You saw some new wagons, all of them looking out of place—freshly painted, neatly stenciled, and utterly wrong amidst the soot stained chaos of Huddersfield Yard. Their buffers gleamed with factory wax, their coupling chains still smelling of machine oil rather than the usual cocktail of coal dust and despair. You rolled toward them with the grim determination of an executioner approaching the scaffold, steam venting in short, controlled bursts that scattered pigeons from the tracks ahead.
The first wagon—some bastardized GWR design that had no business north of Birmingham—coughed a puff of sawdust as you nudged its buffers with your own, the impact vibrating through your frame like a dentist's drill. "Ow!"
"Shut it," you hissed through clenched pistons, reversing just enough to hear its dumbass coupling groan under the strain. The Liverpool & Yorkshire lads loading crates atop the next wagon barely glanced up, their Lancashire vowels bouncing between them like shunted trucks. "Ey, Dreadnert's got t'right idea—less yappin', more clatterin'."
The third wagon—a Lanky-designed monstrosity with brakes that squealed like a slaughtered pig—resisted coupling with all the petulance of a toddler refusing vegetables. You countered with a sharp reverse shunt that slammed its buffers hard enough to dislodge a crate of cabbages from its neighbor. "Bloody 'ell, Dreadnert!" yelped a Bootle fireman, scrambling as greens tumbled across the tracks like some sadistic farmer's market. You vented steam in his general direction and kept pushing, gratified when the wagon's protesting groan surrendered to the inevitable clang of metal on metal.
Signal flags flapped somewhere overhead as the shunters' whistles blew—two short, one long, the universal railway code for "get on with it or we'll find someone who will." The fourth wagon, pristine with its fresh L&YR livery and stenciled load limits, rolled into place with suspicious ease. Too easy. Your driver muttered something about jinxed rolling stock as you nudged it home, but the moment your buffers kissed, the damn thing's handbrake seized with a screech that made your fireman drop his shovel. "Fuckin' typical," growled a Barnsley shunter, spitting onto the rails as if punctuation.
Fifth wagon. Sixth. Seventh. Each coupling was a battle of wills against steel that hadn't yet learned its place in the pecking order. By the eighth, your patience had eroded to the consistency of month old boiler scale—brittle, black, and liable to flake off at the slightest provocation. The ninth wagon—some pretentious Midland Railway reject with brass fittings polished to a nauseating gleam—had the audacity to roll backward when nudged, its virgin buffers recoiling from your coal blackened ones like some Victorian gentlewoman offended by a docker's hands.
"Oh for fuck's—" you slowly began, cut off by your safety valves erupting in a geyser of steam that fogged the signalman's spectacles three tracks over. The ninth wagon—still recoiling—got a full blast of superheated vapor straight to its couplings, the brass fittings instantly clouding with condensation. When the haze cleared, the pretentious bastard had rolled forward two feet and stopped again, now squeaking like a stepped-on mouse.
From the loading dock, the Barnsley shunters had stopped to watch—some grinning, others shaking their heads—as you lined up with the ninth wagon again, this time reversing with enough force to make your own wheels slip momentarily on the damp rails. Coal dust stung your smokebox hinges as you exhaled sharply, coupling chains rattling like a gambler's last coins before you lunged forward and *slammed* into the prissy bastard with enough momentum to send its polished buffers screeching into alignment. The impact reverberated up through your frame like a punch to the jaw, but the wagon finally—*finally*—coughed up its resistance and locked into place with a metallic gasp. "There," you hissed through gritted injectors, "now *stay* put."
The tenth wagon—some ancient Midland cattle truck reeking of decades-old manure—rolled willingly enough, but its brakes wheezed like a consumptive grandfather halfway up a hill. The Lancashire loader perched on its roof chuckled around his cigarette stub. "Eh, she's got character, this 'un," he drawled, tapping ash onto your sand pipe. You answered by venting steam directly upward, sending him scrambling backward with a yelp as hot vapor licked at his boots. The wagon's coupling clicked into place with surprising ease, though its rusted springs groaned like a chorus of penitent drunks as you shoved it into line.
Signal flags snapped overhead—green, thank Christ—and you heaved the entire string forward with a piston-deep growl, gratified when the whole ungainly procession lurched into motion without protest. From the brake van, a toothless Yorkshire fireman leaned out to spit onto the tracks, nodding approvingly as the wagons settled into rhythm behind you. "Proper job," he grunted, which in case you forgot, in railway parlance translated to *you didn't derail anything expensive*.
The sun bled orange across the coal chutes by the time you'd dragged the lot into position, every wagon now coupled with the grudging obedience of a drunkard shoved into a police van. Your injectors throbbed with each hiss of steam—half exhaustion, half lingering fury—as the last Midland bastard clicked into place with a sound like a banker reluctantly paying his tab.
From the nearest brake van, the toothless fireman spat again, this time hitting the tracks with the precision of a man who'd spent years perfecting the art of wasting everyone's time. "Reckon that'll do," he announced, as if his opinion mattered less than the pigeon shit streaking your cab roof.
Finally it was evening—the sun dipping below the station's soot stained awning like a drunk sliding off a barstool—and you finally done with shunting for today at the very least. The Lancashire shunters had long since vanished, leaving behind only their cigarette butts and the occasional wet patch of tobacco spit glistening under the gas lamps.
You rolled back toward the sheds with steam hissing between your teeth, pistons aching like an overworked miner's knees. The foreman's whistle cut through the twilight—three sharp blasts that meant *get your arse inside or sleep on the tracks*—but you took your sweet time, savoring the way your wheels ground cinders into the rails like a chef sharpening a knife. The Lancashire night smelled of coal tar and damp wool, the gas lamps casting long shadows that slithered across the tracks like oily eels.
Somewhere in the gloom, Henry was still drunkenly attempting *Ilkley Moor*—now with the added flourish of his scratchy throat screaming in discordant harmony that you had to try and fall asleep to—as you trundled into the shed, your boiler ticking like an angry clock. The foreman had left an oil lantern swinging from a rusted hook—its flickering light casting shadows that danced across your battered paintwork like mocking spectators. You exhaled sharply, blasting grit off your buffers just to watch it scatter, the particles catching the lamplight like tiny, spiteful fireflies.
The Lancashire night shift stoker—some pimpled youth with fingers permanently curled around a shovel—slouched past, kicking your sandbox with all the reverence of a goat headbutting a fence. "Ey up, Dreeadnert," he yawned, already halfway to the ash pit before you could retaliate with a well aimed accidental steam jet. Then that very same saddle tank engine from earlier pull in—smokebox door still rattling loose from your earlier fantasy induced buffer shunt—and had the gall to wheeze, "Tha still sulkin' o'er t'milk run?" in a voice like a clogged drainpipe.
You answered by reversing hard enough to chuff to the back of the shed, deliberately drowning out her nonsense with the thunderous clatter of your firebox door slamming shut. The impact sent a cascade of soot raining onto the tracks—your version of flipping the bird—while the stoker's startled yelp from two bays over was almost as satisfying as the shuddering groan of the saddle tank's overworked boiler. Let her wheeze about milk runs now.
The shed's iron walls amplified every hiss and clang into a symphony of grudges—Henry's off-key warbling, the stoker's shovel scraping ash like a grave robber at work, the distant *clink-clink* of some idiot porter dropping his keys down a drain for the third time this week. You focused on the rhythmic drip of condensation from your injector valves, counting each drop like a prisoner tallying days on a cell wall. Outside, you heard another engine coming.
Oh joy to the world.
That was the first thought rattling through your smokebox as the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway Class 28 rolled into view—its six driving wheels clanking with the sort of mechanical arrogance only an 0-6-0 could muster.
The Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway Class 28 emerald paintwork gleamed obscenely under the gas lamps, buffed to a finish that made your own coal streaked flanks feel like a tramp's overcoat. "James," he announced—as if his name wasn't already stenciled in gold leaf along his tender—with the inflection of a man expecting applause. His buffers barely kissed the rails before he was puffing steam in short, preening bursts, like a peacock practicing its mating display. "You look positively *frightful*, tankie," he trilled, rolling forward until his smokebox door nearly brushed your coupling. "Have you considered soap? Or are you committing to this *aesthetic* intentionally?"
Your safety valves screamed before you could stop them, blasting a jet of steam that sent James wobbling backward with a shrill shriek—his precious paintwork now streaked with coal dust and condensate. "Oi, watch the *finish*!" he spluttered, frantically puffing little clouds to clear the grime from his flanks. You rolled forward deliberately, coupling chain swinging like a hangman's noose. "Aye, splendid paintwork," you hissed, "shame it's wrapped 'round such a *useless* set o' wheels." The insult hit harder than a misplaced shunt; James' pistons stuttered mid-chuff.
"At least I'm not some oversized tankie with the manners expected of a shunter," James sniffed, tilting his smokebox upward as if the very sight of you offended his polished sensibilities. A rivet popped somewhere in your frame—whether from steam pressure or sheer rage, even you couldn't tell. "Oh aye, because pissin' about with passenger coaches makes you special?" you shot back, deliberately venting a cloud of soot-tinged steam across his gleaming boiler. "Bet they polish your buffers while whispering sweet nothings about your *exquisite* wheel alignment."
James' safety valves hissed in outrage, puffing little white clouds like an overwrought tea kettle. "They *appreciate* punctuality," he corrected, rolling forward until his couplings clinked against yours in a mockery of intimacy. "Something your sort wouldn't comprehend, chugging about with goods wagons like some common *tramp steamer*." The insult dripped with the condescension of a man who'd never hauled coal heavier than his own ego.
"I'll have you know I pulled coaches today," You huffed, steam curling from your funnel in indignant little puffs. James merely rolled his eyes—an impressive feat for a locomotive—and gave a theatrical sigh that fogged up his own brass nameplate. "Ah yes, the *prestigious* Huddersfield coal shufflers' express," he drawled, "such *elegance*. Such *grandeur*. One can practically smell the aristocracy on those wagons—assuming one can smell anything over the stench of your firebox."
The shed's iron rafters rattled with your responding snarl, loose rivets dancing like hailstones as you surged forward just enough to make James' tender lurch. "Least I'm not painted like a bloody fucking lazy Christmas ornament," you shot back, deliberately spraying ash across his freshly-polished running boards. "Heard they picked that green special from a paint mixer went ass up in a dye vat—or were you aiming for 'snot with delusions of grandeur'?"
James' pistons locked mid-stroke—you could practically hear the gears grinding in his smokebox as he processed the insult. His whistle let out an undignified squeak before he regained composure, puffing himself up like a startled pigeon. "Christmas ornament?" he spluttered, steam venting in erratic bursts. "I'll have you know this *splendid* shade was mixed specifically to complement my *aesthetic proportions*—not that a coal-dusted shunter would recognize refinement if it ran them over!" The last word came out shriller than his brakes on a downhill gradient.
You rolled forward just enough to make his polished buffers flinch, coal grit crunching under your wheels like bones. "Yes, 'aesthetic proportions'—is that what they're calling vanity plates these days?"
"And one day I'll be James the Splendid Red Engine," James huffed, puffing himself up so fiercely his safety valves squeaked. "Not that you'd understand—drab oversized tankies like you wouldn't know prestige if it shunted you off a cliff." His whistle let out a self-satisfied toot, echoing off the shed walls like a particularly pompous fart.
You rolled forward until your buffers clanked against his with deliberate force, coal dust from your flanks flaking onto his polished running boards like blasphemous dandruff. "Yes, and one day pigs will fly straight out o' my firebox," you growled, steam curling from your vents in thick, aggressive plumes. "Though frankly, I'd rather be shunted off a cliff than listen to another minute of yer whistlin' about *prestige* like some over-polished kettle." James recoiled as if scalded, his pistons stuttering mid-chuff—his precious paintwork now streaked with condensation from your venting fury.
From the shadows outside of the shed, Henry's drunken warbling of *On Ilkla Moor Baht 'at* hit a particularly discordant note, the sound ricocheting off the iron rafters like a derailed brake van. James seized the distraction like a lifeline. "At least *I* don't associate with *that*," he sneered, jerking his smokebox toward the saddle tank's direction. You released a long, slow hiss of steam—the locomotive equivalent of rolling your eyes—and let your firebox door clang shut with enough force to make James' brass fittings rattle. "Yes, because *you* associate with nothing but your own reflection," you muttered, watching with grim satisfaction as a glob of soot dripped onto his pristine running board from the shed's leaky roof.
James recoiled as if the soot were acid, his pistons stuttering in outrage. "You—you *filthy* coal guzzler!" he shrieked, puffing himself up until his safety valves screamed. "I'll have you *scrapped* for this!" His whistle gave an undignified squeak as he attempted to reverse, only for his pristine wheels to slip on the very condensate he'd been dripping all over the rails. The resulting lurch sent his tender crashing into a stack of empty oil drums—the metallic cacophony echoing through the shed like a drunkard falling down a staircase.
You vented steam through your teeth—a slow, deliberate hiss that fogged up his brass fittings even further. "Careful now," you murmured, watching with relish as condensation dripped onto his pristine wheel splashers, "wouldn't want *scrapped* to be the last word out your funnel, would we?" James shuddered, his pistons jerking in erratic little bursts like a startled cat's tail. "You wouldn't *dare*—"
The threat died in his smokebox as the foreman's whistle split the night—three sharp blasts that meant *shut your boilers or I'll shut them for you*. James immediately deflated, his safety valves wheezing like a punctured balloon. "This isn't over," he muttered, though the effect was ruined when his reversing gear squeaked like a stepped-on mouse. You answered by rolling forward just enough to grind a particularly greasy clump of coal dust into his tender's freshly painted lettering.
Outside, Henry had finally stopped singing—either from exhaustion or because someone had thrown a shovel at him—leaving the shed eerily quiet save for the *drip-drip* of condensate from the roof onto James' now-tarnished brass fittings. "Look what you've done," he whinged, steam puffing in pathetic little bursts as he tried to shine his nameplate with a nonexistent rag. "Sir Topham Hatt will hear about this." You scoffed so hard your firebox door rattled. "Aye, and he'll say the same thing he did when you derailed those fish vans last Thursday—*James, you are a useless heap of scrap with the grace of a drunken cow*."
James' pistons hitched mid-chuff. "That—that was *entirely* the guard's fault for signaling improperly!" His whistle let out a shrill toot that sent pigeons scattering from the rafters. You rolled closer, coupling chains clinking like a jailer's keys. "Funny how it's *always* someone else's fault with you," you hissed, steam curling around his smokebox in a mocking embrace. "The guard. The points. The wind. Ever think maybe the common denominator is *you*, you glorified teapot?"
A rivet popped somewhere in James' frame—whether from steam pressure or sheer indignation, it was hard to tell. "I—you—*how dare you*!" he spluttered, puffing himself up until his safety valves screamed like a scalded cat. The foreman's lantern light suddenly flooded the shed, illuminating James' expression—somewhere between outrage and panic—as the man himself stomped into view, his boots crunching over spilled coal like gravel. "Right," he growled, spitting a wad of tobacco onto the tracks between you both. "Which one of you prats woke t'whole yard?"
James' boiler practically vibrated with indignant steam as he shot a sideways glance at you—his brass fittings still clouded with condensation from your earlier spat. "For your *information*," he hissed, puffing himself up like an offended peacock, "*I* was merely attempting to secure my rightful place in the *express* rotation—unlike *some* engines who seem content wallowing in coal dust and *shame*." His whistle punctuated the insult with a shrill toot as he rolled backwards, his polished buffers gleaming under the foreman's lantern like a pair of smug monocles.
You exhaled sharply, blasting a cloud of soot-streaked steam that swirled around James' freshly tarnished paintwork like a vengeful specter. "Secure *what*?" you growled, coupling chains rattling with suppressed fury. "The express rotation wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot brake pole after you *derailed* Sir Garrick's fish vans into the Bay last season—unless you're *aspiring* to be the first engine scrapped for sheer incompetence around here?"
James' pistons stuttered in rage mid way, "Y-you made that up!" he shrilled, steam puffing from his safety valves like an overheated kettle. His emerald paint seemed to darken with humiliation as the foreman snorted—clearly remembering the infamous fish van incident where James had careened off the points near Barrow in Furness, scattering cod across three sidings. "Yeah, and I suppose the tide comes in just to admire your wheel arches?" you shot back, watching coal dust drift onto his polished nameplate like filthy snow.
The foreman spat a wad of tobacco onto James' front coupling hook—a Lancashire dismissal if ever there was one. "Both o' yez, shut yer boilers before I fetch t'scrap merchant," he growled, jerking his lantern toward the shed doors where Henry was now belching steam in drunken, off-key syncopation. James immediately deflated, his brass fittings tarnishing further under the lamplight as he muttered something about "unappreciative philistines" and "properly varnished undercarriages." You vented a slow, satisfied hiss of steam—directly onto his sanding pipes.
Outside, the night shift stoker's boots crunched over coal slack as he dragged his shovel toward the ash pit, pausing only to leer at James' now-streaked tender. "Ey up, looks like someone pissed in 'is paint pot," he cackled, prompting James to emit a scandalized squeal of steam. You couldn't resist adding—just loud enough for the entire shed to hear—"Aye, and judging by that screechin', someone forgot to oil 'is whistle valve an' all." The resulting clatter of James' suddenly seized piston rods was sweeter than any stationmaster's praise.
Henry chose that moment to drunkenly lurch past the shed doors, his shirt hanging open like a slack jaw as he hiccuped out the opening bars of *On Ilkla Moor Baht 'at*—badly. James seized the distraction like a drowning man clutching at driftwood. "Oh *marvelous*," he sneered, moving himself up until his stomach strained at his ribs, "now we're subjected to the auditory equivalent of a boiler explosion!"
You would've rolled back, but you were already in the corner—and James' fresh coat of varnish smelled suspiciously like desperation covered with lavender oil. "Oh yeah, the *auditory* equivalent," you hissed, watching condensation drip onto his sanding pipes. "Like you'd know artistry if it shunted coal down your funnel."
You decided you might as well try to pretend to be asleep at this point like the saddle tank engine was.