At the Coal Face Page 2

  ‘Your mother’s run off with another man. She didn’t love you. That’s why I’m here, because someone has to look after you!’ Emily hissed spitefully as she narrowed her eyes.

  From that moment on I resented Emily with her tidy ways and vicious tongue. But she wasn’t the only one who said things about my mother – other people gossiped too. In fact, so many rumours circulated around the village that they soon took on a life of their own, until, just by word of mouth, fiction became fact even if there wasn’t an ounce of truth in it. I hated the other children when they said horrible things about her. Despite my own disappointment, I’d always stuck up for Mum and defended her honour. However, Ann had been a baby when Mum had left so she never, ever forgave her.

  Seeing an absent mother and with her eyes on my father, Emily decided to step into the role, and she did, with aplomb. Instead of Mum, it’d be Emily at our school plays, dolled up to the nines. Emily was so sweet on Dad that I was convinced she was just waiting in the wings, ready to pounce once her husband had passed away. It was a thoroughly depressing situation.

  The house was cramped not only with two extra people, but also because Harry and Emily had brought along their own furniture, most of it so much nicer than ours. To free up some space, Dad had decided to cut down our old kitchen table and use it as a bench inside his greenhouse, which he’d filled with chrysanthemums and tomato plants. He was so green-fingered he could turn his hand to anything. There were two Anderson air-raid shelters in the back lane, behind the row of terraced houses, but no one used them because there was a much safer and deeper one in the village park. With no takers, Dad saw his chance and filled the shelters with beds of manure and grew crops of mushrooms inside them. Even if anyone had wanted to use the shelters, they wouldn’t because the smell was so pungent that, on a hot day, it carried all the way down the street. Mind you, the shelters were so exposed that they were eventually bombed, so I reckon my father’s mushrooms saved a few lives along the way.

  One day, quite without warning, Emily and Harry decided to leave. I never found out why, but I think the fact that Dad never acted on or picked up on Emily’s many romantic hints was probably the final straw. He was miffed because he knew he’d have to find another housekeeper, but secretly I was relieved that we would have the place back to ourselves again. By this time, I was 15 years old and adept at making a mean Sunday dinner. A few days after Emily had left, taking her last pieces of furniture with her, something struck me – we had no kitchen table. I wasn’t quite sure what to do, but then I remembered the one in the greenhouse. I knew it was a big job, but with Dad due home within the hour and the meat almost cooked in the stove, I needed everything to be perfect. I wanted him to think I could cope. Opening up the greenhouse door, I scratched my head as I contemplated the task in hand. The table was wide and heavy, and I wondered how I’d manage to get it down the garden – never mind how I’d lift it into the kitchen.

  Blimey, it’s heavier than it looks, I cursed silently as I dragged it along. If only Emily hadn’t taken her posh furniture with her, then we wouldn’t be in this position.

  It took a bit of brute force but somehow I managed to push the table inside the house. But then I was faced with another problem – it had no legs because Dad had sawn them off to fit it inside the greenhouse! The smell of roast beef filled the kitchen, making my mouth water. I had to think of something – fast. I nipped out into the backyard to look for something suitable to prop it up with. I stumbled upon a load of old house bricks. I collected as many as I could carry, stacked them on top of one another, and lowered the table top down onto them. It was hardly up to Emily’s high standards – I could just imagine her shaking her head in despair – but at least it was a table once more. Moments later I heard the back door slam. We always used the back door – the front was reserved for funerals and weddings only – so I knew it was Dad. His footsteps sounded heavy as he came inside.

  ‘Wash your hands and sit down. I’ve cooked you a lovely dinner,’ I said as I loaded up some meat and vegetables onto a plate.

  ‘Lovely. I’m starving!’ he said as he grinned and wandered over to wash his hands at the kitchen sink. As he turned his head, he did a double take.

  ‘Is that our old kitchen table?’ he asked, pointing at it.

  ‘Yes, I’ve brought it back inside. Now Emily’s gone, we need a table, so I dragged it in. Don’t worry – I’ve given it a good wipe.’

  But he wasn’t listening. Instead, he was looking underneath to see how I’d managed to prop it up.

  ‘I’ve used some house bricks from the backyard so be careful, and whatever you do, don’t cross your legs!’

  ‘Rightio,’ Dad said, chuckling, as he tucked into his meal. ‘Ooh, Joan, tha cooks a great joint – this is lovely.’ He smiled, chewing happily on a piece of meat.

  But my father was enjoying his food so much that he forgot my warning and crossed his legs.

  CRASH!

  Dad was a giant of a man, and within seconds one end of the table had tipped up in the air and come crashing down with an almighty clatter. I watched as his dinner seemed to slide and then tip over in slow motion, landing neatly upside down in the middle of his lap. He glanced down at it and then up at me. He must’ve registered the horror on my face because he immediately burst out laughing. But I was absolutely furious; the dinner had taken me hours to prepare.

  ‘I told you not to cross your legs!’ I screamed like a demented housewife. ‘Now look what you’ve done! There’s gravy everywhere. And look at your trousers – they’re ruined!’

  But my anger tickled him even more and soon he couldn’t speak for laughing. With tears of mirth streaming down his face he helped me clear up the mess from the floor. I was still fuming, so Dad tried his best to win me back around.

  ‘I’ll go and buy us a new table. As for this,’ he said, tapping the old wooden table top, ‘I think I’ll shove it back inside the greenhouse where it belongs.’

  I watched as he sheepishly carried it out through the back door, my arms folded and my foot tapping in annoyance. Eventually I saw the joke, but deep down Dad knew that at 15 years old, and with Emily gone, I was too young to play mother and full-time housewife. I needed to be back at school, but in order to do that he had to employ another housekeeper. The word went out and soon another woman knocked on our door. Her name was Elsie and she had the filthiest hands I’d ever seen. To this day, I still don’t know why he took her on; but he did. Dad was lonely, so within weeks they began a relationship and soon Elsie became the ruin of us all. Even though Dad had given her a generous allowance to buy food, Elsie bought everything on credit or ‘tick’, as we called it. The shopkeeper added our family name to a long list of people who also owed him money. Instead of using Dad’s housekeeping money, Elsie spent it on goodness knows what and landed us in debt, but her deceit didn’t stop there. One day, my favourite brown tweed coat vanished from the house. I was distraught because I’d always looked after my things, but it was nowhere to be seen. I asked Elsie and she just shrugged.

  ‘It’ll be wherever you left it,’ she snapped.

  I hated her but Dad was desperate – he didn’t want me to miss any more time off, nor did he want to lose his job at the pit – so Elsie was the compromise. I didn’t want to rock the boat or make his life harder, so I kept my mouth shut but vowed to leave home as soon as I could. My chance came sooner than I’d anticipated. True to her word, Mrs Hargreaves from St John Ambulance had remembered my request to become a nurse and had already started to make enquiries on my behalf.

  ‘There’s a college in Huddersfield. I’ve put your name forward because they take nursing recruits from the age of 16.’

  My face lit up. Mrs Hargreaves had watched me progress as a young cadet. I’d worked hard to get my certificates in first aid and I’d left school as head girl. She paid my fare and travelled with me, taking two buses and changing at Leeds, so I could attend my interview in Huddersfield. It was such a long journ
ey that it took up half the day, but as soon as we arrived at nursing college I knew I’d done the right thing.

  ‘Tell me, why do you want to be a nurse, Joan?’ the matron asked. She was a shrewd woman in her early fifties, tall and thin – the type you could never hope to fool – and she frightened the life out of me. Her hair was covered in a stiffened white headdress, which she’d wrapped around her head at sharp angles, making her look a bit like a nun.

  I twisted my hands nervously in my lap because I was unsure what to say. I spoke straight from my heart. ‘I want to look after people; it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I just want to make a difference.’

  The matron nodded and glanced down at my application form in her hands. She tried to hide it but I noticed the small flicker of a smile play across her lips, and I knew I’d done well. A few weeks later, a letter confirmed it when I was offered a place on the year-long course. I was excited beyond words as I made plans to move to nursing college. Although I felt a pang of guilt at leaving Dad, Tony and Ann behind with the horrid Elsie, I knew I had to do it because nursing college would be my escape route to a better life, and I was determined to grab it with both hands.

  2

  Nurse in Training

  The nurses’ training college was situated inside a large Victorian house, set in its own grounds. It was a tall and imposing building, and was a good ten-minute walk from Huddersfield Royal Infirmary. All our nursing training was done inside the house, which had enough room to accommodate a dozen people, but we travelled to the hospital one afternoon a week so that we could gain real work experience. I was one of ten live-in nurses in training. We were all aged between 16 and 17 years old. It was a new course and it taught would-be nurses everything from scratch, from cooking what we called wholesome ‘invalid food’ to how to launder sheets and clean and correctly disinfect a room. The cookery courses were fun but the food wasn’t as joyful or, indeed, very appetising. We were taught how to make everything from junket – a type of blancmange using sour cream – to beef broth, and tripe and onions. On one occasion I forgot to soak my cut of salt beef overnight. The following day I prepared and cooked my ‘beef tea’ – or broth – as I’d been told, seasoning it along the way. But when I went to take a sip I almost gagged, and then I began to splutter and choke. Within seconds I’d spat it out, my face a sickly shade of green.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter, Joan?’ one of my fellow students asked as I dashed over to the sink to try to rinse away the awful taste.

  ‘Eurgh, it tastes like seawater!’ I gasped.

  I couldn’t work out where I’d gone wrong until the teacher came over and sampled some using a spoon. She took a sip, pulled a disgusted face and shook her head in dismay.

  ‘You forgot to soak your cut; that’s why it tastes like a bag of salt. You’d kill a patient if you served this,’ she said, plopping the spoon back inside the bubbling pan.

  I bowed my head. I felt such a fool because, as usual, I’d tried to run before I could walk. Of course, I failed that particular task, but afterwards I vowed to always taste the food as I went along. A few months later, when it came to my cookery exam, I decided to prepare the same beef broth followed by some junket. I took my time, sampling it until it tasted absolutely perfect before setting it out on a tray. But when I looked around at the other trays I realised something vital was missing – a vase of flowers. I had no money, so I decided to improvise. I nipped outside into the garden where I ‘borrowed’ a small handful of pretty pansies. Standing them up inside a clean fish-paste jar, I added a sprinkle of water and then I was done. It was hardly a bouquet, but it did the trick. In spite of my last-minute DIY floral arrangement, I passed with flying colours and was allowed to move to the next stage of the course – cleaning. I could hardly wait.

  My youth and inexperience had left me feeling a little homesick, so I travelled back to Doncaster to visit my family. Of course, Elsie the horrid housekeeper was there and she didn’t seem too impressed when she spotted me coming through the door. When I saw the state of the place I realised why – it was filthy. If anything, Elsie’s low standards had slipped even more, so that I barely recognised my own home. I rolled up my sleeves and got stuck in, cleaning what I could. Ann, Tony and Dad were delighted to see me, even if Elsie hadn’t been. By the end of the weekend, she pulled me to one side to speak with me. We were alone in the kitchen when she grabbed me roughly by the arm.

  ‘If you want to come home then you’re gonna have to pay your way,’ she hissed, spitting out the words in my face.

  ‘What do you mean? This is my home.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re a working woman now. You’re earning, so you need to contribute. It’s only fair on your poor father.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. Surely Dad didn’t want me to pay to come home at weekends. But Elsie was adamant.

  ‘If you want to come home then it’ll cost you 2 pounds, 12 shillings and 6 pence,’ she demanded, holding out her grubby little hand.

  ‘But that’s what I earn in a month!’

  She shrugged her shoulders as though it wasn’t her problem.

  ‘It’s not up to me,’ she insisted. ‘It’s what your dad says I should charge you.’

  I was flabbergasted because Dad had never asked me to pay before. I felt a knot of anxiety clench inside my stomach. What if things were more desperate than I thought?

  ‘I can’t afford it,’ I argued.

  Elsie ran a hand through her unruly, thick grey hair. She tucked a greasy strand behind her right ear and turned back towards the sink. ‘If you can’t afford to pay then you can’t come home, it’s as simple as that.’

  My heart plummeted like a stone. I’d only just received my first proper wage but I paid what I owed and left, knowing I’d never be able to afford to return. I wanted to ask Dad why he needed to charge me but I thought better of it because I didn’t want to embarrass him. I also worried that he’d take Elsie’s side instead of mine. That must be why the house was in such a state. Dad must be broke, I reasoned on the bus journey back to Huddersfield. The rain pattered softly against the glass of the window, mirroring how I felt inside – both tearful and miserable. I stared at my reflection, trying my best not to cry. The bus slowly wound its way out of Doncaster, leaving my home far behind, and I returned to college where I threw myself into my studies. If I couldn’t afford to go home then I’d use my time wisely and try to become the best nurse I could. Thankfully, my housemates were a joy to live with, and slowly, as each month passed, we learned the basics of nursing. One day, we decided we needed to get fit so we got up extra early, donned our shorts and went for a brisk run around the park. Feeling totally invigorated, we decided to run another circuit, and then another, until we’d jogged around constantly for two hours. We returned to the house en masse, where we washed, ate breakfast and got ready for our day’s lectures. But we were so shattered by the run that we promptly fell asleep in the first lecture. The teacher was puzzled and asked why her class were so sleepy.

  ‘We were trying to get fit, Miss,’ a voice called from the back of the room.

  The teacher looked across a dozen sets of bleary eyes as we began to yawn in unison.

  ‘Well, it didn’t seem to work, girls, did it?’

  The following morning, I ached so much that I thought I’d broken something. My legs were too stiff at the knee to bend. I spent the rest of the day walking around like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. After that, I decided that if I wanted to get fit then I’d have to do it in moderation, not all at once.

  Our year-long pre-nursing studies were essentially split into an introduction course and three blocks of learning: three months in the hospital kitchen learning how to cook and prepare ‘invalid food’; three in the laundry, washing the dirty and bloodied sheets; and the final three with Home Sister, learning how to thoroughly clean the house to her incredibly high standards. Looking back, it sounds extreme, but it served a purpose, because by the time we’d finished we all ha
d the same impeccably high standards. But it wasn’t all work – far from it. It was also lots of fun. One day, we were kicking our heels after lectures when I decided to play a practical joke on the Sister in charge who, despite the house being huge, slept in a bedroom on the ground floor next to the main entrance. This was to ensure her young trainee nurses didn’t leave or return at ‘inappropriate hours’. There was a medical skeleton in the classroom, so I removed the skull, looped a piece of string around a bolt fastened on the top, unravelled the string and dangled it out of my bedroom window, which was situated directly above Sister’s. I carefully lowered the skull until it was in line with her window. My friends stifled a giggle as I began to swing it to and fro like a pendulum. When it had gained enough momentum I swung it forward so that it tapped lightly against her windowpane.

  TAP. TAP. TAP.

  By now my mates were killing themselves laughing, so much so that they had tears streaming down their faces. Moments later, the sash window scraped open as Sister popped her head out and came face to face with the dangling skull. But she didn’t scream; instead she craned her neck upwards and caught me holding onto the other end of the string.

  ‘Hello, Sister.’ I smiled weakly before pulling the skull up as fast as I could.

  Thankfully she had a great sense of humour.