by Joan Hart
And I did. In the end, one of the managers gave me a lift home at around 6 p.m. As we drove out I glanced back at the top of the pit lane as it disappeared off into the distance. The men were still at least a hundred strong, and for the first time in my life I’d felt intimidated by their presence. We’d already discussed how we’d get into work the following day, and a plan had been formed. Although it all seemed very cloak and dagger, I knew it was necessary because now everything had changed. Things would never be the same again.
19
Bird Woman
It was early, around 4.15 a.m., and I was waiting at the agreed meeting point, a supermarket car park. I saw someone approach in the dark, and I squinted my eyes to see – it was Ken Deeming.
‘Morning, Sister Hart. You’ll be travelling with me this morning,’ he said, opening up the passenger door of his car. Mr Deeming already had two undermanagers in the back seat, so I slid into the passenger seat beside him. If truth be told, I was a little startled by the stealthy nature of our travel arrangements, but soon there were around 20 people crammed into six cars, with Mr Deeming’s car leading the convoy, and we left the remaining vehicles in the car park.
Without warning, Mr Deeming pulled out of the supermarket car park and turned right, away from the pit.
‘Er, where are we going?’ I asked.
‘The public telephone box. It’s just up here,’ he said, pointing ahead towards a small parade of shops on the left-hand side. ‘I have to telephone the police stationed at the pit to ask which route we need to take this morning.’
Half a mile down the road, he parked the car.
‘Is all this really necessary?’ I asked as he undid his seat-belt and climbed out.
‘Absolutely!’ he replied. ‘Tomorrow we’ll take a different route, and the day after that, because you can’t be too careful!’
Although it all seemed a little dramatic, Mr Deeming was right. Afterwards, the route was changed every single day to ensure that we wouldn’t be ambushed on our way into work. I’d hoped there would be safety in numbers, and at first there was, as we were led in by police escort, which would meet us on the way. But after a few days, things began to change and the striking miners became more hostile towards us. I wondered why the pit manager always asked me to travel with him in the first car, up front, until Peter pointed out something obvious.
‘As long as you’re sitting next to him, he knows the men won’t stone his car. The miners would never hurt you, Joan.’
Peter was right, although the amnesty only lasted for so long. At first, the miners would dip down to see who was inside the car. Upon spying me, they’d stand back and leave us alone. I knew they respected me, but the pit manager was a different matter. A few days later, the miners still didn’t touch the car, but they started to spit at it. It was upsetting to be on the receiving end of their anger, even though I knew it wasn’t directed at me.
On the second day of the strike a picket line had formed. A hut had been erected and a fire lit, and suddenly it seemed as though this wasn’t something that would go away overnight. The damage had already been done. The miners knew that coal had been stockpiled in the yard long before the strike, almost as though management had pre-empted the whole situation. The miners despised them for it and for forcing their hand. Shortly afterwards, the cars following behind us were pelted with stones. A few vehicles had their windscreens smashed as we made our way down from the top of the pit lane into the colliery yard, but Mr Deeming’s car had only been spat at. The damage hadn’t been carried out by our men, or anyone I recognised; I suspected that it was carried out by organised pickets who had come to Hatfield to try to stoke up trouble. Once we reached the yard, we were given designated jobs. It was only 4.45 a.m., but I was told to cook bacon and eggs for all the managers on site.
‘It’s a bit early,’ I commented.
‘Doesn’t matter. The men have had a tough time just getting here, and they can’t work on empty stomachs.’
I shook my head.
What about those poor souls freezing to death on the picket line, fighting for their livelihoods? I wondered, although I never said it out loud.
A few times, when we were short staffed, I was told to watch the dials in the control room, which measured levels of gas and air pressure in the pit below. To be honest, I didn’t understand what half of them did because it was a highly specialised job and one I shouldn’t even have been doing. If any of the needles went into the red, I had to call one of the surveyors as soon as possible. Half the time, I didn’t know what I was supposed to be looking for, but I watched those dials as though my life depended upon it. One day, one of the needles blinked over into the red. In a panic and fearing a nuclear-type explosion, I grabbed the phone and dialled the number I’d been given.
‘It’s the dials,’ I gasped. ‘One’s flickering over into the red.’
‘Okay, I’ll be right over,’ the voice on the other end of the line replied.
Minutes later, one of the lads from the Safety Department wandered over. He tinkered with something until the needle shot back over into the green.
‘You shouldn’t have any more problems from now on, but if yer do, then just gie us a call,’ he said.
It was hardly the reassurance I’d been hoping for, but at least I knew help was on hand should I need it.
My other duties included keeping the place clean and tidy, and the unenviable task of shovelling coal from the compound into a wheelbarrow so it could be tipped and stored closer to the offices. This was so management could keep a watchful eye on it and prevent it from being stolen. I also mopped out the men’s showers, even though they’d hardly been used since the beginning of the strike, and I tended to the garden.
One day, I was in the medical office when I spotted a police car park up outside the window. The back door of the car opened and I watched as two officers dragged out an 18-year-old miner who had been at the pit since he was a cadet. His name was Nigel.
At the start of the strike, the relationship between the miners and local bobbies had been cordial. Some had shared sandwiches and cigarettes, baked potatoes over the barrel fire and even played football together. But after a few days, the powers that be realised this and took the local police off. I think they knew it wouldn’t be good in the long term to have men policing miners who lived in the same community. Instead, other officers were drafted in from further afield, namely Metropolitan Police officers.
Stories had been rife along picket lines of Met police waving £10 notes in front of striking miners, goading them about how much overtime money they were earning. I’d heard tales of Met officers being actively aggressive and argumentative in a bid to stoke up trouble, confident that they had the manpower, equipment and the full backing of the courts behind them.
Up until now there had been minor scuffles and skirmishes, but nothing serious, until the Met police arrived. In June, at a place called Orgreave in Sheffield, striking miners were beaten down by batons as they tried to escape police on horseback. It was a battlefield. Hundreds were arrested and thrown in cells, with many facing the prospect of trials based on trumped-up evidence. As a result, the striking miners neither liked nor trusted Met police officers. So, when I spotted Nigel being dragged from a police car, my senses were on full alert.
‘Are you the sister here?’ the first officer asked, pulling Nigel roughly behind him.
‘I am,’ I replied.
‘Right, well, I need you to look at this man for us before we take him in. He’s sustained a cut to the back of his head.’
I looked at Nigel. His head was dripping profusely with blood and he looked terrified.
‘Whatever’s happened, love?’ I asked, walking over towards him. I knew Nigel well. He’d worked at the pit for the past two years, and I knew he was a good lad and not the sort who’d get into trouble.
‘He needs attending to,’ the second officer barked, breaking my thoughts.
I led the three of them in
to the adjoining treatment room; as I did, I realised that Nigel had been handcuffed.
‘Well, you can take them off for a start!’ I said, pointing at the handcuffs.
‘No chance. He’s a prisoner.’
I rolled my eyes as though I had neither the time nor the patience for either of them.
‘Yes, he’s a prisoner outside,’ I said, ‘but this is a medical centre, so you will take those handcuffs off now.’
‘But he’s under arrest,’ the second officer protested. ‘You don’t understand – he’s our prisoner.’
‘Well, right now, in here,’ I said, pointing at the floor, ‘he is my patient. And if you want me to treat him then I’ll need those handcuffs off.’
We stood there for a moment, caught in a stalemate. I knew that they needed me to treat him before they could proceed, so I had the upper hand. More than that, I didn’t agree with the way they were treating the poor lad, as though he was an animal.
‘Listen, you can say what you like,’ I said, standing my ground, ‘but when you’re in my medical centre you abide by my rules. I don’t care who you are or where you’ve come from. That lad needs treatment, but I’ll not treat him trussed up like that.’
Realising they’d met their match, the officers’ resolve softened. Reluctantly, the first officer stepped forward and unfastened the metal cuffs on Nigel’s wrists.
‘Thank you,’ I sighed as he stepped back to let me take a proper look. I half expected them to leave, but they remained standing there in the doorway.
I felt a little on edge. I wanted them out of the treatment room so I could speak to Nigel in private and ask him what had happened. But I knew better than to push my luck, because these were Met police officers. I knew Nigel was a good lad from a nice family, so I was baffled as to what he’d done to warrant a baton to the back of his head.
‘Whatever’s happened?’ I whispered, pulling open a drawer to look for saline solution to clean his wound with.
The gash to the back of his head was nasty. It was deep and approximately 2 inches long, so I knew it was no ordinary injury. Head injuries bleed excessively, and Nigel had been hit so hard that his scalp was oozing blood like a tap. Some had dried and matted into a mass in his thick brown hair, and the rest was dripping, soaking his neck and shoulders. I took out some gauze, wet it with saline solution and tried to clean it up. Nigel flinched and winced beneath my touch as he began to explain what had happened.
‘I was just nipping t’shops for a paper when I saw all these people running past me,’ he said, his voice a little shaken. ‘Next thing I knew, I felt a sharp crack to back of me head and I went down like a sack of spuds. That’s when I saw ’em, police standing over me. I wasn’t anywhere near t’pit but they brought me ’ere to see you. They’ve told me I’m under arrest, although I haven’t done owt wrong. I was bloody scared stiff, Sister,’ he admitted as his hands trembled against his lap.
I felt a fury boil up inside me. Nigel’s dad worked at the pit and I wondered if he knew what had happened to his son. I stopped what I was doing and held the wad of gauze aloft in my hand. I looked at Nigel and ignored the officers standing directly behind me.
‘Have you been in touch with your dad?’ I asked loudly.
Nigel shook his head.
‘No, I’ve not had time,’ he replied, his voice cracking with nerves. It was clear that the poor lad was completely traumatised.
‘Right, you phone your dad now,’ I said, handing him the telephone receiver.
‘No, he can’t do that,’ the first officer said. Nigel glanced over at him warily, but I was adamant and refused to be intimidated by the two bully boys.
‘Look,’ I said, turning to the policeman. ‘It’s my medical centre and he’ll do what I say.’
But they refused point blank, so I made the call myself.
‘It’s Sister Hart,’ I said as their eyes bored into me. ‘I’ve got your Nigel here. He’s been arrested. He has a nasty cut to the back of his head, so I’m going to tell the officers to take him straight to the hospital. Could you meet him there and make sure he’s seen instead of being taken straight to the police station?’
You could’ve heard a pin drop as I put down the phone. I disposed of the gauze and packed away the saline solution. I had decided Nigel’s head wound – which had quite clearly been caused by the blow of a police truncheon – was far too deep for me to treat.
‘There’s nothing I can do with this other than dress it,’ I informed them. ‘It’s a deep cut so it’ll need several stitches. He’ll have to go to Doncaster Royal Infirmary because he needs immediate medical treatment.’
I could see the police officers were furious as they snapped the cuffs back on, but now they had no other choice than to take poor Nigel straight to hospital.
At the beginning of the strike the miners had been united, but as the months passed a few returned to work. I had no choice, but it didn’t stop me empathising with the miners or indeed my own MRAs, Frank, Bill and Andy, who were on the picket line.
Although I’d asked him not to get involved, Peter would sit at the top of the pit lane along with the striking miners. He’d bring cigarettes and chat with them long into the afternoon. In many ways, I was caught up in a surreal situation because I could see the strike from both sides. However, no one blamed me – not like they did the management. It was as though, through my job as a nurse, the men understood that I had no choice but I would always be there for them.
One of my other jobs during the strike was to look after the pit canaries. We only had a handful at Hatfield, four in total, but each of them had its own cage. I knew the birds ate chickweed, but supplies had started to run low, so, one day, with very little else to do, I decided to take some bags and go out to collect some. With the sacks in my hands, I strolled past two policemen, who enquired where I was going.
‘I’m going to pick chickweed for the canaries,’ I explained. ‘I thought I’d get a few sackfuls while it’s quiet.’
‘Where do you get it from?’ one asked.
‘Around the back, by the coal tips,’ I said, pointing towards the rear of the building.
‘Oh no, we can’t let you go around there,’ the officer insisted, rolling backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, with his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because there’s no CCTV around there – it’s out of range.’
‘But I’m only going to get a bit of bird food; otherwise the poor things will starve to death.’
‘Well, you can go,’ he said, shaking his head to make it clear he didn’t approve. ‘But you’ll have no protection.’
‘Protection? Against what?’
‘The striking miners.’
‘Don’t be daft! I’ll be fine. They wouldn’t hurt me; besides, I doubt I’ll bump into any around there.’
‘Well, you never know.’
‘Oh, flaming heck,’ I said, exasperated at how ridiculous the conversation had become. ‘I’ll only be a minute and then I’ll be back. It won’t take me long – we’ve only got four birds!’
The officers looked at one another and then at me. The first one, having considered my request, made a suggestion.
‘Okay,’ he said, looking at his wristwatch. ‘You’ve got 30 minutes, but if you’re not back within that time then we’ll come looking for you.’
Realising it was the only way they were going to let me go, I agreed to their terms.
‘I’ll be back in half an hour, I promise.’
With that, I disappeared off towards the back of the coal tips. It was cold but I was dressed in my overalls, pit boots and an old donkey jacket, which I’d acquired en route. I wandered around the back of the outbuildings, trying to remember where the men usually picked the chickweed. I was lost in my thoughts when I turned a corner to be greeted by six men collecting waste coal from a heap. I recognised each and every one of them. I knew what they were doing was technically classed as the
ft, but with the cold winter months approaching they had little option if they wanted to keep their families warm.
‘Ay up, look who we’ve got here, then,’ one of the lads called as the others stopped what they were doing and looked up.
‘Hello, lads,’ I smiled. I knew I wasn’t in any danger, but I was technically at work so I was uncertain what their reaction towards me would be.
‘Bloody ’ell,’ said the elder of the men, straightening up. ‘It’s Sister Hart. What are you doing here?’
‘Never mind that,’ another called. ‘Look at them boots, and that jacket. I’ll tell yer what, lads – you have t’boots, while I grab t’coat, eh?’
I looked over at the men. Their hands had been blackened from digging deeper for better coal at the bottom of the heap. They’d been desperate to steal it, but I also knew by the tone of their voices that they were also winding me up.
‘Aww, shut up, you daft ’aperth,’ I said, grinning.
We all laughed in the midst of this most unexpected situation.
‘So, whatcha doing ’ere, then, Sister?’ one asked.
‘I’m looking for chickweed.’
The men looked baffled.
‘For the canaries,’ I offered.
‘Oh, right you are. And ’ave you found any?’ the older man asked.
‘No, not yet. But I’ve only got half an hour before the police come looking for me, so you’d better watch yourselves out here, just in case.’
The men seemed worried. They glanced above and beyond me into the distance, but the coast was still clear.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve only just started looking,’ I said, glancing down at my watch, ‘but I’d better get a move on.’
‘Is it for t’pit canaries? Our canaries?’ one of the lads asked.
I nodded.
‘Well, in that case, why didn’t you say so? Come on, I know a good spot over here for chickweed.’
I followed him with the sacks in my hands, and then something remarkable happened. All the men began to follow us. Together, we picked enough chickweed to fill all four sacks and feed the canaries not only through the winter, but well beyond.