His expression shifts.
Not dramatically. He does not straighten in his chair or clear his throat or turn on a voice. He simply becomes more focused. The humour tucks itself away, not gone, but waiting at the edge.
“What do you want people to understand about Fellside station?”
I lean back.
“That’s your opening question?”
“Yes.”
“Broad.”
“Deliberately.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I’m trying it out. Apparently it’s popular here.”
I glance at the recorder, then back at him.
What do I want people to understand?
There are easy answers. Brave firefighters. Busy station. Vital service. Community work. Prevention. All true. All useful. All the sort of things that sit neatly in a feature and offend no one.
But he is watching me like he knows I have reached for the easy answer and put my hand on something that isn’t enough.
“People think of fire stations as waiting rooms for emergencies,” I say eventually. “They imagine us sitting around until something dramatic happens.”
He writes quickly, but his eyes keep comingback to me.
“And it isn’t?”
“No. There’s always work. Training, checks, prevention visits, school visits, familiarisation, equipment, admin, community safety, planning for things that probably won’t happen but would be much worse if we hadn’t planned for them. The call-outs are the part people see. They’re not the whole job.”
He nods. “Kev said something similar.”
“He would.”
“He said people think it’s mostly fires.”
“Kev likes to sound simple and then say something accurate.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“That’s his method.”
“Does everyone here have a method?”
“Yes.”
“What’s yours?”
The question is quick.
Too quick.
It slips through before I can build a wall in front of it.
