Historian Lucy Worsley looks back: ‘The story of my life has been – the bookworm shall go to the ball’

Born in Reading in 1973, Lucy Worsley is a historian and TV presenter. She ­graduated with a first in history from Oxford, before completing a PhD in art history at the University of Sussex. Worsley spent 21 years as chief curator of Historic Royal Palaces, overseeing the Tower of London, Hampton Court and Kensington Palace, among others. She has p­resented numerous documentary series, including Six Wives, Royal History’s Biggest Fibs and most recently Victorian Murder Club. She lives in London with her husband. Her latest book, Queens and Kings: An Unusually Personal History, is out now.

This is me at the age of four. It was my career ambition to become a witch. My back-up options were spy and nun.

We were living in Canada at the time. Dad was an expert in cold places – glaciers and permanently frozen ground – and he was embarking on a year’s swap with an academic at the University of Ottawa. My mother made the costume for me to go trick or treating with the family across the road. In my basket are sweets and I look very pleased and very proud.

Because of my father’s job, we moved around a lot. I wasn’t naturally good at making friends, because I’m quite shy. New schools could be intimidating, but I always had a safe space when reading books. Whenever I ask my parents what I was like as a child, they say, “We don’t know, because you were always reading a book and not talking to us.” Deep down, I was a secret showoff. I was flamboyant when adopting somebody else’s clothes or character or persona.

Outside school I had Guides, played musical instruments and acted in plays. Nobody there knew I was an A-grade student, so I was able to pass for normal. But at my state school in Nottingham, I couldn’t hide. I was a weird little nerd, and my studiousness marked me out in a way that I didn’t have the social skills to conceal. Even though I was lonely, I soldiered on because of my political views. For example, the pupils were going to have a “wear what you like” day to protest about the teachers who were always going on strike. I disagreed, and thought the teachers should strike, so I went in my school uniform – a horrendously stupid choice as everybody laughed at me.

I always loved history, but my father, being a scientist, wanted me to take a different path. To please him, I chose science subjects for my A-levels. Halfway through, my mum said, “You’re not enjoying this. You need to do what you want to do, which is history.”

At university, I studied ancient and modern history. It was a period in which I went mildly off the rails: staying up late talking to people who were just like me, organising the rag parade, playing in orchestras, rowing and doing all the extracurricular activities. I didn’t work hard until the very end of my three years, as I was too busy having a lovely time.

As soon as I saw the advert for the role of chief curator at Historic Royal Palaces, I thought, “That’s my job!” It was a lengthy recruitment process, with interviews in different palaces, and at one point I got in a tizzy looking for the right entrance at the palace of St James. A sentry was standing in a box, so I said, “Please tell me where the right way is. I’m desperate.” He wasn’t allowed to talk to me, but in the end he took pity and rolled his eyes in the direction I should go.

The role was high-profile and there was an expectation of what someone doing that job would be like. Historically, it had been done by men, always of a certain seniority – people very much in command of themselves. By comparison, I was 29 years old, small and pale. I had bought a long, dark coat, which I thought made me look grown up. But my youth and inexperience eventually became my superpowers, because everybody could see there was something different about the way I was going to do things. I came to realise that my authority is in building a relationship of trust with the person I’m talking to, not making them think that I know more.

My TV career began when BBC Look North came to make a film about Bolsover Castle in Derbyshire, where I was working. We ended up spending the day together, with me showing them how they could tell the story. That night I was struck by how much I enjoyed the experience. I began appearing as an expert “talking head” on various shows, and in 2008 I did a show about Henry VIII. More followed. The world was changing – I wasn’t Simon Schama or David Starkey – and we were ready for more women to talk about history.

The struggle to look “authoritative” that I’d experienced earlier came up again in my TV career. I would get notes such as, “She needs to wear tailoring. She needs a dark coat.” It felt wrong. I am known for wearing costumes – using whatever it takes to tell a story. Like a primary school teacher, I have no dignity. But that is also the skill that is available to me. The dressing up might be considered frivolous by critics, but clothes tell us about hierarchy and social structures. They are also fun to look at, which is important when making TV.

Each day is different on set, but some are stranger than others. In one of my early shows, I was dressed as a medieval peasant foraging in the woods. My costume was a brown blanket. It was November and really cold, but I didn’t have the confidence to say, “This isn’t working for me.” In the end, I just burst into tears. Crying does work, but it’s better to speak up: I did a programme about the American Revolution once, and said to the producer, “I’d really like to be in the Independence Day procession that goes through Philadelphia on 4 July.” I imagined I’d be in a modest costume with buttons and a hat, maybe playing the cymbals. It turned out I was part of a twirling team and my costume was a skin-tight leotard. The rest of the team were 22-year-old girls. I got changed, but agreed with the cameraman that he would only shoot me from the neck up.

Being recognised is wonderful and terrible, as I’m a showoff but also shy. I’m capable of slipping through the streets of London in my baseball cap and glasses, but one in a thousand people have weirdly impressive facial recognition skills and clock me. Once a lady recognised me from my teeth alone. I also have a distinctive voice. Someone overheard me speaking in a swimming pool and said, “I know that voice!” I thought, “I’m naked, I’m dripping. I don’t want to engage with you just now, but thank you.”

The story of my life has been “the bookworm shall go to the ball”. I’ve had a wonderful career. But since turning 50, I’ve realised I work too hard. I’m endlessly asking myself, “Do you really love your work? Or is it just the capitalist patriarchy that’s making you think you love your work because that’s good for the economy?”

I don’t have the answers. But that’s the job of the historian. To ask the questions – and, for me, to put on the costumes. So has the girl in the photo grown up at all? Perhaps not.