A Class of Our Own?

Reflections on class and social mobility

I was born into a working class family. Not a poor one, but definitely a working class one. My mum left school at 16 and was, amongst other things, an administrative assistant, a librarian and a cleaner. Perhaps going against some popular misconceptions about the working class, she is a huge fan of the theatre and a voracious reader. My dad left school without taking any exams and was, variously, a mechanic, lorry driver, sheet metal worker, and, much to my initial horror, a caretaker at my secondary school. If these were middle-class professions, the variety of his skills and experience means he would have had what is sometimes called a "portfolio career". But they are not, so all we can say is that he has had a lot of different jobs. Both failed their 11+ and have always, it seems to me, borne the mark of being told at a young age that they were not 'one of the bright kids'. Whatever they did, they worked hard and always provided for me and my sister.

I realise that brief summary of my background is, thankfully, not bleak enough to provide the beginnings of a Ken Loach film. Nevertheless, it is what some people call "non-traditional" for somebody who is now a solicitor. I think that term carries a sense of not quite belonging, but I suppose it is historically true and does not seem to be getting less true with any great speed, so provides as good a description as any.

I attended the local state schools, including a comprehensive secondary school that, whilst it had many good teachers (and a particularly good caretaker), struggled to maintain high academic standards. It was eventually closed down amidst dwindling student numbers and a history of being put in and out of 'special measures' by Ofsted.

My childhood was largely unremarkable. I exhibited no great talents nor acquired any particularly impressive skills. I coasted through school with the steadfast support of parents who wouldn't have tolerated truancy or any serious misdemeanours, but who never sought to impose any academic expectations on me.

My family did not 'summer' anywhere in particular. I rarely strayed much beyond Leicester, save for the occasional trip to the Skegness seaside, a favourite destination for many of Leicester's holidaymakers, or, when my mum had her way, the Dorset coast. This meant that I did not set foot on a plane until I was in my early twenties, a fact I would only sparingly reveal to others, as if my lack of foreign travel was a serious and significant character flaw.

In the absence of exotic holidays, my summers were largely passed in myriad unplanned and unproductive ways with my friends. We explored the abandoned factories of a nearby industrial estate or wandered aimlessly along the train tracks, watching the heat haze rise in the distance and running from the seemingly endless cargo trains that would sound their horns at us to get out of their way. If the weather was nice, we would jump off the viaduct that the train tracks ran along and swim in the river.

After my GCSEs, moving to a sixth form college that had very high academic standards and being surrounded by conscientious pupils was a huge culture shock. I once got detention for handing in a piece of homework slightly late. I was absolutely mystified by this given that my previous experience had suggested that homework was basically optional and nothing short of assaulting a teacher would land you in detention. Forced to take my studies more seriously, with much encouragement from my teachers and the quietly-supportive ambivalence of my parents, I eventually applied to and was accepted at the University of Oxford to read law.

My parents were proud but concerned about me moving away. It was a novel concept for them given that our extended family lived so close together you could throw a blanket over their houses. They were also worried about the costs. Having since incurred around £30k of student debt, even before the advent of £9k tuition fees, and moved to London permanently, their concerns were well-founded.

At Oxford I simultaneously tried to fit in and stand out as a proudly working class conscript, never quite knowing how to do either. Whatever I was trying to do, I soon realised that I had much to learn besides the finer points of constitutional law.

I eat with my fork in my right hand. For the previous 18 years of my life, I had not understood that this means I eat 'left handed' – a concept which still makes absolutely no sense to me – and, more importantly, not in the manner in which places are traditionally set, with the knife on the right. "Why didn't your parents teach you how to eat properly?" enquired one of my contemporaries, as if it was my manners that required improvement, rather than his own.

"You're not wearing those shoes with that suit are you?", asked another of my peers, prompting a quick change before Formal Hall.

On another occasion when, unbeknownst to the individual in question, I had left my bedroom door open in our shared accommodation, I heard somebody relate a question that I had asked the previous evening: "…and then he asked, 'what is pesto made from?'". I remain surprised not only at the note of sheer incredulity in her voice, but also that my ignorance of the uses of pine nuts could have merited the retelling.

Place settings, footwear and pesto were, however, only the start of my re-education. Like an immigrant taking an English test, the rites and rituals of the middle-classes had to be learnt and absorbed in order to gain entry. But this was not like any test I had taken before. Reflecting the ambiguous contours of the British class system itself, it was a test where the questions and their answers had more to do with the identity of the person who was setting them than on any immutable or even consistent laws, like the ones that I could glean from my textbooks. That said, Debrett's became a reliable reference point when researching issues as vital as the proper length of a gentleman's necktie or how much shirt cuff should protrude beyond the end of the suit sleeve. When the latter became a source of criticism for Barry Keoghan's character Oliver in the film Saltburn – his failure to display any shirt cuff being a sign that he did not and would never quite fit in – I couldn't help but feel a painful jolt of recognition and empathy (albeit I was never driven to settle any scores in quite the same way as him).

And so, rather than embark upon a murderous revenge, I gave in to the inevitable and learnt to ski (taking part in a medical trial to fund the trip) and to tie a proper bow tie. I learnt the importance of being seen to enjoy cheeses other than mild cheddar and to criticise the complimentary wine given out at university events. I learnt the shame of shopping in Asda or Iceland and the difference between black tie and white tie, even when other things did not seem quite so black and white. (Incidentally, when I mentioned to a contemporary at university that a friend of mine had got a job in Iceland, she asked me how long he would be out there for.) Finally, I learnt that if you are truly wealthy enough or upper-class enough, you need not concern yourself with any of the rules or conventions that others are expected instinctively to know and to abide by.

After graduating I slowly made my way into the legal profession. I am indebted to many for their help and support, including those who were willing to give me a job despite my background and lack of polish (or, in some cases, I strongly suspect because of it).

I recently saw somebody discussing their first legal job who said that they looked 'like T.M. Lewin had thrown up' on them. I recalled my dad buying me my first work suits and a multi-pack of budget shirts from Tesco and being grateful for them, particularly given that I was still weaning myself off the overdraft I'd been in since leaving university. I wonder whether I would have walked with a straighter back and squarer shoulders in a more expensive suit, but I doubt it.

Ultimately, I wouldn't dwell too much on any barriers to entry that I faced. I am, after all, still a white, heterosexual, Oxbridge-educated male, and they are keys that still seem to unlock a lot of doors.

What I have found surprising, though, is that many years later, and despite the extensive re-education programme I have been subjected to, some people continue to recognise in me something I had thought would be buried too deep by now.

One night, alongside an Old Etonian and another comfortably middle-class colleague, somebody we'd got chatting to in a pub near our office pointed at me and asked why I looked "rougher" than my colleagues. Hard to say, given that I moisturise twice a day. On another evening in a Kennington social club, accompanied by a small group of Oxford graduates, one of the regulars claimed me as "one of us", with my more obviously middle-class friends failing to make the cut.

By the time of these events, I had long-since left university and had worked as a solicitor in London for several years, putting me well on the road to joining the ranks of the liberal metropolitan elite. I was at a loss to explain how I'd been so easily identified as something other than that. How could these people have so quickly chipped away at the middle-class veneer I had been covered with for so long? I would say I'd been identified by the lingering look of hunger in my eyes that has never quite left me, unable to shake off the marks of my impoverished upbringing. The issue with that explanation being that I never knew a day of hunger in my life.

Now I can only continue to muddle-through this middle-class life and profession that I have unexpectedly acquired; largely embracing them, sometimes despairing of them. The material aspects, I have more readily embraced. A thoroughly impractical but beautiful single speed bike hangs on the wall of my hallway, more art installation than mode of transport. The suits in my wardrobe are slightly more expensive than they used to be. And I also own a cast-iron skillet, both less practical and more expensive than the modern equivalent, making it one of the ultimate middle-class purchases.

Starting a family has thrown some of these issues into even sharper relief. I laugh at the absurd memory of my oldest son, aged around two, eating octopus at a wedding reception at the Café Royal (and asking for more, like a middle-class Oliver Twist), and the somehow incongruous notion of me being there in such grand surroundings at all. I flinch at both of my sons pronouncing words with a long 'a', but have stopped fighting that linguistic battle. I wonder what instruments, sports and languages I will force them to learn in an effort to shape them into the well-rounded and accomplished individuals I'm not, and how much they will resent me for it. I wonder if I will use my contacts to ease their way into some profession or other when they are older, or if I will make them write letters to local firms asking for a work-experience placement like I did because my family didn't know any lawyers or accountants or management consultants ('the milkround' had a much more literal meaning where I grew up). I wonder if, as they grow, I will see in them the carefree privilege and easy opportunity that I envied in others during my own childhood and hate myself for giving it to them.

In the end, I can only remind myself that this is not truly a tale of hardship. There were no rags and there are no riches either, just a slightly ill-fitting but ultimately comfortable middle-class existence. However you look at it, Tesco to T.M. Lewin does not have any particular air of drama.

And so, to get to the point, social mobility is obviously A Good Thing – I would not have my cast-iron skillet and a taste for shakshuka without it – but it does lead to a certain reckoning. A reckoning with your identity and your sense of self, with your own past as well as your future, all of which can be difficult and exhausting to pin down. At least when I'm tired of grappling with my middle-class identity crisis, I can take comfort in the sourdough loaf and small-batch coffee that I picked up from the local farmer's market.