Page 37 of How to Fan the Flames

Pippa hands me a jacket and boots next. “Changing room’s through there. Keep your trousers and shirt on underneath. Leave your shoes by the bench. Don’t force the boots if they’re wrong. I’d rather find another pair than have you rolling an ankle in the yard because you wanted to look agreeable.”

“I can be agreeable without injuring myself.”

“We’ll test that theory later.”

There is a ripple of amusement from the crew, brief and contained, then everyone goes back to what they were doing.

Pippa points towards a door beyond the kit racks. “Off you go.”

So I do.

With dignity.

Mostly.

The locker room is long, practical and very clearly designed for people who come back from work needing to wash smoke, sweat and weather off themselves before they become socially acceptable again. Metal lockers line one wall. Wooden benches run down the middle. Through an open doorway at the far end, I can see white tiles and the edge of the showers. The whole place smells faintly of detergent, rubber, damp towels and the sort of industrial soap that promises to remove anything short of regret.

I put my notebook on the bench, take off my jacket, and look at the kit in my hands.

This is fine.

This is controlled training. This is safe. This is journalism with props.

Heavy props.

I pull the trousers over my tracksuit bottoms. They are stiff, padded and immediately make me aware that walking is not something I have appreciated enough in life. The jacket follows, and by the time I pull it over my shoulders, I have developed a new respect for anyone who can wear this and still care about other people’s emergencies.

There is a mirror above one of the sinks near the showers.

I look at myself in it.

The man looking back at me does not look like a firefighter.

He looks like a journalist who has been dressed by a committee that has serious concerns about combustion.

Still, it could be worse.

By the time I walk back out, Pippa has changed into her daily duty uniform of navy trousers and navy shirt. Sheis standing near the kit racks, talking quietly to Mish and turns when she hears me.

Her gaze moves over the kit.

Professional. Assessing. Quick enough not to feel like scrutiny, thorough enough that I know she has spotted everything.

“Too tight anywhere?”

“No.”

“Can you move?”

I lift one arm.

The jacket makes a noise like it objects.

“Apparently,” I say.

Mish’s mouth twitches, then she goes back to checking something on the bench.

Pippa steps closer and reaches for the front fastening. “You’ve missed one.”