Reality of the Flame
Victor Edward Collins took the offer from the local education board without haste, yet without excuses. At sixtythree, thirty of those years had been spent in the ranks of the Fire and Rescue Service; now he lived on a pension of about seven thousand five hundred pounds, took a nightwatch job, and by day tried to work out why a new afterschool club was being set up.
It was a September Tuesday when he first stepped into the schools sports hall: linoleum with faded markings, a row of training machines against one wall, and a folding table holding a bundle of fire hoses, helmets and two coiled turnout jackets. Around him swirled eight teenagers three girls and five boys; the youngest looked about fourteen, the oldest was gearing up for his GCSEs. They clicked phone cameras and laughed at a homemade poster that read, Fire isnt our brother, but were no enemy of it.
The schools deputy head, a dryspoken woman whose jacket bore the council badge, introduced the mentor: Children, this is Victor Edward Collins a real rescuer. Victor gave a quiet nod. Since he had stopped answering emergency calls, the word rescuer felt foreign to him; the rank lived only in archived orders, the habit of night sirens still pulsed in his veins.
He began simply: he asked everyone to state their name, age and why they had come. I want to save people, Being a fire hero sounds cool, Itll help with my college application, the answers poured out. One stood out Elsie, a slim ninthgrader: Im keen to learn how smoke protection works. I want to go to a safety college. Victor noted to himself that one of the eight already thought of a specific skill; the rest were still attracted by the uniform and the applause.
The first lesson lasted an hour. He showed how to lift a hose with both hands, no jerks, so the cuff wouldnt tear and asked them to unroll a length of hose along the changing rooms. The boys rushed forward, but the hose tangled, and cheerful chatter filled the space. Victor did not shout; he walked over, untangled the coils, then challenged them to repeat the task silently and against the clock. The timer stopped at four minutes thirty seconds, and the group realized even a game demanded concentration.
A week later training moved to the yard of the former fire station on Willow Lane. The drying tower had been dismantled, leaving a concrete ramp that was perfect for sprinting up with backpacks full of extinguishers. The morning was crisp, the grass by the curbs glittered with frost. Victor made sure each youngster secured their straps, then gave the start. The first ascent went smoothly; on the second the lads legs felt as heavy as lead, two of them rested against a low wall.
Thats still without the breathing apparatus on your back, Victor reminded them as they caught their breath.
No worries, well get used to it, grinned Dan, a senior, wiping his forehead with the cuff of his hoodie.
For the warmup Victor slipped in a short account. A fire in a warehouse ten years earlier: temperatures under the roof hit three hundred degrees, cardboard stacks collapsed. We were hauling two hoses while wind whistled through the open doors like a pipe. Fifteen minutes later the masks were steaming from the inside. He spoke calmly, but the pause after the figures made the group listen.
By the end of September the pupils knew what a fireservice link was, why a doublelayered turnout coat mattered, and why you never run if your helmet has fallen off. One day Victor organised a dark drill: lights off, a smoke machine on, and a dummy hidden. The task was to locate the victim and carry them to the door. After three minutes a rope snagged, Yarrows torch went out, and the team lost its bearings. They had to be corralled against a wall and escorted out one by one.
After the drill the youngest, Jack, asked: Victor, what if there was real fire?
Youd be wearing the apparatus, Victor replied. And youd have only ninety seconds left to search.
October crept in unnoticed. Maple leaves by the firestation headquarters turned yellow, the sun set earlier, and by five oclock a chill lingered. One Friday the volunteer crew was allowed onto the active station grounds: they climbed the tower, received decommissioned gear without cylinders, and were shown the floodlights.
When darkness fell Victor gathered the teens in a circle. A draft between the garage and the storehouse made the air sting. The youngsters sat on the concrete, Dan leaning against a coil of hose.
There are things you wont find in textbooks, Victor began. Ill tell you one story. If after hearing it you decide this isnt for you, Ill understand.
He recalled the night of 16 January, sixteen years earlier: a ninestorey block, fire on the fifth floor. Smoke filled the stairwell, the lights went out. We climbed up, our masks gave us eight minutes of air. In the corridor we found a woman with a twoyearold child. We got them to the landing and the air in our apparatus ran out, the alarm blared. The baby was handed to medics but didnt survive the night.
His voice did not waver, yet a sting rose beneath his ribs. He seldom spoke that tale aloud; usually a brief a child died sufficed.
Bare cherrytree branches creaked in the silence. Elsie sat, hugging her knees; Dan stopped winding the hose; Jack bowed his head as if listening to his own blood.
Why are you telling us this? asked Peter.
So you understand that not every rescue ends up on a newspaper front page. Sometimes you come home emptyhanded and wonder whether it was worth it.
He switched off the floodlight. Grey twilight cloaked the area, a distant lantern by the gate marked the way out. The cold pressed a decision on each of them that they would someday have to make.
The weekend passed without training; each child digested the story.
On Monday Victor arrived at the school long before the bell. A low sky hung heavy, a grey mist crawled over the asphalt. By the spare exit, where a concrete staircase rose to the fourth floor, he laid out two training hoses. The stopwatch, once in his pocket, now rested in his palm cold metal setting a rhythm like the old callout at the station.
The steps creaked Elsie appeared, wearing an old fleece jacket over a plain turnout coat. She nodded silently and fastened the carabiners on her belt. The others followed. The count reached six Peter and Jack were missing. Victor did not ask why; he gave a minute for a warmup and prepared to speak.
When the minute elapsed, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Jack burst from a corner, fortythree seconds late, breathing hard, helmet in hand. Behind him came Peter, rubbing his eyes as if fighting sleep. The group was whole again, and Victor felt a knot in his chest loosen.
Made your decision? he asked quietly.
Yes, Dan answered. We want to continue. The questions only keep growing.
The first task was a rope ascent and descent. The width of the passage allowed only two to go side by side. Elsie and Peter went first: Elsie carried the coil, Peter belayed. Dan and Jack were second, followed by two younger lads and Beatrice closing the chain. Victor pressed the start button, the timer buzzed.
On the second stretch the muscles grew heavy as lead. On the third landing Jack dropped the hose; the strap dug into his wrist, but he recovered. Victor watched without intervening: without real flame, a falling rope is merely a lesson in calculation. The first pair reached the top platform in one minute fiftynine seconds, the whole group in four minutes twenty.
The youngsters descended, sat on a pile of helmets, and let their breathing even out.
Ask me anything, Victor offered.
Dan looked up: How do you live after those calls where you couldnt save them?
Victor recalled the smell of melting wiring, sirens wailing, the slam of the ambulance door.
I still wake up at night, he said. In the early years I berated myself: why didnt I get the child out sooner? Then I realised that clinging only to guilt wont let you climb the next stair. Service isnt about heroics, its about choosing, time after time, to go forward even knowing you might be late.
He paused, then steered the talk back to practice: Well do two more ascents. Whoever carries the hose belays, whoever belays carries. Goal: finish in five minutes.
This time Jacks hose stayed in his grip; Elsie, behind him, tightened the loop, issuing short commands. The final time was three minutes fiftyeight seconds. Victor concealed a smile, noted the errors: keep the hose snug against the thigh, dont jump on the turn, pull the hood back, tighten the laces. Simple details, but without them you dont survive.
When the lesson ended, Elsie handed him a notebook: Regulation says volunteers need at least sixteen hours of practice before we can join the city drills. We have eleven left. Will we make it?
Victor glanced at the neat columns of times: We will. Not by pushing speed, but by discipline. Tomorrow knots, the day after darkcorridor navigation. Friday stair marches at the station.
He walked home through a drizzle. In his old fivestorey block the scent of fried chips drifted between the floors. Behind his door the flat was quiet. Victor turned on the radio; the chatter kept memories at bay. A pension of seventhousandfivehundred pounds didnt allow luxuries, but it bought fireresistant gloves for the kids. He added his nightwatch wages to the pot enough if he found a discount. Small things, but such minutiae keep a volunteer crew afloat.
Early Friday morning frost crusted the puddles. The stations grounds greeted the group with street lamps and the smell of damp soot from the boiler. The tower rose as a dark silhouette. Victor checked the carabiners, handed out fresh gloves.
Where did they come from? asked Beatrice, eyeing the bright orange patches.
A sponsor, Victor shrugged. The sponsor was him, plus two consecutive night shifts.
The drill ran against the stopwatch. The first pair reached the third floor in one minute fortyfive seconds, the second a couple of seconds slower. At the finish Dan pointed at the display: 1:52 a new record.
The youths, leaning on the railings, looked proud, their eyes steady rather than boastful. Victor felt a familiar sting of guilt ease, as if someone had loosened the strap of his own apparatus.
See those numbers, he said softly. Its not about glory. Its work. Want more? Youre welcome, but always remember the cost.
From below the sound of the stations gate opening drifted: the service tanker rolled out to check pumps. The teens instinctively watched the vehicle, and Victor realised that in their minds the badge and the selfie were already replaced by a real call that might one day be theirs.
He switched off the timer and slipped it back into his coat pocket. The crunch of ice under his boots, the low rumble of the engine, the thin breath from his mouth formed the music of a job they were only just beginning to hear.
Fiveminute break, he announced. Then another run, then home. From Monday well start using the apparatus.
The youngsters smiled briefly, without fanfare, as if an unspoken agreement had been reached. As they descended they whispered about how many hours each still needed for the qualification. Victor lingered, watching them go. A steady warmth spread through his chest: the truth hadnt broken the teens, it had helped them step out of illusion.
He touched his pocket; the metal of the stopwatch warmed. Another record would be set, another click would echo. One day hed pass the timer to another mentor. For now, time moved on, and together they were learning to fill it with purpose.
The sun, rising above the garage roof, trembled like a pale disc between clouds. Victor took a step toward the youths. Ahead lay work.
