by Joan Hart
As soon as the men smelled my perfume lingering in the dank air, they’d put on their clothes and mind their language, but by now I was used to them and they to me.
‘Oh, fucking ’ell,’ a man cursed one afternoon when I was out and about on my usual inspection. He turned and, to his horror, spotted me lurking in the background.
‘Sorry, Sister Hart. I didn’t see yer there,’ he apologised.
I could tell the miner was mortified but there really was no need.
‘Listen, you don’t have to apologise and, as much as I appreciate it, I’m the visitor here. I’m in your world; you’re not in mine, okay?’ I said.
The miner and his colleagues looked astonished and nodded their heads respectfully as I passed by and carried on further down into the pit.
Some of the men had suffered heart attacks while working underground. Whenever I was presented with someone suffering from chest pains, I’d err on the side of caution and send them straight to the hospital. However, when a man struggled to breathe underground, if it wasn’t a heart attack, it was usually one of two things – an asthma or panic attack. Most panic attacks occurred among the young trainees, who’d followed their fathers and grandfathers down the pit. Often, the panic attacks would lessen with the passage of time as they got used to their working environment, but often, even with all the will in the world, some couldn’t overcome their deep-rooted fears. There was one young cadet in particular, called Jim, who had a panic attack every time he went underground. The noise and dirt were bad enough, but the cold, damp earth and general claustrophobia of working in such a confined space were enough to set him off. After it had happened several times, I realised what was wrong. Jim came to me because he was frightened, but he was even more terrified of telling his father.
‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’ I said, after I’d carried out a routine examination on him.
‘No, I’m not,’ Jim replied, a little too defensively. I knew that being scared wasn’t in a miner’s vocabulary, and Jim realised he had the good family name to uphold.
‘It’s okay to be scared,’ I said gently. ‘This kind of work isn’t suited to everyone – there’s no shame in it.’
As Jim glanced down at his feet, I realised I’d hit the nail on the head.
‘I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I come down with you and see how you get on? That way I’ll know for sure if it’s what we call a panic attack, or not.’
Jim agreed. To be honest, I think he was just relieved to have someone with him. But as soon as we entered the cage his whole body tensed up and his breathing became shallow and erratic. By the time we reached the bottom he’d managed to calm himself down, but once we got to the spot where he was to work panic rose once more.
‘How much longer have I got, Sister?’
I glanced at my watch in the beam of my headlamp.
‘Another 20 minutes yet, Jim,’ I replied. As soon as he heard, his breathing became erratic and his body tensed. The thought of spending 20 more minutes down there was too much for the poor lad.
‘How much longer?’ he asked moments later as he began to gasp for air.
‘I’ll tell you what, Jim. I reckon I should take you back up now, don’t you?’
Jim nodded – the relief evident on his face. It was clear that this cadet was quite unsuitable to work underground. He was not only a danger to himself, but to others around him. As soon as we stepped back into the cage, Jim calmed down and his breathing slowed to a normal pace.
‘Go and get yourself changed, while I have a word with the manager,’ I said.
Jim did as he was told and I went to look for Eddie Smith, the personnel manager.
‘The poor lad’s having panic attacks underground,’ I explained in Eddie’s office. ‘You need to find him a job on the pit top.’
Eddie listened and agreed to set Jim on as a trainee electrician. When I later told him the good news, Jim was over the moon.
‘Thanks, Sister Hart – you’re a diamond!’
Jim thrived in his new job and, to my knowledge, he never suffered another panic attack at work again. Despite his initial worries, even his dad took the news well. As long as Jim was okay, that was all that mattered.
After a while, I started to notice a breakthrough. While the pit and its miners were known for their tough stance and no-nonsense male attitude, there were certain things that needed a delicate touch – namely female advice. Despite having so many doctors on call, there were some things no amount of medicine could ever hope to cure, and soon I was holding impromptu meetings underground – a kind of pit marriage-guidance service. One day, I was walking around underground when a miner approached me in the darkness. The small white dot of light on his helmet grew bigger as he got nearer. Soon he was so close that I could see the blackness of coal dust against his skin marking out the whites of his eyes.
‘Er, could I have a word, if you’ve got a minute, Sister?’
I ushered the miner to one side, away from his colleagues.
‘It’s the wife,’ he began, trying to find the right words. ‘We’ve been falling out, see. She’s fed up of me working these long hours. We’ve been having some almighty rows, and she says if I can’t sort out me shift patterns, then …’ His voice trailed off to a whisper as he checked behind his shoulder to make sure that no one was listening. ‘It’s just … I reckon she’s gonna leave us if I don’t get something sorted, and I don’t know what to do. I mean, I have to work, otherwise she’d be complaining we didn’t have enough money,’ he mumbled as he picked at his fingernails.
‘I see,’ I told him, and I did.
The pressures on the miners were great. Not only was the work physically demanding, it also needed nerves of steel to do it, day in, day out. On top of this, they also had to balance some kind of family life, which often added to the pressure.
‘Listen,’ I suggested. ‘I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll have a word. See if I can get you on a decent shift pattern for the next few months. Leave it with me and I promise I’ll try my best.’
I spoke to management and got the miner’s shift patterns changed so that he could spend more time at home. Word must have spread because, after that, other miners came to speak with me underground. We would speak underneath the chocks (hydraulic roof supports), where the gob (waste) had been thrown; it was noisy here, so no one was able to hear. This seemed to relax the men. They felt more comfortable in their own environment, as though the cloak of darkness protected them from any awkwardness they might feel outside on the pit top.
In the blackness, they spoke to me about marital problems and other worries. This counselling pattern continued as more miners sought my advice. The more night shifts a man worked, the more he fretted about his wife straying or having an affair. Most of the time, it didn’t happen, but on a few occasions I like to think that my interaction helped save a few marriages. I’d ask if the worried miner would be able to work day shifts instead. The miners came to trust me because they knew everything would be treated in the strictest confidence.
One day, an older man called Arthur approached. I could tell that something was on his mind, and I knew he’d already been marked out by management because he’d taken so much time off work. They were baffled because his record had always been exemplary, with not a day off sick. Something in his personal circumstances had changed and I needed to find out what was wrong. In the end, Arthur came to see me because he’d reached breaking point.
‘Can I have a word, please?’ Arthur asked.
‘Of course, come over here,’ I said, ushering him to the side, away from the others. ‘What’s wrong?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, it’s kind of private,’ he said.
‘That’s not a problem because everything you tell me is confidential.’
Arthur wrung his hands together for comfort as he spoke. ‘I’m in trouble, see, for taking so much time off work. But it’s not me, it’s the wife. I mean, she’s sick. She’s got
cancer, and, well …’ he said, casting his face downwards, ‘the truth is, I’m really struggling to cope wi’ it all.’
My heart went out to Arthur. He looked broken. He’d been getting it in the neck from his deputy, when the only reason he’d been missing his shifts was because he was trying to help nurse a sick wife.
‘Oh, Arthur,’ I said, placing a gentle hand on his arm.
He blinked back his emotions, trying to keep them in check.
‘Its breast cancer, Sister Hart. I’m frightened to leave her at home on her own and come to work, but, at the same time, I’m worried about taking more time off work cos I can’t afford to lose me job, either.’
I nodded. I understood completely.
‘You need some support, Arthur,’ I said. ‘You need specialist help. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do.’
Arthur looked up at me, his face and body a bundle of stress and worry.
‘Would you really do that, for me?’ he asked.
‘Of course I would,’ I replied. ‘Now, give me your wife’s name, and your home address, and I’ll see what I can do to help.’
With Arthur’s blessing, I spoke to the personnel manager and asked that his shifts be arranged to accommodate his wife’s hospital appointments. Arthur and his wife, Jane, lived 6 miles away from Hatfield, so I rang his doctor’s surgery and spoke with the practice nurse. I organised for a nurse to go in on a regular basis to visit Jane while she underwent both chemo- and radiotherapy. I left a note pinned to Arthur’s pit lamp, asking him to call in at the medical centre to see me so that I could tell him what I’d arranged.
‘Really?’ Arthur gasped. ‘You’ve done all that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The surgery will be in touch to arrange suitable times when they can come in and check on Jane, which should take some of the pressure off. You see, I can do something about this. I hate seeing you struggle on your own, and it’s daft because you don’t have to. That’s what I’m here for. Now, if there’s anything else, all you have to do is come and see me. My door is always open.’
‘Thank you, Sister Hart,’ Arthur replied. I noticed that he had tears in his eyes but he blinked them away because crying wasn’t something a miner did, not even in front of a nurse.
Jane was only in her forties, and the couple had a young daughter. The chemotherapy had robbed her of her hair, but Jane retained her fighting spirit. Even though she wasn’t on my official list, I often travelled over to their house to check on her.
‘I don’t know what I’d have done wi’out you, Sister Hart. You’re an angel, d’you know that?’ she said, clutching my hand in hers as we sat sharing a cup of tea at the kitchen table.
By now, Jane wasn’t so much a patient as she was a friend, and just because she didn’t work at the pit, it didn’t make a jot of difference. The nurse in me had just answered their call for help and I like to think that I made their lives just that little bit easier. So, two years later, when Jane sadly passed away, I felt the pain because I’d lost a good friend. I attended her funeral with Eddie, the personnel manager. I didn’t see Arthur very much after that, as he tried to rebuild his life and bring up his child single-handedly, but I was told he left the pit and moved with his daughter back to his native North East.
Shortly after Arthur left, another miner who’d also lost his wife to cancer and had a young daughter arrived at the medical centre. His name was Fred and he had a favour to ask.
‘What is it, Fred?’ I said, looking up from my desk. He looked so upset and worried that I wondered for a moment what was wrong.
‘It’s our Sally,’ he said, referring to his only daughter.
‘What’s the matter? Is she unwell?’ I stopped what I was doing and rested my pen down on the desk.
Fred fiddled with the cap in his hands. He circled it round and round between his fingers as he struggled to find the right words.
‘No, she’s very well, thank you, Sister. It’s nowt like that …’
‘So what is it, Fred?’
‘Well, it’s just our Sally’s almost 13. It’s her birthday coming up soon,’ he said, looking awkward. I noticed his face blush as he spoke. ‘And … well, I expect she’ll be starting wi’ her periods soon and … well, erm … I don’t really know what I should tell her.’
Fred’s voice crumbled as he said the word ‘period’. I could tell that he was finding this conversation beyond excruciating.
‘Ah, I see,’ I said as the penny dropped. ‘So do you want me to have a word with her?’
‘Oh, would you, Sister?’ Fred sighed, the relief obvious as he looked at me for the first time. ‘I mean, I’ve got sisters and all, but the thing is, how I see it, wi’ Sally not having a mum around, well, I just thought she’d be better off talking to a nurse.’
‘Fred, honestly, it’s fine. Just bring her to see me when you come in to collect your wages.’
Fred nodded, placed his hat upon his head and left the medical centre. He was so relieved that his footsteps seemed far lighter leaving than they’d been when he’d first walked in. Back then, lots of miners would bring their children in with them on Friday afternoon when they collected their wages, so I knew Sally wouldn’t think anything of it or look out of place. Sure enough, a few days later Fred knocked at the door.
‘Ah, Fred – hello. Come in. Hi, Sally,’ I called when I saw her standing shyly behind her father.
‘Listen, Sister, I’ve got a few things to sort out over there,’ Fred said, giving me a knowing wink. It was so obvious that it made me cringe. ‘So is it okay if I leave our Sally wi’ you for a bit while I go and sort ’em out?’
‘Sure, no problem,’ I smiled, playing along with the ruse.
Sally was relaxed and none the wiser as we sat down and began to chat away.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum.’
Her face crumpled a little, and for a moment I thought she might cry.
‘Your dad, well, he’s so proud of you, did you know that?’ I said handing her a tissue, just in case.
Sally looked up from her chair and smiled.
‘So, how old are you now? You’re looking so grown-up.’
‘I’m 12, but I’m gonna be 13 soon,’ she said proudly, sitting up in her chair. ‘My birthday’s only a few weeks away.’
I slowly turned the conversation around and eventually asked whether she’d started her periods. Sally shook her head. She told me she’d heard of them from girls at school, but other than that, she knew very little. I began to explain what would happen to her body and what she should expect. If anything, by the time I’d finished, she seemed relieved by our chat.
‘It must be difficult for you, not having anyone to talk to,’ I guessed correctly.
Sally shrugged and nodded her head.
‘I was once just like you. My mother wasn’t around and I didn’t have anyone to talk to about this kind of stuff either, so I know what you’re going through. That’s why, if you ever need anyone to talk to, then you know where I am.’
‘Yes, Sister,’ she answered. ‘Thanks.’
‘Anyway, I don’t want you to worry about it because your aunties will help out and buy you stuff, so you won’t even have to ask your dad.’
Sally smiled. ‘I wanted to ask him, Sister, but I was too embarrassed, so it’s been really good to talk to you.’
I could tell by the look on her face that the weight of the world had just been lifted off her young shoulders.
Moments later, there was a tap at the door. I opened it to find Fred standing there.
‘Sorry about that, Sister. I got held up. Is everything all right?’ he said, peering around the edge of the door.
Sally and I shared a secret smile.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘She’s been as good as gold; we’ve just been having a nice chat, haven’t we?’
Sally nodded and grinned.
‘Anyway, I’ll see you soon … and Sally,’ I said, calling after her. The young girl stoppe
d in her tracks and turned to face me. ‘You’re welcome here any time you want, even if it’s just for a chat. You know where I am. Just give me a call first to check I’m here, okay?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘And thanks, Sister. I will.’
‘No problem. Now you both mind how you go,’ I said, turning my attentions to a pile of forms on my desk.
‘Bye, Sister Hart,’ Fred called.
‘Bye.’
After the door had closed I allowed myself a little smile. I’d only done a small thing, but I knew it was something that had made a world of difference to Sally’s life. It was exactly the sort of thing I’d chosen to become a nurse for.
14
Chewing Tobacco and Cursing in Casualty
‘Ay up, Sister. What yer’ got for us today, then?’ a voice called in the darkness.
I turned and the beam of light from my hard hat illuminated his face, and then the contents in my hand.
‘Ah, well, let’s see, John. Boiled sweets?’ I said, holding up the small, crumpled white paper bag. It was better to take down individually wrapped sweets, because of just how many filthy fingers would be dipped inside the bag later that day. ‘Or,’ I continued, sounding a bit like a shopkeeper, ‘I’ve also a bit of snuff.’
‘Aww, ’as tha not got any bacca?’
I searched around inside my pocket until my fingers located a soft square packet.
‘Yep, here it is,’ I said, holding it up to the light.
John’s face lit up in more ways than one as I looked up at him.
‘Champion, Sister! Gie us a bit, will yer?’
‘Sure,’ I smiled warmly, handing him the packet.
The tobacco wasn’t to smoke, but to chew. The men used it to keep the insides of their mouths moist. Traditional chewing gum wasn’t suitable, unless you wanted it ingrained with tiny particles of coal dust. However, as my father had once taught me, there was a real knack to chewing tobacco.
‘Whatever tha does, don’t swallow the juice,’ Dad had warned years before, during my days at Brodsworth pit.