Remembering Grenfell

I moved house when I was fourteen. Two years later, Grenfell happened on my street.

That morning, I woke up to small stones bouncing off my window. I opened it to see my friend and cousin yelling at me about a fire. 

I didn’t understand what they were talking about. They told me to look up. Grenfell was submerged in flames and black smoke was coming off the building. I stood there still with endless questions racing through my mind.

They shouted my name again. They needed clothes for a classmate who had been evacuated. We had a GCSE science exam that morning. I rummaged through my wardrobe and didn’t have much to offer. We found clothes elsewhere and took our friend to a nearby church so she could get changed before heading to school with us.

We walked to school in silence, unsure of what to say.

That silence ended the moment we entered the lunch hall. Everywhere I looked, there were people comforting one another and crying. At this point, I was still in shock, still trying to process everything.

We queued, walked to our seats, and sat down. I kept an eye out for one girl. She was the only person in the school who lived in that tower. No one knew if she made it out. I was full of hope and believed she was okay. Everyone settled, and they closed the doors. But there was still an empty seat.

They told us we could start the exam. I couldn’t open the paper. My eyes stayed glued to that seat. I convinced myself it was her seat and believed it was a sign she didn’t make it. That was the first time I cried that day, and once I started, I couldn’t stop.

Tissues were passed down, and I tried to compose myself. I’m not sure how long it took me to even pick up my pen. I did my best and eventually finished the exam.

For two weeks, we received no updates. Deep down, I knew already. They eventually told us, she and her family did not survive the fire.

Grief is strange. Memories you didn’t even know you had can resurface one by one as more time passes. One I often reminisce about is her chasing me in the public swimming pool. I remember her face emerging from the water with a massive grin.

I also remember our last conversation, two days before the fire, at the bus stop. She was so excited to get her GCSE results and start sixth form. I shared that I didn’t really care about any of that.

She never saw her results. She never had the chance to go to sixth form. But I did, and I couldn’t shake the guilt.

That guilt relentlessly stayed with me. It follows me with every achievement, every experience and at every stage of my life. Sixth form, university, my first job, every birthday, every New Year. I felt the same guilt at every moment that should have been hers as well.

She was a kind person. She was always happy and made the effort to include everyone. The only picture we have together is the one she pulled me into because she noticed I was standing there on my own. In the photo, she’s gripping my arm to keep me close, while I was too self-conscious to even smile. If I knew that was going to be my last picture with her, I would have smiled.

Grenfell changed me. I never realised the impact it had on me until I was older. I feel like everyone moved on, while I’m still stuck in that picture and the small moments that I had with her. Those moments may have been small, but they took precedence over all my other memories. They’re the ones I remember the most clearly and think back to the most.

Years later, at university, I lived in the upper floors of a high-rise building. Just like her. The flat had an emergency door in case of fires, and that calmed me. They were doing construction on the building to remove the cladding. The same cladding that led to the rapid fire at Grenfell.

One night, I heard sirens. I looked out of the window in my living room and noticed firefighters gathered at the bottom of the tower. I panicked and felt as if I couldn’t breathe. Not again. I ran into the hallway and down the stairs. It ended up being okay. Still, I didn’t sleep that night. I was too anxious. That was the day I realised the impact Grenfell had on me.

I’m 24 now. I used to avoid talking about Grenfell, as for some reason I felt like I didn’t have the right to talk about it. Now, I find myself creeping Grenfell into conversations and making sure everyone remembers.

I’ll always remember Grenfell, that morning, and her.