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

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      ‘She’s new to this sort of thing,’ warned another, ‘but don’t worry, son, if anything drops off and falls on the floor, we’ll pick it up for you.’

      With that, the whole ward dissolved into fits of laughter. More comments followed but I held my nerve and tried to get on with the job in hand, namely shaving the poor lad’s private parts. I tried not to look at him as the razor shook in my trembling hand. He flushed bright red and pulled the pillow out from underneath his head and covered his face with it. I wasn’t sure if it was through embarrassment or downright fear! It took a little longer than expected, but eventually he was as smooth as a newborn babe.

      ‘Thanks, Nurse,’ he offered, smiling weakly as I popped the razor back into the bowl and covered him up with the bed sheet.

      ‘You’re welcome,’ I replied, blushing a little.

      As I drew the curtain, the metal rings scraped against the metal pole, signalling that I’d finished. The rest of the ward looked up and it started all over again. I walked out to a series of catcalls and light teasing.

      ‘Look, Arthur, she’s blushing!’

      ‘No, I’m not. Now go to sleep. You’re supposed to be ill!’ I laughed, pretending to scold them.

      The young lad had his operation, and a week later he was ready to leave hospital. Before he did, he beckoned me over.

      ‘I just wondered if you’d like to go out with me some time, on a date or something,’ he asked nervously.

      His question jolted me because I hadn’t expected it. At first I wasn’t sure what to do, but I told myself that he was no longer a patient so what harm could it do?

      ‘Er, that’s fine,’ I agreed.

      ‘Great. Here’s my number, if you want to call me.’

      I took his number but I never got to go on the date. I didn’t even make the call because, just days later, his mother was on the phone to Sister calling me all the names under the sun.

      ‘She’s corrupted my boy! She’s shaved him downstairs and now she wants to go on a date with him!’

      I was duly summoned to Sister’s office, where I was asked to explain myself. Thankfully, Sister was sympathetic and nodded throughout. She was a natural blonde so knew what it was like to be me.

      ‘It’s the hair,’ she remarked. ‘People remember you. His mother certainly did because she told me she didn’t want “that red-haired bitch” going anywhere near her son!’

      I clasped a horrified hand to my chest – I was absolutely mortified.

      ‘But he asked me out, not the other way around,’ I protested.

      ‘I know, but I also think he became a little bit infatuated with you after you shaved him down below. So I think it’s best all round if you decline his offer, don’t you?’

      ‘Yes, Sister.’

      She was right about the hair; it was a total hindrance.

      One day, I’d accompanied Matron and the consultant on his ward rounds. The doctor examined a man who’d been having trouble with his hearing, and, after a few moments, he turned to me.

      ‘Nurse, I need an auroscope.’

      I nodded and went towards the office at the back of the ward. I returned clutching the morning paper, but Matron and the doctor looked at me a little baffled.

      ‘What’s this?’ the consultant asked as I handed over the newspaper.

      ‘Today’s horoscopes … in the paper?’ I muttered, realising in a split second that I’d just dropped another clanger.

      He tried his best not to laugh but I could see that he was having great difficulty. It was a good job he saw the funny side because Matron’s face looked like thunder – she was absolutely furious with me for showing her up.

      ‘I want to make him better, Nurse, not tell his future!’ the doctor chuckled.

      I felt myself blush as he walked away.

      The night shifts were long and sometimes seemed never-ending. Often, a few of us would wander down to an open-air swimming pool in White City to get a bit of fresh air. One day, I was with two colleagues when a chap named Peter came over to talk to us. He was tallish, around 5 feet 10 inches, with jet-black hair slicked back. He also wore glasses, which I thought made him look terribly sophisticated. He told us he was there with a friend called Bob who had a good job working for an oil company in Kuwait. Peter seemed keen on my friend, a beautiful brunette called ‘Jimmy’ James. I never did find out her Christian name because she insisted that everyone call her ‘Jimmy’ for short. Meanwhile, Bob was sweet on Jo, a blonde, so I was the redheaded gooseberry in between the four lovebirds. One day, Bob asked if we’d like to go to a lido in Ruislip. I wasn’t keen because I knew I’d be the odd one out, but Jimmy and Jo were so excited that I agreed to tag along. However, I soon became bored so I decided to burn the hairs off the legs of the men with a cigarette just to get them to move.

      ‘Ouch!’ Peter said, patting the scorched skin of his leg. It made me smile.

      I wasn’t a total lost cause because I had a sweetheart of my own, an American Air Force photographer called Bill. Mum had a holiday home down on the coast in Hastings, and that’s where I’d arrange to meet Bill. He’d bring me coffee and endless supplies of stockings, but in London I was all alone. The five of us went out a few times but eventually Jimmy dumped Peter for a Guards officer, so one day we found ourselves thrown together. I secretly liked Peter because he was different to everyone else. He was strong-willed and knew his own mind. He also refused to be swayed by others, and I admired that in a man. However, it also meant that we always ended up doing what he wanted to do.

      ‘Let’s go to the pub,’ he suggested one afternoon as we strolled past one.

      ‘No, I don’t really drink,’ I explained.

      ‘Oh, that’s a shame. You’d better wait outside for me, then,’ he replied, before heading inside the door.

      I was so headstrong and independent that I wasn’t used to having a man tell me what to do, so his manner had shocked me. But I also quite liked the fact that he was authoritative and good-looking, so I let it go and followed him inside.

      ‘Why do you wear glasses? Are you short-sighted?’ I asked as we sat down at a table with our drinks.

      Peter adjusted his glasses and began to explain.

      ‘No, when I was a baby I had a problem with one of my eyes – it turned inwards. I had it corrected but it didn’t work, so now I only have limited vision in it. Although this one,’ he said, pointing towards his left eye, ‘is absolutely perfect!’

      I loved Peter’s honesty and found his uncomplicated view on life totally refreshing. But Mum wasn’t as keen. They were both strong characters, with big personalities to match, so they constantly clashed.

      ‘He’s an arrogant bastard!’ she muttered underneath her breath one evening – loud enough for me to hear.

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