He writes something, probably just to annoy me.
I ignore it.
“I didn’t think, I want power,” I say. “It wasn’t like that. I thought, I could do that differently. I could explain things clearer. Calmer. Safer. I could be the sort of person who knows the job and knows the people and can hold both in her head at the same time.”
“That sounds like power.”
“It sounds like responsibility.”
“Can it be both?”
I look at him.
He holds my gaze, then adds, “Not in a villainous way.”
“Good clarification.”
I breathe out through my nose, nearly a laugh.
“Yes,” I say. “It can be both. But power is only useful if you remember it affects people. Some people like the authority. I like the moment when people trust the authority enough to do what needs doing.”
His pen moves again.
This time, I let him write.
“What made Fellside different?” he asks.
“From Manchester?”
“Yes.”
I glance towards the window. From here, if I lean slightly, I can see the edge of the yard, a slice of grey sky, the back end of the fire engine inside the garage.
“It’s smaller,” I say. “That changes everything. Not easier. Just different. In a city, you can do the job and never see someone again. Here, you might go to a road traffic collision and then see the person’s mother in the Co-op two weeks later. You might fit a smoke alarm for someone who knows your sister. You might attend a fire at a farm and then have half the village talking about it before you’re back at the station.”
His expression flickers at that.
I do not soften it.
“Everyone knows everyone,” I say. “Or thinks they do. That can be suffocating, but it also means people notice when someone needs help. The station is part of the place, not separate from it.”
“Was that hard to adjust to?”
“Yes.”
“Because you came in from outside?”
“Partly.”
“And because you came in above people who were already here?”
I raise an eyebrow. “That was almost tactful.”
“I’m improving.”
“You are asking if people resented me.”
“I am.”
