The Wild Bunch
When Sandy was 15, she was assistant to my sister Elena, the director’s secretary at Plysu Plastics in Woburn Sands. I didn’t know Sandy then, all I knew was my sister was quite taken with the new girl who brightened the place up demonstrating how she could walk around the office on her hands.
In 1967, to my sister’s dismay, Sandy left Plysu for TI (Texas Instruments) to work in their new facility in Bedford. TI had a practice of advancement through training. Sandy advanced from the silicone slice process lab to a scheduler, to a secretary, to a product marketing technician.
In 1975, Sandy gave several presentations to school leavers called ‘Climbing the Ladder’, based on her experience working for TI. Following these presentations, a woman at TI asked if Sandy would help run a youth club in Clapham near Bedford. Sandy and I, now married, lived in the village of Clapham.
There was one small caveat. The club had been closed for a few years because of a stabbing incident resulting in a youth’s death. The council wanted to reopen the club, but stipulated, it must have two supervisors. Only one volunteer had come forward. Sandy accepted the challenge.
To a lesser extent, as the husband, I also got involved.
On a human scale, the most significant event that occurred at the club was when a young couple became expectant parents. This wasn’t down to the club, because the outcome didn’t result from regular club activities. Non the less, the kids had to have some serious instruction to prevent an outbreak of the condition. There were no nonredeemable, real-life traumas that occurred, but there were some other memorable events.
I was studying Electronics on day release and evening classes, so other than the occasional excursion, where extra supervision was required, I only met the kids when I dropped Sandy off or picked her up from the village hall.
The first time I dropped Sandy off, I was invited in to meet her charges. I was confronted by a gang of mouthy kids who told me their music system wasn’t working, and I should fix it for them. I went home for my tools. As a former sea-going marine engineer, politeness was not one of my accomplishments when trying to get a job done.
“Get out of my light”, “Keep your hands off my tools” and “Don’t touch that it’s” – too late – “HOT”.
I doubt if I’d have made a good youth leader with that novel approach, but you never know.
Fortunately, the problem was only a dry joint in the stereo amplifier. A few dabs of solder and the system was up and running. Momentarily I gained mythical status.
One time, I collected Sandy in my employer’s mini-pickup. As we were leaving the car park, a boy jumped into the open back, acting like a Roman charioteer. For some reason, he was carrying a walking stick which he banged down hard on the vehicle’s roof demanding more speed. My reaction was to slam on the brakes and jump out and confront him. When I got out he was gone, I thought he’d run off. However, peering over the tailgate, I saw the body.
‘Oh Fuck, I’ve killed him’, I thought. Then, to my relief, there was groaning and movement. He struggled to his feet, and I saw a lump the size of a goose egg swelling on his forehead where he’d hit the back of the passenger compartment. He picked up the stick and threatened me. I raised my fists and growled, “Come on then”. Not the best moderating technique. Fortunately, he felt the bump on his head and thought better of it. He wandered off less exuberant than when he’d jumped into the back of the chariot. I was expecting some backlash from that. However, whatever he told his parents if anything, nothing came of it. Maybe that sort of thing was normal in his household. Regardless, he didn’t seem to hold it against me.
Another time Sandy volunteered me as a helper for a youth event at Newnam sports centre in Bedford. When we got there, the place was full of beautifully outfitted kids in matching gear and designer footwear, from the county’s more affluent areas. Our lot turned up in variously coloured shorts, plimsolls, and T-shirts emblazoned with various motifs such as Black Sabbath and AC/DC. I have an enduring memory of standing at the end of the track. In the line of competitors thundering towards me, our boy looked like he was doing the breaststroke in a swimming contest. Even so, he didn’t win, and we were lucky we weren’t subject to a steward inquiry. That set the trend for the whole games. No silverware came back to the club, but it was a good lesson in life. Tough is tough, but it rarely beats capable.
Another time, I was an accessory to a day trip to Clacton. All I remember is two hours of pandemonium on a coach and the release of the little angels onto the streets of an unsuspecting seaside town. At the end of the day, we were late leaving. Some couldn’t find the coach station, others lost track of time, and a group got disoriented after a trip to the off-license in preparation for the journey home. During a pee stop, the young parents to be had a falling out. The boy walked off, and we had a half-hour delay trying to find him and coax him back on the bus. In the end, we got them all home safely.
However, the most memorable event of all happened outside of youth club hours.
Sandy and I lived at 4 Bents Close, a semidetached, off Highbury Grove. Nº 2, next door, was directly on the T-junction and separated from the road by a narrow strip of grass, a footpath, and a low brick wall. Our neighbours were a very severe German lady and her adult daughter. The German lady may have married a member of the British Army of the Rhine, but he must have gone AWL because we never saw him. One early Sunday morning at about 03:00hrs, we were awakened by an almighty bang. We jumped out of bed and leaned out of the window. Under street lighting, we saw a mini parked in the centre of our neighbour’s front lawn. The car had missed the turn into Bents Close. It came across the grass, over the footpath, demolished the brick wall and ended up slewed sideways in the neighbours garden. The lights came on and out came the German lady in dressing gown and curlers. At the same time, the car’s door opened and out fell the driver. He lay on his back on the lawn with his feet still inside the vehicle. With the lady fuming over him, he opened an eye, focused, and slurred.
“Shorry mishiss, me brakes failed”.
“Oh, dear” exclaimed Sandy “I know who that is”. It was one of her boys. We dressed quickly.
Having no phone, our neighbour came banging on our door demanding we telephone the police. Sandy refused, offering to make a cup of tea to calm her down. I checked on the boy, who was unhurt and brought him into the house. Not only was he pissed, but he didn’t have a driving license. Fortunately, he had the sense to tell us his father was a builder. Sandy made the youth promise he would come back with his dad and repair the wall in the morning. With that agreed, I took the boy home, and Sandy persuaded the neighbour not to involve the police.
True to his word, when it was light, the boy returned with his father in a builders wagon with materials. They removed the mini from the lawn and did an excellent job of rebuilding the wall. And that was the end of that incident.
Once they’d found out where we lived, we became the go-to coffee shop in Clapham. That was alright with us, they were a wild bunch, but they were good kids.
In summer of 1976, with Sandy working as a salesperson for Rothmans and me a manager with Scandinavian X-Ray(UK) we bought a bigger house and moved to Flitwick. That was the end of Sandy’s involvement with Clapham youth club.
However, some years later, Sandy bumped into the stick-wielding charioteer. He was working with the mentally handicapped and studying on day release at Mander College, Bedford.
A good youth worker is someone who can ignore their prejudice and use their skills to encourage youngsters to become useful members of the community.
In that, we can say that Sandy was a success.