They sang ‘Nearer My God to Thee’ as the Titanic went down

To me, history has always had a double magic. On the one hand it is a remorseless, objective account of what actually happened, brutally honest, from which there is no appeal to sentiment. On the other, it is a past wreathed in mists and half-glimpses, poetic, glamorous and sinister, peopled by daemonic or angelic figures, who thrill, enchant and terrify. I like both, and see them as complementary. My father taught me the first, under his maxim: ‘Never believe a historical event as fact unless you can document it.’ My mother taught me the second, when I was a child cradled in her arms, listening to her soft, musical voice discoursing of heroes and heroines, and strange, uplifting events. She had, and conveyed to me, her own version of history, in which curiously enough women were prominent, indeed predominant. For her, Boudicca was a wronged mother, seeking not revenge but justice.