‘Hello, Sister,’ Dr Macdonald called.
‘Hello, Doctor. I’ve brought the amputation kit,’ I shouted above the din as I held the bag aloft to show him.
‘Good. Are you all right?’
I nodded, although my heart was pounding with fear and adrenalin. My fingers trembled and the palm of my right hand was sweating as I clutched the handle of the surgical kit. It contained artery forceps, a tourniquet, sterile saw and knives of varying lengths. The thought of it alone made me sick with nerves, and I prayed that we wouldn’t have to use it.
We approached the banksman, who checked we were ready to go.
‘No flammables? No battery-operated devices?’ he asked as a matter of course.
Dr Macdonald and I shook our heads. We knew the safety drill. He opened up the cage and loaded us into it. We switched off our headlamps as he pulled down the chain-mail shutters, enveloping us in virtual darkness. I felt reassured by the blackness because I didn’t want Dr Macdonald to see the fear in my eyes. The cage rattled into life as we began our descent, hundreds of feet to the pit bottom below. Clouds of white steam billowed up around the edges, making it feel like a journey into the depths of hell.
‘What information do we have, Sister?’ Dr Macdonald asked.
I tried to remember what I’d just been told.
‘It’s a man, in his early twenties. He’d been riding on the conveyor belt at the end of his shift, but he didn’t manage to jump off in time. His leg got mangled in the machinery.’
‘Oh,’ replied Dr Macdonald, his voice cutting through the darkness.
‘It’s an amputation,’ I continued, ‘though I still don’t know if it’s partial or complete. The deputy and first aiders are with him now.’
Moments later, the cage shuddered and chains rattled as we came to a halt – we’d reached the pit bottom.
‘Ready, Sister?’ Dr Macdonald asked. He switched his headlamp back on and my face was illuminated in a circle of golden light.
I reached out a hand and switched on my lamp too. The white circle of light waltzed around on the pit wall opposite.
‘Ready,’ I replied as we stepped out of the cage.
Suddenly a face loomed into view. It was the onsetter.
‘The paddy train is waiting to take you inbye to district.’
I took a deep breath and climbed on board. As the train trundled off into the darkness I wondered what would be waiting to greet us at our destination.
1
The boat was unsteady as it floated along the street. Inside the house my mother was huffing and panting as her contractions quickened with every minute.
‘Where’s the bloody midwife?’ she screamed – her cries so loud that the neighbours heard every word.
Moments later, a small rowing boat bobbed outside.
‘Hang on, I’ll fetch the ladder,’ my father called down from a bedroom window at the top of the house.
The midwife clambered out of the boat and placed an uncertain foot onto the ladder. The rungs felt slippy and unsure beneath her feet as her eyes darted nervously to the filthy brown water swirling below.
‘I’ll grab your hand when you reach the top,’ Dad promised. He didn’t care what it took to get her in; he just wanted her to hurry up.
A large bag dangled precariously from her arm as she climbed upwards, one rung at a time. My father was waiting to greet her. With one arm around her shoulder and the other to steady her, he helped the midwife climb in through the open bedroom window.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he gasped, smoothing a hand through his hair. His face was fraught with worry as his eyes signalled over towards the bed where my mother lay.
‘I think the baby’s on its way.’
The midwife nodded dutifully, took off her overcoat and rolled up her sleeves. I’d caused them all quite a lot of fuss, apparently, but less than an hour later I emerged naked and blinking against the harsh light of the world.
‘It’s a girl!’ the midwife announced, wrapping me in a clean sheet. ‘Congratulations.’
My dad later told me how he’d sighed with relief while my auntie Lucy had cleaned up. Meanwhile, Mum had sobbed quietly in the bed, glad it was over. I’d entered the world on 18 May 1932 and, true to form, I’d done it in quite a style. I was born in Bentley, a little pit village situated on the outskirts of Doncaster, South Yorkshire. The village was also near the River Don, which had a habit of flooding every time we suffered a heavy bout of rain, and May 1932 had been no exception. Rain it did, until floodwater had engulfed the entire village, including the residents and their terraced houses. The flooding was so severe that a boat service had to be brought in to transport the good people of Bentley in and out of the village, including the poor midwife.
Dad had been travelling to his job at Bentley Colliery in the same boat, day in, day out, for over a week. My father was a miner, but as soon as he discovered Mum was pregnant with me he took his deputy papers so he could become an overman, to bring in a better wage. Soon he’d passed his exams and moved to Brodsworth pit, where he was in charge of over 1,000 miners working the afternoon shift. Back then, Brodsworth was the biggest pit in Doncaster, employing thousands of men.
Standing at 6 feet 2 inches tall, my father was a gentle giant, but his solid stature gave him an air of authority and the men knew better than to mess with him. He had thick mousy-brown hair and he was incredibly handsome. My mother, on the other hand, was small and attractive, with natural red hair, which I’d inherited. She also saw herself as quite the little lady. But with a fractious baby and a house that constantly flooded, Mum was at her wits’ end and threatened to drown me in the River Don just to shut me up, so Dad found us another house in a village called Woodlands. With a father in a good job and a stay-at-home mum, in many ways my life was idyllic. I was followed by a brother, Tony, just seven years later. Tony was a real screamer. One day, Mum, who was frazzled through lack of sleep, accidentally dropped his baby bottle. Back then, bottles were banana shaped with big ugly rubber teats at each end. They were also made of glass, so Tony’s bottle smashed to smithereens as soon as it hit the floor.
‘No!’ she cried as she looked at the scattered pieces of glass.
Exasperated, she opened up her purse, handed me some pennies and told me to go straight to the chemist to buy another so she could feed the baby. The only problem was that, although it was April, it was bitterly cold and it’d been snowing heavily all week. The 10-minute walk to the village shop took me almost half an hour as I battled knee-deep through the snow, both there and back. Tony was a typical boy, and as long as he got fed he was happy. Our sister Ann was born three years later, so, as the eldest, I constantly ran errands for Mum. Every couple of days I’d be given enough money to buy a block of fresh yeast from the local baker. I loved the smell of the bakery, but more than that, I loved the taste of fresh yeast. The yeast looked pretty unappetising in a grey square lump, but curiosity made me crumble the edge of a corner off it one day. As soon as I put it inside my mouth it started to foam and I was hooked.
‘Mmmm, lovely,’ I sighed, breaking off another piece and hoping my mother wouldn’t notice.
All my friends preferred sweets but I loved to nibble yeast. After a while, though, the crumbled block raised suspicion. Mum twigged what I was doing and forbade me to eat it ever again.
‘It’ll upset your stomach!’ she snapped, but I didn’t care.
As we grew, Mother settled into her role as the lady