Life on the Bentilee Estate

Grass Roots

Article by Irene Smith

Do you remember when the pall of smoke and grime from Potteries' collieries and the steel works hung like a dark grey blanket over the Potteries?
We grew up in a black and grey world, but playtime we looked around for a patch of colour. The parks, Berry Hill, and Ubberley became places to escape to. We walked for miles through winding lanes with hedgerows of hawthorn, wild roses, blackberries and, in the winter, holly berries glowing in the snow.

Although I was born, and grew up in, the town of Hanley, I was lucky enough to have grandparents who lived in a village on the outskirts of the Potteries and school holidays were spent there. Soon a love of the countryside became a part of me. I seemed drawn to anything natural, and Berry Hill became my hunting ground from a very small child, through to my courting days, and later I lived in a cottage in the middle of Berry Hill fields.

It was from this cottage I watched the hedgerows disappear and, from the high point of a colliery tip, watched the estate called Bentilee taking over the landscape. I would close my eyes and try to see in the mind where ponds and bogs used to be, and where was the place we used to call "Jerusalem". The cottages on Berry Hill were condemned for obvious reasons: no gas or electricity, no water on tap; just oil lamps and a tin can toilet which had to be emptied by what was then called 'the night soil waggon' -- not an easy way of life.

We were rehoused on the Bentilee estate, which at the time was still in the process of being built. We moved into one great morass of mud and building materials. Huge pits of sand, gravel, lime, bricks and equipment were all over the place. Wellington boots were an essential item of footwear.

We would have to plough our way carrying shoes to change into when we reached Twigg Street, where there was a road and a bus-stop. It was some time before roads were passable through the centre of the estate. We did get a vague idea where house and flat boundaries were. We had a few wooden props with a wire strung between them dividing the ground at the back of the buildings, but the front area was not paved or divided for some time.

I couldn't reconcile myself to living with the churned up patch of mud, clay and building rubble which was to be my garden. For three years, it was an ongoing battle to lift rocks and rubble and try to level out a bank at the back of the flat. Not an easy task when also working full-time and had a child to rear, with no man in the house to do the heavy work. I've often wondered what drove me. Because I forgot the property was not mine, I staked my claim to a bit of Ubberley, my patch of reclaimed land.

There was nothing basically wrong with Bentilee at the period when it was built. The fact that the roads are too narrow for today's large vehicles and, because people now have cars, insufficient garage space could not have been forseen.

The estate was built for people without the means to buy, but they were not built without some thought. We have lots of green spaces, and the layout is interesting, if one looks at the various levels. I personally can't understand the people who say "Bentilee" in a disparaging manner. Builders make houses, people make homes; and the majority of people who live on the estate do their best to improve their homes and surroundings. There are areas uncared for and neglected, but this kind of thing can be found on any estate even previously owned property.

 

There is room for improvement, one only has to look at various properties which have been purchased and altered. But not everyone can afford to purchase, and council alteration would mean higher rents. Have I got a grouse about Bentilee? Yes: dog dirt, litter, and graffiti from mindless individuals with no pride in their surroundings, the complaining kind who say there is nowhere to go and nothing to do but never take time to find out what activities are available; the disruptive elements who make trouble and cause damage, and the activities close down; everything seems to revolve around the cash level; and the busiest places at night are the video and wine, and beer shops. I don't know what today's youth is looking for. Maybe full-employment would solve some problems. Have I wandered off the intended subject: Bentilee through the ages?

My first impression after receiving the key to the flat: water running down the walls, floors caked in mud, splashes of paint everywhere. It took three weeks of night work to clean up, working by candle light and oil lamp because the electricity and gas hadn't been turned on. I moved in on a Saturday morning and joiners were still in doing last minute work to doors, and putting a row of coat hooks along the passage wall. It looked awful, who wanted to open a front door on a line of old coats? At the first opportunity the coat hooks were removed. Clothes would have been soaking wet with the condition of the place. For years the place was damp and clothing etc mildewed, but eventually lots of air-bricks were put in and there was an improvement.

Luckily I have a strong sense of humour because some of the incidents with council workmen loose in the house, while I was out at work, would have made a saint swear. One night I came in to find a wheel-barrow reared up on my bedroom wall and a huge pile of wood shavings reaching four feet up the wall. All my doors had been shaved to enable them to close, and my flat had apparently been used to do the doors from several other houses as well! Being a thrifty person, I made use of the shavings by making firelighters -- we had a coal fire at this stage. Leaving a note with a request for the workmen to clean up the mess, they left me a note saying they would be back to paint the doors in three weeks. I declined the offer, and painted them myself. From this incident, my D.I.Y. period was born.

There have been numerous incidents over the years which I can only put down to a lack of communication between management and maintenance: a new door (not needed -- my door has never been replaced. It's an original one, and in good condition as it's been taken care of); a request to move out so that the floors could be replaced! -- nothing wrong with the floors. The fault was in the foundation. How did I know? I asked the builders questions. Nothing short of dismantling the building would cure the fault, but it's still standing, in spite of gas pipes too close to the surface, and drain necks above ground instead of below the surface, an open air-brick leading to the pantry inside the wall of a grid -- not very hygienic. Why did I stay in a place with so many obvious faults? I got attached and put down roots. Any wonder the place feels as if it belongs to me.

I've never been refused an application to alter things, and improvements have been made at my own expense. Electricity, gas and water repairs have however been done by the council, or a reputable tradesman. The garden over the years has cost far more than the building. The flat could have been purchased, if the ground had been neglected, but the garden is a priority, and personally I don't agree with council house sales. I know how much flats cost originally.

When I walked into this flat, turned on a 'lectric light, soaked in a bath of warm water, and shut my eyes pretending that the lanes and fields were still around and would always stay inside my memory, I made myself a promise: here was where I intended to stay, no more moving around or living as a lodger in other people's house, with no roots. I was living right in the middle of my childhood hunting ground. They built Saint Stephen's church on the patch we called "Jerusalem", and I'm sure my flat was built over the bog where I used to lose my shoes as a child. All I can say is this is where I feel at home, and want to run back to when I'm away. The tree and bushes in the back garden are full of birds, they too must feel at home because they build nests and I awake to the sound of birdsong everyday.

What will happen to my garden when I am too old to cope with it? Will someone else feel as I do? All I hope is that I'm rehoused somewhere on Bentilee because my heart is here with the many friends and neighbours. I would not come back to look. If I had to leave the flat, it would grieve me if it was neglected. We are only here a short time: temporary custodians in a place which could be a very nice area with more social awareness and a caring attitude. Utopia is some way off, but one can dream. No one could deny that Bentilee is full of variety, surprises round every corner and, in a world of violence, I can only say that I've never been afraid to walk alone on this estate. The only attack I've ever encountered was by a dog.

This story could go on and on. I'd like another lifetime to see what happens. In my mind's eye I see the little boxes alive with colour: a garden estate. Will the dream ever come true? and will the patch of green which is all that is left of Berry Hill disappear forever, and once again go back to days of grime and dust?

Note: taken from an informal magazine "The Bentilean"
Irene Smith was always a welcome contributor to "The Bentilean" magazine, as well as a source of much encouragement and support.