At the Coal Face Page 11

  ‘Joan, if you don’t get Peter out of London, he’ll be dead within the next six months,’ he said. I’d suspected as much, but he’d just confirmed my worst fears.

  ‘Surely there must be somewhere or someone else we can go to?’

  He shook his head. ‘Look, Peter is his patient and, knowing this consultant, he’ll not only refuse heart surgery, he won’t let you hand him over to another doctor. If you don’t get him out of here, your husband will be dead. The best thing you can do is leave London, for Peter’s sake.’

  So that’s what we did. I applied for five jobs back up north and, thankfully, I got them all. But there was only one job I wanted, and that was to work for the National Coal Board as a pit nurse. Dad had told me about two nursing officer positions based in Doncaster. One was at Hatfield and the other was at Rossington pit. I accepted the job at Hatfield and moved in to a spare bedroom at my brother Tony’s house. By now, Tony and Joyce had three children, so there was barely enough space for me, never mind Peter. But with Peter now too sick to work, I had to take the job to bring in an income. Meanwhile, he stayed on at our old flat in London, which we still had a lease on. I tried not to worry because I knew his family would be on hand to help out should he ever need them. It would mean we’d be apart for a few months, but I also knew it’d be temporary. I needed the job to build a better future for us. I was going back home, but more importantly, I was returning to the miners and the pits – the place where my heart belonged.

  9

  At the Coalface

  I started as the nursing officer at Hatfield pit in June 1974. Although I’d worked in the same position at Brodsworth pit years earlier, things had changed. The nurses at the other pits had also been trained in occupational health. My first few weeks at Hatfield were hectic because I had so many people to meet. Despite being up north and away from London, my wages rose once again to a respectable £1,833 per annum. For this I had to travel to different pits in the Doncaster area to carry out medicals on new cadets, usually boys aged 16 who had followed their fathers and grandfathers down the mine. I also had to carry out medicals on men who’d been off on long-term sick leave but who were returning to work. They had to have a clean bill of health to return to a job that was so physically demanding.

  After a fortnight in my new position, I was called to Leeds to be measured up for my navy-blue sisters’ uniform. Up until that point, I’d been wearing my own clothes – a smart grey suit and white blouse – but I soon realised a tailored suit wasn’t the best attire for working at a filthy colliery. Also, when I arrived I’d sensed there was a bit of an atmosphere. The sister who’d interviewed me for the position was retiring, and it soon became apparent that I had more nursing qualifications than she did. To say this got up her nose would be an understatement. Instead, she’d warned the men I was ‘posh’ because I’d come from London and spoke with a slight southern twang. They’d also been told I was a bit ‘bossy’ too and that I intended to make sweeping changes, which was absolute nonsense – although she’d been right about the bossy bit.

  When I first saw the medical centre I was aghast because it needed a good lick of paint throughout. The walls were a cold, dark colour. They were not only depressing but unwelcoming too. Recalling my days at Brodsworth, I knew exactly what needed to be done.

  ‘No, it won’t do. It’s much too dark – it needs to be decorated,’ I decided.

  Bill, the man showing me around, was one of the older Medical Room Assistants (MRAs). I could tell that he didn’t like me very much, and he was suspicious of me with my so-called fancy ‘southern’ ways. Bill was in his fifties, tall and slim with greying dark hair. He wore a pair of traditional thick-rimmed glasses that made him look a bit like Eric Morecambe, only without the sense of humour. As soon as I mentioned changing the colour scheme his face dropped.

  ‘But we’ve always had navy-blue walls here,’ he gasped. ‘We keep ’em dark so they don’t show t’blood or muck.’

  ‘Yes, and it’s such a horrible colour. Creams, pale greens and yellows are much more inviting, so I think I’d like it painting yellow,’ I said, glancing around.

  ‘Yellow!’ Bill shrieked as though I’d gone mad.

  ‘Yes, yellow,’ I insisted as I turned to survey the rest of the room. ‘Now, about this table …’

  He gave me the same look the men had given me when I’d painted the waiting room at Brodsworth. Despite Bill’s misgivings, I got my way and the walls were indeed painted daffodil yellow – a happy, sunshine colour. I also felt a personal victory when my office was later decorated a pale fern green. In the middle of the treatment room there was a very large table that dominated the room. It was the same size and height as a table-tennis table, and the chairs, which were used for dressing wounds and examining eyes, had been shoved right at the back of the room behind it. They were so far away from the nearest window that all natural light was lost. I shook my head. It was worse than I’d thought.

  ‘This table,’ I said, tapping the top of it with my hand. ‘It’ll have to go.’

  ‘No,’ Bill said, shaking his head vehemently. ‘We need it.’

  I looked over at him. ‘But what’s it for? What do you use it for?’

  Bill waved his hands around as though it should be obvious. ‘To put bodies on, of course!’

  I stifled a gasp. ‘Bodies? Good Lord, how many bodies do you get here?’

  He looked a bit shifty. ‘Well, not that many,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s useful for lots of other things too.’

  I shook my head. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but it has to go. We need to reorganise it in here to make the work easier for everyone. We’ll use the stretcher trestles in future.’

  I could tell Bill didn’t think it was a good idea, but my mind was made up. I went to see the pit manager to ask if I could get rid of the table.

  ‘Will it interfere with the production of coal?’ he asked, looking up from a pile of papers scattered across his desk.

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Well, in that case, do as you want,’ he said, with a wave of his hand.

  Bill sulked in a corner while I grabbed a biro and a piece of paper and wrote a note.

  Table – Free to a Good Home, it read.

  I pinned the notice up outside the time office and called in at the workshops to tell the lads it was up for grabs.

  ‘If you can use it, it’s yours.’

  It must have been a very special table indeed because, to my delight, within the hour it had gone, freeing up the whole of the medical centre. Bill wasn’t happy, of course, but I hoped that, with the passage of time, he’d eventually see sense. The space its loss had created was wonderful. The centre was manned by three MRAs – Bill, Frank and Andy – who had all been specially trained for the job. Bill and Frank had served alongside the previous sister and had been at the pit for a good 20 years, while Andy, who was in his late twenties, had only just qualified. However, Andy was a lovely lad who was popular with the men and very keen to learn. The MRAs covered the centre in three shifts so it was manned 24 hours a day, with either me or a sister from another pit on call. I was also backed by three underground first-aid men, who were attached to both the safety department and the medical centre. They were required to work to cover holidays or unexpected sick leave. I asked the MRAs to write down any suggestions they thought would help improve their working conditions. Initially, this was met with a fair bit of suspicion because it was clear they didn’t believe that I, a woman, could alter or change things for the better in a pit full of men.

  ‘What do you want us to write?’ one asked suspiciously.

  ‘Anything. Listen, you lot work here all the time, but sometimes I’ll be out at clinics and meetings, so I won’t always be around. If you have any sensible suggestions then I’m willing to consider them, as long as they are sensible.’

  The MRAs looked at me and then at one another. One by one, they nodded their heads and began to make small lists. I was finally getting th
rough to them, albeit slowly. They did, however, come up with some good suggestions. The main desk was moved closer to the entrance and the chairs were placed underneath the window to ensure better light. With the table gone, it seemed as though we suddenly had acres of room. In the days that followed, the men began to realise that I was there to help and support them, not hinder. If I was a little bossy, then it was only for their own good and to make their lives easier in the long run. However, the dreaded table came back to haunt me only a week later when a man collapsed underground from a fatal heart attack. Four miners carried him out on a stretcher into the medical centre. I could see by the look on their faces that I was under scrutiny, because the ‘dead body table’ was missing and they had nowhere to put him.

  ‘What will she do?’ I heard one whisper as they watched and waited to see if I knew the correct procedure.

  Thankfully, I did. I instructed the men to leave the deceased miner on the stretcher, held up by the trestle table, and then I telephoned a local GP and asked him to come to the pit to certify the man’s death. In the case of a death, the body has to be formally identified and the police coroner informed. Thankfully, the local GP, Dr Walters, arrived quickly. But as soon as he entered the medical centre, he looked over at me and did a double take.

  ‘You’re not Sister Brown,’ he said, stating the obvious.

  ‘No, I’m Sister Hart. The man is through here if you’d like to follow me, Doctor,’ I replied, calmly leading the way.

  He looked back over his shoulder and took me to one side.

  ‘Do you know what to do, Sister?’ he whispered gently. I was grateful for his concern because I was new and he realised the men were uncertain about me.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, clearing my throat, speaking loud enough so the others would hear. ‘You need to certify death and then we need to notify the police and the coroner.’

  ‘That is correct, Sister,’ he nodded, before going over to examine the man.

  The National Union of Miners (NUM) representative was duly dispatched not only to deliver the grim news to the miner’s wife, but also to bring her back so that she could identify her husband. I washed his face so she would be able to recognise him – a gesture of both necessity and respect. A short while later, the rep returned with the miner’s wife. She was clearly shaken and suffering from shock. To lose a man to a heart attack is often quick and distressing because there is nothing to be done. But to then have to go to the miner’s wife to tell her that the man she waved off to work that morning, fit and well, wasn’t coming home that night, was doubly harrowing. The man had neither been old nor ill. His sudden death had come as a shock to everyone.

  ‘He didn’t suffer,’ I insisted, patting the woman’s arm gently. I hoped it would bring her a small crumb of comfort in the days, months and years that would follow.

  In many ways, I understood how she felt. Peter was back in London, living with his own time bomb of a failing heart. During the past three years he’d suffered six heart attacks; he was living miles away, where I knew I’d never be able to reach him in time. I knew it was only temporary, but I couldn’t wait for him to finally move up north and be with me for good.

  After witnessing the wife’s shock and grief, I made a pledge that, in future, whenever possible, I’d go down the pit to the injured or collapsed man and bring him out myself. I also wanted to be present when loved ones were told, in the hope that I could shed a little more light and perhaps comfort them in some way.

  My hours of work were decided by the colliery manager, Mr Bumstead, but generally they were from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., five days a week. The nursing sisters were also ‘on call’ 24 hours a day for their own pit and for two others. My other ‘on call’ pits were Bentley Colliery, which was 9 miles away, and Markham Main in Armthorpe, which was 5 miles down the road. However, I was told that, in an emergency, I could expect to be called out to any of 10 pits in the Doncaster area.

  I was still staying with Tony and Joyce, in Scawthorpe, Doncaster. As I didn’t drive, the pit van would come and pick me up in the morning and I’d travel home later that evening by bus. My sister, Ann, her husband, John, and their boys took me out in a little van so we could scour the area local to Hatfield for a suitable property to buy. After two months of searching, we finally found one, a bungalow in a village called Barnby Dun, which was 4 miles from Hatfield pit. It was exactly what we needed because Peter had limited mobility and I knew he’d struggle to climb a set of stairs. He was finding it increasingly difficult back at the flat, but at least I knew that was only for the short-term. I had to choose our future home wisely, because it would be somewhere we would live for the rest of our lives.

  The bungalow was pricey at £7,500 – a small fortune back then – so I waited a few weeks until he was able to travel up north to view it. Thankfully, Peter fell in love with it too, so we sorted out a mortgage and asked his brother Terry to help us move. A month later, Peter left London and came to live with me. It was lovely to finally own our own home and, more importantly, it was a relief to have my husband back by my side where I could keep an eye on him and his health.

  For Peter, it all seemed very quiet in comparison to living in a flat on a busy main road in Shepherd’s Bush. With his health growing steadily worse, I feared for the future, and just three months later those fears came true when he suffered another heart attack. We’d been drinking in a local pub when he began to feel clammy and sick. I got him home and rang for the doctor. But he wasn’t happy and I called for an ambulance. On the way to hospital, Peter’s left arm numbed and then he started to have chest pains. He was taken to Doncaster Royal Infirmary where he was admitted to the Coronary Care Unit. Peter was eventually referred to Dr Dore, who continued to monitor him as an outpatient for the following three months. He was referred again and, in 1975, he visited the Northern General Hospital in Sheffield, where he was placed under a brilliant surgeon called Mr Smith. The only problem was that, because he was such a fantastic surgeon, Mr Smith had a long waiting list of patients.

  ‘You need a triple bypass operation, Mr Hart. Tell me, why wasn’t this done in London?’

  Peter told him all about the heart consultant and his pioneering new techniques.

  ‘Well, you shall be having one here, that’s for sure,’ he said, pulling Peter’s top back down following the examination. ‘Now, I have a waiting list, which is approximately three to four months long, but I’ll try to get you in as soon as possible.’

  Peter was a young patient at only 43 years old. He faced a major operation but his age also meant that he had a better chance of recovery. I felt encouraged by Mr Smith, and I was certain my husband was in good hands. True to his word, Peter was called back just three weeks later for surgery. It was a red-hot summer’s day when they took him down to theatre. I was such a nervous wreck that, despite my medical training, or perhaps because of it, I was petrified that something would go wrong. As the hours ticked by, I convinced myself that something had gone terribly wrong.

  ‘Is there any news yet?’ I asked a nurse, but she shook her head.

  Major heart operations were relatively new at that time. The longer it took, the more convinced I became that Peter had died. Each hour that passed seemed like a lifetime. In the end, poor Peter was in theatre for an astonishing eight hours. When they finally brought him back up to recovery, I was so relieved that I cried.

  Mr Smith emerged, exhausted but hopeful. ‘The operation was more complicated than we first anticipated because, instead of taking one vein from his leg, we had to take two to help his heart pump properly. We also discovered that the muscle at the back of his heart wasn’t working.’

  The surgeon explained that Peter had coronary heart failure, but the operation had been a success. I hoped and prayed it’d bought him a second chance at life. When I was finally allowed in to see him I stole an anxious breath. He’d been placed on a ventilator and put into a drug-induced coma to allow his body time to recover. I slept at the hospital fo
r the following three days. The other nursing sisters, working at adjacent pits, were fantastic and covered not only my daily work, but my ‘calls’ too. Three days after his op, the nurse on the ward came in to do her regular checks.

  ‘If he manages to breathe unaided when we take the ventilator off, then you can go home and get some rest,’ she said, placing a hand gently on my shoulder.

  I felt so grateful to her and all the wonderful medical staff who had saved my husband’s life. I realised then the difference nurses make and just how vital our role is when dealing with the loved ones of patients.

  I’m certain that the operation saved Peter’s life, and without it he would’ve died prematurely. His father died at just 60 from a heart attack. Looking back now, I’m convinced it was a genetic problem in his family.

  The nurse removed the ventilator and Peter was able to breathe unaided, although he looked absolutely ghastly. His skin was both pale and grey.

  ‘How do you feel?’ I asked as he blinked open his eyes.

  ‘Bloody awful,’ he croaked. ‘And sore. I feel really, really sore.’

  I put a finger to his lips to quieten him because I didn’t want him to over-exert himself.

  ‘Hush, don’t try to talk too much. Everything went really well and it’s worked. The doctors are really pleased with you,’ I whispered.

  But the truth was that he looked absolutely terrible. Although his heart was pumping properly, my nursing instincts told me he would never be the same again. A few days later, the physiotherapist appeared and, in a bid to get Peter moving, she manoeuvred him towards the edge of the bed so he could begin some simple exercises. He complained, but I took it as a good sign that he was slowly on the road to recovery.