At the Coal Face Page 6

  The working hours were almost as gruelling as the nursing home. When I arrived at 6 a.m., I’d find half a dozen prams already lined up and waiting outside the main door. The parents would’ve gone, usually straight off to work. There was no worry or concern back then that someone might steal a baby, because everyone did the same thing. Mind you, it was also a blissful time when you could leave your front door unlocked without fear of being burgled or murdered in your bed. If I was shocked by the babies being left in the morning, then I was even more surprised when the same parents forgot to pick them up at night. More often than not there was usually a mix-up or breakdown in communication. One parent would presume a friend or relative was picking the child up and vice versa. A lot of the parents were bus drivers or conductors working long shifts, so I’d have to ring Doncaster police station to get them to trace the missing mum or dad.

  ‘Hello, its Elmfield nursery. I’m afraid we’ve got another no-show,’ I told the officer on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Another one?’ he gasped. ‘How on earth can you forget to pick up your child?’ The line went silent for a moment and I visualised the officer shaking his head in despair. ‘Don’t worry; someone will be along shortly.’

  Whenever I had a situation like that, Peter would sit and wait with me until the police officer arrived. The officer would try to track down the parent, who always had a valid excuse, but they’d still be given a police caution.

  I loved working with the children, and I often imagined myself as a mother with a brood of my own. All the same, it was nice to hand them back at the end of the day and switch off. I’d worked at the nursery for almost a year when Dad called to see me. He’d heard of a new job at Brodsworth Colliery.

  ‘They’re looking to set up a new medical centre, so they need a fully qualified nursing officer. I’ve put your name forward. Hope that’s all right?’

  It was, because by now I knew it was time to move on, although it didn’t stop the nerves rising inside my stomach. I was still in my early twenties – in many ways I was still learning – yet at the pit I knew I’d be in charge of thousands of men. I’d always been confident in my own nursing world of hospitals and sterile wards, but this was a different type of nursing – this was industrial nursing, which I’d never done before. But I wasn’t proud. I’d ask for help if I needed it.

  Although I realised it’d be a whole different ball game, I trusted my father and his judgement. Ultimately, I knew he wouldn’t have recommended me if he didn’t think I was up to the job.

  5

  A Miner’s Nurse

  I was a complete first and a bit of a curiosity at Brodsworth Colliery – a female nursing officer in charge of 3,000 men – but the National Coal Board was trying to improve its safety record after the pits had been nationalised nine years previously. Now that I’d been hired, the health of the Brodsworth miners was down to me. I’d work in a preventative role as well as being there to treat the men.

  Before I’d arrived, the miners relied on a bloke called Bert, a tall, slim and authoritative man in his mid-forties. He’d been at the pit for donkeys’ years and was a trained first aider. He was also the man you went to in an emergency. It was 1956, and Bert was so trusted and highly respected that all the people in the village would call on him rather than use a doctor. To be honest, I didn’t blame them because what Bert didn’t know wasn’t really worth knowing. His office was an old wooden hut situated by the shaft side. The hut was cramped and dark and as far removed from sterile hospital wards as you could get. Nevertheless, Bert, who had a mop of thick, dark, curly hair, would expertly bandage and generally patch the men up in the dim light and dusty surroundings. If it was a serious injury then he’d pack them off to the hospital, or call for one of the Coal Board doctors, but Bert was always the miners’ first port of call in an emergency.

  He was also very obstinate and viewed me, just 24 and a mere slip of a girl, with extreme suspicion. He resented the fact that I was heading up the brand new medical centre, because his male ego wouldn’t allow him to accept orders from a young lass. The centre was being built specially but he disliked the idea so much that he refused to come out of his hut even to take a look at it. I’m sure the curiosity must have killed him, but he was a stubborn old goat and he refused to budge an inch. Despite this, I looked up to Bert because he was so knowledgeable.

  I’d been brought up in Woodlands, the village attached to Brodsworth Colliery, and my father – Harry Smith to everyone else – was a senior official there. Dad was respected, and everyone knew I was his eldest daughter. By this time, my brother Tony had started at Brodsworth as a trainee cadet, so the men called me either ‘Harry Smith’s eldest’ or ‘Tony Smith’s sister’. I was never called by my actual name, despite my protests. Sometimes the men couldn’t even be bothered to refer to me by the family name, and instead called me ‘the head girl from Woodlands school’. I’d come off the hospital wards and never done industrial nursing before, so I was also a little intimidated by the miners and my surroundings. The medical centre was still being built, so I got to choose the colour scheme.

  ‘I think I’d like a nice canary yellow,’ I said as I surveyed the plans. The man was horrified and his mouth fell open as though I’d asked him to paint it candy pink. To say the men on site were appalled by my choice of colour would be an understatement.

  ‘Yellow!’ one of the miners shrieked, shaking his head in dismay. ‘But we normally have navy blue on the walls.’

  I turned to face him. I was only young and I knew I was a woman working in a man’s world, but I was also very determined.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘And navy blue is a horrible, dark colour. I need it to be light and welcoming, so I’d like it painting yellow, please.’

  I nodded my head as though that was my final word on the matter. Despite many objections, my wish was eventually granted, much to Bert’s disapproval. I’d not consulted him, but I could just imagine him sitting over in his dreary dark wooden cabin, rolling his eyes in despair. As soon as the medical centre opened, I realised it was going to be hard to win the men over because, instead of coming to me, they continued to consult Bert. Now it was a battle of wills.

  ‘Have you heard? She’s only gone and painted it bloody yellow!’ one of the men grumbled as he passed by my window early one morning.

  I was up and running, but with no patients to treat and yellow walls to boot, I knew I had my work cut out. The medical centre held all the latest equipment, including a state-of-the-art steriliser, but try as I might, I couldn’t get Bert or his team of first-aiders through the door. And then fate intervened. One day, I stretched over the autoclave – the device used to sterilise equipment to a very high temperature – when I caught my right arm against it. The burn was painful because it was deep and it had penetrated through several layers of skin. Also, because it was my right arm, it was impossible for me to dress with a bandage. With no one else to turn to, I walked across the pit yard towards Bert’s hut. I tapped lightly on the door. As he opened it, I could tell he was shocked to find me standing there. He also seemed a little suspicious, as though I was trying to trick him.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Bert,’ I began, ‘but I wondered if you could take a look at my arm, please? I caught it on the autoclave. It’s really painful and it’s my right arm … I can’t dress it properly.’

  I was so busy trying to explain that I hadn’t noticed that Bert had left the door ajar and had sat back down. I took it as a signal to go inside.

  ‘Tha needs to be more careful,’ he grunted as he pulled out a roll of bandage from a nearby drawer. He expertly dressed my wound as his dark curly hair flopped around his face, hiding his expression.

  ‘I’m really grateful, Bert.I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

  He looked up at me and nodded, but he was a hard man to read and I wondered if he thought I’d burned my arm on purpose. I hadn’t, of course, and it was painful all the same. I winced as he tied t
he bandage, and he nodded to indicate that he’d finished. I wasn’t quite sure what to do so I stood up and turned to leave. As I did, Bert spoke.

  ‘It’s a nasty wound, that is. Tha better come back tomorrow so I can change t’dressing.’

  I turned and smiled gratefully.

  ‘Thanks, Bert. I really appreciate it.’ And I did. I also saw a chink of light. Maybe Bert wasn’t such a tough nut to crack after all.

  The following day I went back to have my dressing changed, and the day after, until soon I’d visited Bert for the best part of the week. Early one morning, I was told an official would be visiting the medical centre. I asked Bert if he could come over to me instead, but he wasn’t keen. He’d already made it plain that he didn’t approve of me or my canary-yellow walls.

  ‘Please, Bert. I’ll get into trouble if I’m over here with you and not over there,’ I said, pointing at the medical centre. ‘It’ll only take a minute, and then you can leave.’

  After much deliberation, Bert decided that he would indeed come over to dress my wound. I think a small part of him really wanted to see the inside of the centre, but his male ego wouldn’t let him cross the threshold without good reason. Of course, Bert changed my dressing to his usual high standard. As he packed up to leave, I took a chance.

  ‘While you’re here I may as well show you around.’

  Bert sneered until I explained that I really wanted his opinion on the equipment I already had in there. It seemed to work, because moments later I was giving him a guided tour.

  ‘And this is the autoclave,’ I explained.

  Bert tried to hide it but I could tell he was impressed. He liked the new medical centre, with its sterile environment and equipment; he just didn’t want to take orders from a girl. However, Bert’s resolve must have melted, because hours later he returned with his three Medical Room Attendants (MRAs).

  ‘And this is the steriliser, state of the art,’ he said, demonstrating it.

  I’d used my charm and womanly wiles and, sure enough, I’d eventually won him over. Only six weeks after starting at Brodsworth, Bert and his team left the freezing-cold hut and moved into the medical centre. My team of one had expanded to a team of five overnight. Soon it became a little crowded with the extra bodies, but I didn’t mind because I loved the company and having Bert to call on whenever I needed advice. In return, the MRAs were so thrilled at having a sterile, warm and comfortable office to work in that they kept it absolutely spotless. In fact, they’d spend the entire week just mopping the floors until they were so clean that you could’ve eaten your dinner off them.

  ‘Again?’ I asked when I spotted one of them mopping the waiting-room floor for the third time that day.

  He stood up, held his hands at the top of the mop and rested his chin down on them. ‘Can’t be too careful, Sister. Better to be safe than sorry.’

  I stifled a giggle. The men certainly took pride in their work. Still, none of them accepted the fact that I was a married woman. Instead, they referred to me as either Sister or Sister Smith, using my maiden name. But it was better than ‘the head girl from Woodlands school’, so in many ways it was progress.

  It was a good job I’d managed to get Bert on board, because only a few weeks later we were faced with a horrible situation when two workmen rushed into the medical centre with a man on a stretcher. They were still in shock as they explained how the contractor had fallen 30 feet from scaffolding against the water tower, where he was carrying out a repair. It hadn’t been a straightforward fall because he had caught his head on the sharp scaffold poles on the way down and had managed to scalp himself. The patient was disorientated and thrashing around. Taking his head in my hands, I held it tight against my chest to try to compress the wound because he was losing such a frightening amount of blood. But with my legs either side of the stretcher, holding him close, I was having trouble keeping him still. I looked up at Bert, who was busy searching for a compression bandage.

  ‘Please don’t leave me,’ I said, with fear trembling in my voice.

  ‘I’m going nowhere, lass,’ he replied as he held down the man.

  The poor lad didn’t have a clue where he was and he was clearly in agony. The medical centre didn’t have Entonox (gas and air) back then, but we somehow managed to hold him for long enough to wrap a compression bandage around his scalp to try to stem the flow. Bert and I had decided that there wasn’t enough time to call a doctor – the patient would’ve died either from shock or loss of blood while we waited – so we loaded him into the navy-blue pit ambulance. By the time we arrived at the hospital, the surgeons were waiting. The relief medical attendant had rung through from the pit switchboard. I’d held the patient’s head together in my lap all the way, and I was soaked in blood. As they rushed him off to theatre, Bert turned and looked me up and down.

  ‘Tha looks like a horror movie, lass,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, glancing down at my uniform. ‘I think I need to get scrubbed up.’

  ‘Aye, tha does, but tha did a great job too, yer know. That lad would’ve died if it hadn’t have been for thee.’

  It was high praise indeed. Afterwards, Bert had nothing but the utmost respect for me. We were in it together now. I’d proved I wasn’t just some silly little girl with canary-yellow walls and a romantic notion of caring for people; I was a qualified nurse, and someone who’d be there in times of crisis. Slowly, he began to trust me.

  It was my dad who had first mentioned going underground into the pit. ‘It’ll help you to see where the miners work so you can get an idea of what they’re faced with every day.’

  I agreed. I wanted to go down the pit for the very same reason. I spoke to the Safety Department officer, but he seemed a little reluctant.

  ‘Well, we’ve never really taken a woman down t’pit before, but if tha’s sure tha wants to,’ he said, scratching his head.

  ‘Oh, I do,’ I insisted. ‘It’d be great to see their working environment and what dangers they face on a day-to-day basis – it’d be invaluable.’

  In the end, he couldn’t refuse, although the miners were taken aback when they saw me underground. I stood out like a sore thumb, even though I was dressed in a regulation boiler suit, because it was way too big for me. In fact, it was so big that I’d had to sew the hems of the legs up just so I could walk in it properly.

  Although I felt a little out of my depth, I smiled as I was given a guided tour. The light from the lamp on my helmet danced against the pit walls, and in some quieter areas I heard, and was certain I saw, mice scuttling around in the shadows. It was noisy, humid and so dark that, without our headlamps, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. But I didn’t let my fear show because I wanted to prove I was as tough as the men. The pit continued to creak and drip as we ventured deeper. It was like being in the underbelly of a living, breathing creature, only one you couldn’t control.

  ‘Ay up, its Harry Smith’s eldest,’ one of the miners called as I passed by. The others stopped what they were doing, straightened up and scratched their heads in unison.

  A woman. Down the pit?

  They’d never seen the like before!

  During the course of our visit, I checked the first-aid boxes to make sure they contained everything they needed.

  ‘Thanks for showing me around down there,’ I told the Safety Department officer as we finally stepped out of the cage onto the pit top.

  He sized me up for a moment as though he didn’t quite know what to make of me.

  ‘No problem. No problem, lass.’

  My second time underground followed a few months later. Dad agreed to take me down himself, so that I could do another general inspection and check the first-aid boxes. Again, it felt as though I was scrambling about in a cave. In some places it was as hot as hell, while in others it was humid and the condensation soaked into your skin.

  ‘I’m not sure what t’men will make of it, but as long astha does tha job tha won’t go far wr
ong,’ he said, giving me a pat on the back. He never said it directly, but I think he was proud that his daughter was becoming as tough as the miners she treated.

  The third time, however, was a totally different matter. A call had come into the medical centre to say there’d been an emergency in the pit. A miner had trapped his leg between two tubs of coal and broken it. The deputy was a trained first aider, and although he’d bandaged and splinted the poor chap up I needed to examine the patient before they moved him to check he hadn’t done any further damage.

  ‘I’ll not be long,’ I told Bert, who agreed to staff the medical centre in case we had any more walking wounded through the door.

  Once again, I pulled on my overalls, now more familiar to me than they had been before, and headed over towards the pit shaft and cage. One of the men was waiting to take me down.

  ‘Ready, Sister?’ he asked.

  ‘Ready,’ I said, nodding, as the cage descended into the dark bowels of the earth.

  We located the man quickly. I gave him a thorough examination, checking him for spinal and head injuries in particular but, thankfully, apart from a fractured leg, he was fine.

  ‘He’s good to move,’ I told the deputy.

  Four men lifted him up and loaded the stretcher on to the seat of a waiting paddy train. They placed him flat and perched themselves either side to hold him in position. The deputy gestured for me to board the train, which I did, travelling with the patient to the pit shaft. We brought him up to the surface where the pit ambulance was waiting to take us to Doncaster Royal Infirmary. After admitting the man to hospital, I was free to leave. There was no point in me hanging around, although a few people did a double take when they saw me coming in through the hospital doors dressed in pit boots and filthy overalls. But by now I was getting used to it.