Don't mind the age gap: dating someone a lot older than you

Gillian Powell was 38 when she fell for a 68-year-old man. She adored his old-fashioned manners, elegance and lust for life

I admire the 83-year-old journalist Hunter Davies, but in his latest wonderful memoir Happy Old Me he is wrong.

In it, he writes about seeking a new companion: ‘Anyone younger would be about the ages of my own daughters, which would be a bit creepy and gross, apart from being unrealistic.’

Nonsense. My ex was 30 years older than me. Our relationship began when he was 68 and I was 38.

Widowed years earlier, Jack, bucket list in hand, bought a longed-for MG. Friends teased him about his Racing Green ‘babe magnet’. He had the last laugh.

My gentleman friend and I started going to concerts together at Birmingham’s Symphony Hall. He opened that car door for me, much to my delight. The first time we went to a concert, he parked and then skipped around me as we crossed the road. I almost tripped up as I stepped on to the pavement to avoid him. ‘Where on earth are you going?’ I growled.

‘Ensuring you walk on the inside,’ he explained. ‘A gentleman always walks nearer the kerb.’

When I was planning my birthday weekend away – on my own in the countryside – Jack insisted on driving down to cook me dinner. I assured him I was perfectly happy to be alone (I was) but he was adamant, turning up armed with assorted cool boxes packed with delicious goodies including his signature dish: beef Wellington.

With a tea towel draped over his shoulder, he emerged from the steamfilled kitchen and, handing me a gin and tonic, he asked when I was going to dress for dinner.

For me, that meant wearing clothing with an elasticated waistband – so I didn’t shift from the sofa. Half an hour later, he reappeared, all dressed up in a dinner jacket and cummerbund. I had never dined à deux with a man in a cummerbund.

I felt guilty. He had gone to so much trouble. I insisted that he stay over in the spare room. Luckily, along with all the ingredients of a three-course banquet, he’d popped an overnight bag in the car (just in case!). We said goodnight and retired to our respective rooms. By the time I woke, the washing-up was done.

When it was time to leave, we were all set to go our separate ways. I sat in my car with the driver’s window down. Standing by the vehicle, he leaned in and kissed me lightly on the lips. A line had been crossed.

A week later, we met for a walk. In the visitor centre café, over two mugs of Earl Grey and a shared slice of carrot cake, finally I plucked up courage. Feeling terribly awkward, I hissed, ‘We kissed.’ ‘Yes, we are,’ he replied. I was confused. His response didn’t make sense. ‘What do you think I just said?’ I asked.

Now it was his turn for crimson cheeks. He confessed that he thought I’d said, ‘We’re like kids.’ I roared with laughter.

‘No, no, we kissed,’ I said loudly. ‘You deaf old bugger.’

And there, over cold tea and cake crumbs, we discussed what next. Much to our surprise, friendship blossomed into a loving relationship.

The first time Jack and I nervously undressed together, he was embarrassed to reveal a huge scar from life-saving heart surgery. I found that deep red line from chest to navel rather beautiful. His daughter (five years my senior) was relieved that she didn’t have to inspect his kitchen cupboards for out-of-date food. My friends adored him because, quite clearly, he adored me. His friends were charming.

At a lunch party, one chum announced, ‘Well, you’ve persuaded Jack to do something we’ve been trying to do for years – trim his eyebrows.’

I had endured a decade dating boys who loved football or beer – or both – over me. Jack introduced me to a whole new world: RAF reunions, respect, and pensioners who partied until 4am at New Year when I barely managed to keep awake for midnight.

He was a DIY whizz; together we gutted my newly-bought terrace house. That first Christmas, he presented me with a toolbox complete with a set of Allen keys, which I still use. We were together for more than three blissful years – until he chucked me.

It had seemed natural to look for work nearer his place when my employment contract came to an end. When I applied for a job that meant we could live together, I saw panic in his eyes. Besides, Jack pointed out, his 70th birthday was coming up. He had decided that he was too old for me.

Devastated, I holidayed for a week on Iona. While I was away, he moved into my house to nail on skirting boards and hang curtain rails. He wanted to ensure that the house was finished properly. He didn’t want to let me down.

Right until the end, ever the consummate gentleman.