‘Somehow I had to send myself back, with words as a catalyst, to open the memories out and see what they had to offer.’
There are a number of criteria according to which the past can be divided up, not just to produce manageable chunks, but also to organise our thoughts about it. Time is a complex concept, which is most rigorously analysed by philosophers, physicists and astronomers. History is the systematic study of the past, and at its heart is time. As a historian, I would like to take a practical viewpoint, and am interested in the effects of passing of time on human memory, and how we chunk our past up into manageable chunks, based on time, relationships and places. In examining the ‘historical self’ in the context of our perception of time and sense of place, for instance, the necessity for the enlargement of our terms of reference becomes apparent. This essay is a short abridged Personal Autobiography; it covers the time between my birth and up to my first marriage. It examines how I have chunked up events into time periods, along with the places where I have lived and the relationships that I formed, and how these events, places and relationships have made up my memories. Tapping into these memories required a different order of evidence and a different order of enquiry, therefore an autobiography was an ideal starting point.
Taking a new look at an old past
I was born in Short Heath, Erdington, a suburb of Birmingham in the West Midlands, on 12 November 1955. Like a lot of families from that era, we lived as an extended family at our grandparents’ house, myself, an elder brother, mom and dad, sharing the front room of a 3 bedroomed council house, in a quiet cul de sac off Turfpitts lane. The house still had a coal-fired range in the front living room, a bathroom off the kitchen and an outside toilet. My grandfather was a Shropshire man, one of fifteen children. He had a jet-black mop of hair until the day he died. He was a very kind and relaxed person, who never seemed troubled by anything, and was very contented with his life style. My grandfather could usually be found in one of three places: at home, in the pub or on his allotment. With the exception of a holiday, he did not go anywhere else.
Time can be experienced by humans in a number of modes, some involving a powerful sense that the emptiness often equated with linear time can be transcended in a deeply meaningful higher time. This time can be called ‘eclectic’ time since it allows the individual to stand outside ordinary time. My grandfather operated in eclectic time, his time governed by the seasons, daylight hours and the pub opening time. He could not be rushed or pushed, he was the master of his own time. When asked to do something outside his routine, he would say, “I’ll see to it, just now’s”. This timeframe of my grandfather, when analysed, tells us a lot about his background, his family life and his personality. He was a ‘country man’, that meant that the working day was from dawn to dusk, a pattern that is very familiar to people who worked the land. What is also interesting is that as a country man, now living in an industrial city, he bought forward with him his way of life, and his ‘Place’, into an industrial landscape. He kept pigs, chickens and made country wine. Not all of these ventures were particularly successful, but that is what he did. Now here lies the key, he was able to transcend time, but unable to transcend place. His success, or lack of it, was nothing to do with lack of knowledge; it was the lack of the ‘place’ that he had lost, when moving to Birmingham as a young man, which accounted for his unsuccessful ventures into his past. An urban house in an industrial city is not the place to rear pigs, or a flock of capons. Given the right place, things did work: for instance the allotment, this one tenth of an acre of ‘his Shropshire’ was a very productive venture; it provided a surplus of vegetables for all of the family, with some spare that he sold. This man was a master of his place, and as all country people did after a hard day’s work, he had his beer, a traditional drink for farm workers.
My earliest memories are of that house, the range, my grandfather’s chickens at the top of the garden and the green house. I have strong recollections wondering why I could not go up the top of the garden or out in the street with my elder brother, who was 3 ½ years older than me. I recall using the broom to lift the cabin hook off the back gate, and trying to run off up the entry, mother always catching me before I got to the end. The only time I did get out, was when mother would push me in the pushchair to Erdington village, the cobble stones would jar my teeth as we walked past the Golden Cross pub. Even at that young age, I had a very enquiring mind, and would often look up at the sky, watching the clouds roll past and wonder, wondering if the clouds would eventually run out: I imagined the sky to be like a rolled up canvas.
My grandparents’ house was a special place; it was a place of well being, a safe place, and a warm place (as stored in my memory). At that young age, I had a clear spatial awareness of the place, it engaged me, and I was able to indulge my imagination in this place.
One day mother took me “up town” (Birmingham) and into an old building where the lift ran up the centre of the stair well. It was one of those very ornate wrought iron open lifts, with the sliding cage doors and a lift attendant. We walked into a large room, with both beds and steel cots around the walls, and a playpen in the centre of the room, full of teddy bears and other soft toys. Before I knew what was happening, my mother took all my clothes off, put me in pyjamas, popped me into a cot, and left. As you can imagine, I was terrified, I had no idea what was going on, what I was there for or why! What is interesting here is that at the time I was not aware of any other person in the room, I was clearly preoccupied with what was going on with my mother. Slowly I started to become aware of activity, my cot was next to the door, on the left, there were other children in beds opposite and cots along to the left of me. Adults started to appear, putting kids to bed, giving others food, picking up the soft toys, and placing them back in the central playpen. A girl was taken out of the room on a trolley, screaming as she went, the adult telling her not to make such a fuss. Then it was my turn for the trolley. Learning the lesson from the previous occupant, I lay there without any noise, and was taken to a room where there were many people all with cloth hats, masks and gowns on. I recall how I told them I was being good and brave, and how they encouraged me. One of them placed what seemed like a semi transparent mask over my face, I could smell ether, and hear their words of encouragement to sleep. I woke with a very sore throat; a nurse gave me something on a spoon that seemed to ease the soreness, then my mother appeared. She had brought me a soft toy panda from home; I do not recall much about her visits, other than being very upset when she left, as before without explanation. My father came too. In those days most working people carried an old canvas gas mask bag for their lunch, as my dad always did. He produced from the gas mask bag a bottle of ‘Ribena’, promptly making me a glass, using the sink on the end wall to make it. After dad left one of the adults shared out the rest of the Ribena with all the other children in the room. Eventually, when I was able to go home, mother made me leave my toy panda. My last memory of this event is leaving the big room, looking back, at my panda, there, in the playpen in the centre of the room, my panda looking back at me, appealing to me, to take it too.
I had been admitted to the Ear, Nose and Throat hospital for a tonsillectomy, a very ‘fashionable’ operation undertaken those days. What is also interesting here is how my memory ‘telescoped time’, how all of the events and more, now seem to have happened over a period of a day or two. I have no recollection of the passage of days or nights, but it seemed like I was there for an eternity: my mother says I would try to bargain with her to let me come home, but the only thing I had to bargain with was a promise to eat all my dinner. The actual timeframe was in fact one week, but it was one week to remember. What is also interesting is how the whole episode has affected me, influencing the strength and detail of my memories.
My parents had been on the housing waiting list for about eight years when they were offered a flat on the new Lyndhurst estate in Erdington. This was a brand new, very modern, all mod cons flat in a tower block, one of five others, two of which were still being built, the other three not started. Other more traditional housing and maisonettes were also under construction on the estate, along with the roads and walkways. As an inquisitive four year old this was a dream, to live on a building site, with the diggers, the dumper trucks and machinery, it was everything I ever wanted, it was liberation from the confinement of my grandparents’ garden. It took me ages trying to turn down the tops of my wellington boots, so I could be just like all the other builders. Building sites were amazing places: amazingly dangerous, there were actual fatalities on this site when the scaffold collapsed on the sixteen-story block, and then a young boy fell down a lift shaft. Yet this did not impinge upon my freedom, to go and explore the site. I would climb down unsupported trenches, explore open manholes, and once had to be rescued from some flooded footings by my elder brother because I could not climb out. There was one incident where my brother was sitting in a dumper truck, my father came over, stood in front of the dumper and asked where I was. My brother promptly pulled a leaver, and tipped me out of the hopper to land in a dusty heap at my father’s feet.
Across the other side of the estate was the railway, the veritable magnet for children. The line ran between Chester Road and Erdington stations, and of course prior to the Beeching cuts was very busy. We would look down from above as the steam locomotives would billow out huge clouds of white steam and smoke as they heaved their heavy loads up the incline, through the cutting. We would play on the railway track regularly, then one day one of the children did not hear a diesel locomotive approaching. Somehow, he just managed to get clear of the train between the track and the embankment, it must have missed him by inches. Again, when I look back, I am amazed at the laissez faire attitude to safety matters in the late 1950’s.
We only spent nine months living on the Lyndhurst Estate. My mom managed to get a council exchange for a three bedroomed house with a large garden, back in Short Heath Erdington. This may seem surprising to some, that anyone would swap their three bedroomed house, for a flat in a tower block. You have to consider that in the late 1950’s tower blocks were a new thing, the Lyndhurst Estate was one of the first housing estates built post war. People’s vision of a modern future in Britain was quite strong, with a desire to sweep away old things and build modern, light and airy homes, with fitted kitchens, internal bathrooms, and under floor heating: modernisation was the key word.
It is interesting that our parents say that they moved for our benefit, yet a house with a garden was in fact a liability to us as children, and, with an outside toilet, with no lighting, an unpleasant bathroom with no hot water, it did not ring in the joys of the Promised Land. I was happy on my building site, my place, my space.
Moving home did give me the opportunity to make my own friends. All of the others had been my brother’s, and as I was coming up to school age, the timing of the change, not that I appreciated it, was about right.
I am in a very fortunate position, to have these pre-school memories, they divide my life quite cleanly and bring into it a concept of time of which I had no awareness, I call these divisions my ‘ecstatic’ time. Life as far as I was concerned, ran along only under the direction of my mother. She knew better than I did when it was time for an afternoon nap, or bedtime. She also knew better than I did, when I was hungry or thirsty, but that was about it, the rest of the time, I did as I pleased, I did not have a concept of time.
Most people remember their first day at school, myself being no exception. Some kids were crying, one or two wet themselves, others were sick. Some of the teachers seemed intimidating, and some were a bit hard nosed, but this was not a problem for me, I slotted into infant school without difficulty. The one thing I did not like were the school dinners, they smelled awful, and seemed to be nothing more than copious plates full of cabbage, diced and boiled sweed with parsnips. There was an almost edible pudding, usually jam sponge, served with custard made with water, and very little sugar. It was quite unlike what mother used to make. I was not a good eater, I would shuffle my food round the plate, mash it, compress it, shape it into a lump to make it look smaller. The teachers were not having any of that, they would force feed you, and threaten that there would be no pudding if you did not eat your dinner, not much of a bargain really. On a couple of occasions, the very smelly cabbage days, I left school and went to play at my grandmother’s house. She used to work, but one day, on her day off, I went there and told her some excuse, so she took me into Birmingham shopping. The school noticed I was missing, so called the police out; my poor mother was frantic, looking for me everywhere, not knowing where I was. As I walked back home with my grandmother, we were stopped by a local girl who told us that mother was looking for me. At the time this seemed great news, my mind wondered to the TV programme Lassie, the collie dog who rescued little lost children, returning them home safely to appreciative loving parents, who were so please to see them: no such luck.
The concept of time has now started to loom, governing my life in a number of unwelcome ways. Mother would get us up out of bed with her “time for school” routine. What is interesting here is not only was I gaining a concept of time, but also a concept of the expression of vocal distress. I quickly learned that the first “time for school” call was the nice, relaxed, no hurry, in your own time call. Subsequent “time for school” calls had a more urgent note, expressing my mother discomfort with time, or her lack of it. I also knew that I could push and stretch time a little further, pushing mother into a discomfort time zone. The final “time for school” call signalled a no negotiation position, I had to get up irrespective of the amount of ice on the inside of my bedroom window. Another concept of time creeping into my life was the mechanical measurement; again, we see the concept of how time can be experienced by humans, in a number of modes, and how school was now shaping my concept of time. The school’s operation revolved around time, bells were rang at the start of school, assembly, playtime, milk time, dinnertime and home time: whistles blown at the end of playtime and dinnertime, dividing the day into smaller time chunks. Each classroom had a clock; each teacher had a watch, each class had a syllabus, mechanical time taking hold, strengthening its grasp, governing our daily activities. Time introduced a new conception called ‘late’. Late bought with it a new set of conventions, an awareness of the consequence of time. To help deal with this, we had to learn to tell the time mechanically, with our little cardboard clock faces, with movable clock hands. It was interesting how some pupils could grasp the mechanics quite easily, but the concept of time was not so easy, as seen in my walkabout activities. All I wanted to do was to avoid school dinners, so I would pop out of school. Nevertheless, without an understanding of time constraints, going to my grandparents’ house, the place to indulge my imagination, cut right through the ‘late’ concept, thus bringing me into conflict with time.
Other than the odd walkabout, infant’s school passed in an uneventful way. It was not until my junior class that I started to feel the effects of firstly, my older brother, who was some problems at school, mom and dad summoned up there on a weekly basis for some problem or another with his behaviour. They developed an automatic assumption, that because he misbehaved I would too. The second thing that gave me great difficulty was my spelling, reading was not a problem, but spelling was. We were given endless lists of words to read, and would be told to “learn (to spell) those” words, I just could not do it. The problem presented two fold, if there was a test, not only did I have to answer the question correctly, but have to spell the answer right too, thus automatically forfeiting half the marks. Of course, if asked to write a story, I found this not a problem, I had a great self-indulged imagination fired up by my conflicting ambitions, but it would always end up turning into a spelling assessment, my notebook page covered in red ink corrections. I would be told to go and “learn those words”, again, but it just did not engage me. I had hoped that the teachers would read the story line, no such luck. I stopped enjoying school when a teacher made me stand out in front of the class, so I could hold out my book of red corrections, the class instructed to laugh at me. To add insult to injury the head mistress decided to take personal charge of my spelling too, and added even more red ink to the corrections, taking pride in announcing to the class that my spelling ability was three years behind everyone else. Although I could not spell, I was quite capable in other subject’s, even maths, with the exception of learning multiplication tables, but it was easy to deceive, as most school writing books that were math ruled, had the tables on the back cover. The head mistress went on secondment for a year, and a new teacher who was without a personal agenda, gave me some breathing space. Although the 11 plus examinations did not seem difficult, I inevitably failed.
The awareness of my poor spelling bought about a move into a new timeframe, in relation to memory and my past. Although at the time I was unaware, we now call the condition dyslexia. It was not until I discovered a name for the problem, that I was able to start to break free of this timeframe and the negative effect of the condition. The condition constrained me into a social and intellectual group and with conflicting ambitions, this constraint following me through time through secondary school, and into marriage.
Memory can be collected up and gathered into periods by historical events. Most people “remember what they were doing when President Kennedy was assassinated” associations make strong memory mnemonics. Historical events can be something of international significance, or something very personal, like a decision, events creating the boundaries of my ecstatic time.
I was offered a choice of two secondary schools, Perry Beeches Secondary School or Slade Road Secondary School. (Moor End Lane School was off the list by order of my parents; my elder brother had gone before me). Being a very hands on person, always making things, or taking something apart, an opportunity to undertake wood or metalwork as a school activity was a real attraction. Homework was something I found very unattractive, because it impinged on my time. I also had a group of friends, these friends based on my social and intellectual group, so when I went for an interview at Perry Beeches, my heart sank when I saw the condition of the buildings, all wooden, waney edged, painted cedar timber construction. The head master, Mr Hedge was a formidable character, who quickly confirmed my doubts, this school does do homework, lots of it, it does not do wood or metalwork until fourth form. I knew that Slade Road School did not do home work, but did both wood and metalwork, feeding my conflicting ambitions, my decision was made.
What is important to understand here is that because I had these conflicting ambitions, I wanted to do something that I knew I could do extremely well. I had learnt that if you excelled in one subject, it was a passport to the land of respect. Two friends from junior school, Jane and David both excelled at sport, Jane swam, a width, a length, half a mile, a mile, bronze, silver and gold medals for life saving, the list was endless, each week in assembly Jane would collect some acumen of swimming achievement. David was a great cricket player, who was rewarded if he broke a school window playing cricket, he played for the school and played well. Both these people were within my social and intellectual group, but their sporting activities gave them a very trouble free lifestyle. I was desperate for school life to engage me, as one thing you seek being dyslexic, is invisibility.
Slade Road Secondary School was a failing inner city school with a failing headmaster, who managed the failing staff he deserved. Bullying by staff was the norm, so how the staff expected the pupils not to follow their well-presented demonstrations was completely beyond me. On day one, we were informed that we were to be the first set of pupils who would have to do an additional year at school, a fifth form. A year or so later, this idea was deferred, so subsequently, a school-leaving certificate would be the only qualification when I left at fifteen years of age. Slade Road was a step back in time, in terms of its level of educational excellence. Its catchment area was most of the rundown back-to-back houses in Aston, Birmingham, the Cottage Homes and anyone else who was not wanted. To cater for this social and intellectual group was to travel back in time educationally three years. The first year English lessons were solely devoted to learning how to write copper plate with ink pens, and comprehension lessons were at a level already visited in second year junior school. I did wood and metal work, and did it well, but the accolades of my sporting peers was not so forthcoming. This new school had a set of teaching staff with their own agendas, teaching pupils to excel, was not on it.
Within time periods or time chunks, there are sub periods that lie within the main body of a time or episode, memory and associations figure in this time frame too. Other than some isolated occasional events, my memories of Slade Road Schools have telescoped, collapsing right down into five ever decreasing years, the first year being the longest and so forth. One other thing I became aware of was after the first year at secondary school, I became suddenly conscious of a change that had taken part in me. This had happened before in junior school, but now on a much larger and profound time scale, when looking at infant school children compared with us as junior school students. There was now a reoccurrence, with the next intake of first year students; the differential between us ‘second’ year students and the new first year intake was remarkable. They were so small, immature and noisy, the effect transporting me back into junior school, looking down and comparing the scenario with infant school children.
I left school at sixteen years of age with no qualifications; fortunately, my father had found me a job where he worked as carpenter. Learning the lessons from the past, my elder brother missing out on an apprenticeship though his own endeavours, it was important to me to complete one. My logic was quite simple, I could foresee where the apprenticeship training would take me, and what it would enable me to achieve. I would never be out of work, and although apprentice pay was very low, skilled workers earn money. Where my logic failed me was my choice of job. My father found me an apprentice carpenter’s job, my social and intellectual groups were all going into painting and decorating, so at the interview, I expressed my desire to be a painting and decorating apprentice. After one week, I could not stand the job, but was too frightened to talk to my father about it. I was determined to stick with it and complete the apprenticeship, so I would never be out of work, although I was never motivated. Due to my conflicting ambitions, the lack of motivation also led to a feeling of failure. I became aware of ex school colleagues with better more fulfilling jobs, and was unable to indulge in the skilled workers’ pride talk that my work colleagues had.
Quite by chance, I rekindled a friendship with an acquaintance named James, he was the husband of my best friend’s sister, whom I had first met while playing truant from school. James provided a hideaway for the day; he took us out on a fossil hunting trip to the limestone caverns of Dudley’s Wrens Nest.
What was so remarkable about this day was the sheer delight of learning something new in a new place, this was an ecstatic time day. After one day at the Wrens Nest, I understood the lie of the land; this place simply overwhelmed me with its history, its form and function, I was completely absorbed. It is now that I understand firsthand, the meaning of what Rafael Samuel wrote when he said, ‘Significant history which children learnt came not from the timetabled hours…but rather from other kinds of scholastic exercise…’ We did not find too many fossils, but came away with the rich treasure of knowledge, and many new associations, and most importantly a new friend.
James did not fit into my social and intellectual group, he was an ex public school boy, he had a well-cultivated accent. He read books on science fiction, Latin and Roman archaeology. He was, and is, an exceedingly generous person, and most importantly, I could converse with him, and through him see ways to feed my conflicting ambitions.
When James’s marriage took a turn for the worse, suddenly his father-in-law elevated my status. Tom the father-in-law had hardly ever spoken to me in the past; in fact, he would make me wait outside when calling for my friend, his son. Now suddenly I was invited in the house, an exulted guest, I was to be enlisted into the James divorce appreciation society, and what they were going to do to James, was going to be everyone’s business.
This plan did not sit comfortable with me, drawn into a fight that was not mine, which conflicted with my views of fairness. I was being asked, in an insidious way to choose between the social and intellectual group I felt mostly comfortable with, most known and long standing, or a person whom I had only met a few times, but in that short time had given a great deal more. They say that the character of a person is defined by the decisions that they make in life, it was time to choose; perhaps it was time to dump some poisonous relationships.
The dumping of poisonous relationships marks the start and the end of a very important sub time frame or boundary, I am creating an ecstatic time event. When I look back at my life, I can divide it into pre and post James, before James, I had the relationship with my grandfather. These time frames can, and in fact do overlap, I am not clear if this is a boundary of significant change or the boundary of two timeframes, I suspect it is both, but it was one of first steps to positive change.
The one thing work gave me was access to money, and with money I could buy drink, and get a car, so I was able to enjoy a better social life, and of course marriage. Children came quickly, and with interest rates of above 14%, being the only wage earner, poverty came with them too.
Poverty is a very private thing, people try desperately to keep poverty private, and so it only becomes poverty, when poverty becomes public. Poverty is a trap, there are too many no’s in poverty to hinder any attempt of escape. I was not earning enough to pay my bills, but could not risk changing jobs either, although I was not motivated at work, and had a strong sense of being able to do better, not having the right skills quenched any dreams of a better life or any alternative way of fulfilling my conflicting ambitions….
The past comes alive when it is intimate and personal. In the project of finding an identity through the processes of historical identification, the past is searched for something (someone, some group, some series of events) that confirms the searcher in his or her sense of self, confirms them as they want to be, and feel in some measure that they already are. I have examined how these time periods, relationships and places have influenced my memories. In the 1960s, Michel Foucault indicated the way in which History both shapes and occupies the function of Memory:
History is certainly the most erudite, the most aware, the most conscious, and possibly the most cluttered area of our memory; but it is equally the depths from which all beings emerge into their precarious glittering existence. Since it is the mode of being of all that is given us in experience, History has become the unavoidable element in our thought!
By searching and writing about the past memories, I have started to understand the relationship I had with my grandfather, I have started to see a man whom I did not really know as well as I initially thought. By bringing in new ideas around looking at the past, the narrative stories told by family members, and those memories of my own, I now see my grandfather in a new light, as if he is able to communicate directly with me: creating his own extended obituary.
What we can also see here, is how I have divided my life up into chunks, and how these chunks are like transparent overlays. There is what I refer to as my chronological time, pre-school, a time of no conflict, followed by a culturally constructed westernised time. We then have my relationship with ecstatic time (Grandfather’s time, and Jame’s time) and the changes to my social and intellectual groups, brought about by transcending these two time frames. There is my place time, at my Grandparents’ home, the Lyndhurst Estate and finally the house in Stanwell Grove. What is interesting here is how these time frames affect memory, and how to recall memories, I have to place myself into the correct time frame. One explanation for this is the way we remember through association, the time frame acting as a volume with an index mark.
‘The future is nothing, but the past is myself, my own history, the seed of my present thoughts, the mould of my present disposition.’
 Ged Haney was born in Workington, Cumberland in 1958. In 1992, after almost seven years’ work, he completed an animation, “The Kings of Siam”, which went on to win the Norman McLaren Award at the Edinburgh Festival and the Jury Prize at Esphino. “The Kings of Siam” is the animated story of a pair of Siamese twins and the problems caused by their conflicting ambitions, one fantasises about scoring a winning hat trick for England, the other of pop stardom and adoring fans: dyslexia seeding conflicting ambitions.
 Bradbury Ray. Dandelion Wine. Earthlight. 1987.
 Jordanova L. History in Practice, second addition. Hodder Arnold. 2006. P107
 Jordanova L. History in Practice, second addition. Hodder Arnold. 2006. P105
 H Kean, P Martin, S J Morgan. Seeing History: Public History in Britain Now, Francis Boutle. London. 2000.p.14.
 Samuel Raphael. Theatres of Memory, Volume 1, Past and present in Contemporary Culture. Verso. 1999. London. P.8.
 Griffin, Roger. Party Time: the temporal resolution of the third Reich . History Today. 1999. Vol 49: p.45.
 The reality was, I was bargaining to go home
 Griffin, Roger. Party Time: the temporal revolution of the third Rich. History Today. 1999. Vol 49: p.45.
 A waney edge timber cladding board, the bark edge remains visible
 Samuel Raphael. Theatres of Memory, Volume 1, Past and present in Contemporary Culture. Verso. 1999. London. P.12.
 James and I became lifelong friends, and still to this day, we walk together and immerse ourselves in the landscape.
 I did not actually drink, I mention it purely as a time event boundary
 Hey David. Family History & Local History in England. Longman. 1978. P.1.
 Steedman Carolyn. Dust. Manchester University Press, 2001. P.77.
 Steedman Carolyn. Dust. Manchester University Press, 2001. P.67.
 Adam Barbara. Timewatch. Polity Press, 1995. P. 15.
 There is my “my dyslexia time,” firstly in its negative cause and effect, then in later life, developing into positive dyslexia time.
 Stevenson.R.L. The works of Robert Louis Stevenson. Temple Scott. 1912.
Adan, B. (1995). Timewatch. Polity Press.
Bradbury, R. (1897). Dandelion Wine. Earthlight.
Griffin, R. (1999). Party Time: The Temporal Revolution of the Third Rich: History Today.
Haney, G. (Director). (1992). The Kings of Siam [Motion Picture].
Hey, D. (1978). Family History & Local History in England. London: Longman.
Jordanova, L. (2006). History in Practice, second addition. London: Hodder Arnold.
Kean, H., Martin, P., & Morgan, S. J. (2000). Seeing History: Public History in Britain Now. London: Francis Boutle.
Samuel, R. (1999). Theatres of Memory, Volume 1, Past and Present in Contemporary Culture. London: Verso.
Steedman, C. (2001). Dust. Manchester: Manchester University Press.
Stevenson, R. L. (n.d.).