Peter had undergone his first heart bypass in 1974, but his health had continued to deteriorate. It reached the point where I worried about him constantly; I knew that, in time, he’d need another operation to prolong his life. In many ways, it felt as though we were living on borrowed time, but I also knew that, with his advancing years – he’d just celebrated his sixtieth birthday – a second operation could kill him.
Things had changed at work too. Michael Heseltine had announced that many pits would shut. Some of the older miners took voluntary redundancy to try to preserve the jobs of their sons and grandsons. Divisive character though he was, Arthur Scargill had been right about the sweeping pit closures all along.
With Peter’s health worsening, I knew I needed to be at home more. Peter insisted that I’d be bored stiff, but when I was offered voluntary redundancy from the pit I decided to take it. It was 1988 and I was 56 years old. I’d worked at Hatfield for 14 years. I loved my job, so I felt saddened to be leaving. But the strike had changed everything, and the bitterness from it had had a lasting effect on Hatfield. The trust between the men and management had been broken and nothing could fix it – not even time. Things were different, and somehow I could no longer find my place, so I left the job that I’d loved and cherished. Of course, once the men heard, they all made a tremendous fuss of me. They clubbed together and bought me a padded, flowery sunlounger so that I could relax, although I had no plans to sit still. On my last day, dozens of men called in at the medical centre to say goodbye.
‘We’re gonna miss yer, Sister,’ one said, gripping me in a big bear hug.
‘Yer right there, she’s a grand lass,’ another piped up from the back of the room.
It meant the world to me.
Sadly, Ken Deeming had transferred to another pit, so the new pit manager called me into his office to present me with a bouquet of flowers. I struggled to compose myself as I glanced down at the beautiful flowers in my hands, but before I could speak there was a knock at the door – it was the deputy.
‘Can you come downstairs for a moment, Sister Hart?’ he asked.
I was a little bemused as I followed him downstairs into one of the boardrooms. As he opened the door, a huge cheer erupted from inside.
‘Surprise!’
‘Well, you didn’t think we’d let you leave without a party, did you?’ the deputy grinned, giving me a wink.
The room was packed with people wanting to give me a good send-off, and they’d even laid on a small buffet. It was a kind gesture and it touched me greatly. It also seemed a fitting end to my working life at Hatfield. Even though I was sad to leave, I’d not been the first, which had convinced me that I was doing the right thing – it was time to go.
However, I underestimated the impact both the loss of my job and old way of life would have on me, because, initially, I found it hard to adjust to my new position as a practice nurse at a doctors’ surgery. Moving from an all-male working environment to a quaint public-service position was a huge shock to the system. My role had reversed overnight – instead of advising men, I now offered advice on smear tests and hysterectomies. I’d worked at the surgery for a few years when the doctor called me into her room for a chat.
‘I’d like you to read this smear test and let me know what you think,’ she said, handing me a piece of paper.
I studied it thoroughly before making my diagnosis.
‘Well, she’ll obviously need a hysterectomy because these results are bordering on first-stage cancer,’ I concluded. ‘I can have a chat with her, if you like?’
‘Joan,’ the GP said, gesturing for me to sit down. ‘Read the name at the top of it. It’s you, Joan. These are your test results.’
‘Oh,’ I gasped.
I’d previously had a couple of suspect smears but, other than a cone biopsy, I’d not needed any further treatment. However, now my results told an entirely different story – I needed a full hysterectomy.
‘You need to look after yourself,’ the GP insisted.
I tried not to worry. Even though it was in the early stages, it was still a shock. For the first time in my life, I was the one who needed looking after. I underwent a full hysterectomy at the start of 1990. Everyone had warned Peter that I’d be depressed after surgery, so he secretly booked a coach tour of America and Canada to cheer me up. A few months later, we flew into New York City, where we boarded a bus and began our tour. It was an action-packed trip and we didn’t stay more than two nights in one place.
I noticed how exhausted and out of breath Peter had become, so, on our return three weeks later, I booked him in to see the heart specialist. He’d become so breathless that the doctor ordered various scans and tests at the Northern General Hospital in Sheffield, where he’d had the original surgery. The tests concluded that the original bypass grafts in Peter’s heart had broken down. Unfortunately, the consultant’s list was full and we weren’t sure how long Peter could wait, so, rather than risk his life, we decided to have the operation done privately. The bypass cost us thousands of pounds, but I knew I couldn’t put a price on Peter’s life.
He underwent heart surgery at the Thornbury Hospital in Sheffield, which undoubtedly saved his life. But this time, although the techniques used had been more refined, Peter was older so it took him longer to recover. After the operation, he developed a large hernia in his chest cavity because he’d been cut open so many times. Even though the doctors repaired it, Peter’s health continued to worsen. Despite my round-the-clock care, he suffered permanent chest infections. Then he began to have trouble with the circulation in his legs, where the veins had been removed and attached to his mammary artery to keep his heart pumping. Despite everything, Peter rallied on. We rented a flat in Bridlington, which we used for our summer holidays because he wasn’t well enough to travel abroad.
I continued to work at the doctors’ practice in Stainforth. It was only a few miles from home, so I was able to nip back at a moment’s notice. I’d often pop home to check that Peter had everything he needed. In many ways it felt like I was holding down two jobs. In spite of the pressure at home I grew to love my role as a practice nurse.
The surgery set up a new clinic, visiting and caring for the over-75s in their own homes. The irony wasn’t lost on me because by now I was 60 years old, and my patients called me the ‘wrinkly nurse’. I had 600 patients on my books and I’d visit them all at home once a year to check on their needs. This ranged from chiropody or a new walking stick, to a home help or a wet room. I’d also keep a regular check on their blood pressure because most of them had problems but didn’t like to bother the doctor. I carried out memory tests for Alzheimer’s disease, and even helped a few fill in attendance-allowance benefit forms to ensure that they received everything they were entitled to.
I loved my job and my patients, so I was upset one day when I encountered a problem. I’d been visiting a family, but every time I arrived their son would refuse to leave his parents alone with me. He was rude and became verbally aggressive, so I left the house to report him to the doctor. I was just heading to the front gate when his elderly mother caught up behind me.
‘Nurse Joan, please don’t go,’ she begged.
‘I’m sorry, but I won’t tolerate being spoken to like that.’ I glanced back at the house and her son, who was scowling from the doorway.
I was just about to leave when the lady explained that the reason her son had been so abusive was because he was convinced I wanted to take his parents away and put them in a care home. I couldn’t believe it. I’d spent my whole life trying to help, not hinder family life. But the son, it seemed, had an attitude problem and was well known for it in the village. Everyone, even his parents, lived in his shadow.
A few weeks later I visited an elderly man in a remote farmhouse. His son greeted me outside as I pulled up in my car.
‘Ay up, Nurse,’ he called, lifting his flat cap in greeting. ‘He’s waiting inside for yer.’
‘Rightio,’ I replied.
I grabbed my bag, knocked on the door, and entered to find the pensioner sat in a threadbare old armchair. He was wearing a flat cap and had his trusty walking stick propped up at his side. As soon as I walked in, the old farmer looked up momentarily, before turning away.
‘What does tha want?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Well,’ I said, putting my bag on the floor. ‘It’s not what I want – it’s what you want and need.’
But the man seemed wary.
‘Like what?’ he said.
‘Like, who cuts your toenails, for starters?’ I said, pointing at his feet.
‘Son. He does ’em, every now and again.’
‘Okay,’ I nodded. ‘But would you like a chiropodist to come and do them properly for you?’
The old man sniffed, clearly unmoved by my offer of help.
‘How much?’ he grunted.
‘Nothing. It’s free.’
He looked up at me, making eye contact for the first time.
‘Right, I’ll have him.’
As we chatted, he explained that his hearing aid had also broken.
‘No problem. I’ll arrange for someone to come out from Doncaster to fix or replace it.’
‘How much?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh, right. I’ll have that too.’
By the end of the day I’d organised a chiropodist, a new walking stick, a new hearing aid and I’d even got him pushed up to the top of the cataract operation list.
The following year, I returned once more to find him sitting in the same chair, wearing his flat cap, only this time with a new walking stick at his side.
‘What does tha want now?’ he grumbled.
‘Nothing, I just wanted to see that you’re okay.’
The old man looked up.
‘But what does tha want?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. I’ve come to see what you want or need.’
The old farmer took off his flat cap and scratched his bald head with the tips of his fingers. ‘Well, tha can go then. I dunt need owt ’cos I’ve had it all, so tha needn’t come and bother me any more.’
I didn’t take any offence. Yorkshire men are blunt by nature, so I was used to it. I’d also been toughened up by my days working at the pit. As soon as I climbed inside my car, I started to laugh, and I didn’t stop until I’d reached my next patient.
Another man was similar. He too lived in a remote house in the middle of nowhere, but, unlike the other chap’s, his house was filthy. After much discussion, his daughter moved him into a spotless granny flat. She even allowed him to bring some of his old furniture with him. When I arrived, the flat was clean but his hands and feet were filthy. As soon as I nipped into the bathroom I realised why – the whole bathtub was full to the brim with coal.
‘Why on earth is your bath full of coal?’ I asked.
The man shrugged his shoulders as though it should be obvious.
‘So I don’t run out, of course,’ he said.
He would’ve had a point, if it wasn’t for the fact that he had a gas fire.
Inside the front room, dozens of seed boxes had been scattered on the carpet, tables and every available surface. He’d water the plants religiously, not caring if he soaked the carpet through. In truth, the flat was absolutely stunning, but he treated it like a garden.
‘It’s too posh,’ he grumbled. ‘I preferred it back home.’
I didn’t know what to say or where to start. The place would’ve been stunning if not for him and his plants. I could only imagine his daughter’s frustration, but there was little I could do other than offer advice. I told him it’d be far better to store his coal outside.
‘No, it’s all right where it is.’
He was a stubborn old goat, so I knew I was fighting a losing battle. I got up to leave.
‘’Ere,’ he said, suddenly getting to his feet as he rooted about in the front room. ‘I’ve got something for yer.’
‘Oh,’ I said, turning back, ‘that’s kind. What is it?’
With that, he turned and handed me two enormous cauliflowers. We later ate one for our tea – it was absolutely delicious.
With Peter’s health worsening, I retired from the doctors’ practice at the age of 62. It was finally time for the ‘wrinkly nurse’ to call it a day.
Four years later, during Christmas 1998, Peter, who was now 70, caught the flu. When he failed to recover in the New Year, I insisted that something was wrong, but the GP wouldn’t listen. I demanded that Peter be referred to the cardiologist at Doncaster Royal Infirmary who had treated him as a private patient.
‘Well,’ the doctor replied, ‘if that’s what you want, then I suggest you ask him yourself.’
So I did. I picked up the phone and rang his wife, who told me her husband would call at our house on his way to the hospital. He took one look at Peter, and within the hour he had my husband admitted to the coronary care unit because his heart wasn’t beating properly.
Sadly, Peter never came home. I sat with him every single day for three weeks as his life ebbed away. I’d arrive at 12.30 p.m. and not leave until 8 p.m., during which time I’d wash and change him. I didn’t want the other nurses to do it because he was my husband and I’d always been his nurse. One day, I received a call from the hospital, asking me to come quickly because Peter was gravely ill. I ran to Ernie’s house because I was in far too much of a state to drive myself there. Although we reached the hospital in double-quick time, Peter had already died. His body was placed in a quiet side ward, beside a little table with a candle and bible on it. Often, in moments like this – and I’d witnessed it many times over the years – the deceased loved ones are in shock. I certainly was.
‘You’ll have to give him some more pillows,’ I said. ‘He can’t lie down flat, you know, because he won’t be able to get his breath.’
Even though the nurse knew me well, she was gentle and professional.
‘I don’t think he needs pillows any more, Joan,’ she said softly.
And that’s when it hit me. Peter had gone. I was so crippled with grief that Ernie drove me home and telephoned Ann, who arrived shortly afterwards.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, numb with grief. I pointed towards a carrier bag in her hand.
‘It’s a sleeping bag. I’m here for as long as you need me.’
It felt good to have my family around me, but after a few days I knew I needed to be on my own.
‘I understand,’ Ann said, giving me a hug. ‘But you know where I am if you need me.’
I nodded gratefully, but I had to face it – life without Peter. I needed time and space to grieve alone. He was, without doubt, the love of my life, and I still miss him every single day. The bungalow we’d bought together suddenly seemed empty without him. Before he was admitted to hospital, Peter hadn’t been able to get to the supermarket, so I’d fetch the shopping and he’d put it away. It was his job and he loved it because it’d made him feel useful. After he was gone, I’d go through the motions of buying and bringing the shopping home. I’d place the bags on the side, but I couldn’t even empty them; instead, I’d leave the house – my loss so acute in that one small task. The shopping would remain until I’d mustered up enough courage to unpack it.
I even stopped walking through the village. Everyone knew Peter and word had spread about his death. I simply couldn’t face people. Instead, I’d drive to the supermarket, so that no one could stop and offer their condolences. It was a particularly horrible and lonely time. Only after his funeral was I slowly able to accept the fact that Peter had gone.
A few months later, I was sorting through a box full of old papers when I stumbled upon an envelope containing two small pieces of Barnsley Bright coal. It’s the finest coal you can buy and is used by the Royal household. Peter brought it out of Brodsworth Colliery on an underground visit there in 1956.
That afternoon, I cried, not only for my husband, but for my father too. I wept for all the boys I’d known at school, the generations who’d devoted their lives to working down the pit. I sobbed for the communities and their residents whose lives had been ripped apart by the bitter year-long strike. But most of all, I wept for the lives that had been divided by that same bitterness. Villages had been decimated when the pits had shut – the hearts ripped out of both the community and those living within them. There had once been camaraderie, and the village working men’s clubs had been the central hub of it all. They had teams for everything, be it darts, snooker, football or even cards – there was always something for everyone. But all that slowly disappeared. Afterwards, those same villages fell to pieces. The whole sense of community vanished and there was nothing to replace it. Life would never be the same again because the coal mines had gone for ever.
Many years later, I joined a writers’ group where I met a man called Brian Gray, and we became good friends. We had lots in common because Brian had once been a miner. One day, Brian handed me a poem he’d written after the pits had shut. When I read it, I almost cried because, to me, it summed up perfectly the hopelessness we’d felt when the pits had gone and were no more.
GONE
A Miner’s Poem by Brian Gray
The darkness and the grime,
The heat and dirt, and the slime,
GONE.
The laughter, the mates, and the hot canteen,
The showers, the lockers, and the scrubbing clean,
GONE.
The dust, the bile, and the smell that makes you ill,
The face, the gate, and the roof that can kill,
GONE.
The union, the strikes, and the rage,
The defeat, the humiliation, the wage,
GONE.
The deputy, the overman, and the boss,
The union man who was always at a loss,
GONE.
The certainty, the dignity, and the grit,
The friendship, the community, the pit,
GONE.