At the Coal Face Page 7

  ‘I’m a nurse,’ I told one woman. She sniffed as I passed, blackened head to toe with coal dust. She shook her head as though she didn’t believe a word of it.

  The miner eventually returned to work. I’m not sure how bad the fracture was so I don’t know if they put him in traction or just plastered his leg, but he was off work for a good three or four months.

  A few weeks later, we received another call. A miner had suffered another leg injury, only this time it was a serious underground incident. The man had bored a hole in the coalface and had tried to fire it, using shot, which is candle-shaped and similar to a stick of dynamite. Normally it’d cause the roof to crack, loosening the coal and making it easier to extract. Only this time the shot had partially fired and ricocheted back towards the miner, who was crouched at what he thought was a safe distance away. The shot had then detonated fully next to his right leg, partially blowing the top part off above the knee.

  I immediately telephoned Dr Creed, one of the Coal Board doctors based at Doncaster. The disordered blast had caused coal to fall in on the patient, so he’d been trapped underground with his leg hanging on by a thread. That’s when the full impact hit me – Dr Creed and I would have to travel into the pit to carry out an emergency amputation to free the man. Feeling sick with nerves, I grabbed the amputation kit and checked it over. It was pretty basic, containing artery forceps, a tourniquet, sterile saw and several sharp knives of different lengths. I knew Dr Creed was on his way with morphine, so I changed out of my nurse’s outfit and pulled on my boiler suit and pit boots.

  ‘Good luck,’ Bert called as I headed towards the door.

  I nodded and left him in charge of the medical centre. By the time I’d reached the pit top, Dr Creed had pulled up in his car. I’d never been more relieved to see a doctor in my whole life. He’d already changed into his overalls, so we walked over towards the shaft side. Dr Creed was a lovely middle-aged man who was very experienced, but I could tell the thought of performing an amputation in the dirt, miles underground, concerned him too. Before we entered the cage, he turned to face me.

  ‘Are you nervous, Sister?’ he asked gently.

  I was absolutely terrified – my fear betrayed by my hands, which were trembling at my side. I grabbed the handle of the amputation kit for courage.

  ‘Yes, I’m frightened to death,’ I admitted.

  Dr Creed turned away and fumbled around inside his bag. Moments later he pulled something out – a silver hip flask. He unscrewed the top and held it out towards me.

  ‘Here, have a nip of this, Sister,’ he insisted, pushing the bottle into my hands. I looked up at him, wondering if it was a test.

  Surely drinking on the job wasn’t allowed?

  Then I thought of the poor man waiting for us, and the gruesome amputation. I grabbed the bottle and took a quick gulp. The brandy warmed my mouth and throat as I swallowed. I gave the hip flask back to Dr Creed, expecting him to replace the cap – only he didn’t. Instead, he held it aloft and took a quick swig too! He inhaled a huge breath of air, replaced the lid and turned to face me.

  ‘Better?’ he asked.

  ‘Better.’

  And I felt it. We were just about to step into the cage when Bert came running over to find us. He’d received a call to say the miner had been freed and rescued from the rubble. His leg was barely attached but the first-aid team underground had tied a tourniquet around his thigh and strapped his legs together to keep the damaged leg stable. When the injured miner – a man called John – was brought back up to the surface, Dr Creed administered a maximum dose of morphine, and John was loaded by stretcher into the pit ambulance. I travelled with him to hospital, where I handed him over to the doctors who’d been waiting for his arrival. With nothing else to do, I travelled home, both physically and emotionally spent. I felt helpless and began to sob. I’d been taken on to care for these men but I wasn’t God and I couldn’t perform miracles.

  ‘It was just so awful,’ I wept. Peter wrapped his arms around me and tried his best to comfort me. ‘I just felt so helpless.’

  I refused to shed a tear at work. Instead, I stored it all up inside so I could release it later at home where no one could see or hear me. I couldn’t let the men see me upset because I needed to be strong for them. I couldn’t let them see my tears because by now they trusted me to do the right thing, even when faced with a life-or-death situation. But the truth was that the responsibility often weighed me down.

  John was eventually stabilised, and later that evening the hospital surgeons amputated his right leg. He was still a little woozy when I called to visit him in hospital the following morning, but he was also very accepting in spite of losing a limb.

  ‘I’ll be honest wi’ yer, I’d rather it hadn’t happened, Sister, but at least I’m alive, so I’ve that to be grateful for,’ he reasoned. His bravery made me want to let go of my resolve and cry.

  It’d been a horrendous accident, made worse by the fact that John had initially been trapped underground, miles away from the nearest hospital. But that was the importance of my job. I was there to keep the men safe, and not only to try to help prevent accidents, but also to treat them accordingly should one occur. I was their first port of call, and together with Bert we had a responsibility to our men. There was such camaraderie among the miners that within 24 hours of John’s accident the afternoon shift had collected enough money for a state-of-the-art wheelchair. They’d collected even more to pay his wife’s wages so she could stay with him at his hospital bedside. I loved that about working at a pit – the miners were a family. The men looked out for one another in a way that most people would for their own blood. During my time as a pit nurse I became stronger because I realised I’d always have that same support too.

  The automation of the pits made the mines more productive than with a man armed with just a pick and shovel. The latest machinery brought with it fewer accidents, but more danger and risk of amputation. After John’s accident, I tended to men who’d had their fingers ripped off. At first, I found it difficult because the patients would be filthy from working underground when they came to see me – hardly perfect conditions when trying to keep infection at bay. I knew I always had Bert, and a Coal Board doctor was only a phone call away, but ultimately I had to learn to trust my judgement and make the right decision.

  At first I was over-cautious. If a man had a foreign object in his eye, I’d send him to hospital. Chest pains were another direct route and a ride in the pit ambulance to A&E. You could never tell if a pain in the chest was the start of a heart attack or something less sinister. I didn’t take any chances and packed them off all the same. However, there were a few miners who knew the system and tried to play me like a fiddle. Doncaster Rovers were playing a vital home game when I received a call an hour or so before kick-off, to say a man was being carried to the medical centre on a stretcher. He’d complained of severe stomach pains, and at first I’d been a little concerned. However, my father, who was the afternoon gaffer, knew the miner well. He also knew that he was an avid fan who became ill every time Rovers played at home.

  ‘Watch him, Joan. He’s trying to pull t’wool over yer eyes to get off work so he can go and watch t’game. He’s known for it – we all call him Sick Note.’

  Sure enough, I was presented with a man who had absolutely nothing wrong with him other than a burning desire to watch his home team.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’ I asked as I proceeded to examine his stomach. I placed my hands flat against it, feeling for tenseness. Patients with severe stomach pains, as he professed to have, automatically tense their muscles because the last thing they want is to be examined. His stomach was soft and relaxed. I smelt a rat. The more I examined him, the more the pain seemed to move around and change direction.

  ‘No, Nurse, it’s more over this side,’ he wailed dramatically.

  ‘That’s funny. I thought you said it was over there a minute ago.’

  The man stopped his cr
ying and looked directly at me.

  ‘It is, I mean, it’s over there as well,’ he said, resuming his play-acting. ‘Oooh, it hurts so much, I think I need to go home to me bed.’

  I knew I was being taken for a fool so I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine, or more directly, some of my own.

  ‘Here,’ I said, spooning out a foul concoction – a special mixture of peppermint, sal volatile (smelling salts) and kaolin. It was one I used specially on time-wasters.

  The medicine was thick and white, and it tasted disgusting. I knew it wouldn’t do him any harm, only make him feel a little queasy. If he hadn’t felt sick before, he certainly would now. It seemed to do the trick because he never came to see me with stomach pains ever again.

  Dad was a great source of information whenever I was in doubt. I knew I was lucky to have him there. My father was wise, firm – but fair – and he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Also, he’d never, ever ask his men to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. The miners knew this, so they respected him, and in turn they came to respect me.

  One day, my father was complaining he couldn’t hear very well.

  ‘Must be old age,’ he grumbled, putting his index finger inside his ear, ringing it around in frustration.

  ‘Come over to the medical centre so I can have a proper look,’ I shouted back at him. It was true; he’d slowly become as deaf as a post.

  Once inside the medical centre, I took out my auroscope – I knew what this was by now after my embarrassing newspaper débâcle – and had a proper look. I immediately knew what was wrong.

  ‘You’re not going deaf, Dad. It’s your ears – they’re full of coal dust. You just need to have them syringed.’

  But the thought of me sticking a big needle into his ears made him reel back in his chair.

  ‘Whaaaat?’

  I stifled a giggle.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not as painful as it sounds. I just need to pop some olive oil inside your ears for a week, and when you come back I’ll syringe it out.’

  ‘Will it help with my hearing?’ he asked dubiously.

  ‘Absolutely. When I’m done, you’ll have ears like a bat!’ I grinned, before grabbing a small bottle of olive oil and some pads of cotton wool to start the procedure.

  Sure enough, he was back in the chair a week later as I syringed the muck from his ears. As soon as I’d finished a wide smile broke across his face.

  ‘Bluddy ’ell, Joan, it’s a miracle! I can hear everything. Tha’ sounds as clear as a bell!’

  I tried not to laugh. Secretly, I was delighted my father had allowed me to treat him. But not as delighted as he’d been, because he told everyone about me and my miracle cure for deafness. At first the men had been suspicious of me and my fancy new ways, but now my father was living proof that I knew exactly what I was doing. I could and would work wonders for them too. Soon I had a queue of men at my door, all waiting for my ‘miracle treatment’.

  ‘I’d like you all to go and see your doctor first, get him to check your ears, ask for a note and then come back to see me.’

  I needed a doctor to check the men first to ensure that they didn’t have any underlying conditions. Days later, hordes of big burly miners dropped in one by one clutching their consent forms. A week later, when the first batch of men had been successfully syringed, they told their colleagues, and so word began to spread. One day, I arrived at the medical centre to find more than twenty miners queued up outside the door. Soon there was so much demand that I had to hold a special Saturday clinic to keep up with it. I didn’t mind coming in for a few hours on my day off. The fact that I was slowly winning the trust of the men was more important to me. But it wasn’t just ears I treated. One day, I was syringing a man’s ears when he mentioned that he also had a bad back.

  ‘It’s all the bending and crouching underground, Sister. It doesn’t half set me back off,’ Bob complained, giving it a rub.

  ‘Well, you could always come in here and try out the heat lamp,’ I suggested.

  He looked a little wary.

  ‘Will it hurt?’

  I smiled and shook my head.

  ‘No, not at all. The heat will help ease the aches and pains inside the muscles in your back.’

  I must’ve convinced old Bob because, sure enough, just days later he was back, knocking on my door.

  ‘Er, I think I’d like to give that heat lamp of yours a go. It’s me back, yer see, it’s killing me.’

  ‘Come in,’ I said, closing the door behind him.

  I set the heat lamp up and told Bob to lie down on the bed. After a while, I popped my head around the door to see how he was getting on. I found him lying spreadeagled, as though he was on a day out at the beach.

  ‘Is it helping? Does it feel any better?’

  Bob opened his eyes, blinked and smiled as though he was in heaven.

  ‘Ooh, it’s lovely, Sister. It’s like having me very own bit o’ sunshine.’

  After that, word spread, and soon I had men queuing up for a go on the heat lamp too.

  With Peter still off sick, I was the only breadwinner so money was extremely tight. Polly helped out, bringing us butter, loose tea and other essentials. We carried on this way for the best part of a year, until Peter received some dreadful news – his father had passed away.

  ‘I need to go back down to London. It’s Mum – she needs me.’

  Although I’d never seen eye to eye with his mother, I knew he had to go. His mum needed the help and support of all her sons, including Peter. But when we travelled back for the funeral, it was clear that she wanted more than a little support.

  ‘I need you back here with me,’ she insisted. ‘I need you close, not hundreds of miles away from home.’

  Peter felt torn: he wanted to do the best for his mother, but he also had me, his wife, to consider.

  ‘I can’t do right for doing wrong,’ he fretted.

  Something had to give, so I agreed to leave Yorkshire and move back to London with my husband. After our previous separation and the heartache that had gone with it, I knew I never, ever wanted to be parted from Peter again. I’d put my relationship at risk before but we’d come such a long way that I knew I’d never do it again.

  ‘It’s all right. We can move back,’ I agreed.

  Peter was relieved but, despite living in a five-bedroom house, his mother made it clear that Peter, and Peter alone, was the only one allowed to move in with her.

  ‘Your mother is impossible!’ I huffed. ‘She doesn’t like me and she’s trying her best to split us up!’

  In the end, it was Peter’s grandmother who came to our rescue, offering us a couple of rooms in her house.

  ‘It’s not much, but it should be enough to see you through,’ Granny Baker said gently, patting my hand. She was a lovely, kind woman – the complete opposite of her daughter.

  To my father’s dismay, I handed my notice in at the pit and asked for a transfer back to Hammersmith Hospital.

  ‘We’re going to miss you,’ Dad said sadly as I packed up the last of my things into a cardboard box, ‘and not just me. All the men will miss you. You’ve made quite a difference; you’ve really turned the place around.’

  A lump formed in the back of my throat. The reality was that, although the dirt and the men had been difficult in the beginning, I’d come to love my job at the colliery. I didn’t relish the thought of working back on sterile wards as a staff nurse, because at Brodsworth I’d been my own boss and, despite everything, I’d done well and had gained the men’s trust. It’d been tough, but now I was leaving. I was doing so with a heavy heart because I knew this was the type of nursing I loved – to be on the front line and to make that difference. All too soon it was time to leave, and I bid a sad farewell to Bert and the rest of the team. Bert looked solemn. We’d had our differences, but a year on a mutual respect had formed between us, although it had never been spoken of until now.

  ‘I’m going to miss yer, Sister,
’ Bert blinked, looking up at me from his chair.

  He’d been a tough old character, but once I’d managed to dig beneath that gritty, old-fashioned male ego, I’d discovered that he was as loyal as a lion but as soft as a kitten.

  ‘Me too, Bert. Me too,’ I said, choking back emotion.

  ‘I know we didn’t always see eye to eye, but,’ his voice broke off as he shifted his eyes away and looked down awkwardly at his hands in his lap. ‘Well, I’ve learned a lot from thee, if truth be told, and it’s been a real pleasure working alongside yer. I know it all sounds a bit soppy, but I’m really gonna miss yer, Sister.’

  I choked my tears back and wished Bert and his team well. I knew it wouldn’t be goodbye for ever – just a fond farewell, until it was time to return again.

  6

  Cuddles and Infertility

  I transferred back to Hammersmith Hospital in London in 1957, where I became a staff nurse working in the radiotherapy unit on a 40-hour week, but in reality my working hours were often much longer.

  After a few months of living in rooms at Granny Baker’s house, Peter managed to secure us a two-bedroom flat on Uxbridge Road, Shepherd’s Bush. The flat was situated inside a grand Edwardian house above a barber’s shop, so the rooms were huge, particularly the sitting room, which doubled up as a dining room. The kitchen was so spacious that it boasted its very own bath. When we weren’t bathing, we’d cover it up with a worktop to provide seating around the kitchen table, which was ideal for dinner parties and entertaining. It was hardly glamorous London living, but you managed with what you had then.

  I loved working on the unit but I often found myself yearning for my days as a pit nurse. I missed the men with their old-fashioned ways and good-natured banter. I even missed Bert, but most of all I missed the friendship and the unique bond the men shared. Still, I was determined to succeed at Hammersmith so I worked hard and, a year or so later, I was given the post of Acting Departmental Sister. Back then, the unit treated a whole host of different patients, including adults, but a large majority were children suffering from leukaemia or Hodgkin lymphoma – a cancer of the lymphatic system. These patients were aged from 2 to 12 years old, and their stories were heartbreaking. We were called Cancer Research nurses yet, despite our professional titles, we couldn’t help but get attached to our younger patients. They’d grow up with us as we regularly treated and monitored them throughout their often very short lives. We never saw them as dying patients because we always treated them as children.