“Part of it?”
“Yes.”
“Lovely. Always good when a sentence has a trapdoor.”
Her mouth almost moves. “You’re not just watching.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.”
“I did. I was giving you a chance to reconsider.”
She folds her arms, more like she is settling into a briefing than shutting me down.
“You’re here for two weeks,” she says. “If all you do is stand around taking notes, you’ll leave with a tidy notebook and no real understanding of what this job asks of people.”
“I’m very fond of tidy notebooks.”
“I can tell.”
“That felt personal.”
“It was observational.”
“Dangerously close to journalism.”
“Don’t insult me before I’ve got you into kit.”
That shuts me up for half a second.
Into kit sounds much less theoretical than observation.
Pippa pushes away from the table and gestures towards the door.
“Come on.”
I follow her out of the kitchen, through the corridor and back into the appliance bay. Sean’s quiet laugh follows us, which I choose to take as encouragement because the alternative is less useful.
Pippa stops by the kit racks. “You’ll observe, yes," she says. "You’ll also take part in controlled training exercises, station routines and equipment checks where it’s safe for you to do so. You’ll learn what the kit weighs, how the hose handles, and how quickly simple tasks become difficult when you’re tired, hot or following instructions underpressure. You’ll come out on calls if it’s appropriate, but only as an observer and only where you’re told to be.”
Pippa reaches for a set of goldish, sandy coloured trousers and checks the label inside. “Try these.”
I take them from her.
They are heavier than I expect.
Not dramatically. Not enough to justify a facial expression. Just enough for my hands to register that everything here has a purpose and most of those purposes involve not dying.
Pippa notices anyway, because of course she does.
“They’re not pyjamas,” she says.
“I had gathered.”
“Excellent. That saves us another briefing.”
A small laugh comes from somewhere behind the engine.
