by Joan Hart
21
Target
Even though the men were on strike, the colliery nurses took it in turns to cover the night shifts so that there was always someone on site. One week, I was called to Rossington pit, to cover three nights. Rossington was still in the Doncaster area but it was on the other side of town, so Peter offered to drive me over. By this time, he’d swapped our old cherry-red saloon car for a white Vauxhall Astra, which, from a distance, looked a little like a police car. It was the end of winter and it was dark as we approached the main pit gates just before 8 p.m. In the dim light the striking miners sitting quietly on the picket line around an open fire must have thought we were in a police car, because, without warning, they suddenly jumped to their feet and started throwing glass bottles.
‘What the …?’ Peter shouted as the glass smashed against the road. He turned to me in a panic. ‘I can’t go down there, Joan. I’m not risking losing the car,’ he gasped, pushing the gear stick into reverse.
The miners were still coming towards us, but instead of reversing down the lane, Peter pulled up and wound down the window. One of the men approached the driver’s side.
‘Who have you got in there?’ he asked, dipping his head to get a better look.
‘It’s Arthur Scargill,’ Peter snapped, looking at me. ‘Who does it look like?’
The miner grimaced and straightened up. It was obvious that he wasn’t amused. I piped up from the passenger seat to try to break the tension.
‘It’s Sister Hart. I’m doing a night shift here.’
‘Okay,’ the miner grumbled, nodding towards the others. ‘You can go down, but the car stays ’ere,’ he grunted, eyeballing Peter defiantly.
But Peter wouldn’t give up.
‘I don’t like the idea of her walking down there,’ he said, gesturing towards the pit lane.
‘No one will hurt her,’ the man interrupted. ‘She’ll be safe with us, won’t she, lads?’
The group nodded, so I opened the door and climbed out. Peter still wasn’t happy but I didn’t want any trouble, so I told him to go back home.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I insisted.
He didn’t look convinced.
‘As long as you’re sure,’ he said.
‘I am. Now take the car and go home.’
Peter didn’t move. Instead, he remained and watched until I’d reached the safety of the pit gates. I turned and waved him goodbye. I knew the men wouldn’t hurt me because I wasn’t a threat; however, unlike the men at Hatfield, they didn’t know me, either, so I understood why they’d been suspicious. The pit was empty, apart from managers, and there was very little to do other than check that the medical centre was fully stocked. I spent the rest of my shift inside the warm control room, doing odd jobs and helping to keep things ticking over. The following morning, when I’d finished my shift, one of the managers offered to drive me back home.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ I said.
‘No, not at all. I’d rather know you got home okay.’
I was grateful because I knew there’d be a new set of men on the picket line and I didn’t want to risk Peter’s white car again. Thankfully, the following nights passed without further incident.
A few weeks later, I was back at Hatfield when I received a call to say that one of the undermanagers, who’d gone to carry out general maintenance duties, had collapsed underground. Unfortunately, he was miles out because he’d travelled inbye to one of the districts to pump out water. There were three others with him but we’d lost contact with them. Shortly afterwards, the deputy manager received a vague telephone call from one of the team. The undermanager was okay, but he was suffering from chest pains. The deputy manager turned to me because he was unsure what to do.
‘What do you think, Sister?’
There wasn’t time to think.
‘Well, I’ll have to go down there,’ I insisted, grabbing my pit boots and overalls. I got changed and pulled out a portable tank of oxygen and some Entonox to take with me.
‘Right, I’m coming with you,’ the deputy manager agreed.
We looked like Little and Large striding across the yard – the deputy manager standing well over 6 feet to my diminutive 5. However, he was about as much use as a chocolate teapot. He was tall but not very thoughtful. Not only was I having trouble keeping up with his giant steps, but he’d also left me to carry all the equipment.
‘Look,’ I gasped, coming to a sudden halt as I tried to catch my breath. ‘I’m not carrying all this gear on my own!’
The deputy manager huffed, turned back and picked up half of the stuff and set off again, this time at double the speed. In the end, I had to run just to keep up. The cage was waiting to take us underground. For me, it would be the first time I’d been down the pit since the strike had started. But without the men and general hustle and bustle of a working pit, it felt unnervingly quiet. Usually, the air would be filled with sound – laughter and sometimes a bit of colourful language – but now there was nothing, only a stillness weighing heavily in the air.
‘This feels so weird. It’s so quiet,’ I commented. But the deputy manager wasn’t listening because he’d already set off.
It seemed strange, almost alien, as though it was my first-ever time underground. The silence was deafening because there was only him and me, and the four missing men.
‘This equipment’s heavy, isn’t it?’ he complained out in front.
‘You’re telling me,’ I replied.
He stopped and glanced back. That’s when he realised I was still struggling.
‘Here, let me take the rest of that,’ he said as he unburdened me of my load. I’d never felt as grateful to anyone in my life. ‘Yeah, I’d better take it ’cos it’s still a good few miles yet.’
‘Wait, there’s still a few more miles to go?’
‘Aye.’
My heart plunged to my already aching knees as he set off once more. But now I’d been relieved of the oxygen tank, I found it much easier to keep up with the giant deputy manager.
‘Not far now,’ he called as I squinted in the dim light coming from my headlamp.
Where on earth were they?
With no qualified men to operate the underground paddy train, we walked for another 20 minutes without stopping.
If that man dies down here, miles from the pit bottom, I’ll bloody kill him, ill or not! I cursed silently to myself.
Then I began to fret.
How on earth will we manage to lift him out between us?
I was just starting to lose the will to live when I spotted the dots of headlights and the outlines of shadowy figures in the distance.
‘There they are!’ the deputy manager called as he quickened his pace.
I ran after him, but he turned around sharply, bringing me to a sudden halt.
‘No, Sister. You stop here for a minute because there’s gonna be some foul language,’ he warned, holding the palm of his hand up to stop me.
I shook my head.
‘I’m sure I’ve heard it all before,’ I argued, but the deputy manager was adamant.
I did as I was told, but it defeated the object because I could still hear the men effing and blinding from where I was standing. The deputy manager eventually came to fetch me.
‘He’s okay,’ he said. ‘He’s still got chest pains, but he’s not too bad.’
I attended to the man and administered oxygen, which seemed to bring him back around. We’d planned to stretcher him out, but one of his colleagues was a trained paddy driver so, while I administered first aid, he returned in a diesel train. We climbed on board and travelled back to the pit bottom. I was just grateful that I didn’t have to do any more walking.
The ambulance was waiting at the pit top. It transported the undermanager to hospital, where he was diagnosed with unexplained chest pains. It hadn’t been a heart attack, after all. Relief flooded me because goodness only knows how he would have survived if it had been.
22
End of the Strike
I was told that the men would be returning to work the following morning. It was 3 March 1985, and they’d been on strike for almost a year. Dr Macdonald told all the nurses that he wanted us to go to the area office in Doncaster to discuss the return to work. To this day, I still don’t know why he didn’t want us to remain at our own pits.
Maybe he expected trouble?
As soon as I told Ken Deeming, he forbade me to leave the pit. Instead, he picked up the telephone, called Dr Mac and told him in no uncertain terms that I wouldn’t be coming.
‘I need her here. The men are back today and she’s been here all the time they’ve been off, so she will be here when they come back,’ he insisted.
I’d never known Mr Deeming to refuse Dr Mac before, but I was glad he had because I desperately wanted to be there to see the men. For the first time since the strike began, management had decided that there was no longer the need to meet in supermarket car parks to be ferried in.
‘You can all make your own way in tomorrow,’ Mr Deeming announced.
That night, I found it difficult to relax because I was worried there would be trouble or bad feeling. Exhausted and anxious, I eventually fell into a fitful night’s sleep, until the alarm clock woke me sharply the following morning. I got up and dressed, and pulled my bicycle out of the garage. I’d decided that the fresh air would do me good, and that the journey would give me time and space to think.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’ Peter asked as he watched me wheel my bike down the drive and prop it up against the side of the house.
‘Yes, I’ll be fine. We’re not expecting trouble, although I’m not quite sure what the general mood will be like when I get there.’
It felt strange. After a year of being ferried in under police escort, we were suddenly back to normal, although, deep down, I knew it wouldn’t be like it was before. The first thing I noticed as I cycled in that morning was that the picket line had gone. It had become such a familiar sight over the past year that it felt strange to see the top of the pit lane deserted. I cycled into the yard, pulled up in front of the medical centre and chained my bike up. The place was still quiet, with no sign of the men.
A few hours later, at around 10 a.m., I was in my office when I looked out of the window. There were hundreds of men walking united down the pit lane towards the colliery yard. The entire workforce had decided to walk back to work together in a dignified silence. I felt choked up as I watched them approach. Despite the bitter strike and eventual defeat, I realised that these men weren’t out, not by a long chalk. Instead, they’d marched back as a family, something they’d always been. The sight of them left me humbled because the men had been to hell and back. They’d been starved and almost frozen to death, but they’d survived it all. Although some felt humiliated by the defeat, they’d come back with their heads held high. I choked back tears of emotion as they passed by my window.
I was pleased to see them back, but I was aware that, for many, life would never be the same again. The strike had not only divided friends and families, but it had also managed to destroy marriages along the way too. Some wives had left, while others, who up until that point had been full-time housewives, had suddenly found themselves the main breadwinners. This had empowered many women, giving a few of them a newfound resolve to leave for good too.
However, the majority of wives were proud of their men and supported them, both financially and emotionally. The miners’ wives had managed as most women do in a crisis – they’d become the backbone of the strike. Without them, and their food and money collections, many families would’ve starved to death. There’d been no real financial help, other than minimal payments from the NUM, because families had been unable to claim benefits.
Of course, the bad feeling between the miners who had worked and those who had not remained. The end of the strike had been a terrible blow to the many who had lasted a full year without wages and had suffered extreme poverty. But a distinction was made between those men who had broken the strike early on, and others who’d felt forced to return. At other pits, carnations had even been strewn at the gates – the flower being symbolic of a hero.
As the crowd passed by, the door of the medical centre opened and in walked Bill, Frank and Andy. I’d kept in touch with them throughout the strike. We’d often stop for a chat in the village, and Peter and I had paid Andy to do the odd gardening jobs for us. I’d like to think the money had helped keep him afloat when times were tough.
‘Right, we need to sort out who’s working when,’ Bill said, getting straight down to business.
We didn’t talk about the strike or what had been, because it didn’t feel appropriate. I was in a difficult position as I’d worked throughout, even though my heart had always been with the miners. Now they were back, all that mattered was that they remained safe and well under my watch. However, not all of them felt the same, and there were one or two who refused to let me treat them.
‘No,’ one grunted, to stop me from approaching. He’d caught his hand in some machinery, but he made it clear he didn’t want me to examine him. ‘I’d rather have Bill.’
‘Oh,’ I replied.
His rejection was like a knife in my side. I glanced over at Bill, who stepped forward. It felt horrible but I tried not to take it too personally, because I knew he blamed me and lumped me alongside management. For a long time, some of the men presumed I’d belonged to the NUM and had crossed the picket line. In truth, I was employed by management, under the BACM (British Association of Colliery Management) union. I’d decided not to elaborate because I didn’t feel the need to explain myself to them or anyone else. After all, it hadn’t been my battle. I was there in a medical capacity to ensure everyone’s safety.
Apart from that particular miner and another stalwart union man, the majority of men were as courteous and respectful towards me as they’d been before the strike. To be honest, nobody wanted to discuss it, even though it was always there, like the elephant in the room. Surprisingly, we had quite a few men pass through the centre during those first few weeks. Apart from the usual trapped fingers and blackened nails, many suffered headaches, as their eyes strained to get used to working underground again. Others complained of backache because the work was tough and many hadn’t done anything as physically strenuous for a year.
While I was able to ease aching muscles with my miracle heat lamp and rubs, I was unable to erase the awful atmosphere that hung over the colliery like a permanent black cloud. It took a month or so, but slowly things began to settle down, although they never returned to normal. During this time, I helped many men who were suffering from depression. It had been as an obvious result of the strike, although they didn’t recognise it at the time. I began to notice that quite a few were calling in at the centre more than usual, with unexplained headaches, so I began to ask questions.
‘Is there anything else? Are you sleeping okay?’ I questioned one miner.
‘It’s just I keep getting these terrible headaches, Sister.’
‘And when did they begin?’
‘Months ago. I can’t shift ’em. I’ve taken painkillers but nowt seems to work.’
‘And what about sleep? Are you sleeping okay?’
The miner shook his head.
‘Not for ages,’ he said. ‘I wake up all times of night, and then I can’t get back off again.’
‘Would you like to see the pit doctor, or your own GP?’
‘Why, Sister? What do you reckon it is?’
‘I think you may have depression, but you need to speak to a doctor about it.’
The man looked at me glumly and cast his eyes to the floor. It was obvious he’d been under a lot of pressure, but he didn’t know how or even where to start.
‘Yeah, I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll see t’pit doctor.’
A gentle line of questioning was usually all it took to open the floodgates. Lots of the men had
split up with wives and partners, so some of their problems were emotional, but in many cases their depression was related to the financial burden they’d found themselves in. They’d lost a year’s wages, and in some cases their cars and homes had been repossessed. Although it had been a long slog for many, once the financial pressure had lifted, the depression eventually followed. Soon, the pit was functioning once more, but while the men were back at work their hearts remained on the picket line.
I often thought about my father and what he would have made of it all. He’d died two years before the start of the strike, but I knew his sympathy would’ve been with the miners. He’d gone out on strike himself as a lad, during the general strike of 1926. The strike, called by the general council of the Trades Union Congress, lasted for 10 days, and was an attempt to try to improve wages and working conditions for 800,000 coal miners. During this time, and for a long time afterwards, my dad sang in nightclubs to earn a wage. He’d be accompanied by his sister Ann on the piano, and he’d sing old baritone favourites such as ‘Bells of the Sea’. Dad survived the strike, and he supported the Jarrow March 10 years later, in 1936. He’d strongly believed that you should always fight for what was right, just as the miners did during 1984–85. Unfortunately, for both them and me, the writing was already on the wall.
23
Loss
Peter had undergone his first heart bypass in 1974, but his health had continued to deteriorate. It reached the point where I worried about him constantly; I knew that, in time, he’d need another operation to prolong his life. In many ways, it felt as though we were living on borrowed time, but I also knew that, with his advancing years – he’d just celebrated his sixtieth birthday – a second operation could kill him.