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There were a lot of stray animals where he used to live.
That was the main thing that Thomas remembered about Brighton, England. The vast amount of stray and feral dogs and cats that came by the home of him and his siblings to meet the mechanical marvels that made up the workshop where they were made. He didn’t know why they would always come to the workshop. Perhaps it was because when they were getting started in the morning, they were the perfect temperature to lie on, and get some extra warmth in before their engines got too hot and began to boil the skin. That was most likely the reason, as they were often caught in the rain, and needed the extra warmth to dry their wet fur and to keep on going. It was nice though, as the animals would keep them company right before work, and it definitely raised morale amongst Thomas specifically, even if it was for a short while.
For every Tom Cat and Dog however, there was always a mother. A pregnant dog or cat that would, in a few months, birth a litter of puppies or kittens that would mewl and whimper and cry for their Mother’s attention and love, as all children will do eventually. The puppies and kittens were all different in their own way. Whether it be the coloration, or the breed, or even the personalities of the young animals, each litter of kittens or puppies were all different and unique.
That didn’t mean there weren’t some similarities though.
The strongest of the litter was called “the pick” of the litter, Thomas had learned. They were the babies that were made the best. The babies that could wrestle, and bite, and hunt the best. The babies that would, in return, would get the most of Mother’s love and, most importantly, the most of Mother’s milk.
The babies that were adequate, not that strong, but still not weak, were still cared for. Maybe not as much as the strong, dependable pick of the litter, but they were taken care of. They were given a home under their Mother’s belly, they were given the milk of their Mother’s teats, and they had the protection and security they needed, that being their mother’s teeth and claws, if people ever tried to hurt them in any way.
And then, there was “the runt” of the litter. The weak ones. The ones that were too small and sickly to be anything but burdens to the rest of the family. They were the ones that got the least amount of love or even nutrients from their mother. They were the ones that were prone to ailments or injury. The ones that would thin out more than the others due to lack of nutrition. The ones that would be left out in the cold, either to starve, or get eaten up by something bigger.
Once in a while, a person with a kind heart and soul took pity on the runt. They would scoop them up and raise them back to health, and soon the little puppy or kitten would become not only a loyal pet, but something akin to the person’s own child, with the animal following close behind them faithfully until they died.
That was the best case scenario, however, and unfortunately the best case scenario was rare. Most of the people where he once lived were…not cruel per say, but not the kindest either. They, like the mothers, would ignore the runt’s cries, and think of them as burdensome. They would just be another stray dog or cat to the workers. And as the runt grew thinner and thinner, weaker and weaker, until they finally went to the corner of the workshop, and closed their eyes, awaiting whatever came next. Sometimes Thomas would go to the corner of the shed where the dying young animal was, and allowed them to use their last bit of strength to go over and lie on him, using his metal body as the last bit of warmth they had before they went. He did not cry for them though, as that was the way of things. Natural selection, it was called. The strong ones lived and the weak ones didn't. And that was the way it was.
It was no secret that Thomas was made… small. Not just small for an engine, but small for his class. When it came to whether a tank engine was big or small, it would often come down to both height and length, at least compared to tender engines. And his brothers and sisters were definitely large beings, often being taller than the biggest of British tender engines, and more often than not, if you didn't count the tender, they would be almost as long as them too. Many of the tender engines felt intimidated by the E2 class, expecting the small, petite tank engines they were used to, like a Jinty or a Pug, only to be met with giant, tall, bulky things that could easily run them off the rails if they so wanted.
But not Thomas. no, for some reason, instead of the bulky, tall, strong, and scary engine he was supposed to be, he was… this. A small, weak little thing. Thomas always wondered what caused him to turn out so small. Maybe there wasn't enough metal to make him big, maybe because he was the last to be made. But, nevertheless, he was much weaker than all of his peers, and couldn’t shunt as many heavy loads as they could, even if he wanted to.
If Thomas had to decide which one of all his siblings were the pick of the litter, he would have to think it would have to be his oldest brother, the first E2 made. This was back before they had any names, and they were only numbers, when he was 110. 101 was the engine that every member of their little lineage wanted to be like. Everyone in the yard was either extremely in awe of him or extremely afraid of him, but either way, among all his family members, he was the one to get the most praise and admiration.
“Look at the way he shunts”, an engine inspector said to the workers. “He’ll be the first pick once a Railway director comes to your little factory.”.
“And look at how strong he is.”, Another would say. “A tractive effort of 23,307 lbf. Very impressive, especially for an E2 tank engine.”.
“And his manners.”, The last one would say. “He’s as sweet and as darling as a hummingbird. A gentle giant indeed. He will make a very fine loco out in the real world. A darling engine with a strong physique and a good work ethic.”.
Oh how he beamed and bragged about it to the rest of his brothers and sisters, Thomas remembered. How prideful and boastful he was.
The rest of his brothers and sisters were the adequate ones. The ones that did their job right, but weren’t perfect at it like 101 was. They shunted their cars well, they had an average tractive effort of 21,307 lbf, and while none of them were as well articulated and as mannerly as 101, they still kept a good conversation with the inspectors. They were able to laugh when they needed to, listen when they needed too, and overall they made good company. While not as high of a score as 101 got, he remembered the rest of his siblings being content with what they were given, deeming it fair.
Then…it was his turn.
“Oh dear, the way he shunts the trucks into place is quite inadequate,”. One of the inspectors said. “The way he bashes them, he might as well be breaking them into little pieces.”
“He’s not very strong either.”, Another one said. “A tractive effort of 17,044. He’s somehow weaker than a Jinty class.”.
“His manners are absolutely atrocious.”, the last one said, scowling. “He’s either completely quiet and despondent, or cheeky, impudent and rude.”,
“His only advantage to the others is that due to his small stature, he is faster than the other ones.”. The first one said, still shaking his head. “But what is the point of speed if he’s not even strong enough to be an express engine. It is saddening to say, but this one will not go far in the world.”.
Not go far in the world…
Those were the words that stuck with him the most about the whole thing. That he would not go far in the world. It could mean many things. It could mean that he would never be bought, it could mean he might be bought but then sent back, it could mean that over the years he could be resold from railway to railway, never finding a home, never leaving an impression on anyone.
The outcome would be the same. He would either be scrapped, cannibalized for his parts and have his body melted for slag…or rot. Be left out in some siding in the rain and slowly rust away, the copper slowly spreading around him like a disease, moss and bugs making a home in his boiler. He could not let this happen. He did not know why, but he wanted to live. Even if he was to stay here forever.
So that’s what he did.
He tried to pull more than he could, to shunt more than he could, to just….do more. Do more so he could be seen as more. Help? His siblings didn’t need help so why did he need help. Because he was small, because he was weak, because he was destined to be the runt that was left out in the cold. He could not let that happen, he wouldn’t let that happen.
It was on a cloudy day when it happened. One of the bigger engines that visited from the Great Western, a preserved Waverly class, came up to him. The engine was a large broad gauge, larger than even the Standard. Immediately, he started boasting about his inherent superiority. How even he, as the last of his kind in the world, were better than all of his brothers and sisters, simply because of his bulk. He called them all…useless.
Thomas couldn’t remember what happened, it was all a blur. But when he became conscious again, he and the Waverly Class both had badly bashed fronts, and Thomas was derailed, his paint badly scratched on his side.
He remembered 101 scolding him for this. “How can you properly expect the Steam age to remain strong if you act like this!”.
“He was making fun of us, fun of me. Do you honestly just expect me to have a cool boiler about that?”.
“You have no choice too!”, 101’s face was flushed, steam emitting from his valves. “That class of engines was the only one preserved. A broad gauge tender engine too! Their class is near extinct, and you think it socially acceptable to act that way!”.
Thomas looked away. “It doesn’t matter if we treat them with respect. They’ll still only treat us as scrap…no less than scrap. Scrap to them has more use than us.”.
“You better learn to bite your tongue!”, 101 said. “Unless you want to be melted into slag before you can be properly useful!”.
With that, 101 puffed out, still furious with his younger sibling.
It was a while before anyone came to fix Thomas after that. A long while. He didn’t know if it had been a week, a month, or even longer. He just knew that for a long while he just looked down at his bent buffer beam.
As the workmen worked on him, he wondered for the longest time if what 101 said was true. As he saw his brothers and sisters being chosen and taken to railways far away, he couldn’t help but ask himself…
“Will I be left here…will I forever be a runt? Will I be forgotten, left to die!?”
As the days went on, he began to get more and more panicky, more and more desperate. Everyone seemed to be going away. More and more everyday. The more engines that were sold, the more workmen moved on, either to other factories, or other jobs in general. The more workmen that moved on, the less company Thomas had, and the more antsy and anxious he became. And as the days continued to move on, as the place where he resided became more and more isolated, the more he felt like a puppy. A runtish, weak, sad little puppy. A runtish, weak, sad, pitiful animal that not even the workmen would pay attention to, that no one would care about no matter how much he whimpered and cried and begged for the smallest bit of attention.
It was a rainy day when he was finally found. He remembered anxiously crying, rust forming tear stains on his cheeks. He was breathing hard and even as the door opened, revealing the dim light from outside, he still felt as if the walls were closing in on him.
“My dear engine…”, a voice said from the darkness. “Why are you crying so…you seem like you’re entering death’s door.”.
It took a while for Thomas to calm down enough to finally speak. He didn’t even remember if he fully understood what the voice said. But he spoke finally, his voice hoarse from sobs.
“I might as well be sir…”, he solemnly said, looking down at his front, which was thankfully now repaired, but not to the fullest extent.
“And why is that?”, The voice asked. “You don’t seem to be in an unfixable condition. A little bent out of shape, yes, but not unfixable.”.
“Isn’t it obvious, sir?”, Thomas asked. “I am a runt. The smallest of my class. I’m not fast enough for the express, I’m not strong enough to pull anything…I’m classless, I’m careless…I’m no use to anyone.”.
“A runt…”, the voice reiterated, his voice seeming to look up and down at the little E2. If that was even possible.
“Yes…”, Thomas said, looking away. “If you’re looking for the bigger E2s then I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m the only one left. All the other ones were sold to other railways across Britain…”.
There was a long silence for a while. A long, pregnant pause that made Thomas’ boiler go even colder than it was before. He couldn’t see the voice’s owner, couldn’t read his emotions. He felt in that moment that he was looking straight into the flames of the cutter’s torch, even though darkness enveloped every corner of where he resided.
The voice spoke up again, his voice soft. It would be comforting…if Thomas wasn’t so scared. “You wish to get away from here…do you?”.
Thomas was shocked by this question. “Of course I do! How can I not?! This place is so…so cold and desolate and…LONELY! I want to leave so bad but…how can I? Who would want me?”.
“Someone who knows, that no matter how someone might seem, understands that they too, must live. To live is simply correct.”.
The silence returned, not as long as before of course, but it was there. This time however, it was more…comforting to Thomas. More soothing to the mind.
“If I choose you...”, The voice asked. “Will you work hard?”.
“What?!”
“If I choose you, will you work hard?".
Thomas stood there, awestruck, before speaking. " Yes! Yes, I promise to work hard! I promise to work harder than I ever will work in my life! Just please! Please take me away from here!".
The voice seemed to smile, chuckling to himself before calling out to an unseen individual. "Fire the old boy up, my good man! He's the one I'll take."
From then on, things looked up for the little tank engine. From friends, to getting his own number, to even his own branch line. But, most importantly, a home. The North Western Railway was his home. Even more of a home than that factory in Brighton will ever be. Yes he was still teased for being small from time to time. But compared to being in that shed, ignored and unloved…he could handle a bit of teasing now and then. And even then, now he had the strength to fight back.
For after all, even the smallest of runts have a chance to be feisty.