by Joan Hart
It was 2006, seven years after Peter’s death, and despite being 74 years old I felt the need to return to work and make a difference. Even though I’d been a nurse for over 58 years, I was deemed far too old to do my job. Instead, I was given monotonous tasks such as filing, photocopying or, if I was really lucky, I was asked to run errands for the Occupational Health Department. I felt despondent and completely under-used. I considered leaving, but then I moved again, this time to day-care theatre admissions, where patients underwent cataract operations. I was given a little more responsibility, but I still wasn’t allowed to administer eye drops or even take blood pressure. The hospital insurance wouldn’t cover me because I was too old. Once more, I became a general dogsbody. I cleared away laundry, showed people to the wards and took bloods to the haematology department.
In a bid to get a bit of excitement back in my life, I decided to enter a competition run by Age Concern. I reasoned that, even with my advancing years, there was plenty of life still left inside me. The competition posed the question, What have you always wanted to do? So, as a bit of a joke, I wrote, Wing walking and flying a glider. I posted my entry and forgot all about it. So, you can imagine my surprise when I received a phone call a month later saying I’d won and I needed to travel to an airfield in Cirencester for the flight! I’d done a few terrifying things over the years, including riding on top of the cage during the pit-shaft inspection, but being strapped to the wing of an aircraft was a first, even for me.
‘Smile!’ the cameraman shouted from an adjacent plane as I flew alongside him, hundreds of feet up in the air, strapped to a glorified bicycle seat!
My neck craned as I glanced across and grimaced. I wondered what on earth had possessed me to do such a crazy thing as the wind blasted against me, stealing my breath. Once I had both feet back on the ground I began to shake, and I didn’t stop until hours later.
It had been quite an adventure, and I’d been bitten by the bug. A year later, I travelled in a hot-air balloon and tried my hand at skydiving. Nothing, it seemed, could stop me. Maybe I’d been missing the adrenalin rush from my days at the pit and my airborne activities were a way of filling the void – I really can’t say. All I did know was that I wasn’t going to let a silly thing like age get in my way.
I’d always been useful as a nurse, but as a hospital volunteer I faded into the background and felt totally lost. I left Doncaster Royal Infirmary in 2011, aged 79 – the oldest nurse in town. Hospitals had never held the same kind of job satisfaction that I’d got from working down a pit. I still miss those days now.
Hatfield Colliery remains open, but only just. After I left in 1988, the pit passed through many different companies and was even featured in the 1996 film Brassed Off. It is the last viable deep pit in the country. Today, it’s run by Hatfield Colliery Employee Benefit Partnership, but only last year (2014) the NUM had to step in to prevent the pit from closure with a £4 million loan. The union came forward after the colliery failed to secure cash from either the government or the banks, even though the pit stands on 50 million tonnes of coal reserves. At 1.2 million tonnes a year, it means there’s still another 40–50 years’ worth of coal mining left at Hatfield, but it is being threatened by cheap coal imports from as far afield as Russia and America. At its peak, Hatfield employed 2,000 men. That number has now dwindled to just 434 employees and 60 contractors. In early 2015 the government gave Hatfield Colliery a commercial loan of £8 million to help avoid immediate insolvency and support its managed closure by 2016. Two other deep coal mines, Kellingley in Yorkshire and Thorseby in Nottinghamshire, are due to close in October 2015, leaving Hatfield Britain’s last remaining underground coal mine. It is a very sad time for a once proud industry.
My old medical centre has been demolished and replaced with a new brick building, which houses a reception, offices and a couple of vending machines instead of a canteen. It also contains a much more compact medical centre. The nurse, who is also a redhead like me, is the lovely Sister May Justice. Sister Justice and I once worked together, albeit at different pits, during my last three years there. She is supported by one MRA, the very knowledgeable Gary Dexter. Together, May and Gary treat and tend to the entire workforce. As is the way with modern life, their jobs are now contracted out. There’s no pit ambulance, either, and there hasn’t been for years. If there’s a serious medical emergency they have to call 999.
Although May and Gary both do fantastic jobs, the changes are sadly a sign of the times. I belonged to an era where a job was a job for life, and a time when village life and pride were paramount. The men are still proud of their pit, and they should be, but some of the miners are now employed from outside the surrounding villages. Both the old way of life and job security are being taken from them, piece by piece. I find it all terribly sad.
I belong to a different time, and I miss it greatly. I miss the banter of the men, the miners’ jokes and their (often) filthy language. It’s something I would never have experienced working inside a sterile hospital. The miners were and still are the bravest and most remarkable men I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. At times, caring for them was a hell of a responsibility, but it was a role I cherished and carried out with pride. My men knew that if they were ever trapped and injured down the pit, no matter how bad their injuries were, I would always go to them. Over the years, I became a mother, sister, confidante and friend to the 2,000 men in my care.
Today, I’m 83 years young, and although my legs aren’t what they used to be, I have no plans to slow down. Sadly, many of the miners I worked with have since passed away. I miss them all. But, if anything, it spurs me on to seize the moment, because life is for living, and I plan to enjoy each and every moment of it.
Acknowledgements
This book has been a complete labour of love for me; I do hope you’ve enjoyed it. Please remember that it has not been written by a pit manager, surveyor or even a miner, but a female pit nurse, so if I have got some of the mining technology wrong, then please forgive me. Quite simply, it has been written through my eyes, as I witnessed and lived it. There are so many people who have helped me along the way that I don’t really know where to begin, so I’ll start with my husband, Peter – the most loving and patient man in the world. I miss him with every breath I take, but I’ll never forget his love and support. Thank you, Peter – you were always my rock.
I’d also like to mention my family: my brother Tony, his wife Joyce, my sister Ann and her husband John. Thank you all for your continued help and encouragement.
I’d like to thank the miners and management of Hatfield Colliery, without whom there would be no book. My special gratitude goes to Tommy Chappell, who sadly passed away before the book was finished. When Tommy died, I not only lost a colleague but a great friend too, but I’d like to thank him for his support and advice over the years. Also to my nursing-sister colleagues, Dr Macdonald and the medical staff of the NCB in Doncaster – thank you all.
To Keith Argyle, from my first creative-writing group, who always had faith in my writing ability. Also, to all my friends and colleagues at the Bentley Writers’ Group, especially Caren Fox, for their encouragement. Without them I would never have finished the book.
To my ghostwriter, Veronica Clark, who not only put the whole story together for me and suffered my emotions and memory losses, but also became a good friend.
To the rest of my friends and colleagues who have encouraged and pushed me to put my memories into words and write them down on paper before they are forgotten and lost for ever, I am eternally grateful.
Finally, thank you to my agent, Eve White, and Jack Ramm, and Vicky Eribo at HarperCollins for believing in my story and allowing me to share it with you.
Glossary of Mining Terms
BACM British Association of Colliery Management.
Banksman The person in charge of the surface/pit top and the cage.
Cage A compartment/lift, single-, double- or triple-decked, used to tran
sport men or materials up and down a pit shaft.
Checks Brass discs with the miner’s unique number on to identify when he’s underground.
Chock A short prop or roof support made of timber or steel.
Coalface A solid area where coal is extracted.
Contractor A miner employed for a contracted period of time.
COSA Colliery Officials and Staff Association.
Deputy A qualified official in charge of a district.
District An underground area of the mine where coal is extracted, usually with a name and number.
Engineman A person employed to operate a winding engine at the surface or underground.
Gob A term used for waste or abandoned area.
Inbye A term to denote the position of someone in the mine towards the coalface.
Main A word used in Yorkshire colliery names where the principal seam was originally the Barnsley bed.
MRA Medical Room Attendant.
NCB National Coal Board.
NUM National Union of Mineworkers.
Onsetter The equivalent of the banksman, but at the pit bottom.
Overman A senior official of higher rank than a deputy.
Paddy An underground train used to transport miners.
Self-rescuer A small metal canister containing a portable short-term oxygen source.
Shot-firer A qualified person who fires shots of explosives.
Skip A large coal container, which is raised up the pit shaft.
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1
Jessie
The morning of Sunday 3 September 1939 was a sunny one, and Jessie Ward was out digging potatoes in the garden of her family’s house in the little village of Holbeach Bank, Lincolnshire. A petite girl with big blue eyes and dark hair, she looked far younger than her 17 years, but despite her slight build her mother always made sure to keep her busy with chores. That particular day Mrs Ward was looking after a sick friend’s little girl, so Jessie had even more to do than usual.
Just after 11 o’clock that morning, Mr Ward called his wife and daughter into the living-room, where they found him listening intently to the bulky wooden wireless set. There was a crackle, and then the clipped tones of Neville Chamberlain rang out of the machine. ‘This morning,’ he announced, ‘the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note, stating that, unless we heard from them by 11 o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.’
Jessie saw her mother and father exchange an anxious glance.
‘I have to tell you now,’ the Prime Minister continued, ‘that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.’
Mr Ward leaned forward, holding his head in his hands. ‘It can’t happen again,’ he muttered. ‘It just can’t.’ Jessie knew that her father had spent much of the last war watching his fellow soldiers in the Royal Warwicks being gassed and slaughtered in front of him, and had witnessed his best friend being shot in the head.
‘Well, we’ll probably be invaded, being so close to the coast,’ said his tiny wife, matter-of-factly. ‘I’d better take Tina back to her mother. Jessie, you’ll have to do the Sunday dinner.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ Jessie replied, as the little girl began to howl. Whether it was because of the imminent invasion, or because she was missing dinner, Jessie wasn’t sure, but she was surprised to find that she herself felt nothing at all. Unlike her father, she had little idea of what war might bring, since the last one had ended four years before she was born.
Jessie went back out into the garden, and nodded over the fence at Mr Crawford, the elderly man who lived next door. ‘Do you think we’ll be invaded?’ she asked him.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘Even if we are, the Germans aren’t going to hurt the likes of us.’
Jessie’s father came marching out into the garden just in time to catch Mr Crawford’s remark. ‘You silly bugger!’ he shouted. ‘You’re the first ones the Nazis’ll get rid of. Your wife is blind and you’re an old man!’
‘They wouldn’t do that,’ Mr Crawford protested weakly.
‘They would,’ retorted Mr Ward. ‘I know the Germans. They wouldn’t waste food on people like you!’
Jessie was shocked – not so much by her father’s anger, or by the grim prophecy in his words, but at the fact that he had said ‘bugger’. She realised she had never heard him swear before.
In fact, it was rare to hear Mr Ward raise his voice at all, other than where Germans were concerned. He was a kindly man, whose health had never been the same since he had returned from the trenches 20 years earlier. It didn’t help that he had to work six days a week, hammering away in his little cobbler’s shop – and keeping it open until 9 p.m. most nights for the sake of the local farm labourers. Most of his customers only had one pair of dilapidated old boots to their name, but Mr Ward would work miracles on them, knowing that their owners couldn’t afford to buy new ones.
While Jessie’s father was out working all hours, his wife had free rein to boss their only daughter around. Fanny Ward was small, pretty woman, but her demure exterior belied a sharp temper, and Jessie had learned from a young age never to displease her. Every time she dropped a ball of wool she was winding or accidentally broke a cup in the kitchen, she was bound to get a clout round the ear.
Whenever she could, Jessie escaped to her grandmother’s house to play on their beaten-up old piano. She had inherited a talent for music from her father’s side of the family, and when she sat and played her cares seemed to melt away, the music transporting her to a realm of pure joy. Mr Ward was proud of his daughter’s musical talent, and put aside a shilling a week to pay for her to have lessons.
The only thing that came close to playing, as far as Jessie was concerned, was dancing. As she grew older, she and her best friend Joan started attending the dances that were held every week at the little church hall in Holbeach Bank. She knew she was a good dancer, and she enjoyed showing off her skills, but her mother made sure that her confidence never went to her head. ‘Do I look all right, Mum?’ Jessie asked her one night, as she was about to head out. ‘You’ll do,’ Mrs Ward replied. ‘But who’s going to be looking at you, anyway?’
When Jessie left school her piano playing proved a useful source of income, as she began giving lessons to the village children. But most of her time was still dictated by her mother, who kept her busy helping with knitting for the local wool shop, doing the gardening, cleaning the house, cooking and running errands.
There wasn’t much to look forward to in Holbeach Bank, beyond one day marrying a boy from the village and moving out – and to begin with, the advent of war didn’t make much difference to the sleepy community. Most of the local lads were farm labourers, so they were exempt from conscription, and the village was so tiny that no one thought it worth installing air-raid shelters.
But for Jessie’s father, the new war brought with it a new sense of purpose. He was thrilled when he heard on the wireless that men up to 65 were needed to help defend their country, as part of the Local Defence Volunteers or ‘Home Guard’. Now Mr Ward spent his spare time back in uniform, practising his marching and going out on night patrols, armed with an old First World War rifle. Wherever he went, he walked about with his chin up and his back straight as a rod. The neighbours joked that if you cut him, his blood would be khaki.
But Jessie’s father’s new pastime meant that she was left alone in the house with her mother more than ever, and she began to grow desperate for something that would take her away. One day, she spotted an advert for a waitress at a little truckers’ cafe on the road to Holbeach proper. It was hardly glamorous, more of a ‘greasy spoon’, but Jessie jumped at the chance to get out of th
e house, hurrying to the cafe and offering her services.
‘Are you sure you want the job?’ asked the woman who ran it, looking at the slip of a girl in front of her. ‘We get some pretty tough types in here, you know.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t bother me,’ Jessie replied. If she could put up with her mother, she was sure she could handle a few truckers. The other woman didn’t look quite convinced, so Jessie suggested helpfully, ‘If you like, you can serve the posh customers, and I’ll look after the tough guys.’
‘You’re on,’ said the woman, hastily handing Jessie an apron as a group of burly-looking men came in through the door.
On the evenings when Mr Ward was at home, the family always gathered to listen to the BBC’s 9 p.m. bulletin and hear the latest news of the war. In May 1940 they all sat in shock as they heard that the British Expeditionary Force was being evacuated from Dunkirk. An armada of fishing boats, crabbers, trawlers, shrimpers and yachts had answered the call for assistance, bringing back hundreds of thousands of exhausted soldiers while the Luftwaffe pounded them from overhead.
The new Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, told the country that the evacuation was a ‘miracle of deliverance’, but Mr Ward wasn’t so easily convinced. ‘We ran away from those Jerrys with our tails between our legs,’ he said, shaking his head sadly.
Back on home soil, the effects of the evacuation were soon felt around Holbeach, as the battered British Army regrouped and replenished itself. Soon soldiers started to be seen around the village, and a nearby stately home called Bleak House was requisitioned by a Royal Artillery regiment.
Jessie knew the house well, since her friend Joan was the niece of the caretakers there, Mr and Mrs Hedqvist, who encouraged Jessie to come and play the grand piano in the drawing room whenever she liked. ‘We don’t see much of the soldiers really,’ Mrs Hedqvist told her when she turned up to practise one day. ‘They’re mainly just using the kitchens and the dining room for their officers’ mess.’