WHEN THE SIREN SOUNDS

... the fire engine is not far away. Red, loud, snarling, it bowls out of the station onto one of the city’s arterial routes, running north-south.

It can turn right and descend into the formerly marshy river-swamp that rests beneath the city centre mound. Or it can ascend to craggy heights that match the island summit above the boggy ground. All talk of ‘swamps’ and ‘craggy heights’ is out of date. Both destinations are dense population areas, with flats, houses, terraced streets, two and three-bed semis, shops, churches, schools, some light industrial units and sports grounds. 

Turning left presents the fire engine with three options. Within fifty metres, there’s a right turn and taking a steep downhill sweep, siren still blaring, it finds the riverside arterial route, also running north-south. Turning left then, parallel to the river, presents retail units, industrial and commercial premises, before diverging roads and another ascent take the fire-engine into a variety of suburban sprawls; private, public, affluent, impoverished.

By not taking the right turn and continuing along the city's upper arterial route, the red engine, its crew of firefighters making hurried final adjustments to their uniforms, bowls towards the north of the city, past colleges and call centres, industrial and residential zones, and the complex site of a major school-building project, on to the city limits, where the option of crossing the international border presents, readily enough in spite of recent disruptions to immigration, trade and travel. 

If the fire-engine doesn’t take the straight road north, but cuts a sharp left at the radio station, it comes up my street, very quickly passing my front door, siren blaring.

It has to blare. Cars are parked on both sides of the street. The 9a bus is coming towards it. Up ahead the daily wholesale delivery to the shops further away lumbers along the white line centering the road, trying not to clip wing mirrors or plummet into pot-holes.

The fire-engine is welcomed and feared. It excites and frightens children. Its denizens are admired, seen as heroic, performing a public service, often facing danger and threat. It is not all about coaxing kittens out of trees.

When the red streak has passed and the siren is no longer heard, I forget the engine and the firefighters. Not completely. Their jocular calls to one another sound from their compound beside me. Tannoys, not sirens, sound.

“Grub up, Helen.” 

“Marty, get in here and put the kettle on.”

When the engines drive out of the station at night, selecting their route and speeding to danger, I lie awake and wish them safety. 

When the siren sounds ...