Reality of the Fire
I, Victor Edward Collins, took the education departments invitation without hesitation, but also without excuses. At sixtythree Id spent thirty years with the Royal Fire Service; now Im retired on a pension of about £750 a month, pick up nightshift work as a gatekeeper, and during the day Im trying to work out why Ive been asked to run a new afterschool club.
It was a crisp September Tuesday when I first stepped into the schools sports hall: linoleum with faded markings, a row of exercise machines against the wall, and a folding table piled with a bundle of fire hoses, helmets and two rolledup jackets. Around me buzzed eight teenagers three girls and five lads the youngest looking about fourteen, the eldest gearing up for his Alevels. They were snapping pictures on their phones and laughing at a homemade poster that read, Fire isnt our brother, but were not its enemy either.
The deputy head, a dryspoken woman with the borough council badge on her blazer, introduced me: Everyone, this is Victor Edward Collins a genuine firefighter. I gave a quiet nod. Since I stopped answering emergency calls the word firefighter has felt foreign; the rank now lives in archived orders, while the habit of listening for night sirens still runs in my veins.
I started simply: I asked everyone to name themselves, their age and why they were there. I want to save people, Being a fire hero sounds cool, Itll look good on my university application the answers poured out. One stood out, Emma, a slim Year9 pupil: Im keen to see how smoke protection works. Id like to go to a college for safety engineering. I made a note one of the eight already had a concrete skill in mind. The rest were still attracted by the uniform and the applause.
The first lesson lasted an hour. I showed how to lift a hose both hands, smooth and without jerks, so you dont tear the coupling and asked them to unroll a length of hose down the changing room. The boys took off like a shot, but the hose tangled, and their delighted laughter filled the space. I didnt shout; I walked over, untangled the loops, then asked them to repeat the task in silence and against the clock. The timer read four minutes and thirty seconds, and the group realised even a game demands focus.
A week later we moved the training outside, at the old firestation site on Whitmore Lane. Wed dismantled the hosedrying tower, but a concrete ramp remained perfect for sprinting up with backpacked extinguishers. The morning was cool, the grass by the curbs glittered with frost. I made sure each youngster fastened their straps, then gave the signal. The first climb went smoothly; on the second, the lads legs grew heavy, two of them perched on a low wall to catch their breath.
Thats without the breathing apparatus on your back, I reminded them as they rested.
Nothing we cant handle, chuckled Daniel, the senior boy, wiping his forehead with his hoodie sleeve.
For the warmup I slipped in a short story. Ten years ago a fire broke out in a storage hangar: the temperature under the roof hit three hundred degrees, cardboard racks collapsed. We were hauling two hoses while the wind roared through the open doors like a pipe organ. Fifteen minutes later the masks were steaming from the inside. I spoke calmly, but the pause after the numbers forced the group to listen.
By the end of September the kids knew what a GDM link was, why the fire jacket has a double liner, and why you never run if your helmet has come off. One day I organized a dark drill: I switched off the lights, fired up the smoke machine and hid a dummy. Their task was to locate the victim and carry them to the exit. Three minutes in, Olivers torch sputtered out, a rope snagged his foot, and the team lost its bearings. We had to herd them back to the wall and guide them out one by one.
After the exercise the youngest, Oliver, asked, Victor, what if theres real fire?
Then youd be wearing the full set, I replied. And youd have only ninety seconds to find anyone.
October crept in unnoticed. The maple leaves around the firestation headquarters turned yellow, the sun set earlier, and by five oclock a chill was in the air. One Friday we let the volunteer crew onto the active stations grounds: they climbed the watchtower, were handed out decommissioned gear without cylinders, and the floodlights were turned on.
When night fell, I gathered the teens in a circle. A draught between the garage and the storage shed made the air feel sharp. The youngsters sat on the concrete, Daniel leaned against a coil of hose.
There are things, I began, you wont find in any textbook. Ill tell you one story. If after hearing it you decide its not for you, Ill understand.
I recalled a January night in 2016: a ninestorey block, fire on the fifth floor. Smoke choked the stairwell, the lights went out. We climbed up with eight minutes of air left in our masks. In the corridor we found a woman with a twoyearold child. We got them to the landing and our air ran out, the alarm shrieked. The baby was handed to paramedics but didnt survive the night. My voice didnt waver, but a sting rose beneath my ribs. I rarely speak of that night aloud usually Id just say, a child died.
Bare cherrytree branches creaked in the silence. Emma sat hugging her knees; Daniel stopped turning the hose coil; Oliver bowed his head as if listening to his own pulse.
Why are you telling us this? asked James.
So you realise not every rescue ends up on the front page. Sometimes you come home emptyhanded and wonder whether it was worth it.
I switched off the floodlight. Grey twilight cloaked the yard, a distant lantern by the gate marked the way out. The cold sharpened the decision each of us would have to make today.
The weekend passed without drills; each boy and girl mulled over what theyd heard.
On Monday I arrived at the school well before the bell. A low, heavy sky hung over the playground, grey frost slid across the asphalt. By the back exit, where a concrete stairwell led to the fourth floor, I laid out two practice hoses. The stopwatch, cold metal in my palm, ticked like an old fire alarm.
The steps creaked Emma appeared, in an old fleece jacket over a plain firefighters coat. She nodded silently and clipped the carabiners onto her belt. The rest followed. We counted up to six; James and Oliver were missing. I didnt ask why, gave them a minute to stretch and prepared to speak.
When the minute was up, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Oliver burst from a corner, fortythree seconds late, breathing heavily, helmet in hand. James trailed, rubbing his eyes as if fighting sleep. The group was whole again, and the knot in my chest loosened.
Decisions made? I asked quietly.
Yes, Daniel answered. We want to carry on. The questions only keep growing.
The first task was a rope climb and descent. The width of the passage allowed only two to go side by side. Emma and James went first: Emma hauled the coil, James belayed. Daniel and Oliver were second, followed by two younger lads and Sophie, who closed the chain. I hit the start button; the timer whirred.
By the second crossing their muscles felt like lead. On the third platform Oliver dropped the hose, the strap dug into his wrist, but he kept going. I watched without intervening no real fire, just a lesson in calculation. The first pair reached the top platform in one minute fiftynine; the whole crew in four minutes twenty.
They rappelled down, sat on a pile of helmets, and their breathing steadied.
Ask whatever you like, I offered.
Daniel looked up. How do you live after those calls where you cant save everyone?
I thought of the smell of melted wiring, the wail of sirens, the slam of an ambulance door.
I still wake up at night, I said. In my early years I cursed myself why didnt I get the child out sooner? Then I realised that if you clutch only to guilt, youll never climb the next stair. This job isnt about heroics; its about choosing, every time, to go forward even when you know you might be late.
I paused, then steered the conversation back to practice. Two more climbs. Whoevers hauling the hose belays, the belayer hauls. Aim for under five minutes.
This round Olivers hose stayed in place; Emma, at the back, adjusted the loop and gave short commands. We finished in three minutes fiftyeight. I swallowed my satisfaction, noted the errors: keep the hose tighter against the thigh, dont leap on the turn, tuck hair under the hood, tighten laces. Small details, but without them you dont survive.
When the lesson ended, Emma handed me her notebook. The regulation says volunteer crews need a minimum of sixteen hours of practice before were allowed into city drills. Weve got eleven left. Will we make it?
I glanced at the tidy columns of times. We will. Not by rushing, but by discipline. Tomorrow knots, the day after navigating a dark corridor. Friday stair marches at the station.
I trudged home in a drizzly rain. In my old fivestorey block the scent of fried chips drifted up the stairwells. The flat behind my door was quiet. I turned on the radio; the background chatter kept the memories at bay. My £750 pension didnt allow luxuries, but I needed fireresistant gloves for the kids. The nightwatch wages were enough if I could find a discount. Its the little things that keep a volunteer crew afloat.
Early on a frosty Friday morning the stations grounds welcomed the group with streetlamps and the smell of damp soot from the boiler room. The watchtower loomed as a dark silhouette. I checked the carabiners and handed out fresh gloves.
Whered these come from? asked Sophie, eyeing the bright orange patches.
Found a sponsor, I replied with a shrug. In reality the sponsor was me and two extra night shifts.
The drill ran under a stopwatch. The first pair surged to the third floor in one minute fortyfive, the second a couple of seconds slower. At the finish line Daniel tapped the display: 1:52 a new record.
The teenagers, leaning on the railings, looked flushed, but their eyes held steady confidence, not bravado. I felt a familiar sting of guilt ease, as if someone had loosened the strap on my own breathing apparatus.
See those numbers, I said softly. Its not about glory. Its work. If you want more, go for it, but always remember the price.
From below the hatch of a fuel tanker opened, its engine rumbling as it headed out to check the pumps. The lads instinctively watched the vehicle, and I realised their heads now held images of real callouts, not stickers or badges.
I turned off the stopwatch and slipped it back into my jacket pocket. The crack of ice under my boots, the drone of the engine, the thin breath from my mouth formed the soundtrack of a job they were just beginning to hear.
Fiveminute break, I announced. Then another run, then home. From Monday we start using the full gear.
The boys smiled, briefly, without fanfare, as if an unspoken agreement had been reached. As they descended they whispered about how many hours each needed to hit the quota. I lingered, watching them go, feeling a steady warmth in my chest: the truth hadnt crushed them; itd helped them step out of illusion.
My hand brushed the pocket; the metal of the stopwatch warmed. Another record would be set, another click. One day Ill pass the timer to another mentor. For now, time moves forward, and together were learning to fill it with purpose.
The sun rose over the garage roof, a pale disc trembling between clouds. I took a step toward the lads. The road ahead was clear keep working.
