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At the Coalface: The memoir of a pit nurse
Veronica Clark

Joan Hart


A heart-warming story of a woman who devoted her life to helping others. This is the memoir of Joan, who started nursing in the 1940s and whose experiences took her into the Yorkshire mining pits and through the tumult of the 1984-85 miners’ strike.Joan Hart always knew what she wanted to do with her life. Born in South Yorkshire in 1932, she started her nursing training when she was 16, the youngest age girls could do so at the time. She continued working after she married and her work took her to London and Doncaster, caring for children and miners.When she took a job as a pit nurse in Doncaster in 1974, she found that in order to be accepted by the men under her care, she would have to become one of them. Most of the time rejecting a traditional nurse’s uniform and donning a baggy miner’s suit, pit boots, a hardhat and a headlamp, Joan resolved always to go down to injured miners and bring them out of the pit herself.Over 15 years Joan grew to know the miners not only as a nurse, but as a confidante and friend. She tended to injured miners underground, rescued men trapped in the pits, and provided support for them and their families during the bitter miners’ strike which stretched from March 1984 to 1985.Moving and uplifting, this is a story of one woman’s life, marriage and work; it is guaranteed to make readers laugh, cry, and smile.










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Copyright (#ufa4c5668-c4b9-5095-a361-ebfb2e0f45bd)


HarperElement

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

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First published by HarperElement 2015

FIRST EDITION

© Joan Hart and Veronica Clark 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover photographs © Photograph of author supplied by author (Nurse); Selwyn Tait/Sygma/Corbis (background)

Joan Hart and Veronika Clark assert the moral right

to be identified as the authors of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780007596164

Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780007596171

Version: 2015-06-22




Dedication (#ufa4c5668-c4b9-5095-a361-ebfb2e0f45bd)


For my husband, Peter




Contents


Cover (#uae14b6ac-50db-5c6c-a828-027a3de8d50d)

Title Page (#ulink_97fbe8b2-e4f6-5146-ba84-a42c13b7548c)

Copyright (#ulink_8e0466bd-f923-5d24-89e2-2afcdc42d6cf)

Dedication (#ulink_347b6814-3bb8-5d31-95b9-771a68fdbcf1)

Prologue (#ulink_51f5d0ae-0442-596a-85b4-05adad88cc81)

1. The Year of the Floods (#ulink_33a7daf5-ec02-5d96-a9a0-9dcb87333429)

2. Nurse in Training (#ulink_b683c08f-753d-5ca1-b857-6184a6f14af6)

3. Mishaps on the Wards (#ulink_cf380de9-2bfb-5981-ad07-35b99d9d2605)

4. Going Home (#ulink_aef4d6e3-b503-58b5-af1c-062cc6beeab9)

5. A Miner’s Nurse (#ulink_8521e860-c6dc-5528-b5db-e464b1786bae)

6. Cuddles and Infertility (#ulink_25731a90-756d-5209-96f8-54192b398a31)

7. Babies and Bicycles (#ulink_17868060-2d50-5b11-a3da-56dd50295f8b)

8. A Heartbeat from Death (#ulink_2702e4b4-eca0-5d59-9995-d852376a3902)

9. At the Coalface (#ulink_1f288d2a-e8c6-5620-b6e0-568907883d5f)

10. Nurse in Pit Boots (#ulink_d65e9d7e-cddb-5cf2-a627-ae66f10e6c98)

11. Practical Jokers and Perfume (#ulink_ee22e489-adc4-5c1c-a866-06a59c296a92)

12. Birthday down the Pit (#ulink_c3d6ac0c-e73a-5f52-96ab-6aecda3ac1ae)

13. Medical Emergencies and Marriage Guidance (#ulink_82ee7b9c-9d01-5f50-9214-6ae33cb18d44)

14. Chewing Tobacco and Cursing in Casualty (#ulink_d36b3aea-36ca-54de-b6f3-ed84e00aa03f)

15. The Mines Rescue Service (#ulink_246622f1-c740-54ef-be91-e3bd367f7767)

16. Bentley Pit Disaster (#ulink_56bd3c48-8dca-5524-8475-ba3f0f28af1e)

17. Rubber Gloves (#ulink_d35080a3-2402-5609-a14b-6dc8598d6fba)

18. The Miners’ Strike (#ulink_98a1c919-456d-5361-9df2-6a155d2a64d7)

19. Bird Woman (#ulink_889454b8-0452-5d82-b6f6-1eddefab4659)

20. Noel (#ulink_d7956efc-7ed7-5895-b1b7-cb2261e080ed)

21. Target (#ulink_18149c6d-815e-5dca-a5ad-b492c65a3f43)

22. End of the Strike (#ulink_486d80db-9c6a-5c6a-9d20-469ac26d060c)

23. Loss (#ulink_de31348d-7340-5292-a130-37c4f06e36f3)

24. Eternal Nurse (#ulink_57da5d23-0ccc-5160-9fcc-96d78068bb78)

Acknowledgements (#ulink_ed13735f-be38-58bd-8d58-bcc0a3b3f229)

Glossary of Mining Terms (#ulink_7cff35f0-b0eb-5cd0-a99b-428c3e930a0d)

Exclusive sample chapter (#u44de32fc-f67e-590c-b7d7-69ed92769462)

If you like this, you’ll love … (#u0dc45194-3ebd-50e1-acac-e85167c3ca62)

Moving Memoirs eNewsletter (#udd3928b3-936d-5b47-a267-60d00aa046da)

Write for Us (#uf652e3fe-a2a5-5ea7-a0b2-789760f88ba4)

About the Publisher (#uae14b6ac-50db-5c6c-a828-027a3de8d50d)




Prologue (#ufa4c5668-c4b9-5095-a361-ebfb2e0f45bd)


Dropping the telephone receiver back down into its cradle, I jumped to my feet and closed the door. My pale blue overall was still grubby with coal dust from my pit inspection the day before. I was a nurse on call, in charge of thousands of miners, and right now one of them needed me. I clamped the palm of my hand against my hard hat and ran along the pathway towards the lamp cabin. With my metal checks jangling inside my pocket, I grabbed my lamp, battery pack and self-rescuer canister, and clipped them onto the side of my belt. It was still early and grey clouds swirled overhead. The air was thick with industrial noise and the threat of immediate rain. My pit boots picked up pace as I dashed from the lamp cabin towards the shaft side where the doctor was already waiting. The noise from the winding house groaned and creaked as the giant drum turned and toiled inside. The fans spat out air thick with coal dust as an avalanche of noise hissed above our heads like a steam train.

‘Hello, Sister,’ Dr Macdonald called.

‘Hello, Doctor. I’ve brought the amputation kit,’ I shouted above the din as I held the bag aloft to show him.

‘Good. Are you all right?’

I nodded, although my heart was pounding with fear and adrenalin. My fingers trembled and the palm of my right hand was sweating as I clutched the handle of the surgical kit. It contained artery forceps, a tourniquet, sterile saw and knives of varying lengths. The thought of it alone made me sick with nerves, and I prayed that we wouldn’t have to use it.

We approached the banksman, who checked we were ready to go.

‘No flammables? No battery-operated devices?’ he asked as a matter of course.

Dr Macdonald and I shook our heads. We knew the safety drill. He opened up the cage and loaded us into it. We switched off our headlamps as he pulled down the chain-mail shutters, enveloping us in virtual darkness. I felt reassured by the blackness because I didn’t want Dr Macdonald to see the fear in my eyes. The cage rattled into life as we began our descent, hundreds of feet to the pit bottom below. Clouds of white steam billowed up around the edges, making it feel like a journey into the depths of hell.

‘What information do we have, Sister?’ Dr Macdonald asked.

I tried to remember what I’d just been told.

‘It’s a man, in his early twenties. He’d been riding on the conveyor belt at the end of his shift, but he didn’t manage to jump off in time. His leg got mangled in the machinery.’

‘Oh,’ replied Dr Macdonald, his voice cutting through the darkness.

‘It’s an amputation,’ I continued, ‘though I still don’t know if it’s partial or complete. The deputy and first aiders are with him now.’

Moments later, the cage shuddered and chains rattled as we came to a halt – we’d reached the pit bottom.

‘Ready, Sister?’ Dr Macdonald asked. He switched his headlamp back on and my face was illuminated in a circle of golden light.

I reached out a hand and switched on my lamp too. The white circle of light waltzed around on the pit wall opposite.

‘Ready,’ I replied as we stepped out of the cage.

Suddenly a face loomed into view. It was the onsetter.

‘The paddy train is waiting to take you inbye to district.’

I took a deep breath and climbed on board. As the train trundled off into the darkness I wondered what would be waiting to greet us at our destination.




1

The Year of the Floods (#ufa4c5668-c4b9-5095-a361-ebfb2e0f45bd)


The boat was unsteady as it floated along the street. Inside the house my mother was huffing and panting as her contractions quickened with every minute.

‘Where’s the bloody midwife?’ she screamed – her cries so loud that the neighbours heard every word.

Moments later, a small rowing boat bobbed outside.

‘Hang on, I’ll fetch the ladder,’ my father called down from a bedroom window at the top of the house.

The midwife clambered out of the boat and placed an uncertain foot onto the ladder. The rungs felt slippy and unsure beneath her feet as her eyes darted nervously to the filthy brown water swirling below.

‘I’ll grab your hand when you reach the top,’ Dad promised. He didn’t care what it took to get her in; he just wanted her to hurry up.

A large bag dangled precariously from her arm as she climbed upwards, one rung at a time. My father was waiting to greet her. With one arm around her shoulder and the other to steady her, he helped the midwife climb in through the open bedroom window.

‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he gasped, smoothing a hand through his hair. His face was fraught with worry as his eyes signalled over towards the bed where my mother lay.

‘I think the baby’s on its way.’

The midwife nodded dutifully, took off her overcoat and rolled up her sleeves. I’d caused them all quite a lot of fuss, apparently, but less than an hour later I emerged naked and blinking against the harsh light of the world.

‘It’s a girl!’ the midwife announced, wrapping me in a clean sheet. ‘Congratulations.’

My dad later told me how he’d sighed with relief while my auntie Lucy had cleaned up. Meanwhile, Mum had sobbed quietly in the bed, glad it was over. I’d entered the world on 18 May 1932 and, true to form, I’d done it in quite a style. I was born in Bentley, a little pit village situated on the outskirts of Doncaster, South Yorkshire. The village was also near the River Don, which had a habit of flooding every time we suffered a heavy bout of rain, and May 1932 had been no exception. Rain it did, until floodwater had engulfed the entire village, including the residents and their terraced houses. The flooding was so severe that a boat service had to be brought in to transport the good people of Bentley in and out of the village, including the poor midwife.

Dad had been travelling to his job at Bentley Colliery in the same boat, day in, day out, for over a week. My father was a miner, but as soon as he discovered Mum was pregnant with me he took his deputy papers so he could become an overman, to bring in a better wage. Soon he’d passed his exams and moved to Brodsworth pit, where he was in charge of over 1,000 miners working the afternoon shift. Back then, Brodsworth was the biggest pit in Doncaster, employing thousands of men.

Standing at 6 feet 2 inches tall, my father was a gentle giant, but his solid stature gave him an air of authority and the men knew better than to mess with him. He had thick mousy-brown hair and he was incredibly handsome. My mother, on the other hand, was small and attractive, with natural red hair, which I’d inherited. She also saw herself as quite the little lady. But with a fractious baby and a house that constantly flooded, Mum was at her wits’ end and threatened to drown me in the River Don just to shut me up, so Dad found us another house in a village called Woodlands. With a father in a good job and a stay-at-home mum, in many ways my life was idyllic. I was followed by a brother, Tony, just seven years later. Tony was a real screamer. One day, Mum, who was frazzled through lack of sleep, accidentally dropped his baby bottle. Back then, bottles were banana shaped with big ugly rubber teats at each end. They were also made of glass, so Tony’s bottle smashed to smithereens as soon as it hit the floor.

‘No!’ she cried as she looked at the scattered pieces of glass.

Exasperated, she opened up her purse, handed me some pennies and told me to go straight to the chemist to buy another so she could feed the baby. The only problem was that, although it was April, it was bitterly cold and it’d been snowing heavily all week. The 10-minute walk to the village shop took me almost half an hour as I battled knee-deep through the snow, both there and back. Tony was a typical boy, and as long as he got fed he was happy. Our sister Ann was born three years later, so, as the eldest, I constantly ran errands for Mum. Every couple of days I’d be given enough money to buy a block of fresh yeast from the local baker. I loved the smell of the bakery, but more than that, I loved the taste of fresh yeast. The yeast looked pretty unappetising in a grey square lump, but curiosity made me crumble the edge of a corner off it one day. As soon as I put it inside my mouth it started to foam and I was hooked.

‘Mmmm, lovely,’ I sighed, breaking off another piece and hoping my mother wouldn’t notice.

All my friends preferred sweets but I loved to nibble yeast. After a while, though, the crumbled block raised suspicion. Mum twigged what I was doing and forbade me to eat it ever again.

‘It’ll upset your stomach!’ she snapped, but I didn’t care.

As we grew, Mother settled into her role as the lady of the house. Dad doted on her and bought her everything her heart desired, and back then it desired a washing machine. In fact, it was such a coveted piece of machinery that we were the first family in Woodlands to have one. It was pretty basic by today’s standards – a metal tub with a lid and a handle on top, which you moved backwards and forwards to create the ‘wash’. But in Woodlands it was the height of sophistication, so much so that all our neighbours and their children crowded round our kitchen just to see it in action. Mum duly obliged, blinding them all with the marvels of modern science.

‘Oh, you’re so lucky, Ellen; I wish my husband would buy me one of them,’ a neighbour cooed.

As she twisted the washing-machine handle back and forth we heard a swishing sound from within the tub and my friends were mesmerised.

‘Oooh, can you hear that?’ one cried. ‘It sounds just like the waves of the sea!’

Mum lifted her head regally and smiled. She knew women in the village envied her with her handsome husband, three children and a brand new washing machine. However, unbeknownst to us, she had a secret – a yearning to return to her old life. Before she’d met Dad she’d worked as a barmaid at a pub on Fleet Street, London. The bar was always a bustling hive of activity, with journalists all hungry for the next big scoop. Mum loved everything about it – the buzz, the excitement and the fast pace of life. So, when she found herself stuck with three kids in the outskirts of a town in South Yorkshire, she wondered what might have been if she’d not married a miner. My parents had met quite by chance. Originally from Stafford, Mum had been in Doncaster visiting her brother when she landed a temporary job as a cashier on the reception of the local swimming baths. My father, Harry Smith, soon caught her eye. A few dates were followed by an engagement and ultimately marriage, but Mum soon felt trapped. Shortly after Ann was born, a group of her friends travelled up to Yorkshire to visit. I remember watching her eyes mist over as they spoke of London and past acquaintances.

‘You’ll have to come back and visit, Ellen. Everyone misses you. They all ask after you.’

‘Really?’ Mum gasped, her eyes lighting up. Little did we know then that she was already in the tunnel clawing her way towards a new life – one without us.

Weeks later, I’d wandered downstairs in my nightgown. My eyes were still blurry from sleep but I’d heard a noise and I’d gone to investigate. As I padded barefoot down the stairs I could hardly believe the sight that greeted me. It was my father. He was bent over double, sat in a chair in the front room, sobbing his heart out. It was a shock because my father was a strong man and I’d never seen him cry before. I knew something dreadful had happened. I automatically ran over to him and wrapped my arms around his neck, but it was no good; there was nothing I could say or do to make it better.

‘She’s gone, Joan,’ he blurted out in between deep sobs. I pulled away from him with a puzzled look on my face.

Who’s gone? What on earth was he talking about?

‘It’s your mother. She’s gone and left me. She’s left us all. She’s packed up her things and gone back to London.’

I shook my head in disbelief. Surely he’d got it wrong? There had to be some kind of mistake. Mum wouldn’t just pack a bag and leave us behind without a word. Ann was still a baby and a mother wouldn’t leave her baby!

‘Maybe she’ll come home?’ I whispered hopefully.

Dad shook his head. ‘No, it’s over, Joan. She’s gone and she’s never coming back.’

That night I blinked back the tears and wondered how Mum could be so heartless to just abandon us. She hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye. But I was the eldest and I knew I could help my father out with the little ones, so that’s what I decided I would do. Dad needed me to be strong, so I would be. I’d take as long as necessary off school so he could keep his job, go to work and bring in a wage to feed and clothe us all. I was 13 years old, going on 14. A few months earlier I’d joined the St John Ambulance Brigade as a young cadet, so I knew a little bit about first aid.

Besides, how hard could cooking actually be? I pondered.

But cooking was a lot harder than I thought and, after cremating several family meals, a kindly neighbour called Lizzie Adams took me under her wing. By then, I’d decided I would take care of everything. Just because our mother had failed us, it didn’t mean I would. Lizzie was a wily woman in her sixties, but to a girl my age she seemed absolutely ancient. However, what she didn’t know about cooking wasn’t worth knowing, and I became her willing pupil. Cooking, cleaning and looking after four people was no mean feat, and soon I’d missed days, weeks, even months, of school. But I was smart, and I knew I’d just have to work twice as hard to catch up. In the meantime, Lizzie and I spent hours in the kitchen where she taught me how to bake bread and boil vegetables so that they didn’t disintegrate as soon as I drained the pan. She also showed me how to cook a tasty roast all the way through, checking the juices ran clear, so that I didn’t poison anyone. Of course, my father was delighted to come home to a piping hot meal and three happy, clean children, but he also felt guilty because he hated the idea of me missing school.

‘We can’t carry on like this, Joan,’ he said, placing his knife and fork down firmly on the table. ‘You need to go back to school so you can learn and do well in life. You can’t stay here looking after us all; I won’t allow it. Not any more.’

Dad was right, of course, but the thing was, after a year of playing housemaid, I quite liked the idea of caring for others. I’d enjoyed making sure the little ones got to school on time with a bellyful of food and clean faces and hands. I’d hated the housework, but the satisfaction I felt when everything was neat, proper and in its place made it all worthwhile. In short, I knew it was what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

‘I want to be a nurse,’ I told the St John cadet leader, a lovely woman called Mrs Hargreaves, later that evening. ‘How do I go about it?’

She explained that at 14 years old I was much too young to be anything other than a child but, when the time was right, she’d make enquiries on my behalf.

In the meantime I tried to be the best cadet I could, and thankfully I discovered I had a natural talent for first aid.

With me back at school, Dad employed a husband-and-wife team – Harry and Emily – as live-in housekeepers. But the house was already too small and cramped, so Dad and Tony were forced to share a room. We were told we should call them Auntie Emily and Uncle Harry, even though we weren’t related. Harry was an invalid. He suffered from pneumoconiosis, a restrictive lung disease commonly seen in miners, so the prospect of a regular wage and a roof over their heads appealed to Emily, who made it clear from the beginning that she had ‘designs’ on my father. Our ‘aunt and uncle’ soon made themselves at home, to the point where, as children, we were barely allowed to sit down in case we made the place look untidy. In some ways it was nice to live in a spotlessly clean house and be back at school, but I hated being told off for putting my feet up on the sofa. Emily wasn’t only house-proud, she could also be very cruel. One day, she was cross because I’d moved something and put it back in the wrong place. Dad was out at work so she knew she could speak her mind.

‘Your mother’s run off with another man. She didn’t love you. That’s why I’m here, because someone has to look after you!’ Emily hissed spitefully as she narrowed her eyes.

From that moment on I resented Emily with her tidy ways and vicious tongue. But she wasn’t the only one who said things about my mother – other people gossiped too. In fact, so many rumours circulated around the village that they soon took on a life of their own, until, just by word of mouth, fiction became fact even if there wasn’t an ounce of truth in it. I hated the other children when they said horrible things about her. Despite my own disappointment, I’d always stuck up for Mum and defended her honour. However, Ann had been a baby when Mum had left so she never, ever forgave her.

Seeing an absent mother and with her eyes on my father, Emily decided to step into the role, and she did, with aplomb. Instead of Mum, it’d be Emily at our school plays, dolled up to the nines. Emily was so sweet on Dad that I was convinced she was just waiting in the wings, ready to pounce once her husband had passed away. It was a thoroughly depressing situation.

The house was cramped not only with two extra people, but also because Harry and Emily had brought along their own furniture, most of it so much nicer than ours. To free up some space, Dad had decided to cut down our old kitchen table and use it as a bench inside his greenhouse, which he’d filled with chrysanthemums and tomato plants. He was so green-fingered he could turn his hand to anything. There were two Anderson air-raid shelters in the back lane, behind the row of terraced houses, but no one used them because there was a much safer and deeper one in the village park. With no takers, Dad saw his chance and filled the shelters with beds of manure and grew crops of mushrooms inside them. Even if anyone had wanted to use the shelters, they wouldn’t because the smell was so pungent that, on a hot day, it carried all the way down the street. Mind you, the shelters were so exposed that they were eventually bombed, so I reckon my father’s mushrooms saved a few lives along the way.

One day, quite without warning, Emily and Harry decided to leave. I never found out why, but I think the fact that Dad never acted on or picked up on Emily’s many romantic hints was probably the final straw. He was miffed because he knew he’d have to find another housekeeper, but secretly I was relieved that we would have the place back to ourselves again. By this time, I was 15 years old and adept at making a mean Sunday dinner. A few days after Emily had left, taking her last pieces of furniture with her, something struck me – we had no kitchen table. I wasn’t quite sure what to do, but then I remembered the one in the greenhouse. I knew it was a big job, but with Dad due home within the hour and the meat almost cooked in the stove, I needed everything to be perfect. I wanted him to think I could cope. Opening up the greenhouse door, I scratched my head as I contemplated the task in hand. The table was wide and heavy, and I wondered how I’d manage to get it down the garden – never mind how I’d lift it into the kitchen.

Blimey, it’s heavier than it looks, I cursed silently as I dragged it along. If only Emily hadn’t taken her posh furniture with her, then we wouldn’t be in this position.

It took a bit of brute force but somehow I managed to push the table inside the house. But then I was faced with another problem – it had no legs because Dad had sawn them off to fit it inside the greenhouse! The smell of roast beef filled the kitchen, making my mouth water. I had to think of something – fast. I nipped out into the backyard to look for something suitable to prop it up with. I stumbled upon a load of old house bricks. I collected as many as I could carry, stacked them on top of one another, and lowered the table top down onto them. It was hardly up to Emily’s high standards – I could just imagine her shaking her head in despair – but at least it was a table once more. Moments later I heard the back door slam. We always used the back door – the front was reserved for funerals and weddings only – so I knew it was Dad. His footsteps sounded heavy as he came inside.

‘Wash your hands and sit down. I’ve cooked you a lovely dinner,’ I said as I loaded up some meat and vegetables onto a plate.

‘Lovely. I’m starving!’ he said as he grinned and wandered over to wash his hands at the kitchen sink. As he turned his head, he did a double take.

‘Is that our old kitchen table?’ he asked, pointing at it.

‘Yes, I’ve brought it back inside. Now Emily’s gone, we need a table, so I dragged it in. Don’t worry – I’ve given it a good wipe.’

But he wasn’t listening. Instead, he was looking underneath to see how I’d managed to prop it up.

‘I’ve used some house bricks from the backyard so be careful, and whatever you do, don’t cross your legs!’

‘Rightio,’ Dad said, chuckling, as he tucked into his meal. ‘Ooh, Joan, tha cooks a great joint – this is lovely.’ He smiled, chewing happily on a piece of meat.

But my father was enjoying his food so much that he forgot my warning and crossed his legs.

CRASH!

Dad was a giant of a man, and within seconds one end of the table had tipped up in the air and come crashing down with an almighty clatter. I watched as his dinner seemed to slide and then tip over in slow motion, landing neatly upside down in the middle of his lap. He glanced down at it and then up at me. He must’ve registered the horror on my face because he immediately burst out laughing. But I was absolutely furious; the dinner had taken me hours to prepare.

‘I told you not to cross your legs!’ I screamed like a demented housewife. ‘Now look what you’ve done! There’s gravy everywhere. And look at your trousers – they’re ruined!’

But my anger tickled him even more and soon he couldn’t speak for laughing. With tears of mirth streaming down his face he helped me clear up the mess from the floor. I was still fuming, so Dad tried his best to win me back around.

‘I’ll go and buy us a new table. As for this,’ he said, tapping the old wooden table top, ‘I think I’ll shove it back inside the greenhouse where it belongs.’

I watched as he sheepishly carried it out through the back door, my arms folded and my foot tapping in annoyance. Eventually I saw the joke, but deep down Dad knew that at 15 years old, and with Emily gone, I was too young to play mother and full-time housewife. I needed to be back at school, but in order to do that he had to employ another housekeeper. The word went out and soon another woman knocked on our door. Her name was Elsie and she had the filthiest hands I’d ever seen. To this day, I still don’t know why he took her on; but he did. Dad was lonely, so within weeks they began a relationship and soon Elsie became the ruin of us all. Even though Dad had given her a generous allowance to buy food, Elsie bought everything on credit or ‘tick’, as we called it. The shopkeeper added our family name to a long list of people who also owed him money. Instead of using Dad’s housekeeping money, Elsie spent it on goodness knows what and landed us in debt, but her deceit didn’t stop there. One day, my favourite brown tweed coat vanished from the house. I was distraught because I’d always looked after my things, but it was nowhere to be seen. I asked Elsie and she just shrugged.

‘It’ll be wherever you left it,’ she snapped.

I hated her but Dad was desperate – he didn’t want me to miss any more time off, nor did he want to lose his job at the pit – so Elsie was the compromise. I didn’t want to rock the boat or make his life harder, so I kept my mouth shut but vowed to leave home as soon as I could. My chance came sooner than I’d anticipated. True to her word, Mrs Hargreaves from St John Ambulance had remembered my request to become a nurse and had already started to make enquiries on my behalf.

‘There’s a college in Huddersfield. I’ve put your name forward because they take nursing recruits from the age of 16.’

My face lit up. Mrs Hargreaves had watched me progress as a young cadet. I’d worked hard to get my certificates in first aid and I’d left school as head girl. She paid my fare and travelled with me, taking two buses and changing at Leeds, so I could attend my interview in Huddersfield. It was such a long journey that it took up half the day, but as soon as we arrived at nursing college I knew I’d done the right thing.

‘Tell me, why do you want to be a nurse, Joan?’ the matron asked. She was a shrewd woman in her early fifties, tall and thin – the type you could never hope to fool – and she frightened the life out of me. Her hair was covered in a stiffened white headdress, which she’d wrapped around her head at sharp angles, making her look a bit like a nun.

I twisted my hands nervously in my lap because I was unsure what to say. I spoke straight from my heart. ‘I want to look after people; it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I just want to make a difference.’

The matron nodded and glanced down at my application form in her hands. She tried to hide it but I noticed the small flicker of a smile play across her lips, and I knew I’d done well. A few weeks later, a letter confirmed it when I was offered a place on the year-long course. I was excited beyond words as I made plans to move to nursing college. Although I felt a pang of guilt at leaving Dad, Tony and Ann behind with the horrid Elsie, I knew I had to do it because nursing college would be my escape route to a better life, and I was determined to grab it with both hands.




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