by Joan Hart
‘Perfect,’ I replied. If I needed to advertise who I was, then so be it.
‘There,’ he said, handing the freshly painted helmet back to me. ‘There’ll be no mistaking tha for a lad now.’
The sister before me had been at Hatfield for many years but, unlike me, she’d never been on regular inspections underground. However, all the men trusted her, mainly because she’d known them since they were boys. One day, one of the lads asked a strange question.
‘Are you going to be smacking our bottoms in the shower then, Sister?’ he added with a knowing wink.
I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. He cleared his throat and decided to elaborate.
‘She was a right ’un, that last sister ’ere.’
‘Was she?’ I replied. I was desperate to know, but I didn’t want to ask and look like a gossip.
‘Yeah,’ he continued, a grin breaking out across his face. ‘You know t’shortcut from ’ere through t’canteen?’
I shook my head.
‘What shortcut?’
‘Through t’shower block, there’s a shortcut. Anyroad, she used to walk through there, smacking all t’men’s bums as she went!’ With that he began to chortle.
I was shocked, but I tried my best to keep a straight face.
‘So, Sister,’ he asked, ‘are you gonna be taking t’shortcut through t’showers too?’
I stood up and fixed him with a stern glare.
‘Not on your Nelly, young man!’
Even though he’d insisted he’d been telling the truth, it wasn’t long before I realised that the pit was full of practical jokers.
11
Practical Jokers and Perfume
We had two pit shafts at Hatfield Colliery. Coal was wound up the main No. 1 shaft from the Barnsley seam in two 10-tonne capacity skips. Each skip carried a man-riding deck, which was capable of transporting up to 18 men. The fresh air intake into the pit was also down No. 1 shaft. Once the air had circulated around the pit it was extracted through pipes out of No. 2 shaft, which meant No. 1 shaft was dirty and always very cold.
Our Chief Medical Officer, Dr Macdonald, had decided that nursing officers should be involved in all aspects of the pit surface, and underground too. He suggested that any sister interested should ask permission from their pit manager to allow them to examine the pit shaft from the top of the cage, or ‘chair’, as it was also called. Our cages were double-decker, and carried 20 men in the top and up to 25 in the lower cage. Of course, the doctor’s suggestion had been music to my ears, and I was first in the queue. I chose shaft No. 2, which took the men and equipment down into the pit, so I made an appointment and went to speak to the new pit manager, Ken Deeming. He’d replaced Mr Bumstead, who had retired through ill health. Mr Deeming was lovely and also a bit of a joker on the quiet.
‘I wish to examine a shaft,’ I told him.
A huge grin broke out across his face as I realised I hadn’t worded my request well at all.
‘Whose shaft?’ he teased.
I blushed. ‘Not yours! The pit shaft. Shaft No. 2, preferably.’
I’d always found management to be very helpful and supportive, but also total wind-up merchants, and they were always trying to shock or embarrass me.
‘Okay,’ he nodded, ‘but you need to get permission from the surveyors who will tell you what time you can go down. You’ll also need to go to the blacksmith’s shop to be fitted with a safety harness.’
‘Thanks.’
Only, the surveyors weren’t quite so enthusiastic about my request. It was their job to survey the pit shaft and I could tell that they didn’t want me, a ‘silly little woman’, delaying their examination. Despite their reticence, I won them over and was duly dispatched to the blacksmith’s shop to be fitted with my very own harness. The harness was a leather contraption, which threaded between the legs and across the chest. It had lots of heavy safety chains to keep you in place in the event of an accident. There was only one problem. The chains were usually used to stretch across the frame of a strapping 6-foot-tall miner, not a petite weakling like me, so adjustments had to be made. This caused quite a commotion in the blacksmith’s shop; the men went into a huddle to discuss what needed to be done.
‘I’ll do it,’ one said, his hand shooting straight into the air.
‘No, I will. Tha always gets to have all the fun,’ another argued.
I stifled a giggle as they discussed who was going to measure me up and how.
‘No, it’s my turn to do t’kitting up. Besides, I’m much better looking than thee, aren’t I, Sister?’ a lad called Billy cried, giving me a cheeky wink.
‘Yes, Billy,’ I sighed. ‘Listen, I don’t care who does it, just get it done otherwise I’ll never get to do the inspection.’
The men laughed and Billy was indeed granted the unusual job of ‘kitting me up’.
But the chains were much heavier than I’d thought. I could hear the men’s laughter echoing in my ears as I dragged them across the pit yard like Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol. The chains were for my own safety. They were needed to secure me to the top of the cage so I didn’t fall off. If you fell from the top of the cage, it was a long way down – over 600 metres – to a certain death.
‘Blimey, they’re heavy, aren’t they?’ I remarked to the two surveyors dressed in a similar manner. They were my guides, along with the shaftsman.
‘Aye, but you get used to ’em after a while, Sister.’
As soon as we reached the pit top, one of the surveyors turned to speak.
‘Now we’re going to lower the cage, then I want you to hop on top of it. That’s when I’ll fasten yer chains t’winding gear. They might be heavy, but they’ll keep tha safe if tha should slip.’
I gulped and climbed up, holding on for dear life.
‘Tha can walk about a bit, you know,’ he explained.
‘Er, thanks,’ I replied, my voice high-pitched, although I had no ambition to do so. He climbed in next to me, budging me up alongside the others. There was plenty of room, but it was pitch black apart from the glow coming from our headlamps. Thankfully, the cage travelled very slowly, descending inch by inch. I tried not to show it, but I was frightened to death.
‘Isn’t it neat? And clean. I’d never expected it to be so clean,’ I remarked, trying to hide my nerves.
‘S’ppose. I’ve never really thought about it,’ one of the surveyors grunted. ‘Now then, if tha walks over t’edge, Sister, tha can see ascending cage coming up.’
I wasn’t keen because it felt as though I was dangling over a cliff edge. At the same time, I didn’t want to make a fuss or show fear because I wanted to be allowed to go down the pit again. I dipped my head a smidge over, until I could see the top of the other chair approaching. We couldn’t see inside the other cage because it crossed at such speed; in contrast, we travelled down the shaft slowly, at 5 feet per second, instead of the cage’s usual 35. We did this until both surveyors were happy with all the relevant piping and wires.
During an inspection, the only way to communicate with the banksman on the surface and be moved up or down slowly is to send signals. This was done by banging a 2-pound hammer against a metal slab. It was one tap to stop, two to lower, three to be brought to the surface and four to move upwards steadily. The piece of metal looked exactly like a flat shovel, but when the surveyor hit it, it made enough noise for the banksman to hear. The roof of the cage felt weird – akin to standing on top of a lift in an office or high-street department store. I’d expected it to be messy, but I was amazed at just how intricate and neatly fitted the electrical wires, pipes and tubing were. When they’d checked it all, the surveyor banged the metal three times and we were lifted again, only this time to the surface. I felt relieved when I finally planted both feet back on solid ground.
‘Thanks for taking me,’ I said, adjusting the chains around me.
‘Nay problem, lass.’ The shaftsman grinned. ‘If truth be told, I thought tha
were quite brave doing it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Not many men would’ve done what tha just did.’
My chest swelled with pride, but only after I’d got the blasted chains off.
‘So, you gonna be doing it again, Sister?’ Billy in the blacksmith’s shop asked as I handed my safety gear in.
‘Er, I think I’ll give it a while.’
Billy laughed and nodded knowingly. I soon realised why.
‘Tha did what?’ Dad exclaimed as soon as he heard.
‘I rode on top of the chair. Why?’
‘Because even I haven’t done that and I’ve worked down t’pit all me life. Tha needs to be careful, Joan. Tha could’ve been killed,’ he said, scolding me as though I was still a child.
Later that night, my father visited the working men’s club and boasted how his daughter had ridden on top of the chair. He told the same story for weeks, but he made a point never to tell me how proud he was just in case I decided to do it again!
A fortnight later, I’d just sat down to do some paperwork when the treatment-room bell rang. Unusually, I was alone because Bill had just left to talk to some men across the yard. I put down my pen, opened the door to the waiting room and that’s when I spotted him – a very large man who seemed to be clutching his eye.
‘How can I help?’ I asked, leading him into the treatment room and sitting him down in the examination chair.
‘It’s me eye,’ he began. ‘I’ve got summat in it and it’s giving me a bit of jip.’
‘Not to worry,’ I said, grabbing the treatment book so I could record his name.
‘And what is it you do at the colliery?’
‘I’m a crane driver, but I work ’ere on contract, like,’ he said with a nod.
I wrote it down and told him to lean back against the chair’s headrest. As soon as he tilted his head backwards I spotted a large foreign body right next to his lower lid. He was obviously in a lot of pain. Although he was a burly bloke, every time my hand went near him he flinched, so I decided to administer a little local anaesthetic.
‘I’ll just wait a few moments for that to work and then I’ll have another look,’ I explained.
The man relaxed and began to chat about the weather.
‘Looks like rain again,’ he remarked, nodding towards the window.
‘Yes, it’s been freezing lately, though, hasn’t it?’
I didn’t hang about when it came to eye treatments because you only have two eyes, and if I messed up my patient would be left with just the one.
‘There,’ I said, checking the clock on the treatment-room wall. ‘That should have numbed it a bit. Let me see if I can get it out.’
This time I did, with ease.
‘Better?’ I asked as he began to blink his eye.
‘Ooh, loads better. It felt like a bloody great big brick in there!’
‘Good. Now, I’ll just rinse the eye out and test for any abrasion.’
I poured some solution into an eye bath and tipped his head back. The solution was a weak pale yellow, but if there were ulcers or a scratched cornea I knew it’d stain deep orange. Thankfully, it remained clear, indicating there was no further damage. Satisfied he was okay, I went to fetch a clean eye pad to dress it with.
‘Right, you’ll have to wear this eye pad for a little while because you won’t be able to feel anything if another bit of dirt goes in your eye. It’ll still be numb, you see.’
But the man was horrified and backed away from the eye pad, shaking his head.
‘Oh, I can’t do that, Sister. You can’t cover me eye!’
‘Why ever not?’ I asked, a little puzzled.
‘Because t’other one,’ he said, pointing at his remaining eye, ‘is made of glass, and I won’t be able to see owt at all!’
I looked at him in astonishment and then back at my patient notes.
‘But I thought you said you were a crane driver?’
‘Aye, I am, but if tha covers up me good ’un I won’t be able to see a chuffing thing!’
I wasn’t listening because I was still in shock that he was driving a crane with just one eye. I was unsure what to do because he wasn’t employed by the National Coal Board. After much deliberation, I decided to telephone the Safety Department to ask if I could loan a pair of safety goggles, which would enclose the damaged eye and enable him to finish his shift safely without further incident. It had been a lesson learned. Afterwards, I decided I’d always ask the patient if both eyes were fully functional before commencing treatment.
If I thought it was going to be my only bizarre experience, I was wrong. A few weeks later, another one followed. Once again, Bill had left the medical centre, to go to the main office to collect the post.
‘Won’t be long,’ he called as he closed the door behind him.
‘Okay.’
He’d only been gone a matter of minutes when I heard someone come in and ring the bell. I opened the door to an ordinary-looking man, in his mid forties, who was rake thin and medium height. I showed him into the treatment room and told him to take a seat, before asking what the problem was.
He shifted about in his seat a bit and looked me directly in the eye.
‘Is tha a proper nurse?’ he asked, a little suspiciously.
I tried not to laugh or feel offended because I knew some of the men were still getting used to having me on site instead of Sister Brown.
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Now, what seems to be the problem?’
‘So you’ve worked in hospital, like? On the men’s wards and everything?’
I began to wonder where this was leading.
‘Yes.’
He looked at me oddly, and suddenly I began to feel uneasy in his presence. Although very little actually frightened me, his particular line of questioning had started to put me on edge.
‘So have tha seen a man wi’ no clothes on?’ he leered. A sickly smirk spread across his face, revealing tiny crooked teeth, which made him look a bit like a rodent.
I looked over towards the door and prayed that Bill would return soon. I didn’t want the man to sense my fear, so I cleared my throat and adopted a no-nonsense tone.
‘Of course I’ve seen a man with no clothes on; I’m a nurse and a married woman.’
‘Well,’ he said, standing up and unzipping his trousers in front of me. ‘What do you reckon to that, then?’ He gestured downwards, grabbed his manhood and waggled it around. He grinned as he waited for my reaction. I decided not to show fear, knowing it would only fuel his perversion more.
‘Oh,’ I replied, a little disappointed. ‘It’s rather small, isn’t it?’ My voice was both flat and deadpan, as the man shrank in more ways than one. ‘It looks as though it’s rubbing on your trousers. I tell you what, I’ll get you a plaster.’
I got up and walked through to the other room to fetch the smallest plaster I could find. By the time I returned, the man had scarpered, no doubt a little red-faced.
Moments later, Bill returned. He looked behind him as he walked into the office.
‘What did he want?’ he asked, gesturing back at the missing patient he’d passed en route.
‘Nothing. Just a plaster,’ I muttered.
‘Good,’ he said, placing the letters down on the desk.
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a right funny bugger, him.’
I was touched by Bill’s concern, but I never told him what had happened because I knew I’d dealt with it and I’d never see the miner or his manhood again. Although it was clear he’d targeted me because I was a woman, I refused to give up my feminine ways. While my hair was kept short for practical reasons, I always wore my smart nurses’ uniform when I was on duty – unless I was called to an inspection, a visit or to deal with an emergency down the pit.
It was hard working in an all-male environment, especially being the only female nurse for miles. However, I decided that the men would accept and respect me just as much if I kept u
p a ‘female approach’, namely wearing perfume. I loved perfume and my favourite scent was Helena Rubinstein’s ‘Apple Blossom’, which carried a light and pleasant fragrance. Soon it became my trademark. The men always knew when Sister Hart was around, often just by scent alone.
Early one morning, I was asked to visit 72 district. Every area in the pit had a different number, and 72 district, in particular, was a long way out – around 4 miles away – which meant a paddy train ride and lots of walking. As usual, earlier that morning I’d sprayed a little of my favourite scent onto my neck and wrist. It was a particularly dark and cold winter’s morning, so I thought a spot of perfume would be just the thing to lift my spirits. I changed into my regulation boiler suit, acquired pit boots and customised helmet, and joined the men at the shaft side to wait for the cage. As it surfaced, we turned off our headlamps and stepped inside, ready to go down.
‘Right, lads, no farting this morning because t’Sister’s on board,’ a voice called out in the darkness.
‘How do you know?’ a miner replied.
‘Because I smelt her.’
‘Oh, why? Has she farted already?’
‘No, stupid! She’s got that bluddy perfume on!’
A roar of laughter erupted and we all fell about. I couldn’t see the face of my colleagues clearly, but I could certainly hear them. Even though it was dark, wet and miserable, the men never lost their sense of humour. It made working alongside them an absolute joy.
Afterwards, word got around and the perfume became my calling card. Whenever Apple Blossom lingered in the air, the bad language would cease because Sister Hart was in the area.
12
Birthday down the Pit
It was my birthday and Peter was taking me out for a lovely Italian meal. Smoothing down my hair, I pulled on my stockings and looked around for my silky trousers. I’d had a long soak after a particularly hard shift at work and was really looking forward to our night out. I wrinkled my stockings up between my fingers and slid them from my toes up over my legs, making sure not to snag them with my nails, and carefully clipping them onto my suspender belt.