Chapter Five: Sympathy Flies Out the Window
Miss a day or two and sympathy, understanding and tolerance flies through the window. I have the groups for only two days this week and they grate heavily on me. Imperfections writ large, puerility deflating my enthusiasm. I need to work with adults again, lifers and other unsavoury members of the criminal fraternity.
Paul’s going haywire. As a security man on Yom Kippur celebrations, large gathering of 6,000, he, alone, was responsible for security.
“There could have been bombs in the bag I was searching.”
Magnum doses of student mirth.
“Listen, I know what I’m doing. I’ve done it before, it’s tough checking all those people.”
Yes quite. Security of the rich and famous in the hands of the special needs with epilepsy. Could you imagine? An expensive dress, flash Gucci bag and a terrorist bomb being discovered by a poor soul who throws a gran mal at the most inappropriate moment. Mayhem and blood.
The proposed disco planning is becoming more fantastic. Private deals struck by Paul out of college are not shared with his fellows.
“This is the poster I did. Worked half the night on it.”
“But Paul, I thought the disco was Sunday night, not the Tuesday you’ve written.”
They’re dead keen, but the centre’s falling away as some resign themselves to a one man show unable to deliver the goods.
“And £2.50p a ticket?”
“Yeah, that seems about right. Not too expensive.”
“Do you think Sunday is a good night.”
“Yeah, seems to me.”
“When do most people go out?”
“Friday and Saturday.”
“It’s against my religion to do anything on Friday.”
“I’m Christian. What about my Sunday?”
The estate surrounding the college hasn’t a good reputation for night safety. The disco’s planned from 8 p.m. till midnight by which time busses are tucked up in bed, and the tube twenty minute walk where muggers often lurk. Several of the students are daily transported from the furthest reaches of north London by mini-cab. Who’s going to deliver and collect them?
“We’ll work something out!”
“Well, tell us?”
“Security shouldn’t be a problem. Any trouble, any swearing or drugs and we’ll throw them out.”
“Yeah”, adds Mark, “we’ll search them before they come in.”
“Can I see the tickets you’ve printed Paul?”
It’s a sheet of A4 with ‘Disco’ on it. No venue address, only a space for the punter’s name.
“Looks easy to forge.”
“No, it shouldn’t be. We’ll know everybody.”
“What happens when five or six people try to get in without ticket?”
“I can sort it out”, claims Paul.
“Yeah”, adds Mark, “we’ll have staff there.”
“Well, I’m not hanging around to get duffed over by large teenagers who don’t like being searched.”
I ask if anyone’s seen the building? Moments of disagreement. No one has. Its layout lost in a fog of unreality. My god, is this my fault? We break, and I go in search of the college youth worker, Jeannie. Another revelation: the students don’t want to use the youth club preferring instead the estate’s community centre for the standard £60 rate. Though Paul’s previously argued this is a special concessionary rate negotiated by him. I divest him of this fable in the group - ever so nicely. Later in the day he informs my acting senior he’s got the room free and intends to ask staff for donations to run the disco. Who’s in special need, me or the students?
We decide, with much prompting from me, to check out what the community centre offers. All twelve troop across the dingy litter strewn concourse, turn left at the bashed in phone box and a minute later are walking through the strong metal doors of the centre. Relief, the atmosphere’s warm and buzzing - chatter and tea, colourful clothes and bingo. Bill, pouring out tea, smiles. I recognise Lynne, one of the college cleaners. Well, someone to get sense from. The group are soon possied and shown around the centre, viewing, critically, its facilities. Paul goes off with Tony and Mark to examine ‘security issues’, and the rest, after a while, join me to eat an endless supply of biscuits. A little later I see Lynne and Paul in animated discussion talking fund raising. “We write to the shops in Brent Cross, they send us vouchers to raffle, that sort of thing. It’s a good way to raise money.” Paul’s eyes light up and is soon in deep negotiations. The centre’s an ideal venue. Not too large, despite a few students thinking it should be bigger - one hundred capacity is large enough I tell them.
Returning to college the group, now excited, decide the entrance fee should still remain at £2.50p but include food. “We’ll get our mums and dads to donate it”, suggests Paul. I like the mix, big person sophistication of ideas, youthful childlike reliance on mum and dad. But that’s the group, midway between teenager and child, veering madly with mood.
I discover Chandra’s going haywire. He’d phoned his old special school informing the deputy head, through a very garbled message, about disco money and “going to the dogs!” So deputy calls me requesting clarification. She feels reassured that we’re only planning to talk about our proposals and says she’ll arrange a time for them to talk to her pupils.
I receive a memo from my faculty head suggesting the group re-think their publicity material and re-write their letter to the RSPCA. Something about the corporate image being despoiled. He also suggested I talk to the finance officer on the legal implications of fund raising. On the positive side his memo will enable me to discuss with the group our timetable and plans, especially after half term - the break I sorely need.
2
Strange Harry’s in the gym. It’s my session for keep fit and dust off the seldom used ergometer. We pedal like doped lunatics for three minutes, constantly measuring our pulse, then collapse in a sweated heap on the scuffed from high heels floor. The session’s popular, but Harry, as is wont, is dreaming in another part of the gym and misses his ride. He explodes, picks up his performance record sheet, screws it up and throws it full force at me. “Why can’t I get my turn!”, he wails. “It’s not bloody fair. They’ve all had a go. Why not me? It’s not fair.”
“Sorry Harry, but you weren’t in the queue.” Having stormed from the gym I think no more of him and move the equipment to the store room. That’s a mistake because he’s about to ambush me.
“You’re a horrible person, I hope you get blown up by a fire work.” Oh, lordy, lordy I tut, now I’m for it. Running off towards the coffee bar, he decides he hasn’t finished, stops, turns and comes charging at me, screaming at the top of his voice, “I hope you get horribly burned. I hope your dad hits you!”
“Sorry, Harry, the poor bugger was cremated three years ago.”
No one’s ever seen Strange Harry do this before, he’s normally content muttering to himself and hiding in corners. Universally admired for his computer like brain he’s an absolute outsider. Informing staff that life’s been seen in Harry, roars of laughter break out, feeling progress, of sorts, has been made. However, I should have spent more time encouraging him to follow through his anger. A missed opportunity which probably won’t arise again.
The first year’s are getting stranger as half term madness infects them too, high as kites and not much chance of coming down this side of Christmas. But continuing our work from the previous week on fashion, I ask, “What would you like to be?” We dig out magazines, sensuous models, exciting photographs, images of what we should aspire to. We take large sheets of paper and begin to select images that appeal. Sunil’s first away full of enthusiasm. Tricia and Chung work together, slowly in between romantic chatter and much hugging. Lee looks for an image of a man on a horse, which he finds in an advert for Sisley, cutting it out with care. Sunil’s becoming earthy, snipping images of whisky, wild women and extremely fast cars. Pritt stick is devoured with enthusiasm and the image he desires quickly emerges. Lee, pondering another picture, a man reclining covered head to toe in bank notes, croons melodically, “who wants to be a millionaire”. Paul goes for a sumptuous living room with a coal fire and a comely woman standing in front of it. A smart red Fiat and another sensual woman is added to his fantasy image. Paddy’s slow - I’m getting concerned about this - finally selecting an image of a man riding a horse on a drovers track. Our loving couple are quietly moving on. Tricia announces she wants to be a cuddly teddy bear and Chung a footballer, lots of catalogue pictures of football boots.
Paddy, reviving, asks me to photocopy a piece from a woman’s magazine on Chinese horoscopes, and specifically a little box on the Rat.
Everyone displays their work and explains to the others what they want to be, but no one’s particularly receptive. Dean’s getting noisy, and once he’s shown his finished self - myriad expensive cars - decides no one else should be heard. We break for lunch realising we’ve overshot time.
