I didn’t know we lived in a council house until Broseley Homes started going up down the road. Until then, it was just our home: semi-detached, three-bed, one bath, back and front door, bleached front steps. Same as all the others on our street. Built to last for miners over mines now still as graves.
We could decorate as we liked. My mum variously subjected our walls to ‘modern’ textured Graham & Green, ‘luxurious’ red velvet flock and swirls of ‘easy to clean’ Artex. Our floors were concrete but carpeted. When we moved in, in 1987, the windows were old and brittle and Jack Frost left fingerprints on the inside.
Billboards promised ‘luxury family living’. Who would sleep there? What was a luxury family?
One summer the council came round and replaced every window in every house on every street in our scheme and fitted gas central heating, so my mum had to regloss our skirting boards. No more trying to sit closest to the fire. But not every house got done, here and there the old windows stared back. It took a while to work out they were the people who’d quietly exercised Maggie’s Right to Buy. We felt sorry for them.
Down the road, the shiny black diamond slag heaps of the bing were being flattened to make way for Broseley’s ‘bought hooses’. Billboards promised ‘luxury family living’ and after school we’d break into the building site and swing from scaffolding in unfinished rooms smaller than the ones we went home to. Who would sleep here? What was a mortgage? What was a luxury family?
At school, ‘council house’ became an insult, as much a marker of shame as the free school dinners I ate every lunchtime. Walking my girlfriend home to the bungalow her parents owned, I marvelled at her red monoblock driveway, her front porch, her utility room – a luxury family! One day, I vowed, I would own a bought hoose. Now, I have two (or at least mortgages on them). I have gone from council tenant to homeowner and landlord. Maggie would be proud.
As Grenfell Tower burned I recalled what it felt like growing up in that council house in Scotland in the 1980s and 1990s. I felt cared for and lucky. I also felt trapped. When my mum, who’d survived a cerebral haemorrhage, developed something like multiple sclerosis our home needed adapting. For nearly a year, she had to lobby for a shower because she couldn’t get in and out of the bath any more.