At the Coalface: The memoir of a pit nurse

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.