A class apart

I’d bought a new suit and tie and should have been confident as I walked to the bus stop that overcast morning. Instead, I was self-conscious, and when I took my place in the queue I was sure I caught a few sidelong glances.

“They are probably thinking ‘he’s either going to court or starting a new job,’” I said to myself. And they were right, about the job that is.

I found a seat upstairs on the number 15, adjusted my jacket to avoid creasing and settled down for the half-hour journey to Blackfriars and the start of my new work life.

It’s wasn’t my first job, straight from school I’d worked in a small book publishers for a few months. It was not much of a job, but I couldn’t complain as it was what I’d asked for.

It came out of a chat I’d had some weeks earlier with the School Careers Officer; what an incongruous title that was! Boys from my neck of the woods didn’t have ‘careers,’ they mostly relied on their hands and arms to earn a living. So when I said I wanted to do something in publishing, I caused a bit of a stir. I was told the pinnacle of my ambition should be an apprenticeship, but when I persisted, the slightly-rattled SCO scribbled in her notebook and promised to get back to be in a week or so. She kept her word and I eventually washed up as a general dog’s body in the world of books.

It provided an income, but it was not how I wanted to spend the rest of my life, so as soon as I could I joined an ‘improve your writing’ class at a local night school. Six months later, with bags under my eyes and a ‘has successfully completed’ diploma in my pocket, I started to work my way through a directory of magazine publishers, sending off my not-too-impressive CV and keeping my fingers crossed.

I got to ‘I’ before I struck lucky. ICP had a vacancy on one of their weekly titles and suggested I popped in for an interview. To my immense amazement, all went well. Despite my total lack of experience, I would be writing advertorials for the advertising team. A start date three weeks hence was agreed.

That day had now arrived, and it had not got off to a good start. I’d woken in the early hours fretting about my new job and felt tired and unsettled. I sort of knew what was expected of me in terms of work, but I worried about how I’d get on with my new colleagues.

I guess my apprehension and insecurity was understandable. I was a gauche, immature teenager from a bread-line household in London’s east end and, adding to my general feeling of despondency that wintery morning, I had recently been dumped by the love of my life.

I thought about her as I peered out of the misted bus window that Monday morning. She was training to be a dental auxiliary (hopefully the profession now has a less terrifying name) and had started a one-year placement in Northampton. Her letter had tried to sugar the bitter pill, but the message was clear, she had met someone else. If I have been less naïve perhaps I would have seen it coming, and her words would not have sliced me like a razor.

I snapped my mind back to less depressing thoughts as Blackfriars Bridge loomed ahead. As I got off the bus, I looked across the road at ICP’s towering offices; they were as intimidating as I remembered. The receptionist flashed me a white smile as I asked to see Bloggs from Personnel. A few minutes later I was in the managing editor’s office and ready to face my new colleagues.

That’s when it all went wrong. I knew as soon as I stepped into the sales room that I would not fit in. There were five of them, the most unbelievably stereotyped Hooray Henrys – you know, cufflinks, home countries accents, air of superiority. It was glaringly obviously that we were a world – and a class – apart.

The first question set the tone: “Where do you come from?” “Poplar,” I replied. “Sussex?” “No, East London.” I saw the exchanged glances. “But I was born in South London,” I added in a childish and unsuccessful attempt to somehow elevate my status. I knew they had instantly pigeon-holed me: I was a poorly-educated, know-nothing Cockney with bad elocution, a cheap suit on my back and no more than a couple of quid in my pocket.

Actually, they were right on all counts.

Despite that inauspicious start, I quickly got the hang of things and was soon turning out decent advertorials. But things did not get any better with my workmates. We shared an office, but that was about as far as it went. I was never a colleague, never involved in the Monday morning banter about the weekend, never invited to join them in the pub.

As the months progressed, however, my view of them started to change and my sense of inferiority began to diminish. It was clear that they had little understanding of what I considered the real world. They might have had thick wallets and Oxbridge degrees in their pockets, but they struggled to tie up their shoe laces, metaphorically speaking.

I didn’t have a cut-glass accent, a wealthy family in the commuter belt or well-connected friends, but when it came to dealing with ordinary people living real lives, I was comfortable and they weren’t.

That was all 40 plus years ago. I never did get rid of my accent, or lose the razor scars, but I did build a moderately successful career and a happy family life.

Interestingly, I recently bumped into one the ICP five. He was still a space salesman on the same title. The ebullience was gone, though, and he looked scruffy and world-weary. We exchanged a few uncomfortable sentences and said hasty goodbyes.

If there is a moral to this story, it is perhaps that while advantage and privilege count for a great deal in this world, ultimately, life is not about accent, money or connections. It is about something more fundamental: accepting who you are, working hard, doing the best you can and always, always treating people, all people, as equals.

But that’s just the view of a poorly educated, no-nothing Cockney who still occasionally drops his aitches.