Chapter 6
Pippa
There are two types of men who say, I run mountains.
The first type actually does. They know weather can turn, knees are not decorative, and confidence is only useful if it comes with decent judgement.
The second type has once walked briskly around Rydal Water in expensive trail shoes and has been waiting ever since for someone to ask about endurance.
AJ Hodgson is trying very hard to sound like the first type.
The annoying thing is, I suspect he might be.
“That won’t help you,” I tell him.
His eyebrows lift. “At all?”
“Well, not as much as you hope, at least.”
“That’s something.”
“It is. But this isn’t only about fitness.”
Behind him, Kev makes a quiet noise that might be a laugh, but he’s suddenly very busy checking a coupling, so I choose to ignore it.
AJ looks annoyingly steady in the kit for a man who does not belong in it.
Not comfortable. Definitely not comfortable.
The jacket sits heavy on him, the trousers are stiff around his legs, and the helmet makes him look as if his head has been borrowed from a more serious profession.
But he’s tall enough to carry the bulk without being swallowed by it, and now the first shock of the weight has worn off, he’s standing with the wary focus of someone who has decided not to show weakness in front of witnesses.
Which means he probably does run mountains.
Properly.
That still won’t help him enough.
“Right,” I say, picking up the length of hose from the concrete. “We’ll start simple.”
His gaze drops to it. “That looks simple.”
“It is.”
“Good.”
“Which is why you’ll be annoyed when it isn’t.”
He looks at me.
I let him sit with that for a second, because I am not a saint and because, technically, this is educational.
“Basic movement first,” I say. “Round the outside of the yard. Not fast. Just steady. Get used to the kit. Feel how it moves, what it does to your balance, how quickly it changes your breathing.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
I point towards the edge of the yard. “Round the outside. Keep the helmet on. Don’t sprint. Don’t try to prove anything.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“No?”
“No. I’m very mature.”
Mish, who has joined us with a clipboard tucked under one arm, says, “That’ll be useful.”
AJ looks at her. “I’m choosing to take that as encouragement.”
He starts jogging before he can make it worse.
For the first few seconds, he looks exactly like what he is: a tall man in unfamiliar kit trying very hard not to move like a tall man in unfamiliar kit. Then he adjusts. Shortens his stride. Lets the weight settle. Stops fighting the jacket and starts working with it.
That is interesting.
Most people either overplay it or pretend the kit weighs nothing until their pride starts leaving marks on the yard.
AJ does neither. His breathing changes, but he doesn’t panic about it.
His shoulders tighten once, then drop. By the time he passes us at the end of the first lap, his pace is slower than it would be in normal running clothes, but it’s steady.
“Still alive?” Kev calls.
AJ lifts a hand without breaking stride. “Reports are promising.”
Mish watches him go past. “He’s not awful.”
“No,” I say.
“You sound annoyed.”
“I’m revising expectations.”
She smiles into her clipboard.
AJ completes another lap. He is breathing harder now, the colour higher in his face beneath the helmet, but he isn’t struggling the way he clearly expected to. Or the way a small, ungenerous part of me may have wanted him to.
That part of me is not in charge.
Usually.
“Keep going,” I call as he slows.
He glances at me, then carries on.
The third time he passes, there is less performance in it.
No lifted hand, no quick line. Just focus.
His mouth is slightly open, his attention on the ground ahead, and for a moment I can see what he probably looks like out on the fells: lean, determined, irritatingly capable, the sort of man who thinks suffering counts for more if there’s a view at the end of it.
I do not need to picture that.
I especially do not need to picture him in running shorts.
“Pip,” Mish says.
I look at her.
Her eyebrows lift.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“It was clearly something.”
“No. Just checking you’re still revising expectations.”
I give her the look that works on most of the crew and almost never on my sister.
Mish only smiles and returns to her clipboard.
After another half lap, I lift a hand. “Bring it in.”
AJ slows to a walk, then comes over to us. He doesn’t bend double, which I can tell costs him something. He rests his hands on his hips instead and takes a few controlled breaths.
“Not bad,” I say.
He looks at me. “Was that praise?”
“Don’t get carried away.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He is out of breath, but not badly. Warm, a little flushed, sweat beginning at his hairline. The kit has taken the polish off him, which is an improvement. He looks less like a man arriving to manage a situation and more like someone who has realised the situation has its own plans.
Kev walks over, wiping his hands on a cloth. “If he wants to know what it’s really like, he should do that with a set on.”
AJ turns his head. “A set?”
“BA,” Mish says.
“Breathing apparatus,” I add.
His gaze shifts to the equipment near the bay doors. Cylinder, harness, mask, gauges. The expression on his face changes in small, satisfying stages.
Interest.
Concern.
Regret.
“That looks heavier,” he says.
“It is.”
“Good to establish.”
Kev shrugs. “Jacket’s only the beginning.”
He’s right. I had planned to leave BA until later, but this is supposed to teach AJ something beyond the fact that firefighters own heavy coats.
If he’s going to spend two weeks here and then put words in front of readers, he needs at least a basic sense of what the equipment asks of your body before the emergency even begins.
Besides, he is coping better than expected.
That means I can give him a little more.
“All right,” I say. “We’ll fit you for a set.”
AJ looks back at me. “Now?”
“You said endurance was your thing.”
“I said mountain running was my thing.”
“And I said it wouldn’t help.”
“Yes, I’m starting to feel there may have been foreshadowing.”
“It’s only foreshadowing if you ignore the warning.”
Mish laughs under her breath.
I nod towards the bay. “Come on. Familiarisation only. You’re not doing anything live today, and you’re not going anywhere without one of us beside you.”
He follows me back across the yard. His walk has changed already: less neat, more aware of the kit. Good. That is part of it. The moment people stop treating PPE like costume and start feeling it as equipment, they begin to understand the job differently.
We stop beside the BA sets.
AJ studies one with the careful expression of a man reading a menu in a language he only partly understands.
“This,” I say, touching the shoulder strap, “is the breathing apparatus set. Cylinder, backplate, harness, mask, lines, gauges. We’ll go through all of it properly before you get to use it for real. Today is about fit, weight and familiarity.”
“Right.”
“You tell me immediately if you feel dizzy, panicky, short of breath, or if something doesn’t feel right.”
“I will.”
“No trying to be brave for the room.”
His mouth tilts. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to prove anything.”
“You listened.”
“I do that occasionally.”
I reach for the mask, then stop.
I look at his face.
He looks back at me, still breathing a little harder than usual, his expression narrowing with suspicion.
“What?” he asks.
“The beard has to go.”
The silence that follows is one of the most satisfying things that has happened to me all week.
AJ blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“The beard. It has to go.”
His hand rises automatically to his jaw, protective as a parent at sports day. “For what?”
“For a proper seal on the mask.”
“I thought you said I wasn’t doing anything live.”
“You’re not.”
“So we don’t need a proper seal.”
“We do if I’m fitting you properly.”
“But it’s only familiarisation.”
“And I’m familiarising you with the fact that facial hair and breathing apparatus don’t get along.”
He stares at me.
I stare back.
The beard is neatly kept. I’ll give him that.
Short, shaped, deliberate. It has the same copper brown colour as his hair.
It’s the sort of beard a man maintains when he wants to look like he reads serious newspapers, drinks his coffee black and has never once panicked because he sent a text with the wrong tone.
It suits him.
That is not relevant.
“I feel,” he says carefully, “that this was not made clear in the preparatory documents.”
“Did the preparatory documents tell you to bring a toothbrush?”
“No.”
“Are you planning to stop brushing your teeth for two weeks?”
“That feels like a false equivalence.”
“It’s a safety requirement.”
“It’s my face.”
“It’ll still be your face underneath.”
“You don’t know that.”
Kev laughs.
AJ points at him. “No support from the wider team?”
Kev holds up both hands. “I’m not getting between a watch manager and a safety requirement.”
I fold my arms. “AJ.”
He looks at me, and for one ridiculous second I am aware of his eyes. Green. Very green, actually, which is another thing I do not need to know.
“Pippa,” he says, with a level of seriousness entirely disproportionate to the situation. “What if I trimmed it?”
“No.”
“What if I signed something saying I accept responsibility for my own jawline?”
“No.”
“What if we call Marie Louise?”
“Who?”
“My editor,” he adds, with slightly less confidence, as if he has just realised he is asking for adult supervision.
“She’ll tell you to shave.”
He considers that.
“Strong point.”
“Thank you.”
His hand is still on his beard. “I’ve had this for years.”
“That must have been lovely for both of you.”
Mish turns away completely now, shoulders shaking.
AJ watches her betrayal with wounded dignity, then looks back at me. “You’re enjoying this.”
He exhales, slow and dramatic enough to qualify as mini tantrum.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes. Fine. If the beard must be sacrificed in the name of public education and respiratory integrity, I will not stand in the way.”
“Very brave.”