Although I refused to get involved, I would have had to walk around with my eyes and ears closed not to pick up on the whispers of strike action at Hatfield. Despite a new government, two million manufacturing jobs had been lost over three years. Many blamed Margaret Thatcher. There’d almost been a pit strike in 1981, but it had been narrowly avoided. However, on 5 March 1984, following a government announcement that it intended to shut 20 coal mines, with the loss of 20,000 jobs, local strikes began at Cortonwood Colliery and other Yorkshire pits. Arthur Scargill, President of the National Union of Mineworkers (NUM), told the men that the government’s long-term plan was actually to close 70 pits, and he called a national strike on 12 March 1984. The miners, fearing their livelihood was about to be pulled from under their feet, staged a mass walkout across the country, including all the pits in South Yorkshire.
Early one morning, Eddie, a COSA member (Colliery Officials and Staff Association), was waiting to see me.
‘Hullo, Sister,’ Eddie said as soon as I stepped inside the door.
‘Hi,’ I replied, a little startled. It was early and I wasn’t expecting anyone to be there. ‘Is everything okay?’ I asked, looking at him. ‘Are you well?’
Eddie smiled and nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m quite okay, thanks, Sister. It’s not that. I’m here because I wondered how you were going to get into work tomorrow.’
I looked at him, a little bemused. No one had thought to ask me that question in years, not since my early days at Hatfield when the van would come to collect me.
‘Oh, I’ll probably cycle in,’ I said, pointing towards my bike, which was chained to the barrier outside.
‘Er, I don’t think that’s wise.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because tomorrow everyone’s going to be out – they won’t be in work.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said, turning back to face him as I undid the buttons of my overcoat.
‘It’s t’men, you see. They’re going on strike.’
‘Strike?’
‘Yes, so that’s why I was wondering how you’re gonna get in.’
I pushed a hand through my hair and tried to think. There’d been talk of it for ages – threats of a walk-out – but I’d dismissed it. Now it seemed I’d been wrong to.
‘All of them?’ I asked.
Eddie nodded. ‘So, how are you going to get in, then? Tomorrow, I mean?’
I thought of my options. I could drive but my car had been on the blink. Peter could run me in but I didn’t want to drag him out of bed early. If a bike was out of the question then I only had one other choice.
‘The bus,’ I replied. ‘I’ll catch the bus.’
Eddie shook his head.
‘Nah, I don’t think that’d be a good idea either,’ he said. ‘Things could get a bit … difficult, tomorrow. Listen, why don’t I bring you in? I’ll pick you up about 6 a.m.?’
‘Okay,’ I agreed, although little did I know what would happen.
The following morning, Eddie pulled up in his car outside my bungalow, as he’d promised. I ran out and climbed inside the passenger seat. I had butterflies in my stomach. As the car neared the top of the pit lane, I gasped. There were what seemed to be a hundred or so men waiting, and they appeared to be stopping vehicles from going in to the pit.
‘Blimey, you weren’t joking, were you?’ I said, turning to face Eddie before looking back at the hordes of men.
I recognised most of the faces because, over the years, I’d spoken to or treated each and every one of them. As we drew closer, a group of miners formed a semi-circle around us. Eddie wound down his window and the elder of the group stepped forward to greet him.
‘Nah then, where tha think tha’s going, Eddie?’
I’d never felt intimidated before, but for the first time in my life, sitting in that little car, I felt extremely vulnerable. Not that I thought any of the men would harm me. It was the sheer number that unnerved me.
‘We’re going in to work,’ he told the miner. ‘Me and t’sister,’ he said, pointing at me.
A dozen pairs of eyes swivelled to look in my general direction through the car windscreen. As they did, I slid down in the passenger seat, held up a hand and waved weakly back at them. The miner in charge considered me before turning his attentions back to Eddie.
‘Nah, you’re not, because COSA are on strike too.’
‘Since when?’ Eddie asked.
‘Since this morning – didn’t yer know?’
Eddie shook his head.
‘Ah well, that changes things then,’ Eddie said to the men. He shifted uneasily in his seat and turned towards me.
‘You’ll have to get out here, then, Sister,’ he said, ‘because I can’t cross t’picket line.’
‘You’re joking me!’ I shrieked.
I glanced out of the car window. There was a huge group of men crowded along the top of the pit lane. I knew I’d not only have to walk through them, but at least another hundred yards to reach the colliery yard. It was a dark and bitterly cold morning. Although the group had congregated at the top of the lane in a human bottleneck, there were others milling around in the shadows.
But Eddie had stopped listening.
‘Right, I’ll back up and park over there,’ he said, putting the gear stick into reverse.
‘But what about me?’ I asked.
‘Sorry, Sister, but if we’re out, we’re out. If you want to go in, then go,’ he said.
I sighed as I reluctantly climbed out of Eddie’s car and slammed the door. While I never allowed myself to get caught up with politics, a huge part of me agreed with their reasons for the strike. The miners deserved better. They worked long hours, often in dangerous conditions, so they deserved better wages, not pit closures. However, although I didn’t really understand all the reasons behind it, I thought the timing was a little odd. With spring just around the corner and summer fast approaching, people were already stacked up with coal, so there wouldn’t be as much demand. When it came to it, it didn’t matter what I thought because I was employed by the management and therefore forbidden to go on strike. If I had stood alongside my men, I would have lost my job – it was as pure and simple as that. Despite my reluctance on the other side of the fence, I reasoned that as long as I was on site, if anyone was injured either inside or outside the gates, then I’d be on hand to treat them.
‘Right, it looks as though I’m walking the rest of the way then,’ I huffed as I watched Eddie reverse his car out of the lane.
I smoothed down the hem of my coat, held my head high and began to walk down the darkened path towards the pit gates. Although I didn’t show it, inside I was scared stiff. Despite my position and the fact that I was heading into work, the miners at the top of the lane were courteous and let me pass without comment. I’d just reached halfway down when I heard voices – the sound of miners walking towards me in the darkness. Fear rose in the back of my throat. At first I wondered what they were doing coming out of the pit instead of standing at the top of the lane, and then it dawned on me: these were men who’d gone in for the early shift. But now they’d marched out, so that they could join the rest of their colleagues. It didn’t matter what the circumstances were, the miners were a united family and their loyalty knew no bounds.
‘Ay up, who’s this, then?’ a voice whispered in the darkness. ‘Someone’s walking in t’wrong direction.’
I gulped again. Deep down I was frightened because I didn’t know how the men would react to the fact that I’d crossed the picket line. Although they knew I’d had very little choice, some felt so passionate and angry about the strike that I was worried I’d set myself up as a target. Holding my head high, I focused on the pit as I tried to walk through the group of men.
‘Well, what have we got here, then?’ a miner said. He stood in front of me as the others crowded behind him.
My heart plummeted like a stone.
Was I in danger?
But I should have known – these were my men, men whose wounds I had tended, men whose marital problems I’d helped fix, men who had nothing but the utmost respect for me. Men who were also complete and utter wind-up merchants.
‘Shut your cakehole, John,’ another voice called out. ‘It’s Sister Hart.’
‘Yeah, you’re all right,’ another man said, laughing and jostling John out of the way. ‘It’s only Sister. I don’t reckon she’ll give us much trouble, eh, lads?’
The men began to laugh and parted in the middle to let me through.
‘You daft ’aperth,’ I smirked, pushing John out of the way.
In many ways the first day of the strike felt the worst. Normally, the colliery yard would be a bustling hive of activity, alive with laughter, jokes and friendly banter. The miners had been the beating heart of it all, but now they’d gone, and it all felt as broken and empty as a ghost town. I didn’t realise it then, but that moment, standing alone in the empty yard, was a premonition of what was to come. Unsure what to do, I wandered over towards the control room. Inside, it was packed with men who were all members of the British Association of Colliery Management (BACM). There’d always been a few other women on site, namely the secretary and canteen ladies, but most were members of COSA, and so they were on strike. For the first time, I was the only woman, and I’d never felt so alone.
Ken Deeming was seated, but when I entered the room he stood up to address us all.
‘Right, I want everyone to stay in here because we’re expecting trouble,’ he said. Eyes widened as we absorbed the news that we were under threat of an attack.
‘Is it safe? I mean, are we going to be okay?’ someone asked from the back of the room.
Mr Deeming looked over at him. ‘Yes, but I’ve taken the precaution of calling the police. They’re on their way.’
For the next hour or so, we sat there, feeling anxious, waiting for trouble. When it didn’t happen, I wondered if Mr Deeming’s information had been wrong. But at around 12.30 p.m. someone was looking through the window of the control room when they spotted something.
‘Hold on to your horses, everyone. Here they come!’ he cried.
I stood up and craned my neck. I saw what looked like a hundred men coming over the pit top, heading straight towards us. They were angry, their voices loud, shouting and chanting abuse at the managers inside the control room. A few rocks and bricks were thrown, and I automatically flinched and ducked down to protect myself. I heard the missiles thud as they smashed loudly against the outside wall. A few hit the windowpanes, showering the floor with glass, but thankfully they had metal bars against them, so no one was injured. Moments later, the local police arrived. They managed to control the crowd, and within half an hour the men had backed off. The anger simmered down and peace was restored outside, but fear remained inside the room. We stayed that way for the rest of the day.
Finally, Mr Deeming stood up to speak.
‘Nobody is allowed to leave the pit buildings,’ he said. ‘No one must walk about on the pit top. It’s for your own safety. We will all stay in the control room. We must stay together.’
His words would have sounded a little melodramatic before the stone-throwing incident, but now they rang true. Suddenly, it wasn’t safe, not any more. By mid-afternoon, trapped and unable to leave the colliery, we were absolutely starving. A call was made, and an hour or so later an NCB van arrived from Doncaster with a few plates of cheese sandwiches. The sandwiches had certainly seen better days.
‘Is this all they’ve got?’ I asked, picking up a slice of stale white bread between my fingers.
The van driver shrugged as though we were lucky to get them. But the sandwiches were so bad that everyone had lost their appetite. Then I remembered something – a small Breville toaster I had stashed away in a cupboard in the medical centre. One of the undermanagers escorted me as we ran the gauntlet to go and look for it. Luckily, we weren’t targeted. With a bit of heat, the curled-up sandwiches were soon transformed into heavenly cheese toasties – it’d been simple but effective, making the unpalatable palatable.
‘Hmmm, these are gorgeous,’ one of the men murmured, licking his lips and the tips of his fingers.
‘Hmmm, lovely,’ another agreed.
It was hardly cordon bleu, but it filled a hole in our stomachs.
The rest of the day passed without further incident, but the afternoon dragged by. I’d been due to leave the pit early, around 4 p.m., but the police advised us to stay a little longer, so I picked up the phone and called Peter at home.
‘I don’t know what time I’m going to get home because we’re trapped at the pit,’ I said.
‘Do you want me to come down and pick you up?’ he offered.
‘No, that’s the last thing I want. You should see it here. The top of the pit lane is like a madhouse – it’s bedlam. You keep away. Promise me that you won’t come down.’
‘Okay, I promise. And Joan …’
‘Yes.’
‘Promise me you’ll not do anything daft.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Okay, good. But how will you get home?’
‘Don’t you worry about me. I’ll sort something.’
And I did. In the end, one of the managers gave me a lift home at around 6 p.m. As we drove out I glanced back at the top of the pit lane as it disappeared off into the distance. The men were still at least a hundred strong, and for the first time in my life I’d felt intimidated by their presence. We’d already discussed how we’d get into work the following day, and a plan had been formed. Although it all seemed very cloak and dagger, I knew it was necessary because now everything had changed. Things would never be the same again.