Sunlight gleamed on the rails of Ddraig Goch station, polished by the passing of countless wheels. Two engines stood side by side, looking very important.
One was Mallard, an A4 class engine, large, proud and blue. His streamlined casing and nameplates shone and sparkled in the bright morning sky. From buffer to buffer he stood eager and ready at the station, steam drifting from his valves in impatient sighs.
Beside him stood King Edward VIII, a hardworking King class engine painted a deep, dignified green. He was broader and heavier, built for strength, and his brass snifting valve glowed warmly in the morning sun. He too was ready to start the day’s work.
Both engines had passenger coaches to pull that day—holidaymakers bound for the coast and shoppers and business people heading to the city. Though good friends, each secretly liked to be thought the finest engine on the line.
Mallard admired his reflection in the signal box windows.
Mallard: “Lovely morning for a fast run!”
King Edward chuckled, his buffers bobbing back and forth.
King Edward: “Fast is fine, but I prefer a steady climb and a full train. These coaches won’t pull themselves.”
The stationmaster blew his whistle. “Right, you two! Mallard, you’ll take the coastal express. King Edward, you’ve got the city service. Mind the timetable—and no racing!”
“Yes, sir!” they chorused, though both engines felt a tingle of competition bubble in their boilers.
Mallard set off first, gliding away with barely a sound, his coaches whispering along behind him. He couldn’t resist opening his regulator just a little more than necessary. “Plenty of power to spare,” he thought proudly.
King Edward followed with a confident chuff-chuff, hauling his heavier coaches up the hill. The climb was steep, but he dug in, pistons pumping steadily. “This is real work,” he said to himself. “And I’m made for it.”
Further along the line, the two routes ran close together. Mallard spotted King Edward on the parallel track and gave a jaunty whistle. King Edward replied with a deep, cheerful blast of his own. Both engines tried just a touch harder—Mallard smoothing his run, King Edward pulling with extra determination.
But showing off has a way of causing trouble. Mallard, going just a bit too briskly, felt his wheels slip on the curve by the river. His brakes gave a brief shower of sparks. He slowed quickly, embarrassed, hoping no-one had noticed.
At the same time, King Edward felt one of his coaches ride roughly over a set of points, and somewhere in the buffet car a tea kettle sloshed. He eased his pace at once to keep his passengers comfortable.
At the junction where one line headed towards the coast and the other to the city, they met again at the signal.
King Edward: “Seems we both remembered what matters.”
Mallard: “You’re right. Passengers first, competition second.”
Later that day, Mallard arrived on time at the coast. His passengers spilled out happily onto the platform, eager to begin their holiday.
King Edward arrived in the city on time. His passengers smiled and waved as he departed for the return run home.
Back at the Caerphilly engine shed, the engines rested side by side, fireboxes ready to be emptied into the ash pit after the hard day’s work.
Mallard: “We make a good pair.”
King Edward: “We do.”
His buffers bobbed in agreement.
“Friends or rivals?” he mused.
The reply came firmly.
Mallard: “Friends.”
And the embers, still warm from the day’s work, seemed to agree.
Screw Pile Developments 