to require looking into. It was the first quirk he had seen in the train’s behaviour and quite a concern. Running too hot and for too long would be a problem if it wasn’t regulated well.
He eased the throttle just enough until the needle steadied itself from dancing. It would need to be looked into, of course, but that would be a worry for another time. Their accomplishment didn’t need to be sullied.
It needed to be celebrated.
* * *
With the sun long set, and the train’s ash dumped, the junkyard was lifeless apart from a few sleeping birds and the inconsiderate couple who noisily sat around an open fire. They sat trackside, surrounded by the comfort of illumination, alternately swigging from bottles of brown ale picked up on their earlier jaunt. The excitement had exacerbated now and the reality was becoming clear. With their success, decisions had to be made. Big decisions. Ones that would shape fate and steer their destinies onto dramatically different paths.
Franco had spent most of his time listening. Never before had Pappy rambled on about his days as a hauler so enthusiastically. He talked of the kinship among those aboard the trains that had helped bring about Surenth’s quick industrial development. He spoke of the grandiose sighs of the old trains, stirring the hearts of everyone who witnessed their presence in the Sand Sea, of the beginnings of rail transport, the tracks its veins and each train’s cargo its lifeblood.
The youngster couldn’t help but be utterly enthralled by the tales of drama and danger. The time Pappy tangled with one of the many gangs who attempted to hijack the train itself was Franco’s particular favourite, and he cheered upon being told that the intruder was unceremoniously ejected from a boxcar with a swift kick to the chest. Maybe it was romanticized in his head – but what of it? The last time Franco had indulged in fantasy was when his age was in single digits. If he couldn’t succumb to the heady possibilities before him now, when could he? After the latest bout of tales, Pappy slapped his forehead, leaving a mark of coal dust on his skin.
‘What am I doing? We’re here enjoying a drink and I almost forgot to serve one to the guest of honour. How utterly terrible; this will not do at all …’
The old man took to unsteady feet, sliding a second bottle from its case by the neck and raising it to the train before them. The hulk of iron and steel stood proudly in the ebbing glow.
‘Forgive me! Here’s to you, you beautiful thing, Eiferian number 433! May your wheels take us far from this pit and give fortune to us luckless bastards who ride with you. You are born anew!’
With an almighty heave he hurled the bottle through the star-speckled sky. The glass receptacle exploded against the pitted boiler, christening the venture in alcohol.
‘Out of respect it should be something pricier,’ Pappy confessed, holding his drink high before taking an almighty swig. ‘You don’t christen with hog water – much as you wouldn’t bathe in it. We intend no offence.’
Franco cheered loudly and gulped down the last mouthfuls of drink in his possession. As he lowered the bottle and the moon’s lustre took to the vehicle’s sides, a curious feeling stirred in his being. These last couple of years had been full of toil and frustration, but for every difficulty there was a solution. The train, with all of its hardships and annoyances, was a thing of beauty, just as his grandfather described. He had been simply too young, or too blind, to appreciate it in his youth. Times were different now. Now, all he had for the damn thing was boundless affection.
For a meagre moment, watching the stupid old fool crow in the night, clearly drunk, all was right in the world. There was no concern about their poverty. There was no fear of the local criminality. Life had meaning and all actions had a wondrous purpose. Under a pale-moon sky, the Eiferian 433 accepted the old man’s praise, situated proudly upon the tracks, despite standing in a graveyard to its kind. Though it was difficult to discern it from the scrap that littered the yard in piles of corroded metalwork, life still beat within its heart, fuelled by the four-year-long endeavour undertaken by Franco and his grandfather.
When satisfied that Pappy had made an ass out of himself, Franco put forward the burning question.
‘What do we do now?’
‘Well.’ Pappy straightened his back until it popped numerous times. ‘The way I see it, it depends on a couple of important factors. You should ask yourself how well rooted you are in this dear town. If it’s all you’ve known, going elsewhere may be a difficult feat.’
‘Funny talk, like there’s anybody who gives the slightest damn about me this ways. Anybody I knew believed that I was selling things off on the side while working with you and got angry when they found out I was doing the work straight. Even Ketan has been giving me lip, running with others who are best avoided. What do I have to stay for?’
Pappy cracked his knuckles next, letting old bones complain as loud as possible.
‘Good answer. We can sell the house, flog most of our things. There’s nowt for me but bad memories and graves far too numerous to visit. We can live on the train. The first car can be converted into living quarters – just look at her, there’s plenty of room to utilize. Paint her up while we’re at it; we can’t let her sit in the buff like this. It wouldn’t be proper. We can get hold of a couple of other cars in the yard, haggle a good price and haul goods for a living. There’s plenty to pull if you know where to look. We’ll start small, see what the mills need to transport, that sort of thing. From there, we pick up the contracts from whatever outpost we roll on into.’
‘I see. Back to what you know, huh?’ Franco casually swigged from his bottle. He lifted himself up and gave his grandfather a warm pat on the shoulder.
‘It will be. On top of this grand scheme, we’ll drink with some regulars and get them back to one of the end cars where we can play some hands of cards away from prying eyes. You can easily make a little money by gambling with the drunk or the foolish. That, my boy, is as much of a given as the sky is blue and the dirt is brown.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Franco tossed the idea about in his head, with an inebriated grin. There was something alluring about the idea of gambling, almost dangerous, a perfect accompaniment to their new venture. At his request, they struck the caramel-coloured bottles together, cementing the agreement. ‘Do tell me more …’
Though not elaborated on in the novel, the years that Franco and his grandfather shared were spent transporting goods around the region, with Franco learning how to operate the train. Unfortunately, this was all to be cut short. Pappy began to develop a respiratory disease on account of poor working conditions in his youth, something he would never recover from. This sequence was supposed to reveal the sudden decline of Pappy’s health, as well as a twenty-something Franco managing the train itself.
Franco picked beneath his fingernails for the umpteenth time. The dirt had congregated there so many times that it was almost a permanent fixture. He shuffled his feet forward, looking past the queue to the station house on the platform. There, illuminated by gaslight, a solitary individual wrote in his ledger. He spoke with the person at the front of the line. When their business was concluded, the individual inside called the next person forward and the line became one shorter in number. Franco looked about for the station clock, squinted at the time and exhaled in an attempt to remain patient.
Another step closer. More small talk made by those in line. The one in front was smoking like he was on fire, wafts sailing over his shoulder and traversing down into Franco’s face. He held both his nerve and his breath. The man ahead then tapped the ash from an ill-made roll-up, letting the breeze carry it away and land upon Franco’s oil-soiled jeans. Franco tried to ignore it. It was late and an argument would do nothing to help his already sour mood. He checked the station clock again. It had barely moved since last time.
At long last he was next. The smoker ahead grumbled about this and that, his conversation patchy and only half listened to, before he suddenly erupted with a deep