Josephine Reynolds - Fire Woman: The Extraordinary Story of Britain’s First Female Firefighter

First published in Great Britain in 2017
by Michael OMara Books Limited
9 Lion Yard
Tremadoc Road
London SW4 7NQ

Copyright Josephine Reynolds 2017

Some names of certain individuals in this book have been changed to protect their privacy.

All rights reserved. You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording of otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78243-699-7 in paperback print format
ISBN: 978-1-78243-700-0 in ebook format

www.mombooks.com

Cover credits: front cover photo Telegraph Media Group Limited 1982

This book is for you the brave and the bold.

The misfits.

Let your light shine brightly.

I was twelve years old when our house burned down.

We lived at the bottom of a hill in deepest, darkest West Wales, but most days it felt as if the four of us me, my mum, my stepfather Ben and my younger brother Malcy had fallen off the edge of the world completely. Id only ever lived in small villages before wed moved to Wales, and had never been to a large town, let alone seen the bright lights. Each night I would lie in bed in my flannel nightie praying that something anything would happen. But this wasnt what Id had in mind.

I woke up in a bedroom filled with suffocating black smoke. Through the haze, I could just make out the figure of Ben frantically hammering on the wooden window frame, yelling, Jo, Jo, wake up, the house is on fire! Considering his usual form of communication was a grunt, I sensed that it must be something serious.

From that moment on, I felt like I was playing a part in a film. One minute I was choking and spluttering as Ben lifted me through the window and put me down with a bump on the cold damp earth outside. The next, he was shouting, Dont worry, Mum and Malcy are safe, stay here! as he sprinted off to the red phone box at the bottom of the hill to dial 999. Fifteen minutes later, amid the sort of flashing lights Id only ever seen on Star Wars, two bright red fire engines pulled up outside. From within emerged a group of rugged strangers carrying hoses and ladders who set about extinguishing the blaze with grim determination. I sat transfixed. Who were these silent superheroes?

When the blaze was finally extinguished, I sat with my mum as she stared at the smouldering remains. Her prized collection of Elvis records had melted away all that was left was the charred sleeve of GI Blues, scattered in the debris. Dont worry, Jo-Jo, everything will be all right, she said, as the smoke cleared and we were drawn together in one of those moments you never forget. I didnt cry when I realized that my own few meagre possessions were now part of the glowing embers. Deep down, though, I knew that something inside me had changed.

My mum Marian was a fiery Scorpio light the fuse and stand well back. Her Titian red hair, ivory complexion and hourglass figure could literally stop the traffic. One day when we were out in Narberth, the sight of her walking along in her skin-tight purple jumpsuit caused a motorist to drive straight into a lamppost.

Six feet tall with black hair and blue eyes, my dad Michael looked like hed stepped out of a Brylcreem ad. His good looks and easy smile disguised a hair-trigger temper, but love is blind and this myopic pair stumbled up the aisle at Albury Town Hall in Hertfordshire in March 1963. She was seventeen and he was twenty-one. I came along two years later, arriving at 1 p.m. on Mothers Day, 28 March 1965, which makes me an Aries a fire sign.

My parents local pub was called The Catherine Wheel, but most of the fireworks took place at our house. Anything could spark a display, but most of the friction revolved around the car. Dad was a mechanic at Laurie Newtons, the local garage, and when Mum returned home from work in her grey Morris 1000, he would inspect the car for damage. Even the tiniest scratch could send him into a rage, and if she was five minutes late, an interrogation worthy of the Spanish Inquisition would start. Mum could be every bit as jealous and aggressive herself, and usually gave as good as she got.

The highlight of our weekend would be Saturday afternoon, when we would visit our grandparents house for tea. Me and Malcy would sit on the sofa watching the wrestling, staring agog as Big Daddy tackled bad guys like Kendo Nagasaki and Mick McManus. This would act as a cue for wrestling bouts of our own, rolling around on the living-room floor until one of us signalled for the other to stop.

Unfortunately, there were no such rules for the fights at home. One evening I watched from the top of the stairs as Mum and Dad had another screaming fight just as Grandad Reynolds who was shell-shocked from the First World War had a panic attack. The Waltons it was not. Thankfully I wasnt alone in this madhouse, and my brother Malcy, our little dog Sad Eyes and I became our own pre-school support group for each other.

The dysfunctional union between my parents couldnt last, and aided by a friend Mum had met while working at the local greengrocers, she packed our bags one day while Dad was out at work. From the moment the front door slammed shut behind us, life took on the sensation of one long rollercoaster ride. We moved constantly for the next few years, and the endless packing and unpacking of boxes soon began to feel perfectly normal.

By the time I was seven, to put some distance between herself and Dad, Mum had moved us from Cambridgeshire to West Wales, where she married a local builder called Ben Morris. One day while out driving in Bens red Capri the pair of them drove past a dilapidated cottage for sale. They fell in love with it, and before any repairs could start the four of us were swiftly installed.

This is our new home, Jo-Jo, were not gypsies any more! Mum said as I stepped over the debris-strewn threshold. Stability at last! Or so I thought. When work was finally completed on our new home, much to my horror they decided to combine their names and christen it Ben-y-Mar (it was a Welsh thing, apparently). It was the tackiest idea Id ever heard. If it sounded like a holiday camp, believe me it wasnt.

Every night we would have to prepare a meal for Mum and Ben on their return from work. Before long we had a repertoire to rival the Galloping Gourmet. Main courses would include gammon steaks, burgers, fish fingers, sausages and pies, all served with chips or mash. Puddings would centre around our favourites: tinned peaches with condensed milk, mashed bananas and custard or butterscotch Angel Delight. Many times, Malcys role as sous chef at the Reynolds Bistro would get too much, and hed hurl the washing-up bowl, complete with dirty water and potato peelings, all over me. Jo-Jo darling, could you make me a cup of tea? my mum would call through from the sitting room, as I desperately tried to restore order.

In the summer wed be on garden detail. I can still recall a seven-year-old Malcy struggling to push the lawnmower around the garden as I weeded the vegetable patch, both of us under strict instructions not to disturb Mum as she lay sunbathing. Had there been a labour union for the under-tens we might have had a way to fight back. As it was, any pocket money would be hard earned, and usually splurged on bags of sweets, washed down with homemade ginger beer from a plastic pump in the immersion cupboard.