At the Coalface: The memoir of a pit nurse

His question jolted me because I hadn’t expected it. At first I wasn’t sure what to do, but I told myself that he was no longer a patient so what harm could it do?

‘Er, that’s fine,’ I agreed.

‘Great. Here’s my number, if you want to call me.’

I took his number but I never got to go on the date. I didn’t even make the call because, just days later, his mother was on the phone to Sister calling me all the names under the sun.

‘She’s corrupted my boy! She’s shaved him downstairs and now she wants to go on a date with him!’

I was duly summoned to Sister’s office, where I was asked to explain myself. Thankfully, Sister was sympathetic and nodded throughout. She was a natural blonde so knew what it was like to be me.

‘It’s the hair,’ she remarked. ‘People remember you. His mother certainly did because she told me she didn’t want “that red-haired bitch” going anywhere near her son!’

I clasped a horrified hand to my chest – I was absolutely mortified.

‘But he asked me out, not the other way around,’ I protested.

‘I know, but I also think he became a little bit infatuated with you after you shaved him down below. So I think it’s best all round if you decline his offer, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Sister.’

She was right about the hair; it was a total hindrance.

One day, I’d accompanied Matron and the consultant on his ward rounds. The doctor examined a man who’d been having trouble with his hearing, and, after a few moments, he turned to me.

‘Nurse, I need an auroscope.’

I nodded and went towards the office at the back of the ward. I returned clutching the morning paper, but Matron and the doctor looked at me a little baffled.

‘What’s this?’ the consultant asked as I handed over the newspaper.

‘Today’s horoscopes … in the paper?’ I muttered, realising in a split second that I’d just dropped another clanger.

He tried his best not to laugh but I could see that he was having great difficulty. It was a good job he saw the funny side because Matron’s face looked like thunder – she was absolutely furious with me for showing her up.

‘I want to make him better, Nurse, not tell his future!’ the doctor chuckled.

I felt myself blush as he walked away.

The night shifts were long and sometimes seemed never-ending. Often, a few of us would wander down to an open-air swimming pool in White City to get a bit of fresh air. One day, I was with two colleagues when a chap named Peter came over to talk to us. He was tallish, around 5 feet 10 inches, with jet-black hair slicked back. He also wore glasses, which I thought made him look terribly sophisticated. He told us he was there with a friend called Bob who had a good job working for an oil company in Kuwait. Peter seemed keen on my friend, a beautiful brunette called ‘Jimmy’ James. I never did find out her Christian name because she insisted that everyone call her ‘Jimmy’ for short. Meanwhile, Bob was sweet on Jo, a blonde, so I was the redheaded gooseberry in between the four lovebirds. One day, Bob asked if we’d like to go to a lido in Ruislip. I wasn’t keen because I knew I’d be the odd one out, but Jimmy and Jo were so excited that I agreed to tag along. However, I soon became bored so I decided to burn the hairs off the legs of the men with a cigarette just to get them to move.

‘Ouch!’ Peter said, patting the scorched skin of his leg. It made me smile.

I wasn’t a total lost cause because I had a sweetheart of my own, an American Air Force photographer called Bill. Mum had a holiday home down on the coast in Hastings, and that’s where I’d arrange to meet Bill. He’d bring me coffee and endless supplies of stockings, but in London I was all alone. The five of us went out a few times but eventually Jimmy dumped Peter for a Guards officer, so one day we found ourselves thrown together. I secretly liked Peter because he was different to everyone else. He was strong-willed and knew his own mind. He also refused to be swayed by others, and I admired that in a man. However, it also meant that we always ended up doing what he wanted to do.

‘Let’s go to the pub,’ he suggested one afternoon as we strolled past one.

‘No, I don’t really drink,’ I explained.

‘Oh, that’s a shame. You’d better wait outside for me, then,’ he replied, before heading inside the door.

I was so headstrong and independent that I wasn’t used to having a man tell me what to do, so his manner had shocked me. But I also quite liked the fact that he was authoritative and good-looking, so I let it go and followed him inside.

‘Why do you wear glasses? Are you short-sighted?’ I asked as we sat down at a table with our drinks.

Peter adjusted his glasses and began to explain.

‘No, when I was a baby I had a problem with one of my eyes – it turned inwards. I had it corrected but it didn’t work, so now I only have limited vision in it. Although this one,’ he said, pointing towards his left eye, ‘is absolutely perfect!’

I loved Peter’s honesty and found his uncomplicated view on life totally refreshing. But Mum wasn’t as keen. They were both strong characters, with big personalities to match, so they constantly clashed.

‘He’s an arrogant bastard!’ she muttered underneath her breath one evening – loud enough for me to hear.

At that time, Peter was a qualified plumber working for the council, but Mum had always wanted me to marry a doctor, so she thought he was beneath me. To make matters worse, Peter’s mum didn’t like me very much either, so we had a battle on our hands just to stay together as the mum-in-laws plotted and planned to split us up.

‘I wish we could get away from here,’ I sighed as we sat together in the pub.

I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Peter, and he with me, too, but the constant nagging and interference from both sides had put a strain on our relationship. Instead, we tried to stay out as much as possible. We’d go to the pictures, for drinks, or we’d simply take our bikes and cycle alongside the River Thames. Peter was a football fanatic, a QPR supporter. He lived close to their ground so he’d go down there every Saturday. In the evening, we’d go out for dinner – usually a fish restaurant because it was his favourite. Sometimes we’d take a picnic and meet up with our friends Bert and Joan. The four of us would take a bus to Uxbridge, which had wide-open spaces where Peter and I were able to kick off our shoes, run barefoot through the grass and relax in the sunshine – anything to stay out of our mothers’ ways.

As it got closer to my SRN (State Registered Nurse) exams, Peter tried to help me revise. He’d look through the textbook and fire questions at me. Over the months, he’d become so knowledgeable about all things medical that I’m certain he knew just as much as I did.

‘You’d make as good a nurse as me!’ I teased, throwing a cushion at him.

‘Well, I’ve got the legs,’ he laughed, flashing me an ankle.

As my twenty-first birthday drew close, Peter decided that I should start saving up.

‘Just a few bits … for your bottom drawer,’ he suggested.

‘Was that a marriage proposal?’ I gasped.

Peter arched one eyebrow. ‘Well, maybe I should get you a ring first?’

I tried not to laugh. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his neck and gave him a kiss. Peter wasn’t the type to go in for the full bended-knee marriage-proposal bit, so this was as good as it got.

‘All right, I do!’

We visited an old-fashioned jeweller on Uxbridge Road, where Peter spent £8 – a fifth of his monthly wage – on a single solitaire diamond ring. We were officially engaged on 23 February 1953, but we didn’t have a party because we couldn’t afford one. When he finally slipped the ring on my wedding finger I was so happy, I thought I would burst. I passed my SRN in June 1953, and 18 months later I married my beloved Peter the week before Christmas, on 18 December 1954. We were wed at St Luke’s church in Shepherd’s Bush. I bought my wedding dress from Shepherd’s Bush market for £5 and 5 shillings. The veil and headdress cost me a further £3, but I didn’t care.

Throughout the year I’d saved up enough to line my bottom drawer with things for our new home, but none more prized than a beautiful crystal fruit-bowl set. It comprised one big bowl and six smaller ones, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Every time Peter and I had an argument, his mother insisted he claim back some of our ‘bottom drawer’ goods, just in case. But more importantly, she’d always tell him to take back the fruit-bowl set. That set of bowls travelled constantly between Peter’s mother and me, so much so that, by the time we’d married, there was only one small bowl left because all the others had been smashed.

We lived in rooms above Mum’s flat, which was a big mistake; they were cramped quarters and the walls were paper-thin, so she heard every word. She tried her best to split us up. She bickered and constantly had a go at Peter. She’d ask him to bring up coal from the yard below to light the fire. He hated being told what to do so he’d refuse and dig his heels in, which only served to infuriate her even more. In the end, I’d collect the coal for a quiet life.

‘But it’s a man’s job. You shouldn’t be doing that – he should!’ Mum protested. I simply couldn’t win.

Peter’s mum was also meddling but in a much more subtle way. If she knew I was cooking his dinner she’d go out of her way to invite him over, cook a meal and turn on the TV to delay him further. We didn’t own a TV so, inevitably, I’d be sitting at home for him in front of a stone-cold dinner for two. I’d simmer away with anger, waiting to explode. The outside influence took its toll and eventually I decided enough was enough. I was 22 years old but, in many ways, I felt as though my life was already over. I loved Peter with all my heart. He’d supported me during my nursing exams and had always been my rock and shoulder to cry on when I’d had a tough day at work, but his meddling mother had made our relationship impossible.

By this time, my father had started a relationship with a widow, an old family friend called Polly. She was a wonderful woman and she loved and cared for my siblings as though they were her own. But just as Dad had started to move on with his life, mine had stalled to a halt. Polly had three children: Val, who was the same age as me; Harry, her eldest who’d already left home; and her youngest child, Meryl, who was the same age as Tony. It meant there was no room for me, but I wrote to Dad and Polly to tell them how unhappy I was in London.