At the Coal Face Page 9

  ‘Don’t be daft – you know I’m married.’

  ‘Okay. As a friend, then. When will you let me take you out to say thank you for all the care you’ve given me? You know how grateful I am.’

  I blushed a little more.

  ‘All right. I’ll go for a drink with you,’ I agreed, imagining the look on the other girls’ faces when I told them the heartthrob had ‘asked me out’.

  ‘Great! Lunch, then? At the American Officers’ Club?’

  I felt my heart flip. It sounded fantastic.

  ‘Yes, I’ll go,’ I replied, a little too quickly.

  And so our ‘date’ was set. It was never really a date, just a thank you from a charming and grateful officer, who also happened to be drop-dead gorgeous. The others were pea-green with envy when I told them.

  ‘Oh, you lucky thing! I wish he’d asked me. I’d have gone as quick as that!’ one said with a click of her fingers.

  ‘Me too,’ sighed another.

  ‘What dress are you going to wear, Joan? I bet it’s really fancy there.’

  And that’s when it struck me; I didn’t have a clue what to wear.

  ‘Something smart,’ one of the girls suggested. ‘You’ve got to look your best if you’re on the arm of Colonel Johnson.’

  The three of them sighed in unison. ‘Love-struck’ had never seemed a more appropriate expression than at that moment.

  On the actual day, I wore a grey tailored suit with a skirt, white blouse and black court shoes. I never wore trousers because they were deemed to be too masculine. True to his word, Colonel Johnson was a gentleman and the date was purely platonic, not that I ever told Peter about it. Sometimes there are certain things best left unsaid. The American Officers’ Club was amazing. Colonel Johnson led me into the grand dining room, which was filled with small tables, with five or six people seated at each one. I was impressed with the food – a prawn cocktail starter, which at the time seemed very cosmopolitan. It was followed by a huge steak and washed down with a large glass of white wine.

  ‘This is the wonderful Sister Hart,’ he said, introducing me to the other pilots. ‘She not only helped save my life, but my flying career too!’

  I waved my hand as though it’d been nothing. Besides, I could hardly take the credit. It’d been the team that had got him back on his feet, not just me. If truth be told, his life had been improved with regular bouts of radiotherapy treatment. The colonel had suffered from a condition called polycythaemia rubra vera (PRV). It is caused by a rare abnormality in a gene, which causes the bone marrow cells to multiply and produce too many red blood cells. Essentially, the condition makes the blood thick and less able to circulate to organs in the body. Symptoms include confusion, headaches, chest pains and blurred vision, which meant he wasn’t able to fly without suitable and regular treatment. We used radiation to kill off the extra blood cells over a period of three months to get him back on his feet, but then he almost knocked me off mine with his charm, good looks and constant supply of amusing anecdotes. Despite the date being entirely honourable, I soon found myself falling for the delightful Colonel Johnson. However, that particular bubble burst only a few days later, when I was asked by one of the consultants to pop something inside his medical records. That’s when I saw it – a list of three previous wives in almost as many years. Needless to say, my schoolgirl infatuation with the dashing colonel ended in a heartbeat.

  ‘So, are you going out for lunch with the colonel again?’ one of my colleagues asked with a knowing wink.

  ‘Er, I don’t think he’s quite my type. Besides, I told you, I’m a happily married woman.’

  She looked at me as though I was nuts, but I could hardly tell her the real reason.

  During my time at Hammersmith, we were asked to give radiation treatment to a 40-year-old kidney patient who was also a doctor. He was to undergo one of the first kidney transplants ever carried out, with the kidney being taken from a dead donor. This was in the days before anti-rejection drugs, so, instead, before his operation he was blasted with radiation to kill off any bugs or bacteria in his body. Following his operation, the patient came back down to the unit where he was given more radiation to stop his body from rejecting the donor kidney. At the time it all seemed very cutting edge and sci-fi – the same operation today is routine by comparison – but it was great to have played a small part in it and to have been at the forefront of pioneering new treatment.

  There wasn’t then a book on radiotherapy nursing, and we were already in the process of writing our own when we heard a whisper that the Royal Marsden Hospital had decided to bring one out. We worked around the clock to bring ours out first; it was published as Guide to Radiotherapy Nursing, and I was named as co-author. It was a very proud moment in my life.

  As Acting Departmental Sister I was required to stock up on supplies. I also had to attend regular sisters’ meetings, although I didn’t tell them about the impromptu birthday parties or visits from family pets. I never informed them that I often allowed exhausted parents to stay over at our flat. I didn’t tell anyone about the extra services I’d provided because I knew they’d be stopped and all the joy in our young patients’ lives would be lost for ever. It seemed that as long as we did our job and got good results, which we did, the management would leave us alone.

  Peter often visited patients who didn’t have any family. Hospital can be a very lonely place to be if you’re all alone in the world. As nurses, we’d constantly be rushing around, trying to care for our patients, when all some really wanted was a friendly face and a listening ear, and that’s what Peter provided. Many were grateful just to have someone to chat to during the long afternoons.

  Peter and I were desperately trying for a child of our own, without success. I convinced myself it would happen with the passage of time, but it never did. I couldn’t work out what the problem could be. Back in those days, you certainly didn’t discuss fertility problems with anyone, let alone doctors I knew well, so I just put it down to fate. Back in the unit, we’d treat lots of children with disfiguring birthmarks that were often on their faces, heads or necks. Sometimes these marks would be on their torsos or backs, and I’d hold distraught children on my lap to comfort them so that radiation treatment could be given. I was supposed to wear a lead apron, but when faced with a crying or frightened toddler the last thing I’d think of would be myself. It was wrong, but I broke the rules and cuddled and held the children as they underwent their radiotherapy.

  Looking back, I often wonder if it was those extra cuddles that had robbed me of the chance of ever having children of my own. It is something I will never, ever know.

  7

  Babies and Bicycles

  During my time working on the radiation unit, I decided to go for the position of Departmental Sister. I’d done the job for quite a while anyway, if not strictly by title. But in order to become one, I first had to pass part 1 of my midwifery exam. It was the mid-60s, and the Beatles were riding high in the charts. I’d not sat any exams for over 10 years, so reading my test papers was like trying to absorb a storybook. I knew it was something I’d never need in my area of nursing, but I had to have it to achieve the post of my dreams. However, back then, pupil midwives were treated like dirt. This became apparent on my first day as a student when the professor stood at the front of the class.

  ‘As pupil midwives, remember this,’ he began, his voice as clear as a bell as it carried across the lecture theatre, ‘you are the lowest thing to crawl out from underneath a stone.’ He peered at us over the top of his spectacles. It was downhill from that moment on.

  I realised that this was because pupil midwives were seen by many as silly little girls whose life ambition was to deliver and cuddle babies. But the harsh reality was nothing like that. My first birth was a huge 9-pound baby boy. I don’t know how, but his poor mother somehow managed to deliver him and he emerged, squashed-faced and wailing, into the world. I cried with him – as I did at every birth I attended.r />
  ‘Oh God, Joan,’ the midwife muttered, turning to face me. ‘You’re not crying, are you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I blubbed. ‘It’s just so beautiful.’

  The mother smiled. ‘If he’d been a girl, I would’ve called him Joan, after you,’ she said, nestling him in her arms as I cooed overhead. ‘But, as he’s a boy, I’m going to call him Johnny.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, beginning to weep even more. ‘That’s a beautiful name for a boy.’

  The pattern continued, with me sobbing at each and every birth. To make matters worse, I’d trained most of the midwives as nurses so they all knew me. But now I was back on the bottom rung of the ladder. To be honest, I would have made a useless midwife anyway. You could always tell which babies I’d delivered because I’d cut their umbilical cords so long that they’d hang between their legs. I was too frightened to cut them high in case I hurt the baby. I remained permanently petrified, and I would drag my feet whenever I was called to a delivery. I knew that if I delayed long enough, I’d miss it. After a while, my colleagues cottoned on to my plan and began calling me hours in advance to make sure I was there.

  One day, a consultant beckoned me over.

  ‘I’d like you to examine this lady, Nurse,’ he asked, taking a step away.

  I approached the woman’s hospital bed, which was sectioned off behind a curtain, and began to palpate her abdomen. But the more I checked, the more I could feel. I pulled my hands away in horror and urged the doctor to follow me outside to have a word.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  My face clouded over as I tried to find the right words to explain what I’d discovered. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Doctor, does the mother know her baby has two heads?’

  The consultant looked at me, shook his head and snorted with laughter.

  ‘I should hope so, Nurse. She’s expecting twins!’

  Unsurprisingly, after six months in training I failed my first midwifery exam. The stress took its toll as I worked extra hours so that I could take it again. I lost a dreadful amount of weight while slogging away on 12-hour shifts covering both the labour and postnatal wards. Back then, all the babies would be taken from their mothers during the night to allow the mum some time to rest. The babies would be placed inside a nursery, where they would be fed breast milk, labelled from mother to child. In total, there were 24 babies in the nursery and, although there were three staff – a sister and two pupil midwives – we’d be flat out because it was non-stop trying to change and feed each child. With my retakes looming, I studied both night and day. Peter tested me so much that I’m sure he could have delivered a baby too!

  Thankfully, the second time around I passed with flying colours, and my stint as a midwife ended there, or so I thought. On a rare weekend off, I visited home. My brother Tony was working as a rep for a mining supplies company based in Cheshire, and his wife, Joyce, was heavily pregnant, so I went to stay with them. I was sat having a cup of tea when Joyce’s midwife called by.

  ‘I believe you’re now a midwife,’ she said by way of conversation. I nodded, although I’d no intention of taking that particular career path any further.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave a midwifery pack here, just in case,’ she suggested as she packed away her things and left.

  Hours later, Joyce had ventured upstairs when she shouted down to me in a panic: ‘Joan, quick! The baby’s on its way!’

  I felt my mouth go dry and my stomach clench as I ran up the stairs.

  ‘I want to go to the toilet!’ Joyce wailed. It was obvious she’d gone into labour.

  ‘No,’ I insisted, ‘lie back down and I’ll help you.’ My voice sounded calm even though I felt anything but.

  I started to open the midwifery pack, but as I looked up I realised that the baby’s head was already presenting.

  ‘Call the midwife!’ I screamed downstairs to Tony. His new job paid a good wage so they rented their own home telephone.

  I did what I could but, thankfully, the doctor and midwife arrived soon afterwards.

  ‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ I gasped as the midwife unbuttoned her coat.

  Tony was so nervous that he couldn’t bear to be in the house; he wandered up to his allotment where he stayed for the next four hours until his beautiful baby daughter had been born. Joyce called her Joanna – a combination of both my sister Ann’s and my name.

  ‘Oh, Joyce,’ I said, beginning to weep, ‘she’s absolutely beautiful and you popped her out like a tiny pea!’

  Soon everyone was laughing, everyone apart from Tony and me. We were standing in the corner, crying at the wonder of it all.

  I returned to the radiotherapy unit having taken the first steps towards being a Departmental Sister, but then the hospital decided to combine us with the general outpatients department. A senior sister was drafted in to head up my department so that she could raise her status in the hospital. We immediately clashed. I disliked her because she brought with her sudden overnight changes. Luckily, I worked with a good team of nurses who supported me. I became friends with one in particular – her name was Jean and she was a beautiful nurse from Ghana. Jean had a smile that could light up a whole room. We were similar because Jean also had a wicked sense of humour, and so together we became a bit of a double act. One day, I complained that I needed to buy a tailor’s dummy, because I made all my own clothes.

  ‘But they’re so expensive, Jean. I wish I could afford one because it’d make life so much easier.’

  Jean sympathised but we were both on nurses’ wages so neither of us had any savings to speak of. Then I hit on a fabulous idea. In fact, it was so fabulous that I couldn’t believe anyone else hadn’t thought of it first. I shared it with Jean and asked if she’d help. Later that evening, I stripped off to my underwear as Jean soaked and wrapped a series of plaster-of-Paris bandages around my torso. The bandages had to be tight enough to replicate my figure. The plan was that when they were dry we’d cut them off and I’d be left with the perfect dummy, with my exact measurements.

  ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before,’ I crowed as the chalky water streamed down my legs into the empty bath below.

  Jean slowly wound bandages from my thighs towards my shoulders and neck; however, as soon as they started to dry I felt them crushing my ribcage.

  ‘Joan, are you all right?’ Jean asked.

  But the bandages had started to set and now I was taking quick, shallow breaths.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I gasped. ‘It’s a little tight but we’re almost there.’

  Jean wasn’t convinced but I begged her to continue. I wasn’t going to have gone through it all for nothing! Soon, the pressure on my chest became too much and then I needed a wee!

  ‘Jean, I think you’re going to have to cut me out. I can’t breathe properly,’ I cried.

  ‘No problem’ she said, putting the bandages down at the side of the bath. ‘Where did you put the cutters?’

  ‘But I thought you’d brought them?’

  ‘No, you said you would.’

  A hand shot to my mouth as the horrid truth dawned on me.

  ‘Oh no, I’ve forgotten the cutters. Pete, Peter!’ I wailed as the plaster of Paris continued to dry, squeezing the life out of me.

  Peter came running in as Jean and I explained my predicament.

  ‘What the hell …’ he exclaimed as soon as he spotted me togged up like a live mummy.

  ‘Hang on,’ he called as he emptied out the bathroom cabinet. Seconds later, the metal edge of a razor glinted between his fingers. ‘This should do it,’ he said, holding it up triumphantly.

  ‘Hurry up!’ I wailed as the body cast became more restrictive.

  Between them, Peter and Jean managed to cut through the plaster until I was able to breathe. Peter had instructed me to hold up my arms so that he could cut it underneath my armpit. But when he finally removed me from my cast, the proportions were all wrong because, wi
th an arm raised in the air, one breast had set higher than the other! To make matters worse, as soon as they released me, my knickers and bra fell promptly to my ankles! In a panic, Peter had sliced right through the sides of them. Jean couldn’t stop laughing, and then Peter joined in until soon the three of us were doubled up in hysterics.

  ‘Joan, you’re crazy!’ Jean howled, clutching at her sides.

  ‘That’s why I married her!’ Peter quipped.

  Jean was my best friend and I loved her with all my heart, although by now it was 1970 and racism was rife. But woe betide anyone who mentioned the colour of her skin because I’d be the first to shoot them down. A few weeks later, Jean invited us to a party at her house. Peter and I were the only white people there but we were welcomed like old friends. Living in London, I was used to mixing with people from countries all over the world. Different cultures fascinated me, and although times were changing they were moving far too slowly for my liking. Many British people were predominantly racist and small-minded. I loathed it because I couldn’t understand why the colour of someone’s skin should define who they were. If anything, I dug my heels in even more and, on my days off, I’d dress in beautiful Indian saris because I found them more attractive and comfortable than the high-street fashions.

  One day, Bill told me that Mum had suffered a nasty fall at home. I called to see her but it was obvious she was having trouble breathing. I rang the doctor and asked if he could do a home visit. He arrived soon afterwards but he was useless. It soon became apparent that he didn’t have a clue what he was doing, so after he’d left I telephoned for an ambulance.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Mum panted. But my instinct told me something was wrong.

  I travelled with her to the A&E department at Hammersmith, where one of the consultants sent her for an X-ray to check that she hadn’t broken a rib in the fall. As we waited for the results, the consultant, who I knew well, beckoned me over.