Reality of the Flame
Victor Edward Collins accepted the schools invitation without dawdling or excuses. At sixtythree, half his life spent in the ranks of the UK Fire and Rescue Service, he now draws a pension of about £7,500 a month, moonlights as a nightwatch guard, and spends his daylight hours puzzling over why a new afterschool club should exist at all.
That crisp September Tuesday he stepped into the gym for the first time: linoleum with faded markings, a row of treadmills against the wall, and a folding table piled with a bundle of fire hoses, helmets and two coiled firefighter jackets. Eight teenagers swirled about three girls and five lads; the youngest looked no older than fourteen, the oldest was gearing up for his Alevels. They snapped phone photos and snickered at a homemade poster that read, Fire isnt our brother, but were not his enemy either.
The deputy headteacher, a dryspoken woman whose blazer bore the district councils crest, introduced the mentor: Everyone, this is Victor Edward Collins a genuine rescuer. Victor gave a quiet nod. Since hed stopped answering emergency calls, the word rescuer felt a touch odd; the rank lived on paper, while the instinct for nighttime alarms still pulsed in his veins.
He began simply, asking each pupil to state their name, age and why theyd turned up. I want to save people, Being a fire hero sounds cool, Itll look good on my university app the answers rattled on. One stood out: Poppy, a lanky Year 9 student, said, Im keen to see how smoke protection works. Im thinking of a safetytechnology course. Victor made a mental note: one of the eight already had a concrete skill in mind. The rest were still chasing the badge and the applause.
The first lesson lasted an hour. He demonstrated how to lift a hose both hands, smooth as possible, so the cuff didnt rip then asked them to drag the hose the full length of the changing rooms. The boys bolted off, but the hose tangled, and a chorus of giggles filled the space. Victor didnt shout; he walked over, untangled the loops, and then challenged them to redo it silently and on the clock. The timer read four minutes and thirty seconds, and the group realised even a game demanded focus.
A week later training moved to the courtyard of the former Fire Station12. The drying tower had been dismantled, leaving a concrete ramp perfect for sprinting up with backpacks full of extinguishers. Morning was chilly, the grass along the kerb glittered with frost. Victor checked that everyones straps were snug, then gave the goahead. The first ascent was brisk; by the second the lads legs felt like lead and two of them plonked onto a low wall.
This is still without the breathing apparatus on your backs, Victor reminded them as they caught their breath.
No worries, well get used to it, grinned senior pupil Dan, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.
For the warmup Victor slipped in a short tale: a fire in a warehouse ten years earlier, ceiling temperature soaring to three hundred degrees, cardboard stacks collapsing. We were hauling two ladders when the wind rushed through the door like a pipe. Fifteen minutes later the lads masks were fogged up from the inside. He spoke calmly, but the pause after the numbers made the youngsters sit up straight.
By the end of September the teens knew what a GDS link was, why a doublelayered turnout coat mattered, and why you never sprint if your helmet has taken a tumble. One day Victor staged a dark drill: lights off, smoke machine on, a mannequin hidden away. The task locate the victim and carry them to the exit. After three minutes a cord snagged, Yatess torch flickered out, and the team lost its bearings. Victor corralled them against a wall and led them out piece by piece.
When the drill ended, Sam, the youngest, asked, Victor, what if thered been real fire?
Then youd be donning the gear, Victor replied. And youd have about ninety seconds to find anyone.
October crept up unnoticed. The maple leaves by the firestation headquarters turned gold, the sun set earlier, and by five oclock a chill had settled in. One Friday the volunteer crew was allowed onto the active stations grounds: they climbed the watchtower, were handed out decommissioned breathing sets (no cylinders), and the floodlights were switched on.
When darkness fell, Victor gathered the teens in a circle. A draft between the garage and the shed made the air prickly. The youngsters plonked themselves on the concrete; Dan leaned against a coil of hose.
There are things you wont find in any textbook, Victor began. Ill tell you one story. If after hearing it you decide this isnt for you, Ill understand.
He recalled a night in January 2016: a ninestorey block, fire raging on the fifth floor. Smoke choked the stairwell, the lights went out. We climbed up with only eight minutes of air left in our masks. In the corridor we found a mother with her twoyearold. We got them to the landing, but the air in our sets was gone, the alarm shrieking. The baby was handed to medics, but didnt make it through the night.
His voice didnt tremble, yet Victor felt a prickling beneath his ribs. He rarely spoke the full tale aloud; usually a short a child died sufficed.
Bare birch branches rattled in the wind. Poppy sat, knees drawn to her chest; Dan stopped winding the hose; Sam bowed his head as if listening to his own pulse.
Why are you telling us this? asked Yates.
So you grasp that not every rescue ends up on the front page. Sometimes you get home with empty hands and wonder if it was worth the risk.
Victor switched off the floodlight. A grey twilight draped the area, a distant lantern at the gate marking the way out. The cold nudged a decision each of them would soon have to make.
The weekend passed without training; each teen digested the story in their own way.
On Monday Victor arrived at the school well before the first bell. A low sky pressed down, grey dew crawled over the tarmac. By the spare fire exit, where a concrete staircase led to the fourth floor, he unrolled two practice hoses. The stopwatch, cold metal in his palm, ticked like an old firestation siren.
The steps creaked as Poppy appeared, wearing an old fleece and a turnout coat without patches. She gave a silent nod and clipped her carabiners onto her belt. The others followed. Count reached six Yates and Sam were missing. Victor didnt ask why; he gave them a minute to warm up and prepared to speak.
When the minute elapsed, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Sam burst out of the corner, fortythree seconds late, panting, helmet in hand. Behind him, Yates rubbed his eyes, looking as if hed just woken from a nap. The group was whole again, and the knot in Victors chest loosened.
Decisions made? he asked softly.
Yes, Dan answered. We want to carry on. The questions only keep multiplying.
The first task ascent with a hose and descent. The width of the passage allowed only two sidebyside. Poppy and Yates went first: Poppy carried the coil, Yates belayed. Dan and Sam were second, followed by two younger lads and finally Beth, who tightened the chain. Victor pressed the start button; the stopwatch buzzed.
The second stretch left their muscles feeling like lead. On the third platform Sam dropped the hose, the strap digging into his wrist, but he hauled it back up. Victor watched, hands off: without real fire, gear failure is just a maths lesson. The first pair reached the top platform in one minute fiftynine; the whole crew in four minutes twenty.
They descended, perched on a bench of helmets, breathing slowly returning to normal.
Ask anything you like, Victor offered.
Dan looked up. How do you live after those calls where you didnt make it in time?
Victor recalled the smell of melted wiring, the wail of sirens, the slam of an ambulance door.
I still wake up at night sometimes. In the early years I beat myself up, wondering why I didnt pull the child out sooner. Then I realised that if you cling 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 a step late.
He paused, then steered back to practice: Two more ascents. Who carries the hose belays, who belays the hose. Goal finish under five minutes.
This time Sams hose stayed put; Poppy, just behind, adjusted the loop and gave crisp commands. The collective finish was three minutes fiftyeight. Victor concealed a grin, noting the errors: keep the hose tighter against the thigh, dont leap on the turn, tuck hair under the hood, tighten laces. Simple details, but without them you dont survive.
When the session ended, Poppy handed over a notebook. The regulations say volunteer crews need at least sixteen hours of practice before were allowed into citywide drills. Weve got eleven left. Will we make it?
Victor glanced at the tidy columns of times. We will. Not by rushing, but by discipline. Tomorrow knots, the day after darkcorridor navigation. Friday stairmarches in the station.
He trudged home through a drizzly evening. In his fivestorey council flat the scent of fried chips drifted between the flats. Behind his door, silence greeted him. Victor flicked on the radio; the static kept the memories at bay. A pension of a little over £7,500 didnt buy luxury, but it covered the fireproof gloves the kids needed. His nightwatch pay was enough if he found a discount. Small things, he thought, keep a volunteer crew afloat.
Early Friday morning the frost turned puddles into thin glass. The stations perimeter was lit by streetlamps and the smell of damp soot rose from the boiler room. The old watchtower loomed as a dark silhouette. Victor checked the carabiners and handed out brandnew gloves.
Where did these come from? asked Beth, eyeing the bright orange patches.
A sponsor, Victor shrugged. In truth, the sponsor was him and two consecutive night shifts.
The drill ran under the stopwatch. The first pair reached the third floor in one minute fortyfive, the second a couple of seconds slower. At the finish line Dan tapped the display: 1:52 a new record.
The teenagers, arms on the railings, looked flushed but their eyes held steady confidence, not bravado. Victor felt a familiar sting of guilt ease, as if someone had loosened a strap on his own gear.
See those numbers? he said quietly. Its not about being a hero. Its work. Want more? Sure, but always remember the price.
From below, the stations gate opened and a tanker rumbled out for a pump check. The lads instinctively watched the vehicle, and Victor realised their minds now held images of real callouts, not just stickers or patches.
He turned the stopwatch off and slipped it back into his coat pocket. The ice under his boots cracked, the engines hum and a thin breath of steam formed the soundtrack of a job they were just beginning to hear.
Fiveminute break, he announced. Then one more round, and home. From Monday we start using the breathing sets.
The teens smiled faintly, quietly accepting the unspoken pact. As they descended, they argued over who had how many hours left to tally. Victor lingered, watching them go. Warmth spread through his chest: the truth hadnt crushed the youngsters; it had helped them choose a path out of illusion.
He felt the metal of his stopwatch warm in his pocket. Another record would click soon, and perhaps one day hed hand the timer to another mentor. For now, time marched on, and together they were learning how to fill it with purpose.
The sun, rising above the garage roof, shivered like a pale disc between the clouds. Victor took a step toward the lads. More work ahead
