving a gleaming black puddle that smelled like too many bad decisions.