Inside the Gloucester shed, Gordon was not a happy engine.
–I am a large, strong blue engine, he moaned, whilst his driver fussed around him, oiling his joints and polishing his brass with a greasy cloth, –I know what is best for me and I simply wish to be treated with respect.
Gordon was ‘on loan’ to the Great Western, as they were suffering from a locomotive shortage.
–Oh, stop moaning, said his driver, –the other engines will think you’re getting too big for your wheels. And what do you mean about being treated with respect? You’ve been asked to pull the Cheltenham Spa Express, after all!
Gordon rolled his eyes, and hissed gently from his valves.
–They keep trying to make me burn their horrible coal. But I have told them, your coal may be all well and good for green engines– Gordon said the word ‘green’ with such disdain that the other locomotives in the shed narrowed their eyes and muttered under their breath –but I am a blue engine and I burn only Sodor coal.
Burton Agnes, a large Hall-class engine, shining in polished green, with gleaming brass chimney and numbers, let out a snort.
–You’re as daft as your are blue. Welsh steam coal is the best coal in the world!
Gordon shuddered
–Dreadful stuff, he said haughtily –I am a finely-tuned express locomotive. I have very sensitive firebars.
–Oh, give it a rest now, you old fusspot said his driver, cranking the wheel that released Gordon’s handbrake, then pushing his reversing lever forward and gently opening his regulator. With a rather huffy chuff, Gordon rumbled slowly from the shed
–Go on, called out Burton Agnes as he went, –treat yourself to a nice bit of Welsh! You’ll thank me for it!
–Never! Gordon retorted, and harrumphed slowly off toward the coaling-stage, where a wagon-load of his precious Sodor coal had been pushed up the ramp especially for him, and was waiting on the tippler to be tipped into his tender.
Making his way along the neighbouring siding was Thomas, who was also on loan to the Great Western.
–Peep peep, Grandad! Thomas called out cheekily –what do you think of my lovely new Attachments?
Gordon again rolled his eyes, and ignored Thomas.
Thomas was very proud of his Attachments. The Fat Controller had arranged for him to be sent to Swindon Works to get them, so that he could work with the special coaches on the Golden Valley line. Thomas missed Annie and Clarabel, but he’d already made great friends with Amy, his new ‘auto-coach’.
–Now I can PUSH as well as pull, said Thomas, as Gordon trundled slowly past –You’re a bit, er, ‘one direction’, aren’t you? Thomas giggled to himself.
–Really useful engines NEVER push, replied Gordon and came to a halt beneath the coaler.
-’Ere, you want to get some proper Welsh coal inside you, not that rubbish.
Don’t want you holding me up in the Golden Valley- I’ve got a party of historians to fetch today, don’t you know? Peep peep! And with that, Thomas scuttled off to collect Amy and head to the station.
**********************************
Gordon had to admit he felt a lot more cheerful once his headboard was on, and he’d stretched his wheels running ‘light’ to Cheltenham, where he now sat, proud and resplendent in St James station, coupled to his coaches. The Cheltenham Spa Express was a very famous train, and its record-breaking speeds meant it was known to railwaymen as the Cheltenham Flyer, or just ‘The Flyer’, for short. Gordon felt very full in the boiler, and his fire burned nicely in his firebox.
–Who needs Welsh coal? He said to himself.
But his coaches were less happy to see this strange engine coupling up to them, and they grumbled amongst themselves.
–Look at him. He’s BLUE, for goodness sake!
-He’s not from round this region, is he?
-What IS he burning? It’s got ever such an awful smell.
– Whatever will they say back at the carriage sheds?
-We shouldn’t put up with this- we’re Cheltenham coaches!
Gordon tried to ignore them, but they were spoiling his proud moment, and he could feel twinges in his safety valve.
–How DARE they? He thought to himself. –I am bigger and better than any Great Western engine!
At last the signal dropped, and- dead on time- the guard’s whistle blew.
–Right away, driver said the Station Master, who always came out to see off the Flyer.
Gordon gave a blast on his whistle, then pulled away suddenly, with a sharp tug that had the coaches squealing.
–Ow! Ow! Ow!
–He’s tugging my couplings!
-He’s bruising my buffers!
-I’ll-show-them! I’ll-show-them! I’ll-show-them!, barked Gordon as he gathered speed, enraged at the insolence of his rolling stock, -I’ll-show-them! I’ll-show-them! I’ll-show-them!
The carriages rocked and swayed behind him, clattering over the points, complaining all the while:
–He’s-awfully-rude! -We’re-too-good-for-this! He’s-awfully-rude! We’re-too-good-for-this!
Gordon continued to pull roughly, and with increasing fury. The coaches were dragging their wheels, and he wasn’t going to stand for it. Not him, Gordon, a proud blue engine! He would show the Great Western a thing or two.
–God’s Wonderful Railway, my boiler-sludge! He thought to himself But the Flyer was a long and heavy train, and by the time they got to their short Gloucester stop, he was already very glad of the rest. His driver wasn’t best pleased with him.
-’Ere, will you stop playing up? You treat those coaches nicely, you hear? And don’t bust your boiler- this bit’s the easy bit; you wait til we get to the bank. You’ll need all the puff you can get.
But Gordon was in no mood to listen. Again, he pulled away with a jerk, which had the steward furiously stick his head out the restaurant car window
–You silly great engine! You’ve had me spill tea on the Bishop of Tewkesbury!
As they thundered across the Barton Street level crossing, a blast from Gordon’s ejector valve knocked a postman off his bicycle.
–You lumbering idiot! You’ve crumpled me letters!
The coaches were beside themselves with shame.
–It’s-such-a-disgrace, this-cannot-go-on! It’s-such-a-disgrace, this-cannot go- on!
Gordon thundered onwards, out of the city, and over the junction that took them onto the line for Swindon and London. Just beyond this junction, the tracks curved round to the East as they approached the town of Stonehouse, and on this curve Gordon really began to feel the full weight of his train.
Come-ON! Come-ON! Come-ON! Come-ON!
Gordon didn’t know what was wrong with him. None of the trains on Sodor was as long or as heavy as this, and there were no record-breaking times to be kept, but he was an express engine, and he had more wheels than any of the Great Western engines, so why was he finding this so hard? They rumbled through Stonehouse station at less than line speed, and Gordon was suddenly grateful there were no passengers waiting to witness him. He felt very red in the smokebox, and was starting to not enjoy himself at all. He could see the dark mass of the Cotswold scarp filling the horizon in front of him, and it filled him with unease- he’d been told that up ahead lay the job of climbing the stiff bank up to Sapperton Tunnel. Goods trains on this line had to be ‘banked’ up the steep gradient to the tunnel by a big tank engine shoving from behind, and Gordon shuddered at the thought of such engines, who had to push for a living, and as for the indignity of being shoved…
Gordon’s fireman- a Great Western man, who ‘knew the road’- piled more and more coal into his firebox, trying to give him strength for the climb.
–I can’t understand it, he shouted to the driver, I can’t get the heat! What IS this stuff?
Gordon’s driver rolled his eyes.
–Gordon doesn’t believe in anything else.
On they went, with Gordon struggling to keep up his speed as the countryside either side of the line became steadily hillier, and houses and mill-buildingsand factories crowded against the tracks. They passed through Stroud station, then rode high above a derelict canal and a river on a big viaduct. As soon as his wheels left the viaduct, Gordon felt the beginnings of the big gradient. His coaches suddenly felt very heavy indeed.
Oo-er! He gasped, trying to catch his breath, digging his wheels into the rails –It’s-starting-to-HURT! It’s-starting-to-HURT! It’s-starting-to-HURT!
The railway ran alongside the old canal at this point, and there were boys fishing amidst the reeds.
–Cor, look at that blue thing! Shouted one of them, as Gordon struggled past -’E sounds like burst balloon!
The other boys burst into laughter, and Gordon closed his eyes, feeling sick to the bottom of his drain-plugs. His coaches were no help
–We’re-oh-so-ashamed, we’re-oh-so-ashamed, we’re-oh-so-ashamed, they sang sadly as they dragged along behind him.
–Open your valves, Gordon!, shouted his driver, –or we’ll be ringing for the banker!
Gordon winced, and put all the steam he had into his pistons. On they went, but they were getting slower and slower. As they rolled through Brimscombe station, they passed the big banking engine, who was resting in his siding between assisting goods trains. The banker watched Gordon with dismay.
-’Ere!, the banker called out –you shift your side-rods! Don’t you go spoiling my lovely morning break!
But it was no use. At St Mary’s Crossing, the gate-keeper stood on the steps of his box, tapping his watch as they went past.
Gordon’s puffing became more and more weak and laboured. As they rounded the bend toward Chalford, his driver and fireman looked at each other and shook their heads. With the heavy coaches dragging hard on his tender, Gordon coughed and wheezed and spluttered into Chalford station at walking pace
-I- can’t- go- on, I- can’t- go- on, I- can’t- go- on.
And he ground to an embarrassing halt just beyond the platform, and hid himself in shame in a cloud of escaping steam. His driver quickly put on all the brakes to stop the whole train rolling backwards.
Gordon sat there with his eyes shut. He could hear station staff milling around behind him, and telephones ringing, and his passengers opening the coach doors and climbing out onto the platform to see what was going on. Thankfully, they weren’t allowed beyond the platform end, for Gordon feared they might have nasty things to say to him. And then, just when he hought things couldn’t get any worse, he suddenly heard a horribly familiar voice.
–Peep peep! Well, hello, slowcoach!
Thomas and Amy had worked the morning Chalford auto-train from Gloucester, carrying their party of local historians, as well as schoolchildren and millworkers and shoppers, and had, as was the custom, then pulled forward into a siding to await the passing of Gordon’s express, and take on water. After this, they would cross over to the ‘down’ line platform for their return journey, this time with Thomas pushing Amy from behind. Thomas’s driver would sit in a little cab at the front of Amy, and drive Thomas from there, through Thomas’s special ‘Attachments’.
But Gordon’s plight had obviously been noted by station masters and signalmen back down the line, for phone calls had occurred, and arrangements had been made, and so now when Gordon opened his eyes, he saw in horror that Thomas had been quickly uncoupled from Amy, and was now trundling towards him down a siding, pushing a grubby mineral truck loaded with what looked horribly like best Welsh steam coal.
–This’ll put steam in your pistons, old man!, whistled Thomas cheerfully as he drew to a halt with the wagon right alongside Gordon’s cab. –Don’t you go wasting it; this is meant to be my local supply!
Gordon was beyond protesting. His driver leaped up on top of the coal wagon with a shovel, where he was joined by the signalbox boy, and together they began frantically raining the big black lumps down onto Gordon’s footplate where his fireman equally frantically fed them into his firebox. Just then, the Chalford Station Master came briskly trotting up.
–Banker’s on it’s way, he shouted up to Gordon’s driver, who nodded, then pointed at the coal he was standing on.
–We’ll have steam up in no time with this, he said. Then he jerked his thumb at Gordon, still wheezing and burbling pathetically. –I’m sorry about HIM.
The Station Master leaned over the handrail at the end of the platform and called out to Gordon.
–I say! I’ve had your Fat Controller on the phone. He is very, very disappointed in you, Gordon. He says Really Useful Engines are team players.
And then he turned and strode off toward his office, to telephone an update on the situation.
Gordon said nothing. He was feeling very, very foolish. But already he could feel his strength returning, and then some. His fireman had expertly stoked the fire, which was now a fierce and roaring inferno. Water began to bubble and fizz around his fire-tubes in an unusually energetic way, which Gordon found very pleasant indeed.
–Perhaps, he grudgingly said to himself, as he felt the steam build up in his dome, –perhaps this Welsh coal isn’t too bad, after all.
Suddenly he felt a jolt in his buffers.
–Banker’s here! said his driver, throwing a last few lumps of coal across, before passing the fireman the shovel, then jumping back over himself. Gordon was about to insist that an engine like him didn’t need anything as vulgar as a banker, but then thought better of it. It was very hard for him to admit, but perhaps he didn’t quite know everything.
-Steam’s up!, called his driver, and blew a short blast on Gordon’s whistle, to remind all the passengers to jump back aboard. When the guard waved his flag to indicate they were all safely on, and the doors shut, Gordon gave a longer blast to signal to the banker. The banker gave a long blast back, and they were ready for the off.
You’ll be alright now, old man, with something decent in your belly, said Thomas rudely, as he prepared to draw back with his truck. – Ooh look, my historians are back! Get you, Gordon! They’ll be here for you, I bet- you’re making history as the engine that failed on the ‘Flyer’!
Sure enough, a large throng of people in sturdy outdoor boots were making their way along the platform, carrying rucksacks and walking-poles, led by an enthusiastic fellow in shorts and owlish glasses. The failure of the Flyer had indeed caused quite a local commotion, and the historians were obviously keen not to miss out on this small piece of local history in the making, and they had just made it in time.
Straining every valve in his frame, Gordon’s big blue driving wheels began to slowly turn. He did not want stay in this little station a moment longer; e certainly did not want to have to listen to his sorry exploits being discussed by historians. He could hardly believe it, but he found himself wobbly to the axles with gratitude at the strong, determined push he could feel from the banker engine at the back of the train.
Together, they got the heavy express moving.
WE-CAN-DO-IT! WE-WILL-DO-IT! WE-CAN-DO-IT! WE-WILL-DO-IT!
Gordon’s puffs became stronger and stronger, as he slowly gained speed, and the banker barked gruffly at the back. But even together, they were not quite loud enough to drown out the booming tones of the leader of the historians, as he turn to his party and loudly announced
–And there is our lesson, people! Never, never, NEVER trust anything not built in Swindon!
By Jon Seagrave / Jonny Fluffypunk 2025
