"Oh, not again!" Skarloey complained, as Ocellus once again got to work on polishing him, running a rag around the brass on his chimney. "I know you value clean engines, but I daresay this is getting a bit ridiculous."
"Well," Ocellus replied, her face a smile, "you must look your best for your 150th birthday, after all. It's in a few days, may I remind you, and the last thing Mr Percival wants is filthy engines!"
"You're just a fusspot!" Skarloey teased, with a grin.
"And you're just a crosspatch!" Ocellis teased back, and went to work, polishing the old engine vigorously.
"That statement was indeed correct, a long time ago," Skarloey replied. "Would you like to hear the story?"
"Oh!" Ocellus replied. "Yes please!"
And so, Skarloey began. "A long, long time ago, I was built, in 1865 at the Fletcher Jennings works in Whitehaven, England. That's in the county of Cumberland, now part of Cumbria. I was built alongside Rheneas, Talyllyn, and Dolgoch."
"That's your twin, isn't it?" asked Ocellus.
"Yes," Skarloey smiled. "Or, at least Talyllyn is. Dolgoch is the twin of Rheneas, and they live on the Talyllyn Railway near Twywn. They don't actually go to Talyllyn, as that would be quite the feat of engineering! Anyways, they are 150 as well, but at the time were turned out in green. Rheneas and myself were red. I only had four wheels at the time, and I lacked a cab. The same was true of Talyllyn as well. We both thought we were wonderful, we did. We talked about how good we'd look pulling coaches."
"What about trucks?" Ocellus ventured.
"Well, we had no use for those," Skarloey replied. "Alas, our time together was short, so I was sent away on a big ship to Sodor. That ship wobbled all over the place, and it was a horrible ride. I arrived at the port of Kirk Ronan, which is on the now closed line from Kellsthorpe Road to Kirk Ronan via Rolf's Castle. There, I was kept waiting for a while, and then something happened that I'd rather not remember..."
Kirk Ronan, 1865.
Skarloey was not having a good time. The port, for some ridiculous reason, lacked a proper crane, and this was most improper. What sort of port lacks a crane? Hey, that rhymes. Anyways, Skarloey was most cross. Somebody had thought it was a bright idea to lower him down using the ships' derricks, which was most uncomfortable.
"Watch what you're doing!" he shouted. "I'm not a bat! Don't leave me hanging!"
"You can't be high fived!" called a worker. "You have no hands!"
Enough of the anachronistic jokes. After a long while, and an agonising wait in mid air, Skarloey was finally lowered onto a flat wagon, being pushed by a steam engine with four wheels, no cab, and a massive square saddle tank mounted on top of his boiler. He had the number 2 painted on his side, and the letters S & M painted as well. "So," he said, with a gentle Scottish accent. "You're the wee new engine on the railway, eh?"
"Erm, yes?" Skarloey replied, as they got on their way. This was the first engine he had spoken to since leaving Whitehaven, and he seemed quite nice.
"I hope you will put some order into those foolish trucks at Crovan's Gate!" the engine continued. "My name's Neil, by the way, of the Sodor and Mainland Railway. And you?"
"Skarloey."
Neil's driver laughed, a man with red skin and brown eyes, clad from head to toe in grey. "That's the name of the lake up in the woods. Ironically, Skarloey means lake in Sudric! Anyways, those trucks have caused people all sorts of bother. I hope you can knock some sense into them!"
Skarloey frowned. He didn't like the sound of that."
"What happened next?" Ocellus asked.
"They dropped me off at Crovan's Gate, put me on the rails, and left me in the shed until the next morning. I was very homesick, and just wanted some company. I wished Rheneas was there." Skarloey paused. "The next day, the trucks were everywhere, filled with slate, and other myriad goods. Just then, some empty ones rolled in by themselves! I was very confused, but then I learned they were worked by gravity. Then I did something very foolish indeed..."
Crovan's Gate, 1865.
"Come on, Skarloey!" shouted a workman, a man with blue skin, an orange beard, and purple eyes, as well as a Scottish accent. "You need to pull the slate trucks back up the line!"
"Can't they go up by the gravity thing?" Skarloey asked, very confused.
"Gravity only brings things down," the workman explained. "We need horses, both biological and iron, such as yourself, to pull them up. And that is what you are going to do."
"What?" Skarloey explained. "I'm here to pull coaches, not trucks! I won't!"
"We'll see about that," the workman said, and walked away. A few minutes later, a tall man with grey skin and a white beard appeared, dressed in a top hat and a smart suit with a brown overcoat. This was Mister Starswirl, the manager, and he looked at Skarloey.
"Hello, Skarloey!" he said. "We're going to steam you for work."
"Can I pull coaches?" Skarloey asked.
"No," Mr Starswirl replied. "We have no passengers for the coaches to carry. For now, it's freight."
"Well, phooey to that!" Skarloey exclaimed. His fire burned poorly, and black smoke shot out of his funnel and cylinder cocks. The crews looked less than pleased, but Skarloey didn't really care. He just wanted to pull coaches.
They tried again the next day. And the next. And the next. And the next. And the one after that. But still Skarloey went nowhere, looking cross.
Eventually, they gave up. "Very well," said Mr Starswirl. "Be a crosspatch. But we're not going to look at your sulky face for a second longer. Cover him up!"
And they did, laying a giant tarpauling over him.
"I was sorry, of course," Skarloey said sadly. "But I was left there for many days, feeling ever so sorry."
"What happened next?" asked Ocellus.
"Yes, please tell us!" said some voices behind her. Ocellus turned in surprise. Standing there was a crowd of people, listening intently to Skarloey's story.