At the Coal Face

by Joan Hart

  ‘Look,’ I suggested, ‘why don’t you take a moment out?’ I led him away from the cage.

  ‘No, honestly, I’m fine,’ he replied with false bravado. ‘I’ll be okay.’

  Only he wasn’t fine, and I soon found out why. As the other men climbed out of the cage, I realised why he’d been throwing up. The team had recovered the body, which they’d placed inside a black body-bag, but the bag was half empty because they’d only managed to reach his torso. The superintendent explained that the deceased man’s legs were still mangled up in machinery at the bottom of the sump.

  ‘But because the water level’s high, we’re going to have to drain t’sump again to try to recover his missing limbs,’ he said.

  I heard the lad sob, so I turned to comfort him.

  ‘Come on, love,’ I said, wrapping my arm around his shoulder. ‘You’re very brave.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he wept, cursing himself. ‘I feel so bloody daft for crying.’

  I felt my heart break. I wanted to sit down and cry along with him, the poor, poor boy. I knew he was sobbing because he felt embarrassed at not handling it as well as he’d hoped in the company of some of the toughest, bravest men I’d ever met in my life. The shock of the rescue had affected him deeply and he felt ashamed, even though he had no reason to be.

  ‘Listen, that was your first rescue and it’s probably one of the worst ones you’ll ever be called to, but you’ve done it. Look at you, you’re here and you’ve survived it. And now it’s over,’ I said.

  The lad wiped tears from his eyes, stood up straight and nodded gratefully. He took a moment to compose himself and then wandered back over to join the rest of his team. I felt for him because the introduction to his new job had been a baptism of fire, but he’d done it. There seemed little shame in allowing his emotions to flood through; after all, tears are what make us human.

  A few of the contractor’s colleagues were also standing at the side, waiting for news, but as soon as they spotted the body-bag they broke down. It was our job to calm them, even though Jenny and I were shaken ourselves.

  ‘You couldn’t have done any more than you did; you know that, don’t you?’ I insisted to one man who had his head in his hands, sobbing his heart out.

  Jenny tried to console another of the man’s colleagues: ‘He couldn’t have survived a fall like that; you did everything you could to help.’

  It was a surreal situation, with the two of us acting as nurses but dressed like miners, comforting a group of grown men hundreds of feet underground, but in this job I’d come to expect the unexpected. Stuck in the underbelly of a pit, it’s easy to lose track of time. I thought we’d only been there for an hour or so, but the reality was that we’d actually been underground for hours. The sump had to be drained a third time, but by now the rescue team were both physically and emotionally exhausted.

  ‘We’ll have to come back tomorrow,’ the superintendent decided, looking around his men.

  The area was sealed off for the rescue work to recommence the following morning, although, to my knowledge, the pit remained open. We loaded the body-bag into the cage and escorted the deceased man up to the surface. Jenny and I walked over to the medical centre with his body on a stretcher between us. When we arrived, we found a police officer waiting.

  ‘I’m afraid they’ve only managed to recover his torso,’ I warned, pointing down towards the half-empty bag. The officer seemed to pale before my eyes.

  ‘Do you need to see the body to confirm the death?’ I asked.

  ‘Is it in there?’ he said, pointing towards the bag.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I think I’ll take your word for it.’

  I understood his reluctance. It was a pretty gruesome task and one he’d decided against. The police officer left the yard, and arrangements were made to transport the body in the pit ambulance to the mortuary at Doncaster Royal Infirmary. The mood was solemn as we sorted through the necessary paperwork at the medical centre. I was busy looking through some papers when Peter appeared. After dropping me off at Bentley pit in the early hours, he’d realised it would be a long night and so had returned home. I glanced up at the clock on the wall – it was almost midday. Because we’d been awake so long, it felt much later. Peter dipped his hand into a bag and pulled something out.

  ‘Here,’ he said, revealing a bottle of whisky. ‘I thought you could do with a nip of this.’

  We never usually drank on duty, but by now our work was done. Besides today was different – it was exceptional circumstances so I took a small nip of whisky, for shock, if nothing else.

  ‘It was horrible,’ I told Peter, reliving it frame by frame inside my head as we drove home. ‘I can’t tell you how horrible it was.’

  The following day, I returned with Jenny as the rescue service attempted to recover the man’s remains a second time. Thankfully, they’d managed to successfully drain away most of the stagnant water, but its disgusting smell lingered in the still air. After an hour or so, the team was able to recover the man’s remaining limbs, which were transported to the hospital mortuary. With his body now complete, he could be formally certified for death by Dr Macdonald.

  The whole incident had been a truly horrible experience from start to finish, but it had made me realise, aside from their obvious toughness, just how compassionate these men were, and I had nothing but the utmost respect for them all. The Mines Rescue Service truly was a unique set of men. They not only saved lives, putting their own on the line in the process, but their work allowed relatives a form of closure as bodies were pulled from difficult and extreme situations.

  Although the MRS covered all the pits in the area, each colliery also had its own part-time rescue service. I had a team of 10 such men working at Hatfield. A team from each pit competed against each other in competitions, and our team was led by a wonderful man called Tommy Chappell. One year, the lads came in to see me for their annual medicals. Tommy opened up a cardboard box and pulled out a brand new set of overalls from the top of a pile to show me.

  ‘What do you think to this, then, Sister?’ he asked, holding it up to the light. ‘We’ve just got ’em through. Brand new, they are.’

  ‘Very smart,’ I agreed, as he lay them out proudly across the desk.

  ‘Only trouble is,’ he said, standing back to consider it, ‘when we wear ’em, no one knows it’s us. I mean, no one knows which pit we belong to.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely if they all had Hatfield on them, then they’d all know where we came from?’

  A thought popped into my head.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ I said, stuffing the overalls back into the box and pushing them to one side. ‘Leave them with me and I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Really?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Yes, just give me a few days.’

  That evening I took them home and, with a needle and thread, I painstakingly embroidered the word ‘Hatfield’ onto the arm of each and every one. A few days later I returned them to Tommy.

  ‘Ooh, Sister,’ he gasped. ‘They look smashing!’

  In fact, Tommy was so excited that he called the whole team together to draft a letter of thanks to me, signed by each man. But even that wasn’t enough. A day or so later Tommy knocked on the medical centre door.

  ‘The lads wondered if you’d do us the honour of posing for a photo with ’em. They’ll be wearing their brand new overalls.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to,’ I said, smiling warmly.

  An hour later, I was seated at the front of the team, who had lined up behind me, crossing their arms and proudly displaying their arm flashes for everyone to see. When the camera shutter fell, the moment was captured for ever.

  As well as the Hatfield rescue team, we also had a team of trained first aiders. My team was made up of both surface and underground workers. All were equally as proud when it came to their work. They also competed against first-aid teams in the are
a from large companies including the Pilkington and Rockware glass factories. The first-aid competitions were usually a mock-up of an aeroplane or train disaster to see how well the men worked under stress.

  Unlike the men in the rescue service, who had their kit paid for by the National Coal Board, the first aiders’ gear was paid for by the pit, or through fundraising. One day, the lads got together to practise, but as I watched them I realised just how tatty their overalls had become. I didn’t want them turning up at competitions looking scruffy, so I decided to raise some money for new ones by completing a sponsored swim. I swam 40 lengths, raising £46 – a small fortune back then – to buy 10 spanking new overalls.

  Needless to say, they were thrilled with their new gear and desperate to show it off in the upcoming competition. Unfortunately, they didn’t bring home the silver that day; however, they did manage to get the Hatfield name on a shield one year. Not that it really mattered, because not only were they all competent and highly skilled men, but they always got the job done. They respected me, as I did them. This became evident when I was asked to help out with the many ‘sports’ competitions that they ran. The men, it seemed, had a team for everything, be it cricket, football, darts or snooker.

  The pit would also organise an annual gala in the village. It was always a lovely summer affair that included a series of decorated floats, complete with a beautiful gala queen, who had been especially chosen from the local community. Of course, I remained on duty throughout the day in case of injury or if anyone fainted during the heat of one of the hottest summers on record – 1976 – which had been dubbed as the ‘drought of the century’. Thankfully, the day passed without incident.

  With the long, hot summer and hosepipe ban a distant memory, and autumn on its way, the men got back to organising the next sporting season. I was in the medical centre one day when I heard a light tap at the door. Trev, a miner and member of the pit football team, walked in. He wanted to have a word.

  ‘What’s tha doin’ this weekend, Sister?’

  I looked up from my desk. ‘Not much, Trev. Why?’

  ‘Good, ’cos I’ve put you down for football on Sunday.’

  ‘Not playing, I hope?’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘Not really, you’re the linesman … or lineswoman. I suppose that’s what I should call thee.’ He grinned.

  My mouth fell open. ‘But I don’t know a thing about football!’

  ‘Dunt matter, Sister,’ Trev said, shrugging. ‘They’ll soon shout at yer if tha does owt wrong.’

  I studied him for a moment.

  If the men needed me, then so be it.

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘you’ve got me. Put me down for it.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘I already have. In fact, I’m relying on you.’

  With that, he closed the door.

  Sure enough, early the following Sunday morning I was there, running up and down the line like a lunatic, waving my arms and blowing a whistle someone had strung around my neck. Besides being the lineswoman, I was also entrusted with a bucket and sponge. Although there weren’t many bad injuries, only a few scuffed knees, I took great pleasure in squeezing ice-cold water down the necks of men who’d given me a hard time over the years.

  ‘It’s good. You need it – for the shock,’ I insisted, with my tongue planted firmly inside my cheek.

  But if I thought it would be all glory then I was wrong, because a week later I was called up again.

  ‘Am I a linesman?’ I asked eagerly when I arrived. It was freezing, and frost glistened upon the hard ground. Although I’d wrapped up for the occasion, I still needed to stamp my feet against the cold earth to keep warm. The team looked sideways at one another before turning their attentions to me. A gruff-looking miner spoke up from the rest of the pack.

  ‘Don’t be daft, lass. You’re in charge of t’ice packs, in case of injury or foul play.’

  My face fell as the breath from my mouth rose up in the air, forming small clouds. I’d obviously had too much of a good time giving ice-cold baths and I’d been stripped of my bucket and sponge.

  ‘Although we thought you might like to bring on t’slices of orange at half-time,’ one said, trying to placate me.

  ‘Done,’ I agreed.

  And I had been, although the following week I slipped a few slices of lemon in just to keep them on their toes.

  ‘Euueewwwk!’ one of the lads squawked, almost spitting his teeth out.

  I laughed my socks off. Whereas once I’d been the ‘outsider’, now I was at the hub of it all, and I loved each and every single minute. Of course, it was ultra-competitive with the NUM (mineworkers) taking on BACM (management) in the football matches. Even Ken Deeming, the pit manager, tried to court favour with me before the game.

  ‘Remember, Sister. If it’s management that’s injured, use the sponge. If it’s one of t’miners, you can throw a bucket of cold water over ’em.’

  I smirked and shook my head. ‘No way. You’re all getting the same treatment.’

  And they did.

  With the men taking constant showers after football and their shifts down the pit, we had an outbreak of athlete’s foot. It was a particularly nasty strain, so I decided to carry out a survey. I pinned up a notice asking men with foot problems to call in to see me at the medical centre. In the end, I selected 30 miners to take part, including one called Kev. I asked Kev to remove his pit boots and socks so that I could inspect his feet. He had one of the worst cases of athlete’s foot I’d ever seen. It wasn’t just between all his toes – it had transferred to both feet.

  I knew I had three courses of action available. The first 10 men received permanganate of potash (potassium permanganate). It came as crystals, which I dissolved in water and the men had to soak their feet in the liquid for 15 minutes every day. The solution was an antiseptic and was drying on the skin, but it was also very effective. The second group of men were treated using gentian violet, which was painted on after showering to form an extra barrier against the skin. But Kev fell into the third group – of those whose feet needed something a little stronger.

  ‘Here,’ I said, handing him a small white tube.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, taking it from my hand.

  ‘It’s a tube of Canesten. You need to rub it sparingly onto the affected areas. Do that a couple of times a day and you should soon see an improvement.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it before,’ Kev said, eyeing the packet warily.

  ‘No, that’s because it’s expensive, so we don’t usually give it out. But in your case,’ I said, looking at his feet, ‘I think you’ll need it. Now, just use that tube and see how you get on. If it hasn’t cleared up and you need some more, then come back and see me.’

  ‘Okay, Sister. Right you are, and thanks for this,’ he said, waving the packet between his fingers as he clambered to his feet.

  A week or so later, I walked inside the medical centre to find Bill sitting at his desk, shaking his head in despair.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  Bill put his pen down and shot me a sideways glance. ‘Sometimes I think the men think we’re running a chemists or summat.’

  ‘What? Why?’ I asked, a little baffled.

  ‘I’ve just had a lad in through them doors asking for something for his wife!’ he said, looking towards the entrance as though the miner was still standing there.

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I’m not!’ Bill tutted. ‘Some people never cease to amaze me.’

  He picked up his pen and went back to work. I could tell he was really annoyed, so I decided not to press him further. The medical centre was there for the men, and they knew I was on hand to help out with family matters wherever I could, but even I’d been baffled by the odd request. A fortnight had passed but Kev and his infected feet hadn’t returned. I presumed his fungal infection must have cleared up and I’d almost forgotten about him, until early one morning when he knocked at my door.r />
  ‘How are you feeling, Kev? And how are your feet?’ I said, looking down at them.

  ‘It’s come back again, Sister. That’s why I’m here,’ he said, taking a seat in the treatment room. Kev peeled off both socks to show me as I inspected his feet thoroughly. While they certainly didn’t look as angry as they had before, it was obvious that the infection was still present.

  ‘But the cream … didn’t it work?’ I asked, a little surprised.

  ‘Yeah, it worked brilliant, but then I ran out.’

  I was puzzled. ‘So why didn’t you come back to see me, like I told you to?’

  Kev planted both feet flat on the floor and sighed heavily. ‘I did. That’s the problem.’

  ‘Eh?’

  He shook his head as he began to explain. ‘I read all the instructions like you told me to, but when I called here I couldn’t for the life of me remember what the chuffing stuff was called. I stopped by to have a word but you weren’t in. There was only Bill here.’

  ‘And didn’t he give you the cream?’

  ‘Nah,’ Kev replied, shifting in his seat. ‘I couldn’t remember the name, so I asked him if I could have some more of that “itchy fanny cream”.’

  There was a moment’s silence as I tried my best not to snort with laughter.

  ‘Itchy fanny cream?’ I repeated, the words coming out in a high-pitched squeak.

  ‘Well, that’s what the instructions said it was for,’ Kev continued.

  ‘And … and what did Bill say?’ I said, my eyes beginning to water with laughter.

  ‘You see, that was it. I think he thought I were winding him up or summat because he looked at me a bit funny and told me to come and see you.’

  The penny suddenly dropped. I remembered how annoyed Bill had been about the miner asking for medication for his wife. I managed to contain my laughter even though my hands were shaking as I pulled out another tube of Canesten for his flaky feet. When I later explained it to Bill, we both fell about laughing.

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ Bill said, clutching his sides, when I told him later. ‘I wondered what he was on about. At first I thought he was a cheeky sod for asking, and then I thought he’d gone completely mad!’