When writing about your own life, it can be helpful to read books by others who have done likewise. Autobiographies are as popular as ever, so there will be no shortage of choice. In addition to the more high-profile offerings, most libraries and independent bookshops will be able to provide books written by local people. The latter will be particularly helpful, not least because they are more likely to be written by the subject rather than ‘with assistance from . . .’

The object of such reading is to appreciate what is possible, and to assimilate ideas of subject matter and style. Your own style will emerge, just as it does when writing a letter to a friend. You might also gain ideas of how do deal with difficult subjects, which are discussed more fully in Chapter 11.

Interestingly, more can often be learned from a badly written autobiography than a good one. It is important to discover what you don’t like, so make a note of anything that grates.

This may include gross exaggeration of events, boasting, or the reverse – which is equally irritating – cloying self-deprecation. Similarly, authors who fall into the trap of ‘things aren’t as good today as they were in my time’ are doing themselves no favours. It is far more effective to explain what life was like – the good and the not so good – and let the readers draw their own conclusions.

This chapter provides extracts from the books of private people, all of whom have written their life stories for family and friends.

A chip off the old block – Olga Moorhouse

Dad always used a safety razor (with Deuce blades) but during the war blades were very scarce, so Dad procured a couple of cut-throat razors which had to be sharpened by stropping them on a large leather belt which hung behind the kitchen door. One day I was drawing and my pencils needed sharpening, so what could be better than the razors! No one would be any the wiser.

I was sitting at the table, using pencils with a beautiful needle-sharp point, oblivious to the fact that Dad had arrived through the back door. ‘What the bloody hell!’ My blood froze. He stormed into the room brandishing the razors. ‘Have you been sharpening your pencils on these?’ I put on what I thought was an innocent look. ‘What makes you think it was me?’ I said. ‘Because there are lead marks all across the blades,’ he replied, in an ominously low voice, thrusting the objects in question under my nose. I disappeared under the table, which was always my refuge as I could move about under it, and the legs took the brunt of the punishment. He muttered unrepeatable comments on his way back into the kitchen, but I heard one of them! ‘She’s a bloody little Spitfire that one!’

Incidentally, Olga called her book Bloody Little Spitfire!

A turning point – Peter Deeth

A matter giving me pause for thought was insurance of my flying licence. I was not very keen on insurance in general, but I discovered nearly all the pilots had insured their licences. This meant that if you at any time lost your licence, and therefore your livelihood, perhaps through some illness or an accident, you would at least have something to survive on, or – if you were killed – so would your wife. Of course, I was young and healthy ‘and nothing ever happens to me’, does it? But we had stringent medicals every six months, and if ever you failed one, you were off flying.

When I joined the company, I had an interview with the personnel officer. He wore a captain’s stripes and wings, and I wondered what on earth he was doing in this office job. I happened to glance under the desk on leaving, and saw his legs were in calipers. Polio it was that had laid him low, and there was no vaccine or cure at that time. All this made me think, and I took out insurance. A captain’s licence could be covered for £12,000, and this seemed a princely sum to me in those days.

A few weeks later, Peter and I were at the club having a foursome at tennis and a couple of very pretty girls in short shorts were playing on the adjoining court. 1 was up at the net while Peter served, and at a critical moment I was distracted by the sight of one of the girls bending over to pick up a ball. At that very second, our opponents returned service and the ball came whizzing over the net and caught me right in the eye. My God! I thought I had lost it. The pain was awful. Fortunately, my eye was still there but it became a bloody mess for a few days.

A compulsory six-month medical was coming up, and when the doctor looked in my right eye, he said, ‘Holy cow! What have you been doing?’ I had a detached retina, and that was that. I was grounded. However, it was only after five weeks in King’s College Hospital that it began to dawn on me that perhaps I would never fly again.

This led to a whole new adventure building and running a hotel in Antigua, something which would not have been possible for Peter without the insurance policy . . . and the two pretty tennis players!

A parent’s dilemma – Elizabeth Green

My parents were notified that my school uniform was ready for collection, but so far the allotted grant had not arrived. Until that came, they explained, they just couldn’t collect my clothes. The rest of the summer holidays flew by and eventually the last post before the only remaining free day had come, and still no money had been received. That was breaking-point! Most shamefully I admit to showing off quite badly, but in self-defence suggest to feeling very let down and absolutely deflated. The joy and pride of going to my new special school smartly turned out like all the other new girls had disappeared. It was going sadly wrong. ‘I’m not starting at the Grammar School in my old clothes! How can I? Now I will never be able to go to that place. Without that lovely uniform, everyone will know we are very poor and will laugh at me,’ I sobbed. Following these rather dramatic words came tears of frustration and disappointment. All the pleasure generated by gaining my longed-for scholarship dwindled away. How I must have shattered my harassed parents by this unexpected outburst. I was usually a quiet child.

However, it must have pierced my father’s proud and kindly heart and spurred him into action, which was unusual for him as he was such a dreamer. He then did the bravest and most courageous deed I’d ever known him to do. The rates were due, overdue in fact. He had already received the final demand and had planned to send me next day to pay the bill. As usual, there was very little cash in the till and he had no other savings stacked away. Mother’s wages had already been used but he had managed during the last few months to put by, bit by bit, the money for that particular account. Instead of asking me to settle the debt, he put on his jacket declaring that he would go to the Town Hall. We were all so amazed as he left Mum and me to look after the shop.

Dad went straight to the tax offices and pleaded my case, saying that he could pay the rates, but that his daughter was starting at the local Grammar School next day, and the promised grant for my uniform had not yet come through. Would they please extend the payment time to allow him to use the rates money to purchase my clothes? He pledged to settle the bill immediately the allowance came through. How he must have hated every minute of that interview, his pride must have been sorely hurt and humbled, yet how much more he must have loved his daughter.

My father was always such a shy, retiring man and was so very downcast by his continual business failures, but he desperately wanted everything right for me. I didn’t properly understand the depth of his sacrifice at the time and what it must really have cost him, but I did realise he had been very kind to make that great effort. Now I certainly know what it cost him and I love him more dearly and am eternally grateful.

They did allow him that extra time, and all was well. He returned triumphant, and Mum and I flew to get the uniform. Walthamstow High School, here I come!

Being helpful – Pauline Wakefield

As I had been shown how to use the gas cooker, I thought that I would surprise my parents with breakfast in bed one Sunday morning. I got up quietly and went down to the kitchen, closing the door behind me. I got the tray ready with cups, etc, put the kettle on the stove and got the bread to make toast. All went well – I made the toast, putting some butter in a dish and placing a jar of marmalade on the tray. I also made the tea, remembering to warm the pot first and then putting in the tea leaves (there were no tea bags in those days!). I made my way slowly up the stairs, being careful not to drop the tray. I think that perhaps Mum may have heard me, but she played the game and feigned surprise when I came in the room. I was pleased that I had done this without any mishaps, and my parents certainly seemed to enjoy their breakfast.

It wasn’t till a little later that morning that a problem was discovered. My mother went to make a cup of tea, only to find the kettle on the stove with the gas still on. The kettle had boiled dry . . . and there was a hole in the bottom! The kettle was one of those with a cap that whistled when the water boiled, and in my desire not to wake my parents I had removed the cap. I had obviously replaced the kettle on the stove, forgetting to turn the gas off. Because of my mistake, I had to buy a new kettle, which seemed a little unfair at the time, especially as I only got 3d (lp) pocket money. I remember that the kettle cost 2/6 (12½p), but I think I only lost two weeks’ pocket money before they let me off the rest. However, I am still haunted by this incident whenever I hear a whistling kettle, and I never had one like that myself.

Not making the best of starts – Sir John Quinton

As the new boy, it was my job to take the cheques to the local clearing house in Norwich. During my first week, as I cycled down Guildhall Hill, the wallet containing the cheques fell out of my saddlebag and paper flew everywhere. It says much for the honesty of Norwich people that those who witnessed the catastrophe immediately set to and collected the cheques – so effectively that not one was missing when it came to the exchange. I shudder to think what would have happened if all or even some of them had vanished – Barclays would have had to make good the loss, and my future in the Bank would have been seriously at risk!

John’s career was not seriously dented by this incident – he went on to become Chairman!

A child’s perspective – Pat Marriott

One evening we were waiting for Dad to come home from work when there was a loud knock on the door. I opened the door and a tall policeman stood there. ‘Will you fetch your Mummy, please?’ he said. Mum must have heard him as she suddenly appeared behind me. ‘Go and look after the children,’ she said sternly. I slowly walked away into the living room desperately wanting to know what the policeman wanted. The policeman and Mum stood in the hall for some time. He then contacted his office and within a short time some of the family arrived at our house. Mum was crying. She put her coat on and they went out leaving my Auntie with us. No one said anything. I did not know what to think. Where was our Dad? Why didn’t he come home?

That night, I went to bed and did not sleep for ages – so many thoughts filling my mind. Somehow I couldn’t ask what was wrong. I suppose I didn’t want to hear the answer.

The next day we got up and had breakfast, then Auntie Rose and Uncle Fred arrived and then Uncle Alf came, and they all went off to the hospital. Mum had told me earlier that Dad was in hospital after an accident on the road. He was on the back of a motorbike – getting a lift home. A lorry came straight out of a side turning and crashed into the motorbike. Dad got the worst of it. He had bad head injuries, I was told later.

That afternoon when Mum and the family returned, everyone was sad. I could see Mum had been crying, but no one said anything to me. I went out with my friend Noreen, in the garden. She was at my school and lived a few doors down. She asked why I was sad. ‘My Dad has died,’ I said. Just then a neighbour from upstairs came to the backdoor and Uncle Fred came out, and I saw him shake his head. I was certain then that my instinct was right.

The next week passed in a blur – people coming and going, and Mum looking so tired. Then one day I was taken to Nan’s house. She sat me down and quietly told me all that had happened. Then she said, ‘Today, Daddy will be buried.’ I let it all out then and cried. At last, someone had told me. I was heartbroken and said, ‘I wanted to say goodbye. Why can’t I go to the funeral?’ Nan replied, ‘Mummy thought it was best not to go.’

I know people meant well in trying to avoid the pain for children, but at nine years of age I felt it was better to go through that. Now I know that children must have that choice as they need some sort of closure – a feeling of saying goodbye and letting go. Otherwise, like me, there is no ending. I cannot blame anyone for that. Sadly, it was the way things were done in those days.

Sayings passed into family folklore – Mary Wallwork

My grandfather was the postmaster of Great Barrington and had to deliver telegrams. This was particularly distressing during the war when he had to deliver news of the death of a son or husband. Poor Mrs Soul received five such telegrams during the First World War, each relating to a different son.

Fortunately, there were many lighter moments, and one has passed into our family folklore. A lady in the village, whose daughter Kate was due to visit an aunt in a neighbouring village, needed to pass on the news that Kate would be arriving by bus and not cycling as usual, due to the inclement weather. As telegrams were charged by the word, in an effort to be as concise as possible, my grandfather suggested the wording, ‘Kate arriving by bus.’ This was unsatisfactory to the lady who wanted to explain why Kate was arriving by bus, even though the neighbouring village would have been experiencing similar weather. The final wording was, ‘Simply pouring. Sending Kate by bus.’ For years afterwards, whenever it rained, my father would glance out of the window and say, ‘My word, Kate will have to go on the bus today!’

Different values – Donna Robertson

I had often imagined myself as a bride, as young girls do, and more so in those days because in most cases living with one’s boyfriend was not an option – ‘going all the way’ was as much frowned upon by one’s peers as it was by parents. There was always the fear of pregnancy and being turned out of the house in disgrace, not to mention letting one’s parents down or being labelled a slut. However, it was not always easy being so restrained.

I well remember being stranded in Bristol one Friday night; we came out of the cinema to find deep snow and no buses running, certainly not to Axbridge. We managed to find a hotel and booked two single rooms, feeling very guilty and sheepish. We kissed and cuddled good night but didn’t dare even to sit on one of the beds. On the Saturday morning, I had to go to work and there was a shocked silence in the office when I walked in – they were amazed to see me there, thinking I’d have been stranded at home. I had to reassure everyone that we had had separate rooms . . . as indeed we had. I was 19, Kenneth was 29 and we were engaged – it seems unimaginable now.

Unexpected news – Mavis Grant

A few weeks before we left school, we had to take a School Leaving Certificate Exam, and to prove that we were the right age we had to take our birth certificates to the Headmistress, Miss Lowde. Most of the girls had their paper loose in their pockets or satchels, but mine was in a sealed envelope. I didn’t attach any significance to this, other than that Mum was being careful, as I had lost things before and she wasn’t taking any chances with this item.

When it was my turn to go into her study, Miss Lowde opened the envelope and looked at me as if I had two heads or something, and said, in her most sardonic voice, ‘This is not a birth certificate, it is an adoption certificate, but it has your date of birth so will be accepted.’

I was stunned. I had absolutely no idea that I had been adopted. I ran to the toilet and cried my eyes out. I couldn’t stop shaking.

One of my classmates saw me, all red-eyed, when I came out and she asked what was the matter. I managed to blurt out my discovery, and she was most sympathetic, saying, ‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of – I have a cousin who was adopted.’ That helped me recover slightly from the shock, but then I started worrying what to say when I went home with the paper.

I went home as usual, handed Mum back the paper, and said nothing as I just didn’t know what to say. I continued this choked-up spell of silence, just doing my usual things: playing catch-ball with my doggy pal Tiger, stroking my rabbit, eating my meals in silence and doing my homework before going quietly to bed.

Mum knew there was something wrong, and she worried about it, but I just could not tell her about the shock I’d had at school. However, a few days later, Mum was out when I got home, so I went to see her friend Edith and told her of my dilemma. She kindly offered to tell Mum about it the next day, to which I agreed.

I went home the next afternoon full of apprehension as to how Mum had reacted to the news. I wished I had been able to tell her myself, but as I said, I was going through so many mixed emotions that I just could not find the way to say it.

When I walked in the door, Mum was there alone, crying, which started me off again. Then she cuddled me and said I was never to worry about it again, as she and Dad had really wanted me for their own. She also said that they had hoped I would never know about it, and apart from her own relations and Edith, no one else knew – not that it was anyone else’s business anyway. After tea that night, when the boys were out and Dad was shoe-mending in his shed, Mum told me how I came to be their daughter.

I was born prematurely to Alice, aged 17, unmarried, and in what was then known as a workhouse, in Preston, Sussex. I had chronic breathing problems and was not expected to live. I was christened immediately, and as it was May 5th 1926, they named me May. I weighed less than a bag of sugar, Mum said, and a few days after my birth, Alice died. She had afterbirth problems and the nurses thought she had no will to live as her parents had virtually disowned her for committing the cardinal sin of that era by getting pregnant.

After surviving another two weeks, there was a decision to be made as to where I went next. Usually babies were sent to a children’s home, but on this occasion, one of the nurses named Viv had an idea which she asked to be considered – would they delay any action until she had contacted her sister? They agreed, and she wrote to her sister Pearl, who had two sons, but who had always wanted a daughter. Pearl became my Mum . . . I was so lucky.

Love at first sight – Joan Kaemmler

The snow lay deep on the ground as I made my way to the office one morning in January 1947. We were going through the usual ritual of checking our hair and renewing our lipstick when Connie said, ‘There are 20 German POWs coming to work in the factory today. Because of the severe weather, there’s not enough work for them on the farms.’

When the POWs arrived a little later, we were all standing at a discreet distance from the window as we were very curious to see them – perhaps we were expecting them to be different from us. Behind the German in charge was the most handsome blond man I had ever seen. His brown prisoner-of-war uniform, with patches, was neat and clean, and his trousers were pressed as sharp as a knife. I said to Connie, ‘Just look at the blond one in front.’ From that moment, my heart belonged to me no longer and I silently marked him as mine. Somehow I knew our destiny was to be together.

Later I discovered his name was Erwin; even the name seemed to have a magical ring about it. I was amazed at my feelings. I was rather a quiet person who usually mistrusted good looks, and yet I knew that this was the man I would share my life with, even though we could not speak a word of each other’s language.

Decisive action – Joan Belk

One day, while emptying Arnold’s pockets to take his suit to the cleaners, out fell a letter – it was from one of his lady friends. My heart pounded and I went cold inside. I felt bereaved, as if someone had died. In the late ‘50s, anything like this was shocking.

Still seething inside, I put my coat on and took the bus to Sheffield. As Arnold was at work, I had time on my hands. I found the house and knocked on the door. Are you Mrs Jenkins?’ I asked. She was, and looked me up and down. ‘Do you know Arnold Jackson rather well?’ I continued.

‘Ye-e-e-e-s,’ she stammered, going quite white.

‘Well, I’m Arnold’s wife – do you mind if I come inside, or do you want your neighbours to know?’

‘Come inside, quick,’ she said, ushering me into the house. We sat down and she made some tea. She was so shocked that she trembled – she thought I was going to strike her. I didn’t though. I had gone quite cold. I couldn’t understand myself.

‘Is that your husband?’ I said, looking at a large picture of a Navy Officer on the sideboard. She nodded. ‘You shouldn’t be going out with other women’s husbands while he’s away at sea. Would you like me to write and tell him what you’re up to?’ She was a bit stroppy and said, ‘You don’t know where he is.’

‘Oh, but I can soon find out,’ I said. ‘I’ve been in the Forces.

I’ll get in touch with records.’ She went white again.

‘Please don’t,’ she pleaded. ‘He would stop my allowance at once.’

‘Follow me on the next bus down to my house, and I’ll forget about it,’ I said.

She agreed. Call it blackmail if you like, but I didn’t care, the mood I was in.

She did as she promised, and back at the house I gave her a cup of tea. I wasn’t nasty – we just chatted amiably.

The door latch went and Arnold came in. He couldn’t see her because she was on the settee in front of the fire. This was the moment I had been waiting for. ‘Arnold, you have a visitor.’ He turned round and saw her. He had such a shock, he was speechless – he knew he’d been caught red-handed. Eventually, all he said was, What are you doing here?’

After a difficult conversation and another cup of tea, I said, ‘You had better see this lady to the bus.’ I was still icy-calm. As soon as he left, I quickly packed his bag, put it outside and bolted the door. When he came back, he pleaded to be let in, but I wouldn’t – I put the light out and went to bed. So he slept in the toilet all night, then went down to his mother’s in the morning.

More extracts can be found in the companion volume to this book, Times of Our Lives, which follows a typical life of someone born before or during the Second World War.