Twenty-Five Teenagers. One Mother. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
When I was about twelve years old, my mother - known to my readers as Redhead - was asked to do something that today would probably require a risk assessment the size of a telephone directory, a dozen police checks, several counsellors and enough paperwork to sink a ferry.
It was 1968.
She was asked to escort around twenty-five teenage fencers from Auckland to Christchurch for the New Zealand Fencing Championships. A distance of roughly 600 miles or 1000 km in new money. A long way back then with the transport available.
No teachers. No security guards. No youth workers. Not even a committee.
One mother. One chaperone for the girls.
Can you imagine the phone call today?
"Hello Mrs Redhead. We were wondering if you'd mind being a chaperone and taking twenty-five teenagers on a train, then a ferry, then another train, before handing them over to complete strangers who'll billet them for the weekend."
"Oh, and they're aged between fifteen and eighteen."
"Wonderful. Here's your ticket."
Today, the person making that phone call would probably be referred for counselling.
Yet back then, nobody thought it extraordinary.
People simply trusted mothers.
Redhead accepted without hesitation.
She left Dad and me at home to fend for ourselves while she disappeared deep down south on the South Island of New Zealand in charge of a collection of young people carrying enough fencing equipment to make airport security break into a cold sweat.
I have no idea what instructions she left Dad and me with.
Probably something along the lines of:
"Be good."
"Be kind."
"And don't burn the house down."
Meanwhile she was off supervising teenagers whose chosen sport involved trying to stab one another with swords.
Before they boarded the train she gathered them together and delivered what every sensible mother would.
"Get plenty of sleep."
"Don't spend the whole trip flirting."
"Remember you've got two days of competition ahead."
The irony, as she later discovered, was that the greatest threat to her anti-flirting campaign was apparently her own eldest son.
Some things never change. One week. One woman. 25 scalliwags. With swords. The journey itself involved trains, ferries and buses before everyone was collected by host families in Christchurch.
Redhead was warmly welcomed by two lovely ladies who asked whether she'd like some tea.
She was then served sardines on toast.
To this day I suspect she was far too polite to admit she'd been expecting something a little more substantial.
The fencing competition itself was a tremendous success.
Her eldest son won the Foil.
Her younger son came second in the Sabre.
Everyone enjoyed themselves.
Everyone behaved.
Everyone arrived home safely.
Which is perhaps the most remarkable part of the whole story.
There were no mobile phones.
No GPS trackers.
No group text messages.
No hourly check-ins.
Parents simply waved goodbye and expected responsible adults to behave responsibly.
And remarkably enough...
...they usually did.
Those teenagers are now fathers and mothers.
Many are grandparents.
Some are probably great-grandparents.
Most would look back on that trip with enormous affection.
What strikes me isn't merely the nostalgia.
It's the level of trust.
A community trusted one capable mother to look after other people's children for a week, travelling the length of New Zealand.
Today we often assume the opposite.
We assume risk before responsibility.
Suspicion before trust.
Policies before common sense.
Perhaps that's progress.
Perhaps it isn't.
Perhaps we've become safer. I'm not entirely convinced we've become wiser.
Redhead herself recently demonstrated that motherhood has no expiry date.
While her son - my brother - was visiting, one of his oldest friends dropped in.
I've known him for over forty years. As has Redhead.
Before long she found myself telling them they both needed haircuts, should shave properly and ought to throw out an ancient T-shirt that had clearly fought in several wars.
The pair of them looked at her and laughed.
"Hey, Redhead," they said.
"We're over seventy. We can make up our own minds now."
Can they?
Perhaps.
But mothers know better.
They always have.
And if you ask Redhead, they probably always will.
Some jobs you retire from.
Motherhood isn't one of them.
