At the Coal Face Page 12

  I visited Peter in Sheffield every day while holding down my job at Hatfield. My fellow nursing sisters continued to be amazingly helpful, and some even offered me lifts to the hospital. Peter wasn’t a good patient because he hated being stuck on a hospital ward, but a month later he was allowed back home where I was able to care and nurse him in between going to work. To be honest, I ran myself ragged, trying to win the support of the miners and care for a sick husband. But my colleagues were so supportive that I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done without them. If I was needed during an emergency, management would send a van out to collect me. Slowly but surely, I’d begun to feel accepted as part of the wonderful mining community.

  10

  Nurse in Pit Boots

  With Peter home and finally on the mend, I decided to throw myself back into work. I needed to fulfil the pledge I’d made to myself – to go underground to tend to the injured. But first I had to get permission from both management and the Safety Department.

  ‘Will it interfere with coal production?’ asked Mr Bumstead, the pit manager.

  ‘No, I just need to understand where the injured man is coming from to enable me to treat him correctly. I need to know how wet or hot his working environment is. I need to see how they lift an injured miner out of the pit. But I can’t do any of these things if I’m stuck over there in the medical centre,’ I said, pointing towards it.

  He shook his head doubtfully.

  ‘But what can you do underground? I mean, the men already get the injured miners out as quickly as possible. How would having you down there help?’

  ‘Because I can check they’ve done everything that can possibly be done. I can check the man over before they bring him up to the surface.’

  Although Mr Bumstead was a little sceptical, I could tell he trusted my judgement. The more we spoke, the more interested he seemed in my medical expertise.

  ‘You’ll have to be accompanied by one of the men from the Safety Department. You must never go down there alone,’ he said.

  ‘Absolutely, whatever you say,’ I agreed, before he could finish his sentence or change his mind.

  He looked at me, put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Okay, run it past the Safety Department first. If they’re happy, then so am I.’

  ‘Great! You won’t regret it.’

  But the three men in the Safety Department were a little more reticent.

  ‘What did t’manager say?’ they asked.

  ‘He says he’s happy for me to do it, but I just need to run it past you,’ I said, bending the truth a little.

  ‘Well, you can’t go down on yer own,’ the senior one insisted. ‘You’ll have to have one of us with yer.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘But,’ he said, scratching the point of his bristly chin between his fingers, ‘that depends if we can spare someone. Also, you’ll have to wear t’right gear. You can’t go down dressed like that.’

  I looked at my navy-blue nurses’ uniform. He was right about my clothes.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get something sorted.’

  ‘Well, if t’manager’s ’appy then I suppose we’ll have to sort summat out and find someone to take thee underground.’

  In the end, the Safety Department had a meeting with the manager and, a week later, my wish was granted.

  ‘As long as you get permission from t’under-manager and overman of t’area you wanna go to before yer visit,’ the safety lads insisted.

  ‘And as long as it doesn’t interfere with the production of coal,’ Mr Bumstead stressed once more, pointing his fountain pen in my direction.

  While I waited for my first visit underground, I was issued with a pair of regulation pit wellies.

  ‘Are these the smallest size you’ve got?’ I asked, sizing them up in my hands. They looked absolutely enormous.

  ‘You’re lucky to have ’em. Those are a size 7 – they’re only little,’ the man handing them to me replied in a gruff voice.

  ‘But I’m only a size 5!’

  He shrugged his shoulders as though it wasn’t his problem.

  ‘They’re smallest ones we’ve got. Take ’em or leave ’em.’

  I took them. The yard was extremely muddy, especially in bad weather, so I wore them to protect my ‘indoor’ nurses’ shoes. A day or so later, I was crossing the yard with one of the men, and the blasted wellies were so big that I was barely able to walk. I shuffled along, trying to keep up with him.

  ‘Is tha having problems walking, Sister?’ my companion asked, a little bemused.

  ‘It’s these wellies,’ I complained. ‘They’re far too big for me.’ I twisted one to show him, although my movement was restricted.

  The miner looked down at my ankles and started to howl with laughter. He laughed for so long that I looked around to see what was so funny. But there wasn’t anyone else in the yard, only us. The more he laughed, the more annoyed I became.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I demanded.

  Only he wasn’t listening; instead, he’d dipped his head behind me and dissolved into fits of laughter.

  ‘Come on then, share the joke!’ I huffed, with both hands on my hips.

  ‘It’s t’boots,’ he began, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘No wonder tha can’t walk in ’em. They’re tied together at t’back with a piece o’ string. Gie ’em here.’

  He bent down and grabbed the length of string between his fingers. I twisted awkwardly so that I could see the tops of my boots.

  ‘But … but I thought that’s what you hung them up with. That’s why I didn’t cut it.’

  He wasn’t listening; he was doubled up, clutching his sides.

  ‘Aw, stop it, Sister. I’m gonna wet mesen!’ he howled.

  I’d done it again. I’d buggered up, and I’d only just started!

  The miners worked at Hatfield around the clock in three shifts. Each man would start his shift by calling in at the time office to collect his ‘checks’. Checks were brass discs with the man’s unique number and NCB (National Coal Board) stamped on them. The shape of the check varied from pit to pit to help identify which one it was from, but Hatfield Colliery issued eight-sided checks, which were slightly larger than a 50-pence piece. The miner would be given two metal checks. He’d hand one to the banksman (the man in charge of the pit top, who controlled the access of men into the cage) on his descent into the pit, while the second check would be given to the onsetter (equivalent of the banksman at the pit bottom) when he came back out. At the end of his shift, the onsetter would hang them all on the relevant nails in the ‘checks room’, so that it was possible to identify which men were still underground. If they were, only one check would be hanging on the nail. It was a simple system but it worked.

  When the man collected his checks for the day, he’d move to the canteen to await his shift time. It was then that most men enjoyed a cup of tea and a cigarette. Some would buy tobacco or snuff and fill their water bottle up for the day to keep the dry coal dust at bay. The miner would walk to his locker, situated at the ‘clean’ end of the showers, and undress, removing his clean clothes, which he’d store away in his locker. He’d then move to the ‘dirty’ end and dress in an overall, pit boots and helmet. The man’s next stop would be across the yard, which was usually where he’d enjoy his last cigarette. He’d collect his headlamp and battery pack from the lamp cabin, along with his self-rescuer – a small metal canister containing a portable short-term oxygen source – and walk to the shaft side to go down in the cage. At the end of his shift, the procedure would be reversed, and the miner would take off his dirty overalls and shower, changing into his clean clothes before he went home. The medical centre was situated slap, bang between the two areas, which gave the miners direct access before they went down the pit or as soon as they came out. This was vital because it encouraged the men to seek medical attention as soon as possible.

  A few weeks later, I was told that a Safety Dep
artment officer was available to take me down the pit so I could carry out an inspection of the first-aid and stretcher boxes. But first I had to find the right gear to wear. Without it, I knew that I wouldn’t be allowed to set foot underground. I scoured the area for a suitable boiler suit.

  ‘Reckon we need to measure tha up for one of those orange overalls, Sister,’ one of the men suggested. But I thought it’d take too long.

  ‘No, I’m not bothered,’ I told him. ‘I’ll sort something out.’ Although I didn’t have a clue what I’d get or where I’d find it.

  In the end, my prayers were answered by the manager’s secretary.

  ‘Sister Hart,’ she called to me across the yard one morning.

  I walked over to her.

  ‘I think I might have just the thing you’re looking for,’ she said, beckoning me inside. She pointed towards a metal cupboard. ‘There’s a blue overall in there. It doesn’t look very big, although you still might have to alter it.’

  I pulled the pale blue cloth out of the cupboard, unravelled it and held it up against myself. It completely drowned me length-wise.

  ‘Well,’ I said, turning the hems up by almost half a foot, ‘it’s nothing a good needle and thread won’t sort out.’

  The secretary laughed. She knew I was determined, if nothing else. Later that evening, Peter found me on my hands and knees in the bottom of the wardrobe.

  ‘Joan, what are you looking for?’ he asked as I emptied the wardrobe of one shoe after another.

  ‘My walking boots,’ I replied in a muffled voice. I emerged triumphant, clutching them both in my hands.

  ‘Here they are. Look, they’re perfect!’

  ‘For walking?’

  ‘No, for going down the pit.’

  Peter went back to watching TV while I busied myself cutting and sewing up the legs of my boiler suit by hand. I pulled it on to check the trouser length, which was spot on.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked, giving him a twirl in the front room.

  ‘You look like one of the men,’ he said, laughing.

  It was exactly the look I’d been aiming for.

  I collected an old brown hard hat, a headlamp and battery pack from the lamp office and my metal checks, and with Pat Swords, a member of the Safety Department, as my guide, I finally ventured underground at Hatfield, as I’d done many years before at Brodsworth Colliery. I inspected the first-aid and stretcher boxes to make sure they had everything they needed and that they were in good condition and easily accessible.

  The pit bottom reminded me of an Underground railway station with its whitewashed walls. It was well lit but incredibly dirty. Despite my love of yellow walls, I thought it odd that they’d chosen to whitewash the walls in such a filthy environment, but I soon realised that the walls had been painted stark white to reflect the fluorescent lighting. It made sense, but it also made the rest of the pit seem darker by comparison. Once the electric strip lighting ran out, the pit was black. Without the dim glow of my headlamp, it was impossible to see my own hand in front of my face. In some areas it was so quiet and still that you could have heard a pin drop. It was also very warm, much warmer than I’d anticipated. I understood why some of the men rolled down their overalls and worked in their bare skin. The blackness allowed me to conjure up images from stories my father had once told me of pit men holding onto the tails of pit ponies when their lamps had gone out, in a bid to find their way back.

  I was a little apprehensive about what the miners would say or think of me, but Peter had set me straight the night before my visit.

  ‘You don’t have to prove yourself, Joan. You’re a trained nurse, but these men have been at the pit all their lives. They see it as their domain, not yours. You can’t change that. Just be there for them – it’s all you can do.’

  Naturally, some of the men were a little curious, but after Peter’s words I’d gone down well prepared.

  ‘I’ve brought some boiled sweets, if anyone wants one?’ I called out to a group of miners.

  ‘Aw, ta, Sister.’ The men smiled, digging their filthy hands into the white paper bag. I made a mental note to bring down individually wrapped sweets next time.

  ‘What’s tha doing down ’ere then, Sister?’ one asked in the darkness. As I turned, his face was immediately bathed in a circle of golden light, which only highlighted how filthy it actually was. His teeth were the only things that looked clean as he grinned back at me.

  ‘I’m inspecting the first-aid boxes, checking that they’ve got everything they need.’

  ‘Right,’ he nodded. ‘And has tha only brought sweets?’ he asked cheekily.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I said, fumbling around in my pocket, ‘I’ve brought a bit of chewing tobacco too, and a bit of snuff.’

  ‘Ooh, gie us some, Sister. I’m parched!’

  After that, the miners looked forward to my underground inspections because, like little boys, they always knew I had a pocketful of treats stashed away.

  ‘Thanks for taking me down today,’ I said to Pat as we stepped back into the cage and began our ascent to the pit top.

  ‘No worries, Sister. But there is one thing,’ he said, looking downwards.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s them boots. They’ll have to go. They’re not regulation, you see, and I’ll get shot if I’m caught bringing you down wearing ’em again cos they haven’t got steel toe-caps.’

  ‘Right, I see.’

  ‘It’s not me,’ Pat insisted, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘Them’s the rules – that’s all.’

  I knew Pat, and if he said I had to wear steel-toe-capped boots then so be it. But where on earth would I find a pair small enough to fit me? We’d just had a new intake of cadets, so I knew all the smaller sizes would have already been taken. My answer came only a few days later. As soon as I spotted him walking across the yard I knew he’d be perfect, so I waited until I saw him cross again.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ I called, beckoning the young lad over towards me and into the medical centre.

  ‘Is everything all right, Sister?’ he asked.

  I knew Tony well. He was one of the fresh-faced cadets, only 16 years old. He was also very small for his age, which suited me perfectly.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages, Tony. Are your legs okay?’

  Tony looked a little baffled. He looked down towards his legs and back up at me.

  ‘Yeah, I think so. Why?’ he replied, a little puzzled.

  ‘Well, it’s just I’ve been watching you, you know, walking across the yard,’ I said, gesturing out of the window, ‘and it’s just that, well, you seem to be walking with a bit of a limp.’

  Tony’s eyes widened. ‘A limp?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tony shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Well, I feel okay, and my legs,’ he said, patting them for reassurance, ‘well, I reckon they’re okay too …’

  ‘If it’s not your legs then maybe it’s your feet?’ I said, casting my eyes downwards. ‘Or, more importantly, maybe it’s your boots. Perhaps they’re too tight for you?’

  Tony lifted up his right leg to check the shoe size stamped on the underneath of his sole.

  ‘What size are you, Tony?’

  ‘Size 5, Sister.’

  ‘And what size are you wearing?’

  ‘These, they’re a 5,’ he said, checking again.

  ‘Ah, you see, that’s your problem. These pit boots, well, they come up a bit small, so what you need to do is to go along and get yourself a pair of size 6.’

  Tony looked up from his boots at me again.

  ‘But I’m a 5.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but you’re limping so you need a size 6. You don’t want to damage your feet now, do you?’

  ‘No, Sister,’ Tony agreed. ‘I’ve always been a 5, but if you reckon I’d be better off wi’ a 6 then …’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I said, cutting him short. ‘Now, why don’t you go and get yourself sorted
with a size 6, and tell them I sent you. I bet you’ll find you can walk so much better in them. Also, it’ll get rid of your limp.’

  I sat back in my chair and smiled reassuringly at him.

  ‘Rightio, Sister,’ he said, getting up and heading over towards the door.

  ‘And Tony,’ I called. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face me. ‘When you get yourself sorted, be a good lad and bring your old boots back in here.’

  Tony nodded as if obeying a schoolmistress. He opened the door and closed it quietly behind him. I watched through the window as he stood outside the medical centre and self-consciously checked the sole of each boot once again. After a few moments, he straightened up and headed over the yard to source a larger pair. Sure enough, the following day his boots reappeared. He’d popped them just inside the main door where they were waiting for me. From that moment on I made them my own. Dressed in my snazzy new regulation steel-toe-capped boots, I’d been allowed back underground without concern or complaint, with Pat Sword as my trusty guide.

  ‘Nice boots,’ he commented as we descended down the pit shaft.

  ‘Thanks,’ I grinned.

  As usual, as soon as we stepped away from the fluorescent lighting the pit was pitch black and we only had the dim beam from our headlamps to guide us. We spotted the overman talking to a few men, and we approached him.

  ‘By, tha’s a bonny-looking lad,’ the short-sighted overman remarked as soon as he saw me.

  I waited for the punchline, only there wasn’t one.

  ‘No,’ Pat explained, realising the old man’s obvious gaffe. ‘This is Sister Hart.’

  Unfortunately, as well as bad eyes, the overman was a little hard of hearing.

  ‘Well, Mr ’Art, tha smells lovely too.’

  All the miners fell about laughing, so I was grateful of the surrounding darkness to prevent them seeing my scarlet face. Afterwards, I asked one of the men if I could change my brown helmet to a white hard hat.

  ‘And could you paint the words SISTER HART across the front of it too, in big letters?’ I added.

  ‘Is capitals okay, Sister?’