The Switch

The clickety-clack of the iron wheels bumping over the rail joints would’ve echoed through the tunnel, but the thick smoke muffled everything–a cushioned fort defending against the breaking sound waves. The cab grew warmer, and George groaned, his face contorted for hard work. A glimpse of his pocketwatch dangling from his overalls, and, of course, he was on schedule. The train broke through into light once more, pulling carriage after carriage after carriage, plunging into a valley of perfectly straight trees. The bridge drew ever closer. He sighed. A decision would need to be made soon.

His arm still in a sling, and a crude bandage starting to slip over his eye from a previous attempt, George couldn’t believe they’d put him back to work so soon. But numbers were few on the ground recently, and they’d get anyone that could stand in the right spot for hours. Tired. Tired. So tired. And nothing to show for it at the end of the day. Just an empty bowl on an old wooden table. If he even made it home. But Today? Was today the day? This day? When Rocket was here lying in a soft tartan bed, on the warm floor, in the corner of the cab. His tiny best friend. A pile of fur the colour of dirty sand.

George had overheard the hushed conversations about the new tracks and the new stations. The streamlining. The efficiency. A whole new network of no hard work. He knew he was going to be retired soon–he could feel it. If he was lucky, maybe he’d be put to work on a platform somewhere–swap his oily denims and neckerchiefs for a crisp blue suit and shiny shoes. Standing. Standing. Standing, with no one to talk to. Holding a whistle that never needs to blow. Checking for trains that were never late. A fine reward for over fifty years of service.

He’d be able to watch the locomotives and their sleek, glossy bodies, like oil sliding through the station, but he wouldn’t be allowed to touch them. To take charge again. Holding the power against the pushing pistons. Feeling the thrum of the engine through his feet, juddering his old joints, rising all the way to jiggle his round gold-rimmed glasses on his ears and tilt his corduroy cloth cap. The new machines didn’t work the same way. No sweat. No effort. Just crackling electricity charging the way. A different kind of conducting.

They passed a signalman, perched high on his ladder. The red light was raised to stop. George’d gone through it the month before and look at the trouble that had got everyone into. He stole a look at Rocket, quiet in his dream, his trusty companion. Always there for him. This time, they slowed and halted at the junction. Another train tooted as it passed, heading up the mountain towards the tunnel. A newer, slimline version of the one he was in. He couldn’t see a driver. New management. New ideas. How could he change for times that keep on changing? Stay the same. Stay the same. Stay the same.

He couldn’t work the new machines. Didn’t fit with their style. He didn’t want to be replaced, but he didn’t think he’d be allowed to stay. George was cleared with a white light and began speeding through the woods to the town. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to come this way today. The temptation made him wobble, at least, that’s what he supposed it was. The bridge is out. The Bridge is out. The Bridge. Is. Out.

He thought of his wife, she would be standing at the kitchen window. Porcelain on the table behind her. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. And he thought of Rocket, his faithful companion. A tartan scarf around his neck, matching the red one, twisted around George’s throat. The junction appeared on the horizon. To town? To the bridge? To town? To the bridge? To town? To the bridge? Is today the day?

George felt the force on his face as they picked up speed. Faster. Faster. Faster. The wind whirled and whipped around him, his bandages fluttered, and his old gilt watch rocked furiously on its chain. Here it comes. The split in the track. The tips of his fingers twitched. Stay the same? Embrace the change?

He couldn’t change. He didn’t know how–All he knew was how to be left behind. The switch was flipped. Firing through countryside banking away from the new town, towards the old looming beams and trusses. Speeding. Speeding. Speeding. Before the track disappeared beneath them.

Momentarily, the train continued horizontally, as if nothing had changed at all, before the nose dipped, twisting as it fell, pulling carriage after carriage after carriage. Rocket's bed and body lifted slowly into the air before slipping out of the side of the open cab. The iron wheels spun silently through clouds of steam. Down. Down. Down. 

Somewhere, in the distance, he could hear a woman screaming and a small boy crying. And everything went dark.

“Jonathan!” Miranda screeched at her son, “What have I told you about playing with Grandad’s trainset? Get out of here! It’s taken your Dad ages to piece together what’s left from the drawings and the sketches and if you break any of… Oh shit! Shit! This train’s got a huge crack in the front!”

Light returned to the cab as gigantic fingers peeled back. A huge hazel eye–with a lid covered in glittering gold powder and clumps of dark mascara spidering its lashes–blinked as it peered into the carriage. An old, chipped figure of a driver ringed in crude slivers of fabric bandages stared back from its spot jammed in by the engine. His face twisted under furrowed brows, teeth gritted in hard labour as they had been for the last 56 years.

She laughed and whispered, “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.” She winked at him before shoving the train, George included, into a binbag in the back of her wardrobe to be fixed one day. One day. One day.