t took five years and five months to get to this point. And of course, the thirty-five years before that.
On the way there, I put my hype playlist on. Loud bangers. Chuck a drumkit down the stairs to get you in the mood. System of a Down. Rammstein. Nine Inch Nails.
Remember where you came from, remember what you are.
I came from a working-class family. As a child, there was never enough money, never the right clothes, never the right shoes. Autistic but I didn’t know it, compounding the not-fitting-in. I couldn’t go to uni, we couldn’t afford it, wasn’t even an option. I could only afford it at 26 because the OU funded poor people. They don’t do that anymore. I was the second person in my family to go to uni (my sister went first), and I’m the only one with a masters, let alone a doctorate.
I started my BSc in February 2012. K101 – An Introduction to Health and Social Care. Two tiny kids, living alone, unemployed for the first time since I was 18. Terrified. Determined.
Those tiny kids are now almost 17 and nearly 15. Their little brother is 10.
Fastfoward a little to June 2016, and a first class degree in…science but by then I was a family historian in the making, and my favourite module was history of medicine. I signed up for an MA. My mum was diagnosed with terminal cancer four days later. She died one month in. I carried on for her. And I didn’t want to stop, so I didn’t.
I did all this for her, for my mum Joey, who died far too young. It’s not just that she got me into the history of crime with an absolute library of true crime, she got me into the history of people like me. Without ever realising it, she showed me the value of history from below.
She taught me whose stories are worth telling.
I was demented with anxiety in the week before my viva, cursed with a migraine, unable to see the wood for the trees, convinced my whole thesis was crap. But I woke up on Friday morning calm and ready, a steady stream of reassurance and hype coming in on my phone to speed me along. My supervisors were already there, amazing as ever.
Going into the exam panel, even though I have known both my examiners for years, felt like going on trial.
As it should.
But I passed. I can’t call myself a doctor until the university officially confers the degree, which involves a little bit of tidying on my end and a lot of admin on theirs. Then my thesis will be open access and you can all read it. You know. If you want.
But I passed. I have completed education. Loads of GCSEs, no A levels, but a BSc, MA and PhD.
There are a lot of people to thank.
My supervisors, Professor Paul Lawrence and Dr Donna Loftus. My examiners, Dr Daniel Grey and Professor Rosalind Crone. Legends all.
Lots of OU staff, PARTICULARLY Marie-Claire who sorted out all my funding and admin. But also Dr Luc-Andre Brunet, Dr Erica Borgstrom, Dr Caroline Derry, Dr Denise McHugh, Dr Stuart Mitchell and Dr Angela Sutton-Vane.
Among the myriad delightful academics I have met along the way, Professor Julia Laite, Dr Chris Williams and Dr Mike Esbester have all been incredibly kind and generous, giving me opportunities to share my work and helping out/giving me free books (THANKS CHRIS!!).
Words are not enough to thank the staff, past and present, at Peterborough City Archive, for their boundless support over the last few years. Gail, Elisabeth, Amanda and James, thank you very much.
A PhD would be lonely without friends.
I began this PhD in October 2020, in the midst of pandemic and lockdowns. For most researchers, this meant isolation. For me, as a part-time PGR and full-time carer, it opened up a research community through emails, social media, video calls and zoom meetups. Many of these virtual meetings have blossomed into real friendship. You’re all in my actual thesis acknowledgements (so lol, you have to read it now)but I want to give a MASSIVE SHOUT OUT to Katie, Meesh, Michelle, Nicola, Carly, Jack and the BGS crew, The Footnotes and to Alexa, Steph, Ella and Helen.
A PhD would be impossible without family
Dad and Lou, Jenny and Mich, Judy and John, Dan, Benj, El, Jess, Sooz, Tony and Quinn, not forgetting the in-laws and the niblings. I love you all. Thank you for a million different things like esoteric knowledge about railway engines, babysitting, Excel help, cheerleading, distracting me with drama, proof-reading… and telling me to get on with it.
My boys, my babies who are all nearly men, thank you for making it as hard as humanly possible to get any work done. Way to push your mother, lads.
You make me burst with pride every single day.
But thank you, most of all, to the second most knowledgeable person in the world on Peterborough’s inquests, my beloved husband Tom. I literally couldn’t have done it without you, mi amor.
So what comes next?
Well TOMORROW, you can hear me talk about a murderer from Stamford at Curious Histories. I’m still publishing regular horrid murders on my substack, still talking about my research, and I am still taking family history commissions.
…I’ll just take the rest one day at a time…
Sophie Michell 