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

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СКАЧАТЬ mum didn’t like me very much either, so we had a battle on our hands just to stay together as the mum-in-laws plotted and planned to split us up.

      ‘I wish we could get away from here,’ I sighed as we sat together in the pub.

      I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Peter, and he with me, too, but the constant nagging and interference from both sides had put a strain on our relationship. Instead, we tried to stay out as much as possible. We’d go to the pictures, for drinks, or we’d simply take our bikes and cycle alongside the River Thames. Peter was a football fanatic, a QPR supporter. He lived close to their ground so he’d go down there every Saturday. In the evening, we’d go out for dinner – usually a fish restaurant because it was his favourite. Sometimes we’d take a picnic and meet up with our friends Bert and Joan. The four of us would take a bus to Uxbridge, which had wide-open spaces where Peter and I were able to kick off our shoes, run barefoot through the grass and relax in the sunshine – anything to stay out of our mothers’ ways.

      As it got closer to my SRN (State Registered Nurse) exams, Peter tried to help me revise. He’d look through the textbook and fire questions at me. Over the months, he’d become so knowledgeable about all things medical that I’m certain he knew just as much as I did.

      ‘You’d make as good a nurse as me!’ I teased, throwing a cushion at him.

      ‘Well, I’ve got the legs,’ he laughed, flashing me an ankle.

      As my twenty-first birthday drew close, Peter decided that I should start saving up.

      ‘Just a few bits … for your bottom drawer,’ he suggested.

      ‘Was that a marriage proposal?’ I gasped.

      Peter arched one eyebrow. ‘Well, maybe I should get you a ring first?’

      I tried not to laugh. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his neck and gave him a kiss. Peter wasn’t the type to go in for the full bended-knee marriage-proposal bit, so this was as good as it got.

      ‘All right, I do!’

      We visited an old-fashioned jeweller on Uxbridge Road, where Peter spent £8 – a fifth of his monthly wage – on a single solitaire diamond ring. We were officially engaged on 23 February 1953, but we didn’t have a party because we couldn’t afford one. When he finally slipped the ring on my wedding finger I was so happy, I thought I would burst. I passed my SRN in June 1953, and 18 months later I married my beloved Peter the week before Christmas, on 18 December 1954. We were wed at St Luke’s church in Shepherd’s Bush. I bought my wedding dress from Shepherd’s Bush market for £5 and 5 shillings. The veil and headdress cost me a further £3, but I didn’t care.

      Throughout the year I’d saved up enough to line my bottom drawer with things for our new home, but none more prized than a beautiful crystal fruit-bowl set. It comprised one big bowl and six smaller ones, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Every time Peter and I had an argument, his mother insisted he claim back some of our ‘bottom drawer’ goods, just in case. But more importantly, she’d always tell him to take back the fruit-bowl set. That set of bowls travelled constantly between Peter’s mother and me, so much so that, by the time we’d married, there was only one small bowl left because all the others had been smashed.

      We lived in rooms above Mum’s flat, which was a big mistake; they were cramped quarters and the walls were paper-thin, so she heard every word. She tried her best to split us up. She bickered and constantly had a go at Peter. She’d ask him to bring up coal from the yard below to light the fire. He hated being told what to do so he’d refuse and dig his heels in, which only served to infuriate her even more. In the end, I’d collect the coal for a quiet life.

      ‘But it’s a man’s job. You shouldn’t be doing that – he should!’ Mum protested. I simply couldn’t win.

      Peter’s mum was also meddling but in a much more subtle way. If she knew I was cooking his dinner she’d go out of her way to invite him over, cook a meal and turn on the TV to delay him further. We didn’t own a TV so, inevitably, I’d be sitting at home for him in front of a stone-cold dinner for two. I’d simmer away with anger, waiting to explode. The outside influence took its toll and eventually I decided enough was enough. I was 22 years old but, in many ways, I felt as though my life was already over. I loved Peter with all my heart. He’d supported me during my nursing exams and had always been my rock and shoulder to cry on when I’d had a tough day at work, but his meddling mother had made our relationship impossible.

      By this time, my father had started a relationship with a widow, an old family friend called Polly. She was a wonderful woman and she loved and cared for my siblings as though they were her own. But just as Dad had started to move on with his life, mine had stalled to a halt. Polly had three children: Val, who was the same age as me; Harry, her eldest who’d already left home; and her youngest child, Meryl, who was the same age as Tony. It meant there was no room for me, but I wrote to Dad and Polly to tell them how unhappy I was in London.

      Maybe it’s time to come back home, Dad wrote in reply.

      It made perfect sense. I loved Peter but he constantly argued with Mum and she’d retaliate. Neither of them would back down and I’d had enough. I bought a train ticket and travelled back to Yorkshire to visit Dad and Polly.

      ‘You’ve lived Peter’s way of life so perhaps it’s time he tried your way of life for a change,’ my father suggested.

      I nodded my head because it was true. I was utterly miserable living in rooms above Mum, with Peter’s mother constantly sticking her nose into our business. Each week it seemed as though the gulf between us had grown wider. My father was right; paradoxically, the only way to save my marriage was to leave Peter and return to Yorkshire.

4

       Going Home

      I went to see my doctor, who told me in no uncertain terms that I was so stressed out that I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I felt it too. Mum was always arguing with Peter over nothing. He refused to kowtow to her, so we lived in a permanent stalemate with me caught in the middle. Secretly, I’d started applying for jobs in Doncaster to see what came up, although I never told a soul, apart from Dad and a staff nurse at work called Maggie.

      ‘We’ll miss you if you go, Joan,’ she sighed.

      ‘It’s just that no one will listen to me, Maggie. I feel as though I’m banging my head against a brick wall. It’s got so bad that I dread going home because Peter’s so headstrong that he won’t listen to me, not any more. He just seems intent on winning the argument with Mum, and she’s impossible to live with. I can’t win.’

      Maggie looked at me. We were standing in the corridor at work with people flying past us but, thankfully, everyone was too busy to stop and eavesdrop on our conversation. Maggie thought for a moment and then spoke quietly.

      ‘If it’s that bad then I think your dad is right, Joan. I think you need to go home.’

      I looked up at her.

      ‘Do you really think so?’

      She nodded. ‘If it’s going to make you happy, then yes, I do.’

      I knew I’d miss Hammersmith and my colleagues, but I felt caught between a rock and a hard place and I needed to escape for my own sanity. СКАЧАТЬ