Class Differences!

[Angela Woodford]

"And if you came from a working-class family, okay, CH had taught you the elements of middle-class behaviour..."

I've succumbed to the temptation of phrasenapping this comment from Michael Scuffil in the "Bad Things You Didn't Get Caught Doing" thread. It brought back a whole rush of memory.

After the dissolution of the Junior Houses in 1965, I was put into 6's with Jasmin (soon to leave for Cheltenham Ladies College) and Weenie, Pally and 'Fessa. These three girls had not yet got into the swing of disliking me for being in the L1V 'A' form, and I was thrilled to be asked, with 'Fessa, to stay a couple of days in the holidays with Weenie.

Weenie's parents lived in a splendid farmhouse in Buckinghamshire. I knew, just knew, that it felt really different from my own South London home, and felt anxious, yet thrilled to be soaking up a new atmosphere. Weenie and her sisters had a pony! Imagine that! In the huge rambling kitchen was a gigantic multi-oveny thing which seemed to heat up hot water as well - mesmerising stuff. And after a visit to worship the pony on Saturday morning, we came back to the kitchen to learn that people were coming to lunch.

This was a surprise. My parents had people to Sunday afternoon tea. There would be various church members - particularly cross single ladies, visiting clergy, our student lodgers who were forced to participate, and from time to time an imposing ex-Rabbi, who had come to know Jesus and was to preach at the Evening Service on behalf of the Barbican Church Mission to the Jews. The table would be laden with thinly sliced bread-and butter, dainty cakes and scones on doylies, fish paste sandwiches and sometimes tinned fruit salad with tinned Nestle's cream. The conversation would be of our Church, St James, Clapham Park, the services, people who had given their lives to the Lord, an old enemy (the Rev Carter of St Stephens, Clapham Park) and the shocking plight of the idol-worshipping Roman Catholics who could never be admitted to Heaven. If they talked about the War, this was more fun, as my father could be persuaded to do his Hitler impersonation. At five to six, they would all rush from the table to get ready for Evening Prayer.

Now here I was, watching Weenie's large imposing mother roll out a table-sized layer of... what was it? Skilfully she lined up little blobs of fragrant meat mixture and separated it out with a frilly roller. It was ravioli! I had known ravioli only as done in tins by Heinz, with tomato sauce and blobs of coagulated cheese.

The guests heaped their plates with this delicious dish, dressed with a gloss of butter and sprinkled with a strange grated cheese. I crept into a corner and ate with relish. They weren't a bit like my parents' friends. This lot wouldn't have minded if Gladys Aylward had never sailed to convert the heathen Chinese. They probably wouldn't worry about the plight of the idolatrous Roman Catholics, and nobody mentioned the War. And their different voices! They all roared away happily, talking at once.

"Delicious ravioli, Venetia! Yock, yock yock super, how simply marvellous! Haw haw haw! And here's darling Weenie, how lovely darling! And, er, her two little friends... Delicious ravioli, Venetia! Yock yock yock, wine..."

I watched them carefully. Wine! At home there were two bottles of wine bought for Christmas. There was Leebfrowmilk, or, in a prettier bottle, Mattayus Rosay, poured out carefully as a daring slightly frowned upon treat. But this lot were happily sloshing back bottles of red wine, sitting all over the furniture, plates on laps! Serviettes were "napkins". I was fascinated by their loud confident braying voices. It was like discovering a strange new tribe of people.

I can't say I truly loved my first visit to the upper-middle classes, but it was tremendously interesting. Alas, I was never asked again, as Weenie's mother was offended that I didn't write a thank you letter. I thought it was sufficient to thank her sincerely for having me to stay. Mistake!

After this, back at school, my friendships with Weenie, Pally and 'Fessa went seriously downhill. I was mostly sent to Coventry for 'A' form membership, general unsmartness, and lack of knowhow. Where Weenie led, Pally and 'Fessa would follow. I tried to compensate with jolly friendliness, but it was never enough.

I wonder how things would have been if I'd written that thank-you letter?

[Kim2s70-77]

As ever, Angela - your 'poignant vignettes' are truly a delight!!!! Do keep them coming!

[Katharine]

Phew - Munch - I don't think I knew anyone like that in 6s! Yes I grew up in a Victorian Vicarage, the largest house in the village, one wing knocked down and another let. We probably were middle class (Father an OB after all!) however we didn't have two pennies to rub together, if we had Father would have given one to someone who needed it more than he did.

I presume that it was Jasmin Ansar who went off to Cheltenham, I never knew that.

[MaryB]

Ouch... yes, I encountered the same sort of thing when I went to Oxford and desperately tried to blend in. Nobody ever seemed to notice I was a fraud, or if they did they were too polite to say so. And I still haven't quite mastered the discipline of of the prompt and automatic thank you letter - I know that the answer is a basket of ready stamped assorted tasteful postcards, but somehow it doesn't happen.
Munch, I do feel for you, but it is indeed beautifully expressed.

[Mid A 15]

Sunday tea, Gladys Aylward, I was back in the sixties myself reading that.

Once again a masterpiece Angela.

[midget]

There was quite a bit of reverse snobbery in 3s, from some of the London girls (I didn't count in either camp because I took the LCC scholarship exam, but had moved to the country by the time I went to Hertford.) One in particular hated a very nice girl who had use of a pony in the hols, spoke nicely and had a mother who was snobby but pleasant with it. My own parents were the most class-conscious people I knew.

[dinahcat]

I am torn. Do I post or do I end up sounding like an extra in the Three Yorkshire Men sketch? Call that working class....I am biting my tongue.

[MaryB]

The conversation would be of our Church, St James, Clapham Park, the services, people who had given their lives to the Lord, an old enemy (the Rev Carter of St Stephens, Clapham Park)

Both these churches are in our deanery - the vicar of St Stephens is Area Dean. I'd love to know more about this rivalry.....

[icomefromalanddownunder]

[quote="Angela Woodford"]

Hi Munch

Your Mum very kindly invited Mum and I for tea and a chat once: possibly after I had been accepted by CH, so you would have already been there for a term or two (for those who aren't aware: Munch and I attended the same primary school).

Your home was beautiful, and a little intimidating for someone who lived the first five years of her life in one room on the top floor of her grandparents rented house in Battersea (tin tub hanging on back fence except for Sunday bath night, and water running down the electric light cables before dripping into the aluminium bucket beneath), then moved to the council flat on New Park Road.

I think that I have told you before of my memory of your family's exquisite tea set with an oriental design on the bottom. Fortunately you stopped me just as I was about to upend the still almost full cup to examine the design and kindly assured me that I was not the first person to do so

Please, please keep the memories coming: I promise to write a thank you letter after each of them.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

[Angela Woodford]

This is simply fascinating!

Just having strong tea before work -

Caroline, I didn't know that you and your mother had taken tea with my mother! Tea was the way to socialise for Mummy, and she impressed on me the need to crook my little finger whilst holding the tea cup.... didn't work too well with a CH stained-melamine mug.

Mary - oh yes, there was a terrible flouncing out from St Stephens to St James, and I believe harsh words were spoken.

Maggie - tell about your mother's class consciousness, please! And the reverse snobbery in 3's?

Come on dinahcat; tell, tell, tell!

Andy - thank you for your kind words! Was Gladys Aylward a household heroine for you?

Katharine - I could tell you were from a superior background!

None the less, as the CH years dragged along, we all did come out fairly "middle-classy" eventually, I think? But Mary and Caroline, remember Merv? Exactly the same on leaving. Ages ago, I listened to the ancient vinyl recording of the Choir singing "De Virgin Mary Had a Baby Boy". Goodness, we sinded refained.

Now it's agony to drag myself away from this fascinating subject - get ready for work time -

[icomefromalanddownunder]

But Mary and Caroline, remember Merv? Exactly the same on leaving.


I do . Her family lived one one floor of those big three or four storied houses in Streatham and seemed very bohemian (read exotic) to me.

I also remember my Dad's reaction when Mervion called him 'My dear man'. He didn't know whether to be offended, bemused or just plain discombobulated (although he would never have used such a 'stupid' word, and would have argued that it was, indeed, stupid because it would not have been found in his dictionary). I think that we were in LIV, or maybe still in IIIrd form, and for some reason parents were at the school. Perhaps it was our first day at Hertford?


Ages ago, I listened to the ancient vinyl recording of the Choir singing "De Virgin Mary Had a Baby Boy". Goodness, we sinded refained.


Painful isn't it No images of toothy grins and swaying hips.

Have you heard 'Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Dub Band'? (God bless the infant who thought that I was asking for Sgt Pepper and didn't know the title. 'Go and throw yourself out of the window child. I was present for the summer of lurve' convinced him that I am truly nuts, but he maintained his smile while politely telling me that it wasn't in their stock.

Woke up. Got out of bed.
Dragged my fingers through my dreads.

My son gave me a copy for my birthday. Sadly secondhand: he had been urged to buy it for himself by a friend. Listened once. Enjoyed it, but decided it was more suited to my CD collection than his own.

[midget]

You did ask, Angela!
My mother used to blush and simper if Miss Norris spoke to her, as though Nobs was doing her a favour. She was always very aware that she was working class through and through- she went "into service" when she left school, as a nursery maid. That meant she was maid to the Nanny. Her mother found it hard to make ends meet, as the 2 older boys and her husband were all in the army in WWI (one son was killed and Grandad died of pneumonia in base camp Therfore NO PENSION). She and Dad married soon after the war, and she was a housewife until WWII, when she had to get work, because my sister was in the WAAF and I was evacuated. She went to a canteen that served meals for a number of factories.
Dad was a tram conductor, until he became ill, and they then took a job as gardener/handyman and cook?housekeeper. After faling out with 2 bosses, they then became school caretakers. In consequence we moved house4
4 times while I was at CH.
When I failed 2nd MB and gave up medicine, the anatomy prof asked why I was not going to do a retake. I told him my parents couldn't afford it- he asked what my father did and when I told him said "How brave of your father to let you try". I thought that was bl00dy patronising, but Mum's reaction was that Dad would be pleased at that.
When a fellow student got pregnant and had a rushed marriage (remember this was 1954!) her comment was "In our class she would have gone away to have it, and have it adopted"

As to "reverse " snobbery it may well have operated in other Wards as well, but there were some London girls who made a point of hanging on to a London accent, and saying eg "we done" for "we did", whereas most people just went with the flow, and accents merged and evened out. My own accent still had traces of Welsh, as I had only returned from a three year stay, mixed with Bedfordshire, where we lived at first. I can remember saying "I'm frit" as we walked through the CH gates.

[Fjgrogan]

I have a theory about accents - whether or not your accent changes depends on the age at which you move - the younger you are the more likely you are to adapt, with a cut-off point somewhere in the mid-teens? When I started at Hertford my accent was very West London (not the same as Cockney) and I was not aware of 'upgrading' it, but when I went home for the first holidays I was teased for speaking as though I had 'a five pound note in my mouth'! I think I quickly learned instinctively to switch back and forth between school and home. I wasn't really aware of differing accents among others at school. However when I went to college at 18 I noticed that girls who arrived with a distinctive accent (eg Welsh) retained it. The first time I went home my father said 'Your room-mate is from Manchester, isn't she?' - he wasn't far wrong; she was from Oswaldtwistle, near Blackburn, but he could recognise my grandfather's Lancashire accent in my own speech. I later realised that I had become something of a linguistic chameleon, switching unconsciously according to where I was, and I think I still do, although there is no doubting my SW London origins - I have occasionally been accused of being Australian, though. I have wached in fascination as my brother's children have adapted from Richmond, through West Midlands, through Wimbledon to East Sussex! I shall be interested to see what English accent my Finnish grandson grows up with, and what language he and his sister will use between themselves - at the moment he is only 4 months! I suspect there will come a time when they will realise that they can speak Finnish to each other and Mummy will not understand. Hanna, age 3, will already translate her conversations with Finns for the benefit of her mother, and nobody has ever taught her to do so.

[englishangel]

My mother was born in Kent and went to Orkney at 7, then moved down to Sussex at 18, she sounded generic south-eastern though did have an Orcadian burr when upset. I also talk generic south-eastern (as I imagine most OBs do) but become very refained when faced with an American. Children lived in US from 3-8 and 0-5 and now speak lke I do but will talk with an American accent if faced with one.

Husband and I are currently in Yorkshire and his accent (he is from Doncaster) is much stronger here than when at home.

I imagine you are correct about your grandoffspring Frances.

[Ajarn Philip]

Interesting thread, Angela, and a fascinating, beautifully written post as always.

This is a topic I've always been curious about, as when younger I could never quite work out where I fit in. I was blessed with the ability to slot in reasonably well wherever I found myself, even with the hooray henrys (I think CH had a lot to do with that, mind). My father was born near Clapham Junction in 1902 (55 when I was born). His father was a master bootmaker, who had 3 shops by the early 1900s, and was no doubt a very busy chap during WWI. Would that have made him middle class, lower middle class or working class? Probably depends who you ask!

Dad was apprenticed to an accountancy firm, but had to take over the family business at 18 when his father died. I seem to remember Dad telling me that in the 20s he had a car and a big, white, furry polar dog thing (sounded like a type of massage - sh1t or something), so he must have been doing OK as a young man. Then he got married, had 3 daughters and a reasonably large terraced house. Then came the war. Bombs disposed of 2 of the shops. Then came a permanent separation from his wife, so he was living in 2 rooms above the remaining shop. Then came my Mum. She was an orphan from a very working class family in Dover who was a now a nanny. How they got together I have no idea, but they did. And then I appeared. Out of wedlock, of course, as my father's wife wouldn't divorce him. What a scandal that must have been in the 50s, and he a leading light in the Baptist Church! Then my sister a couple of years later. All still living in this (now 3 room plus outside loo) flat over the shop.

Moving on from scandalous revelations (I can see you all mopping your brows and shaking your heads - the tut-tuts are fizzing their way down the cable! ), when, just before I started at CH, we moved from SW11, because my father had bronchitis and had to stop what had now become shoe repairing (rather than bootmaking <sigh>), to take over the village store in Hurst Green, E Sussex, it was, for me and my sister, like moving to a palace! The building was an old coach stop on the A21, and had what appeared to me to be a vast number of rooms, all oddly shaped, endless nooks and crannies, and an Aga in the kitchen that was the heart and soul of the whole building.

My father was a charming, classless man with no particular regional accent. He seemed to get along with everyone, but the ladies in particular seemed entranced. Bearing in mind that he was by now in his mid 60s, no doubt the younger ladies felt safe, while the older ones... well, goodness only knows! How many times as a youngster did I hear old ladies say something along the lines of "What a lovely man, what a gentleman". But he was, at the end of the day, a shopkeeper.

My father worked until he died at 72, when I was 18.

Sorry that this has turned into an abbreviated family history (but the advantage is that I'll cut and paste it to my kids...), but my question is - what class am I?