‘Drop ten, turn and face.’
Quilty’s Football Yarns 31
Home then Away
It’s always nice when the results of a plan start to fall into place. Returning to London from Tel Katzir I got my head down and began to make some real headway around study at Hackney College. One of the things that made things a bit easier to live, was getting some part-time work at the Finsbury Leisure Centre not far from Old St in Islington. Gary and I frequented the centre to play squash and badminton. Thus, one day when leaving after a session we spotted an advert on the wall for ‘Leisure Centre Assistants (2)’. Neither of us wanted or needed a full-time role but occasional shifts would suit us. An interview was required but how could we make sure of getting the job? ‘That Gary’ knew! We’d go right around the building and take down all the job posters that been put up. Easy! We would be the only applicants, and so we were. ‘That Gary’ had always had good ideas, ever since we were kids. One time we were outside Dalston Bus garage and he had the idea of going in to torment the workers. Leading the way, he went onto a parked bus and started ringing the bell until one of the mechanics came to see what was going on. A fleet footed Gary ran back off the bus, before he could get caught, mocking as he went. Outside on the street he said,
”That’s how it is done. Who’s next?” The unfortunate Peter Levick was next up and reluctantly crept back towards the parked bus in the garage. There he was doing as Gary had done. Ding ding ding the bell rang out. All seemed so simple. Then suddenly, whoosh! The electric doors on the bus closed. Peter was trapped inside. ‘That Gary’ had turned the emergency switch to lock him inside. If that wasn’t bad enough he started to call out,
”Mister, mister, he’s inside your bus!”
The annoyed mechanic quickly appeared, opened the door, cuffed Peter and threw him off the bus. Knowing how ‘That Gary’ could be, always made me wary. Alert but not alarmed, we started our jobs at the Finsbury Leisure Centre. We had some good laughs looking after the equipment, doing some clean up and working in the bar. Eventually I got into taking activities for the Holiday play groups which was all experience towards teaching, I was now almost through my first two years of study with four to go.
What came next for me, was to head off to have some interviews at UK Universities. In England most students at the time would leave their home-town and go away to study. My choice was between Leeds, Newcastle, Warwick, Sheffield and Swansea. I actually went up to visit Newcastle which seemed friendly but my first choice was Leeds. Having a cousin of my mum up there, Audrey Bennett, I stayed over-night with her family. They lived in the Leeds suburb of Scott Hall which had the notorious unsolved problem of the ‘Yorkshire Ripper’ around this time. The welcome from Audrey could not have been more kind. She had a big family of her own but also had several others staying there. No sooner had I sat down in the armchair when she plonked a full roast dinner onto my lap! Making me feel very welcome. The interview at Leeds University went well and they made me a ‘gettable’ offer. All I had to do was pass my ‘A’ Levels well and I would have a place studying Economics History and Politics in mid-September.
Back in 1979 the proportion of people going to University in the UK was no more than 3-4%. In my family I was one of the first to consider it. Where we lived in Hackney was low, in socio-economic terms, not many went on to higher study, but I had a plan to carry through. My mate and neighbour, David Bass, Bert’s son, had a much more difficult task than me. Relating his story from what I remember, he wanted to be a medical doctor. If that wasn’t difficult enough, he actually went to a school called Shoreditch, with little history of anyone taking, let alone getting A levels! He took a few but didn’t get the grades first time so did them again. In applying for medicine he had been promised a letter of recommendation but it got lost and he was rejected by Medical school. Unperturbed, he decided to do a 3 year Physiology degree, before applying again. He then applied again but got rejected. The interviewers informing him that in medicine they didn’t like students with science degrees starting medicine! Unperturbed, he decided to start a nursing degree to gain experience. After several years David applied one more time but got rejected again. Despondent he put in a last-ditch attempt through the ‘offers clearing system’. I’m not sure of the exact detail but the person behind the interview desk just happened to be the Consultant who had written the original ‘letter of recommendation’ eight years previously! He was finally ‘in’ to study medicine. It had taken years of persistence and amazing resilience. Dr David Bass has recently retired after over thirty odd years of being a partner in his own Medical Practice. Well done David!
As my study at Hackney College came to an end, I applied for and was accepted to go to Camp America for twelve weeks before going up to Leeds. Camp would be another opportunity to work with children. The camp I was assigned to was Camp Delaware in Connecticut. Around this time I was also to meet my future wife Terrie Cassidy.
Paul Mordecai and I had been to the Spooky Lady’ club over near Hackney Marshes. It was on the future site of the London Olympic Stadium. Leaving to go home in Paul’s dad’s Green Jag, we noticed two young girls waving us down. Apparently, they hoped we may have been a mini cab. They were at the time being harassed by some blokes in a van. After a quick conversation we agreed to drive them away toward Hackney. Co-incidentally, Cathy, Terries friend, lived just around the corner to my mum. At the house in Malvern Road, there was a celebration going on. Cathy’s brother’s wife, had just given birth that evening. We all sat talking until daylight. Terrie and I later had a date before I went off to Leeds but after returning from camp in America. She reminds me that one weekend, when I returned to London, I called hoping for another date. She told me she was actually going out with friends to a party, but I could come along. So I did. Not long after we had our first official date on December 1st.1979. We went to Steven Marsh’s wedding to his wife June, up at University College, Gower St, Bloomsbury in London.
Camp had been a great experience. The camp was up at Winsted Connecticut. The kids who attended this sleepaway camp were predominantly Jewish and came from the New York suburbs. Camp was a great tradition on this side of America. Originally it had been a means of getting poor Jewish kids away from the city but over time had been commercialised and was really quite expensive, especially when multiple family members would go. I flew into NYC with a big group of British and European counsellors. We stayed in a rough old Hotel down near 42nd street for a night before bussing up to Winsted with the campers. Camp lasted eight weeks in all and the deal was that counsellors could travel for a month after camp before heading home. Not surprisingly it was a very different culture for me but having stayed and worked away previously, I soon fitted in. I was assigned to a group looking after 30 ‘five and six year old’s’, along with four other counsellors and a ‘group leader’. It was a surprise then, when after just one week, I was placed in charge of the bunk because the leader Fred Tannenbaum had to go home. The British and European counsellors were usually sports specialist’s and although I did take football, as a leader, I worked with the General counsellors taking our kids from activity to activity. A tradition on camp was a thing called ‘Colour War’ an eternal battle between the Blue and White teams, in the last week of camp. Leaders were elected of the tribes and generational rivalries pivoted on the ‘contest’ between the two groups. Colour War was speculated upon continually. Fake outs occurring to psyche out the whole camp. Leaflets were showered from a plane onto camp declaring ‘Fake out’ and later a group of people riding horses stormed through the camp. Personally, I believed that ‘Colour War’ had the potential to wreck friendships made in the past seven weeks. So concerned was I, that at the Group Leaders meeting I stood up and explained why I thought it would be would be so bad. Everyone, including Lou Adler, the Camp boss, nodded understandingly as this Brit put his case. It was decided there would be no colour war in 79’. It was a big surprise to me then, when Colour War broke out the next evening! Everyone had been distracted by a group of green aliens on a bunk roof. Then, right on cue, a truck pulled up displaying in bright lights the words ‘COLOUR WAR 79’. What did I know? In reality, Colour War was a control devise to keep the kids in line. Points were awarded for everything. The Americans took their roles super seriously. Life-long memories were being made, reputations forged, ensuring the campers would return again the following year. And they did. Every year. Some parents explained that if their child didn’t go to the camp, they would be left home in an empty neighbourhood. Teenage boy campers worked as waiters in the dining room while teenage girls were ‘Junior counsellors’. It was like a well-oiled machine. When we finished Camp seven of us hired a big shooting wagon and made our way down to Florida. We visited several University towns on the way. Uni of Pennsylvania, Yale and Emory in Atlanta. Driving a car with New York plates was a hindrance especially driving south. In South Carolina we got done for speeding by a motor-bike cop. He insisted we followed him off the highway to a small own to meet the ‘Magistrate’. The conversation went something like this.
Magistrate: (A small fat bloke with no tie) You were driving 65 in a 55 zone. You need to pay a $120 fine to the municipality”
Our Guilty Driver: “What happens if we don’t pay?” (The rest of us taking photos)
Magistrate: “In that case you will spend the night in the lock-up”.
All of Us: Great we will all spend the night!
Magistrate: “In that case you will pay tomorrow morning”.
Tiring of the game we all pooled together to make up the $120 fine which we handed over. Immediately, the Magistrate looked at the motor-bike cop and promptly put the money in his pocket.
“Do we get a receipt for that”, we asked as one.
“No” said the Magistrate.
It was later explained that this was a regular local rort to revenue raise from the New Yorkers who drove through going South to Florida.
We never actually made it to Miami. Hurricane David caught us in Northern Florida on a camp site. We had a choice to stay and bunker-down, on site, or run. By four votes to three we voted to run and set off for Savanah. We stayed one night with the aunt of one of the blokes we were traveling with, then made our way across to Atlanta. At Emory University we experienced some comical Southern pride. The students wore tee shirts which said, ‘Yale the Emory of the North’. As fate would have it I got my A level results whilst on Camp. David Bass rang me from London, at a Winsted telephone box and gave me the news. Talk about performance anxiety, there was quite a crowd listening. It turned out well, I'd got what I needed.
Our after-camp trip had been great but for me it was now time to return home to London, so that I could move up to Leeds and begin the next phase of my study quest.
