One morning, I decided to carry out another pit inspection. By now, I was inspecting the first-aid boxes at least once a month. I wanted to check that the morphine had been safely locked away. This was kept separate to the first-aid box and was accessed using a key held by the underground first-aid team, with a copy of it held by me. I also needed to make sure that the stretchers and blankets were in good order. These were kept at regular intervals in the pit in case of an emergency. They were held inside 6-foot-long cylinders, which were fixed onto the wall with brackets. The stretcher and accompanying blanket would be folded into it, but they weren’t locked and had a lid that could be opened by anyone. At one end there was a smaller box, which also contained bandages and slings, in case of emergency.
As my visits had become more frequent, the Safety Department had decided that they couldn’t keep sparing someone to guide me underground, so I was told to use one of my three first-aid men. I was with one of the first aiders that morning as we followed lots of miners about to start their morning shift to the shaft side. It was a dark, cold morning, and it was busy with lads chatting and putting out their last smoke in the yard as they headed towards the cage. By the time we’d reached it, the banksman was in a bad mood. He was usually such a chatty bloke, but that morning he was gruff and seemed a little stressed.
‘Right, you lot, line up so I can check you,’ he barked.
The men groaned but did as they were told, so I took my place towards the back of the queue, behind a miner but in front of my guide. Slowly, the banksman worked his way along the line, checking each and every man for contraband cigarettes. It was strictly forbidden for the men to smoke underground because of possible leaks of natural gas, so it was important that no one tried to sneak any ciggies down.
‘Next,’ he called as the man two in front of me stepped forward. He frisked him expertly, checking his pockets before declaring him okay to travel.
‘Next,’ he called again, without even looking up.
When it came to my turn, I expected him to just wave me through as he’d done many times before, but today he seemed determined and frisked me as thoroughly as the rest of the miners. Without warning, he put a hand around my chest and near the front of my pelvis, checking for hidden pockets.
Whoa, careful, sunshine! I thought as I fixed him with a hard stare, but he didn’t even look up as my body stiffened beneath his touch. I’d never been frisked like that before, so I was a little dumbstruck, to say the least. As I glanced around, I noticed the men looked surprised too. Nevertheless, I was checked and sent on my way with the rest of the group. As I travelled down in the cage, I thought how odd it’d been.
Maybe he suspected me too? I wondered.
I put the thought to the back of my mind and busied myself, checking the first-aid boxes and blankets. To my surprise, a few blankets were missing, four in total. I decided to replace them, although, underneath my calm nursing exterior, I was fuming.
‘I can’t believe it,’ I remarked to Stewart, one of the first aiders and my guide for the day. He was equally disgusted by the ‘theft’.
‘How bad is that?’ he said, shaking his head in despair.
I was still muttering away about it as the cage approached ground level and I stepped out into the yard. As I did, the red-faced banksman was waiting to greet me.
‘Er, Sister, can I have a word, please?’ he asked a little sheepishly, beckoning me away from the men.
I followed him over.
‘I think I owe you an apology,’ he began, looking awkward. He fixed his eyes downwards on the tips of his steel-capped pit boots.
‘Why?’ I asked, my mind still full of the missing blankets.
‘Because I frisked you. I mean, I frisked you, like the men. I’m sorry, Sister, but I was stressed out, and I didn’t realise it was you. I thought you were one of t’lads.’
I smiled as I remembered earlier. Of course, he’d mixed me up with the miners. It all made sense now. But the more I thought about it, the more I wasn’t sure whether to thank him or slap him! I had my name written across the front of my helmet in bloody big capital letters – wasn’t it clear I was a woman?
‘It’s okay, no harm done,’ I said, smiling graciously through gritted teeth.
‘It’s not that, Sister. It’s just I have to watch these buggers. They’re sods for trying to sneak stuff down there, so I have to keep me wits about me. There’s 10 men after me job and, if I don’t watch it, one of the sneaky buggers will set me up to fail,’ he said, his face colouring.
‘Don’t worry, it’s forgotten,’ I insisted.
As soon as I reached the confines of the medical centre I began to see the funny side and started to laugh. The banksman had been mortified by his actions, but I was beginning to get used to the miners and their funny ways of doing things.
I replaced the missing blankets but, a month later, when I carried out my next routine check, I found they were missing again. It made my blood boil because this wasn’t someone being sloppy and not putting them back – we actually had a thief on our hands. The blankets were vital in the case of emergency, especially if we had a stretcher case or if a miner had suffered shock. The blanket thief must have been pretty desperate to steal the very thing that could make the world of difference to themselves or one of their colleagues in the event of an accident. As I wondered what to do, the door of the medical centre opened and Bill walked in.
‘You’ll never guess what,’ I began.
Bill shook his head. ‘What?’
‘Someone’s only gone and stolen the emergency blankets again.’
Bill’s mouth fell open. ‘Yer joking me?’ he gasped. Bill had worked there for years and he thought he’d seen it all, but this was a new low.
‘I’m not. And, if I catch who’s done it, I’ll … I’ll …’
To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I’d do because I was so angry that a miner could put his colleagues in danger. Instead, I decided to put pen to paper and write the thief a note:
To Whom It May Concern,
I am concerned about the stretcher blankets, which have been going missing. If any man thinks he is more entitled to a blanket than a man who has been seriously injured, then he should call in at the medical centre where I will give him a blanket for free, so he will leave the blankets in their rightful place – the stretcher container.
Sister Hart
I put down my pen and read it back to myself.
‘Do you think it’s a bit strong?’ I asked Bill.
He took the note from my hand and read it.
‘No, gie o’er. It says exactly what it needs to say. It’s bang on, that,’ Bill said, prodding the note with his finger. ‘Let’s just hope it pricks someone’s conscience.’
I took the notice, copied it out two more times, and pinned one up in the lamp cabin, the checks office and finally on the wall at the dirty end of the showers. I needed to ensure that every miner read it. A few days later, Bill had some news.
‘I’ve just been in t’waiting room and guess what I’ve found.’
I looked up from the paperwork on my desk. ‘Go on, surprise me.’
‘Four stretcher blankets, all clean and neatly folded. Someone’s left ’em in there, just inside t’door.’
‘Never!’
Bill nodded. ‘It’s true! Come on, come and have a look if you don’t believe me.’
I got up from my chair and wandered over towards the door. Bill was right.
‘So, the note, it worked then?’ I said.
‘Looks like it, Sister.’
The blankets had been returned to their rightful place. I realised then that all the miners looked out for one another, and when the thief, whoever he was, realised the knock-on effect his actions would have on his colleagues, his conscience got the better of him. I felt satisfied that the note had appealed to his better nature.
A couple of weeks later, I was in the medical centre when one of the pit deputies knocked at the door.
‘Hi, what can I do for you?’ I asked, showing him through to the treatment room.
‘It’s me finger, Sister,’ he said, holding up the offending digit to show me. ‘I’ve trapped it and got mesen a black nail.’
Black nails were a common injury down the pit as miners were always getting their fingers caught and trapped in the dark.
‘No problem,’ I told him. ‘We’ll soon have you sorted.’
Normally, a black fingernail is caused by the build-up of blood behind the nail. They look terrible and are extremely painful. Usually, I’d ease the pressure by heating up a paperclip and popping the nail to release the blood and pressure. But I’d just taken delivery of a new and better tool to do the job – a small, sharp drill.
‘I’ve got just the thing. I’ve been dying to use it. It’s brand new, so you’ll be the first to try it,’ I said, taking the new equipment out of its sterile packaging, the enthusiasm rising in my voice.
‘Erm …’ the deputy said, wincing as soon as he saw it. ‘Actually, it’s not too bad, Sister. It’s not that painful. I think I’ll just …’
He turned towards the door.
‘Nonsense. It’ll only take a mo, and we’ll soon have you sorted. Now,’ I said, grabbing his hand in mine, ‘just put your finger on the table and hold still.’
The miner was standing to the side of me as I positioned his index finger flat on top of the work surface.
‘Just put your hand on there like that,’ I said, holding it still as I started up the drill. It immediately fired into life, making a shrill, whizzing noise, similar to the sound heard in a dentist’s surgery.
I was so busy looking at the deputy’s finger that when I felt his weight slouch against me, I became annoyed.
‘Could you stop leaning on me?’
But the more I drilled, the more he leaned, until soon I could feel his whole body weight against me. The deputy was a big man, standing around 6 feet tall and weighing 13 stone, so his weight was knocking the accuracy of my drilling. In fact, the more I drilled, the more I felt him, until he’d almost knocked me off my feet.
‘For goodness’ sake, will you stop leaning against me!’ I snapped. ‘It’s hard enough as it is without you …’
As I let go of his hand and turned to face him, he slid straight to the floor, as delicate and as graceful as a ballet dancer. He’d passed out, but only for a matter of minutes.
Bill, who’d been using the toilet next door, heard the commotion and came running in. He saw the deputy lifeless on the floor, and for a moment he looked at me as though I’d killed him!
‘He’s passed out!’ I exclaimed, putting the drill down on the side. ‘Here, help me sit him up.’ I hooked my arm under the deputy’s armpit for leverage.
Once we’d checked him over to make sure it had been nothing more sinister, we propped him against the wall where he finally started to come around.
‘What happened?’ he asked, dazed and slightly confused.
‘You passed out.’
He looked up, blinked and, for a moment, took in his surroundings, trying to register where he was. He rubbed his eyes but flinched as he remembered the pain in his finger. He held out his right hand and looked down anxiously at his fingernail.
‘It’s all right, I’ve finished the drilling,’ I reassured him. ‘I think it was the noise that set you off.’
The deputy shook his head. ‘Bluddy ’ell, I feel such a fool.’
‘Don’t. You’re not a fool. If anyone’s a fool here, it’s me. I thought you were leaning on me!’
His eyes widened as I explained what had happened, and then his face slowly began to colour with humiliation. Despite our protests, the mortified deputy clambered to his feet, but he staggered as his big, heavy frame tried to regain its balance.
‘You won’t, er, tell anyone, will you?’ he begged.
Bill and I looked at one another. ‘Course not,’ I replied. ‘But what I would like you to do is to sit back down so that I can check your blood pressure.’
After a normal reading, I asked him to sit and wait for five minutes longer before leaving the medical centre.
‘How’s the finger?’ I asked as he finally got up to leave.
‘It’s much better, Sister. Ta very much.’
True to our word, Bill and I never told a soul. The deputy was in charge of 1,000 or so men. Miners are a tough breed, and he knew he couldn’t run the risk of them finding out; otherwise, his image would’ve been shot to pieces.
If I’d thought I’d seen everything then I was wrong. A month or so later, I had a phone call to say the first aiders were bringing a miner out on a stretcher.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ I asked the deputy in charge.
‘Well, I don’t really know what to say …’ he began, sounding a little flustered.
‘Listen, I’m a nurse,’ I said, shaking my head in frustration. ‘There’s nothing you can say that will shock me, so you might as well just tell me straight.’
I heard the deputy clear his throat and then he spoke. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you as it’s been told to me. The man has got, er, well, he’s got three balls,’ he said. There was a pause as he waited for my reaction.
‘Three what?’ I exclaimed, thinking I’d misheard him.
‘Er, um, he’s got three balls. That’s it. I don’t know any more, Sister, so don’t ask me. Anyroad, they’ll be there with you soon.’ And with that he hung up, leaving me with the dial tone. I turned the telephone receiver in my hand, looking at it as though it had just bitten me, before dropping it back in its cradle.
Three balls? Had he really just said that? Surely I’d misheard him. I’d been a nurse for years. I had lots of experience in different hospital wards but I’d never, in my whole nursing career, seen a man with three testicles before!
Moments later, I heard the sound of footsteps. I stood up and waited for the patient as four stretcher-bearers brought him in.
‘Put him over there,’ I said, indicating towards the trestle legs. I knew I needed to examine him. I looked at his face, which was contorted with pain while his whole body writhed. I washed my hands – we didn’t wear rubber gloves at that time – and as I turned around I noticed that the stretcher-bearers were still standing there.
‘Is everything all right?’ I asked, half expecting them to furnish me with more medical information.
No one spoke. Instead, they all looked a bit shifty, although it was clear that they had no intention of leaving.
‘You can go now,’ I instructed. No one moved, so I repeated myself: ‘I said you can go.’
One of them glanced across at the others with an awkward look on his face.
‘Er, it’s just we’ve never seen a fella with three balls before, Sister, and we really wanted to see it,’ he mumbled.
I shook my head in annoyance. ‘Well, you’re not going to, either. So just go,’ I said, raising my voice and pointing towards the exit.
I shooed them out of the medical centre, slamming the door behind them before beginning my examination. It transpired that the miner had recently undergone a vasectomy but had returned to work too soon after the operation, so he was still carrying a lot of excess fluid in his testicles. Not only were they causing him great pain, they were also extremely swollen, giving the appearance of three, not two, ‘balls’, as the deputy had put it. Other than administer painkillers, I wasn’t sure what to do, so I telephoned the village doctor, who also happened to be the miner’s GP.
‘Hello, it’s Sister Hart from Hatfield pit. I wonder if you could look at a patient as an urgent case for me. The ambulance will bring him over to you.’
‘Yes, of course, Sister,’ the doctor replied. ‘Now, what seems to be the problem?’
I scratched my head and looked at the telephone receiver in my hand. Where should I start? I remembered the awkwardness of the deputy and decided to take my lead from him.
‘Well, it’s like this. I’ll tell you exactly as it was told to me. I have a patient here who has three testicles …’
Thankfully, the doctor realised that the man’s discomfort had been related to his vasectomy and signed him off work for a long time.
Afterwards, I made it my mission to introduce myself to all the doctors in the surrounding area, should I ever need to speak to them about any miners who were their patients. Also, I wanted to let them know that I was able to perform nursing tasks. With the GPs’ permission, this included everything from syringing ears and taking out stitches to checking blood pressure, changing dressings and giving out diet advice. It not only eased the burden on the doctors’ waiting lists, it also saved the miner taking valuable time off work and allowed him to keep his wage packet full.
There was a main practice in Hatfield village, which had six doctors, and another single practitioner in the village of Stainforth. However, my first port of call in an emergency was Dr Macdonald, the Chief Medical Officer with the National Coal Board, who was based at Doncaster, although the doctor who usually came was Dr Walters. He was based at Hatfield surgery and knew all the men at the pit.
But there were some things doctors couldn’t help with. By now the men were used to seeing me, as my inspections and underground visits had increased to once a fortnight. I’d often venture underground to collect water samples to test its purity to ensure the men weren’t exposed to anything that might cause a nasty skin rash. If a miner did develop a reaction working underground, I’d send samples off to be tested to see what we were dealing with so that he could be treated accordingly. Once we were infested by a plague of red mites, which had travelled underground in a pile of timber. The mites became a nuisance when they crawled into the men’s socks and bit them on their ankles, leaving them both swollen and sore. In the end, they became such a problem that we had to call in pest control.
Hatfield pit stretched all the way underground to Thorne, a village situated 4 miles away. Thorne was our egress, or escape route, if ever needed. I walked over there a few times, taking a series of tunnels and walkways, some of which ran underneath the canal. It was strange that hundreds of feet above daily life continued, with canal boats and barges sailing tranquilly over our heads. I tried not to think of them or all the water the canal held.
As soon as the men smelled my perfume lingering in the dank air, they’d put on their clothes and mind their language, but by now I was used to them and they to me.
‘Oh, fucking ’ell,’ a man cursed one afternoon when I was out and about on my usual inspection. He turned and, to his horror, spotted me lurking in the background.
‘Sorry, Sister Hart. I didn’t see yer there,’ he apologised.
I could tell the miner was mortified but there really was no need.
‘Listen, you don’t have to apologise and, as much as I appreciate it, I’m the visitor here. I’m in your world; you’re not in mine, okay?’ I said.
The miner and his colleagues looked astonished and nodded their heads respectfully as I passed by and carried on further down into the pit.
Some of the men had suffered heart attacks while working underground. Whenever I was presented with someone suffering from chest pains, I’d err on the side of caution and send them straight to the hospital. However, when a man struggled to breathe underground, if it wasn’t a heart attack, it was usually one of two things – an asthma or panic attack. Most panic attacks occurred among the young trainees, who’d followed their fathers and grandfathers down the pit. Often, the panic attacks would lessen with the passage of time as they got used to their working environment, but often, even with all the will in the world, some couldn’t overcome their deep-rooted fears. There was one young cadet in particular, called Jim, who had a panic attack every time he went underground. The noise and dirt were bad enough, but the cold, damp earth and general claustrophobia of working in such a confined space were enough to set him off. After it had happened several times, I realised what was wrong. Jim came to me because he was frightened, but he was even more terrified of telling his father.
‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’ I said, after I’d carried out a routine examination on him.
‘No, I’m not,’ Jim replied, a little too defensively. I knew that being scared wasn’t in a miner’s vocabulary, and Jim realised he had the good family name to uphold.
‘It’s okay to be scared,’ I said gently. ‘This kind of work isn’t suited to everyone – there’s no shame in it.’
As Jim glanced down at his feet, I realised I’d hit the nail on the head.
‘I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I come down with you and see how you get on? That way I’ll know for sure if it’s what we call a panic attack, or not.’
Jim agreed. To be honest, I think he was just relieved to have someone with him. But as soon as we entered the cage his whole body tensed up and his breathing became shallow and erratic. By the time we reached the bottom he’d managed to calm himself down, but once we got to the spot where he was to work panic rose once more.
‘How much longer have I got, Sister?’
I glanced at my watch in the beam of my headlamp.
‘Another 20 minutes yet, Jim,’ I replied. As soon as he heard, his breathing became erratic and his body tensed. The thought of spending 20 more minutes down there was too much for the poor lad.
‘How much longer?’ he asked moments later as he began to gasp for air.
‘I’ll tell you what, Jim. I reckon I should take you back up now, don’t you?’
Jim nodded – the relief evident on his face. It was clear that this cadet was quite unsuitable to work underground. He was not only a danger to himself, but to others around him. As soon as we stepped back into the cage, Jim calmed down and his breathing slowed to a normal pace.
‘Go and get yourself changed, while I have a word with the manager,’ I said.
Jim did as he was told and I went to look for Eddie Smith, the personnel manager.
‘The poor lad’s having panic attacks underground,’ I explained in Eddie’s office. ‘You need to find him a job on the pit top.’
Eddie listened and agreed to set Jim on as a trainee electrician. When I later told him the good news, Jim was over the moon.
‘Thanks, Sister Hart – you’re a diamond!’
Jim thrived in his new job and, to my knowledge, he never suffered another panic attack at work again. Despite his initial worries, even his dad took the news well. As long as Jim was okay, that was all that mattered.
After a while, I started to notice a breakthrough. While the pit and its miners were known for their tough stance and no-nonsense male attitude, there were certain things that needed a delicate touch – namely female advice. Despite having so many doctors on call, there were some things no amount of medicine could ever hope to cure, and soon I was holding impromptu meetings underground – a kind of pit marriage-guidance service. One day, I was walking around underground when a miner approached me in the darkness. The small white dot of light on his helmet grew bigger as he got nearer. Soon he was so close that I could see the blackness of coal dust against his skin marking out the whites of his eyes.
‘Er, could I have a word, if you’ve got a minute, Sister?’
I ushered the miner to one side, away from his colleagues.
‘It’s the wife,’ he began, trying to find the right words. ‘We’ve been falling out, see. She’s fed up of me working these long hours. We’ve been having some almighty rows, and she says if I can’t sort out me shift patterns, then …’ His voice trailed off to a whisper as he checked behind his shoulder to make sure that no one was listening. ‘It’s just … I reckon she’s gonna leave us if I don’t get something sorted, and I don’t know what to do. I mean, I have to work, otherwise she’d be complaining we didn’t have enough money,’ he mumbled as he picked at his fingernails.
‘I see,’ I told him, and I did.
The pressures on the miners were great. Not only was the work physically demanding, it also needed nerves of steel to do it, day in, day out. On top of this, they also had to balance some kind of family life, which often added to the pressure.
‘Listen,’ I suggested. ‘I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll have a word. See if I can get you on a decent shift pattern for the next few months. Leave it with me and I promise I’ll try my best.’
I spoke to management and got the miner’s shift patterns changed so that he could spend more time at home. Word must have spread because, after that, other miners came to speak with me underground. We would speak underneath the chocks (hydraulic roof supports), where the gob (waste) had been thrown; it was noisy here, so no one was able to hear. This seemed to relax the men. They felt more comfortable in their own environment, as though the cloak of darkness protected them from any awkwardness they might feel outside on the pit top.
In the blackness, they spoke to me about marital problems and other worries. This counselling pattern continued as more miners sought my advice. The more night shifts a man worked, the more he fretted about his wife straying or having an affair. Most of the time, it didn’t happen, but on a few occasions I like to think that my interaction helped save a few marriages. I’d ask if the worried miner would be able to work day shifts instead. The miners came to trust me because they knew everything would be treated in the strictest confidence.
One day, an older man called Arthur approached. I could tell that something was on his mind, and I knew he’d already been marked out by management because he’d taken so much time off work. They were baffled because his record had always been exemplary, with not a day off sick. Something in his personal circumstances had changed and I needed to find out what was wrong. In the end, Arthur came to see me because he’d reached breaking point.
‘Can I have a word, please?’ Arthur asked.
‘Of course, come over here,’ I said, ushering him to the side, away from the others. ‘What’s wrong?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, it’s kind of private,’ he said.
‘That’s not a problem because everything you tell me is confidential.’
Arthur wrung his hands together for comfort as he spoke. ‘I’m in trouble, see, for taking so much time off work. But it’s not me, it’s the wife. I mean, she’s sick. She’s got cancer, and, well …’ he said, casting his face downwards, ‘the truth is, I’m really struggling to cope wi’ it all.’
My heart went out to Arthur. He looked broken. He’d been getting it in the neck from his deputy, when the only reason he’d been missing his shifts was because he was trying to help nurse a sick wife.
‘Oh, Arthur,’ I said, placing a gentle hand on his arm.
He blinked back his emotions, trying to keep them in check.
‘Its breast cancer, Sister Hart. I’m frightened to leave her at home on her own and come to work, but, at the same time, I’m worried about taking more time off work cos I can’t afford to lose me job, either.’
I nodded. I understood completely.
‘You need some support, Arthur,’ I said. ‘You need specialist help. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do.’
Arthur looked up at me, his face and body a bundle of stress and worry.
‘Would you really do that, for me?’ he asked.
‘Of course I would,’ I replied. ‘Now, give me your wife’s name, and your home address, and I’ll see what I can do to help.’
With Arthur’s blessing, I spoke to the personnel manager and asked that his shifts be arranged to accommodate his wife’s hospital appointments. Arthur and his wife, Jane, lived 6 miles away from Hatfield, so I rang his doctor’s surgery and spoke with the practice nurse. I organised for a nurse to go in on a regular basis to visit Jane while she underwent both chemo- and radiotherapy. I left a note pinned to Arthur’s pit lamp, asking him to call in at the medical centre to see me so that I could tell him what I’d arranged.
‘Really?’ Arthur gasped. ‘You’ve done all that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The surgery will be in touch to arrange suitable times when they can come in and check on Jane, which should take some of the pressure off. You see, I can do something about this. I hate seeing you struggle on your own, and it’s daft because you don’t have to. That’s what I’m here for. Now, if there’s anything else, all you have to do is come and see me. My door is always open.’
‘Thank you, Sister Hart,’ Arthur replied. I noticed that he had tears in his eyes but he blinked them away because crying wasn’t something a miner did, not even in front of a nurse.
Jane was only in her forties, and the couple had a young daughter. The chemotherapy had robbed her of her hair, but Jane retained her fighting spirit. Even though she wasn’t on my official list, I often travelled over to their house to check on her.
‘I don’t know what I’d have done wi’out you, Sister Hart. You’re an angel, d’you know that?’ she said, clutching my hand in hers as we sat sharing a cup of tea at the kitchen table.
By now, Jane wasn’t so much a patient as she was a friend, and just because she didn’t work at the pit, it didn’t make a jot of difference. The nurse in me had just answered their call for help and I like to think that I made their lives just that little bit easier. So, two years later, when Jane sadly passed away, I felt the pain because I’d lost a good friend. I attended her funeral with Eddie, the personnel manager. I didn’t see Arthur very much after that, as he tried to rebuild his life and bring up his child single-handedly, but I was told he left the pit and moved with his daughter back to his native North East.
Shortly after Arthur left, another miner who’d also lost his wife to cancer and had a young daughter arrived at the medical centre. His name was Fred and he had a favour to ask.
‘What is it, Fred?’ I said, looking up from my desk. He looked so upset and worried that I wondered for a moment what was wrong.
‘It’s our Sally,’ he said, referring to his only daughter.
‘What’s the matter? Is she unwell?’ I stopped what I was doing and rested my pen down on the desk.
Fred fiddled with the cap in his hands. He circled it round and round between his fingers as he struggled to find the right words.
‘No, she’s very well, thank you, Sister. It’s nowt like that …’
‘So what is it, Fred?’
‘Well, it’s just our Sally’s almost 13. It’s her birthday coming up soon,’ he said, looking awkward. I noticed his face blush as he spoke. ‘And … well, I expect she’ll be starting wi’ her periods soon and … well, erm … I don’t really know what I should tell her.’
Fred’s voice crumbled as he said the word ‘period’. I could tell that he was finding this conversation beyond excruciating.
‘Ah, I see,’ I said as the penny dropped. ‘So do you want me to have a word with her?’
‘Oh, would you, Sister?’ Fred sighed, the relief obvious as he looked at me for the first time. ‘I mean, I’ve got sisters and all, but the thing is, how I see it, wi’ Sally not having a mum around, well, I just thought she’d be better off talking to a nurse.’
‘Fred, honestly, it’s fine. Just bring her to see me when you come in to collect your wages.’
Fred nodded, placed his hat upon his head and left the medical centre. He was so relieved that his footsteps seemed far lighter leaving than they’d been when he’d first walked in. Back then, lots of miners would bring their children in with them on Friday afternoon when they collected their wages, so I knew Sally wouldn’t think anything of it or look out of place. Sure enough, a few days later Fred knocked at the door.
‘Ah, Fred – hello. Come in. Hi, Sally,’ I called when I saw her standing shyly behind her father.
‘Listen, Sister, I’ve got a few things to sort out over there,’ Fred said, giving me a knowing wink. It was so obvious that it made me cringe. ‘So is it okay if I leave our Sally wi’ you for a bit while I go and sort ’em out?’
‘Sure, no problem,’ I smiled, playing along with the ruse.
Sally was relaxed and none the wiser as we sat down and began to chat away.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your mum.’
Her face crumpled a little, and for a moment I thought she might cry.
‘Your dad, well, he’s so proud of you, did you know that?’ I said handing her a tissue, just in case.
Sally looked up from her chair and smiled.
‘So, how old are you now? You’re looking so grown-up.’
‘I’m 12, but I’m gonna be 13 soon,’ she said proudly, sitting up in her chair. ‘My birthday’s only a few weeks away.’
I slowly turned the conversation around and eventually asked whether she’d started her periods. Sally shook her head. She told me she’d heard of them from girls at school, but other than that, she knew very little. I began to explain what would happen to her body and what she should expect. If anything, by the time I’d finished, she seemed relieved by our chat.
‘It must be difficult for you, not having anyone to talk to,’ I guessed correctly.
Sally shrugged and nodded her head.
‘I was once just like you. My mother wasn’t around and I didn’t have anyone to talk to about this kind of stuff either, so I know what you’re going through. That’s why, if you ever need anyone to talk to, then you know where I am.’
‘Yes, Sister,’ she answered. ‘Thanks.’
‘Anyway, I don’t want you to worry about it because your aunties will help out and buy you stuff, so you won’t even have to ask your dad.’
Sally smiled. ‘I wanted to ask him, Sister, but I was too embarrassed, so it’s been really good to talk to you.’
I could tell by the look on her face that the weight of the world had just been lifted off her young shoulders.
Moments later, there was a tap at the door. I opened it to find Fred standing there.
‘Sorry about that, Sister. I got held up. Is everything all right?’ he said, peering around the edge of the door.
Sally and I shared a secret smile.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘She’s been as good as gold; we’ve just been having a nice chat, haven’t we?’
Sally nodded and grinned.
‘Anyway, I’ll see you soon … and Sally,’ I said, calling after her. The young girl stopped in her tracks and turned to face me. ‘You’re welcome here any time you want, even if it’s just for a chat. You know where I am. Just give me a call first to check I’m here, okay?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘And thanks, Sister. I will.’
‘No problem. Now you both mind how you go,’ I said, turning my attentions to a pile of forms on my desk.
‘Bye, Sister Hart,’ Fred called.
‘Bye.’
After the door had closed I allowed myself a little smile. I’d only done a small thing, but I knew it was something that had made a world of difference to Sally’s life. It was exactly the sort of thing I’d chosen to become a nurse for.