Melvyn Bragg’s memoir, Back in the Day, is a portrait of the town in which he grew up, Wigton in Cumbria. It describes his childhood as only son of Stan and Ethel, who ran the local pub, the Black-A-Moor. What is striking is how modestly marginal he makes himself, preferring to apply his formidable recall and affection to others. Bragg won a scholarship to Oxford, joined the BBC and went on to become one of our best-known broadcasters (presenter of In Our Time on Radio 4) and a life peer: Lord Bragg of Wigton.
You have a phenomenal memory – did you need to jog it to write this book?
Curiously enough, no. It was a small community and, by luck, we were in the middle of it. We were a very busy, popular and decent pub. I still get letters from Wigton – I had a good letter recently from a Wigton lad a little bit younger than me saying: why didn’t you write about this, that and the other? I could write half the book again with different people in it.
Is nostalgia what you feel?
I have a great deal of nostalgia for Wigton. I had a very rich childhood in everything that mattered. I liked being able to knock on friends’ doors to ask if they were coming out to play. Looking back, I seem to have spent an awful lot of time playing. Wigton gave me a sense of friendliness towards everybody. You just nodded to people and said hello. That ease was helpful.
But you also studied hard. To what extent did getting into Oxford change your relationship with home?
I’m on page 42 of writing that sequel – what happened to me at Oxford. The change was about increasing reach. At Oxford, I discovered Ingmar Bergman. I was walking down Walton Street and saw this big poster that had the spitting image of my girlfriend on it. I went in, not having heard of Bergman. I just wanted to see this wonderful woman and there she was – speaking Swedish. That film, Port of Call, completely changed my idea of what film could be.
Might you have married that girlfriend had you not got in to Oxford?
Oh yes – without any question. In the sequel, she comes to Oxford, I go back to Wigton. You’re only at Oxford for 24 weeks out of 52, I used to reassure myself.
If you’d never left Wigton, what would you have done for a living?
I’d have got into local government or gone down to the factory and worked in its accounts department or been a junior clerk.
You used to help your parents in the pub. Can you still pull a decent pint? And how is your darts game?
Pulling pints is a little knack: once you’ve got it, you’ve got it. It’s the way you tilt the glass and the strength with which you pull the pump. My darts game is awful. My excuse is poor eyesight, even with specs on. I didn’t make that excuse when I was young – I just lost.
You write about there being more time back then…
At 83, time goes round too quickly. Every time Sunday comes, I think: God! I thought that was yesterday. Childhood days felt endless. People who specialise in this area might one day explain that.
You grew up with lies – can you describe them?
The lies were to do with my mother’s illegitimacy. I gradually realised my “grandmother” was not my grandmother, my “uncles” were not my uncles… I massively regret that I didn’t ask some of the older people, later on: what really happened? You’re frightened of hurting people involved, yet it might actually help them.
How was being an only child?
Although my father and mother were not well off, I didn’t lack anything. I wasn’t spoilt but got birthday and Christmas presents, fireworks on fireworks night and a new suit at Easter, cut-price – my mother had worked at the clothing factory. I didn’t lack friends. But I envied people with brothers and sisters and still do.
You describe your breakdown aged 13 – did you ever get to the bottom of what caused it?
No and I’ve thought about it a lot ever since. It was terrifying. Now and then, I feel it’s going to come back. I had it again in my late 20s. If it came back now, I wouldn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to do then. Working hard at school helped me survive. I didn’t swot to get into Oxford. I swotted because I found that, when I was in this terrible state, if I read difficult books, I couldn’t think about anything else for that period of time. That was such a relief. I’d come home, have tea at about half past four and while my parents went down into the pub, I just worked and worked.
Would you own up to being Wordsworthian – to having a romantic sensibility?
I hope so – I started writing poetry at school. Mr Blacka [one of his English teachers] used to demand: “I’ll have three poems from you, Bragg. Fourteen lines each – it was good enough for Shakespeare.” When I was at Oxford, I remember writing, out of nowhere, a long short story, but was too shy to send it anywhere. Then I got into the BBC… I couldn’t believe we were paid for what we did.
There is much dancing in your memoir. Did your love of dancing outlive Wigton?
It isn’t outliving the creaks in my knees! But I love dancing. I was my mother’s partner, because she also loved to dance. In those days, they were called “socials”: peas-and-pie supper, bring your own knife and fork.
Which memoir do you most admire?
George Orwell’s The Road to Wigan Pier. It explained how politics worked in a basic way. The working class told Orwell how to be political in Wigan by making him go down the mines. It made me think about how political convictions are to do with working conditions.
Which classic novel are you ashamed not to have read?
I’m still ashamed not to have finished Proust although, by God, I’ve had about seven goes.
What do you read for sheer pleasure?
Newspapers. There are some wonderful columnists at the moment. The Times, the Guardian, the New Statesman, the Spectator, they’re my staples.
Are there more books waiting to be written?
I’d like to do this second book. And maybe a third, for which I’ve a title but nothing else.
Back in the Day by Melvyn Bragg is published by Sceptre (£10.99). To support the Guardian and Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
