I am certainly not saying that the middle classes are sinless, or wholly innocent of their own demise. But I make no apology for defending them, or assuming that they are worth defending, because – despite the disapproval and the reserve – I believe there is something about middle-class life in the UK that is worth preserving. Not the privilege, not the snobbery, but the right of everyone to live the kind of independent life that I was brought up with and which I struggle to provide for my own family.
So yes, I am middle-class, ‘I’m afraid’ – but I’m not really ashamed of it. Because somewhere in this whodunnit are the clues that might prevent us all from sinking into a new proletarian semi-slavery. So in the best traditions of Miss Marple, the most middle-class detective of them all, bring your knitting and your notebook and help me piece together the evidence.
‘I still look up to him [the upper-class man] because, although I have money, I am vulgar. But I am not as vulgar as him [the working-class man], so I still look down on him.’
Ronnie Barker, as the middle-class man, in The Frost Report, 1966
Shona Sibary is a Daily Mail columnist who reveals the intimate details of middle-class life, from the woman’s point of view. Her husband Keith and son Monty have regular walk-on parts in this everyday story of suburban folk. But none of her revelations struck a chord quite like the description of losing her £400,000 family home in 2009, after remortgaging four times and seeing the mortgage payments rise by £3,000 a month.1
It was a moving and honest account, as she described the misery of driving past her old house every day. ‘What I could never have known is how soul-destroying it is to raise children in a house that is not your own,’ she wrote:
Sometimes it feels like we are guests in the one place we should feel ourselves. So when Dolly draws on the wall with crayon or Monty spills juice on the carpet, I know at the end of our lease these normal spots of family life will be totted up as wear and tear and added to our bill. I miss marking the children’s heights on a wall, to look back on in years to come. And, last year, we couldn’t bury our beloved labrador in the garden when he died. I’m pretty sure that digging graves for family pets is not permitted in the tenancy agreement.
Shona Sibary got into the financial mess she did partly by sticking with such determination to the commitment to educate her children privately, and that made her the target for some criticism. The decision to endlessly remortgage is not in her favour either, as the angry middle-class readers of Mumsnet pointed out in furious terms. Of course, lots of people have to bring up children in a home that is not their own, but there is something about this angst-ridden glimpse that will be recognized at once by homeowners everywhere. The terrifying fall from grace that the middle classes dread in all ages. The submission to the power of the landlord. The loss of freedom to manage your family in your own peculiar way if you want to.
There is familiar horror and fascination about any middle-class eviction, and any painful revelations about the gap between middle-class appearance and desperate reality. That may explain why the media have often returned to this theme since the financial collapse of 2008. There is a thrilling there-but-for-the-grace-of-God feeling about it, a relief that – for all our own money troubles – we have so far avoided that particular pitfall.
But there has been a further element to the media coverage, as if there was a bit of a mystery to be solved. Why is it, asked the Daily Mail in another article, headed ‘The nouveau poor’, that families on twice the average UK household income are in such desperate financial straits? ‘We don’t put the heating on very much at all, even during that freezing spell in December,’ said Christina Reynolds, who runs a catering company in south-east London, and earns £60,000 together with her husband.2 ‘We snuggled under our blankets to watch TV and took the icy chill off the beds with hot-water bottles. Our utility bills are usually about £100 a month and recently they have gone up by almost a quarter.’
There was a parallel here with Shona Sibary. One reason why apparently affluent middle-class couples could hardly afford central heating was that Christina and her husband were determined to go on paying £12,000 a year for their son to go to independent school, as so many do. It was also true of the middle-class blogger Deborah Lane, who has been going online to explain why she was then struggling financially. This deserved closer inspection. When you have a £900,000 home in west London at your disposal, and the endless leafy suburbs of middle-class book clubs, parents’ evenings and recycling classes stretching all around, why would you worry about money? I went to see Deborah to find out.
Deborah Lane is something of a bellwether. When she wrote the words ‘I’m skint’ on her blog, tracking the peculiarities of a middle-class life in London, her readership suddenly went up from double figures to somewhere in the thousands. It wasn’t that she was looking for sympathy. It wasn’t even that she was claiming that she was particularly unusual or interesting, at least as far as her dwindling wealth was concerned. But it was written as a cry from the heart of the beleaguered middle classes, and those googlers in the ether heard her and responded.
Of course, there are people in the world far worse off than Deborah, even in the London borough of Ealing – probably even in her street. The difficulty when it comes to writing about this is that unearned privilege (which might not be worth saving) and the idea of putting education first, despite sacrifice and struggle (which might), are all inextricably confused.
‘I would say I had aspirations,’ Deborah tells me as we sip our coffee and tea next to the river in Hammersmith. Her dark glasses glint with reflected elevenses. ‘I always wanted to be married. I knew where I was going to live and how I was going to live. I wasn’t really driven by how much money I was going to earn,’ she goes on, explaining that it hasn’t really turned out like that, despite her husband’s earnings as a successful photographer.
‘I never thought we would be struggling in the way that we are, for every little thing. We do get to do some of the nice things, but not without some kind of anguish. I have to get my loyalty schemes and it goes down each time. We can no longer afford to go away. Our main summer holiday is five days in Majorca in the half-term, when the prices are lower [than in summer itself].’
Of course, a great deal of Deborah’s angst is bound up with the banking crisis and the recession that has followed. She agrees that she still leads a ‘privileged life’. But there is something about her predicament which is recognizable to the nation’s supposedly affluent classes, and exactly the same mixture of frustrated aspirations and threatened values is shared a good deal more widely. ‘Just trying to keep where we are, and downshifting a tiny bit; that’s what we’re aspiring to,’ she says. ‘I say to my kids: don’t break that because can’t afford to replace it. We’ve come off the AA. Our gas boiler is playing up and we can’t mend it because our policy still charges a £50 call-out.’
So why is she struggling to educate her two children privately? ‘Long, long ago, when we had savings and pensions, holidays and cleaners, we were in the privileged position,’ she wrote in her blog, ‘not so much to pay for our children to attend a newly founded independent primary school in the next town, as to pay for them not to attend our allocated state version in the next road.’
Once again, this is instantly recognizable. It is easy to disapprove of middle-class parents who baulk at the prospect of sending their children to the school they have been allocated, until it comes to your
