At the Coalface: The memoir of a pit nurse. Veronica Clark

some of my own.

      ‘Here,’ I said, spooning out a foul concoction – a special mixture of peppermint, sal volatile (smelling salts) and kaolin. It was one I used specially on time-wasters.

      The medicine was thick and white, and it tasted disgusting. I knew it wouldn’t do him any harm, only make him feel a little queasy. If he hadn’t felt sick before, he certainly would now. It seemed to do the trick because he never came to see me with stomach pains ever again.

      Dad was a great source of information whenever I was in doubt. I knew I was lucky to have him there. My father was wise, firm – but fair – and he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Also, he’d never, ever ask his men to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. The miners knew this, so they respected him, and in turn they came to respect me.

      One day, my father was complaining he couldn’t hear very well.

      ‘Must be old age,’ he grumbled, putting his index finger inside his ear, ringing it around in frustration.

      ‘Come over to the medical centre so I can have a proper look,’ I shouted back at him. It was true; he’d slowly become as deaf as a post.

      Once inside the medical centre, I took out my auroscope – I knew what this was by now after my embarrassing newspaper débâcle – and had a proper look. I immediately knew what was wrong.

      ‘You’re not going deaf, Dad. It’s your ears – they’re full of coal dust. You just need to have them syringed.’

      But the thought of me sticking a big needle into his ears made him reel back in his chair.

      ‘Whaaaat?’

      I stifled a giggle.

      ‘Don’t worry. It’s not as painful as it sounds. I just need to pop some olive oil inside your ears for a week, and when you come back I’ll syringe it out.’

      ‘Will it help with my hearing?’ he asked dubiously.

      ‘Absolutely. When I’m done, you’ll have ears like a bat!’ I grinned, before grabbing a small bottle of olive oil and some pads of cotton wool to start the procedure.

      Sure enough, he was back in the chair a week later as I syringed the muck from his ears. As soon as I’d finished a wide smile broke across his face.

      ‘Bluddy ’ell, Joan, it’s a miracle! I can hear everything. Tha’ sounds as clear as a bell!’

      I tried not to laugh. Secretly, I was delighted my father had allowed me to treat him. But not as delighted as he’d been, because he told everyone about me and my miracle cure for deafness. At first the men had been suspicious of me and my fancy new ways, but now my father was living proof that I knew exactly what I was doing. I could and would work wonders for them too. Soon I had a queue of men at my door, all waiting for my ‘miracle treatment’.

      ‘I’d like you all to go and see your doctor first, get him to check your ears, ask for a note and then come back to see me.’

      I needed a doctor to check the men first to ensure that they didn’t have any underlying conditions. Days later, hordes of big burly miners dropped in one by one clutching their consent forms. A week later, when the first batch of men had been successfully syringed, they told their colleagues, and so word began to spread. One day, I arrived at the medical centre to find more than twenty miners queued up outside the door. Soon there was so much demand that I had to hold a special Saturday clinic to keep up with it. I didn’t mind coming in for a few hours on my day off. The fact that I was slowly winning the trust of the men was more important to me. But it wasn’t just ears I treated. One day, I was syringing a man’s ears when he mentioned that he also had a bad back.