Copyright © Tanya Piejus, 1999

When I tell people that I come from Tonbridge they say, 'Oh Tunbridge Wells?' I gently put them right and patiently explain that while the two superficially have much in common, they are as different as two towns only a few miles apart can be.

The social and cultural gulf between Tonbridge and its nearest neighbour is largely a question of history. Tonbridge was the firstborn. It carved a niche for itself as a hard-working, down-to-earth, no-nonsense sort of town, the kind of place that would have two inches of flabby, white bum cleavage showing above the waistline of its jeans and would expect steak and chips for tea every Thursday night at 6. Then along came Tunbridge Wells, the flashy, charming younger brother, who stole its older sibling's place of honour by schmoozing its way into high society with its smart attitude, bright intellect and well-groomed, designer looks.

Tonbridge is a funny sort of town. If you want second-hand paperbacks or new shoes, you cannot beat its high street for choice, but that is about all it has to offer as a shopping centre. The big chain stores and classier types of shop pick the usurper, Tunbridge Wells, to sell their wares so rents in Tonbridge are low. During a Saturday shopping expedition, the bargain-hunter has a marvellous range of low-budget emporia to scout in for that special deal. There is Poundstretcher for all your household needs, Peacocks for poor copies of designer sportswear and anything in polyester, Heesman's for chunky, gold-plated jewellery with your birth sign stamped into it, and Olivers Shoes for a wide selection of man-made uppers assembled in some factory on Tyneside. Then, of course, there is Tonbridge market, the wonders of which can only be truly appreciated by spending a couple of hours amongst its cheap dogfood, nylon nighties and dodgy electrical equipment whilst breathing in the ripe aroma of chip fat and cheap meat.

Yet, despite its badly-cut clothes, cheap shoes and chunky bracelets, Tonbridge still manages to attract a circle of sophisticated, middle-class friends. They inhabit the two-bed semis and rambling red-bricks that lurk in the leafy fringes of the town. They would like to muscle their way into the exclusive crowd that clings onto the coat-tails of Tunbridge Wells but they do not have the money or the class to make it with that refined set. Instead they put on their Barbour jackets and take the four-wheel drive out of the garage in order to masquerade amongst the chosen for a few hours but, in the end, they return to good old Tonbridge where the property prices are cheaper, there is a fine collection of grammar schools where their kids can have a good education for free, and a curry house in the high street for a vindaloo when their student instincts get the better of them.

Tonbridge has come up in the world since my schooldays. It has sold off some of its shabbier possessions and tidied up itself up a bit. The old NatWest bank has become Pizza Express and the original Post Office is now a Henry J. Bean's. The pavements have been relaid with bricks arranged in an attractive herring-bone pattern and well-tended hanging baskets are slung on every lamp-post. The sports centre holds craft fairs instead of flea markets and the castle green is home to open-air concerts and outdoor theatre in the summertime instead of winos and bag-ladies.

Tonbridge will never be a high-flier like its bigger, brasher brother up the road. It has too long a history as a major railway junction, industrial manufacturer and peddler of cheap goods, but it has a rich character that its superficial sibling will never achieve.

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