In bed at our seaside love nest, we bickered over those piddling little rows that all new couples have

HUNTER DAVIES continues his beguiling memoir about embarking as a widower aged 84 on a new rollercoaster romantic adventure …

BEREFT when his novelist wife Margaret Forster died after 55 years of marriage, HUNTER DAVIES slowly began a relationship with a woman he’d originally met in the 1980s. In the first part of our serialisation of his new book charting the ups and downs of this blossoming late-life love, he wrote in yesterday’s Daily Mail about how they bought a cottage together on the Isle of Wight. Here, he takes up the story…

IT WAS our first day in paradise. OK, our lovely new home on the Isle of Wight might not turn out to be paradise. There might be disasters ahead. Or Claire and I might fall out, have a row and one of us would then storm off. But where do you storm off to, on the Isle of Wight? Unless you own a helicopter or a power boat?

It certainly seemed like paradise as we unlocked the front door for the first time. We stepped into the hallway into bright sunlight, which was streaming down from the glass door at the end that led into the back courtyard. We stood together for some time, just holding each other and hugging.

We opened all the doors and windows, and the big sliding doors in the kitchen which led out into the courtyard. The previous owner, Cathy, had left a metal table and four chairs, so we sat down in the sunshine.

After lunch outside – salad with avocado and tuna – I went upstairs to our bedroom for my afternoon rest. I wasn’t going to break a habit of a lifetime. Well, since 1986, when this habit began.

My late wife Margaret and I went to Barbados on Concorde for my 50th birthday. It was so hot at midday and I drank so much at lunchtime that we both got into the habit of having a siesta every afternoon. I have kept it up ever since, over 35 years now.

Claire was a bit surprised, never having known any of her previous boyfriends take to their bed every afternoon – on their own.

I take off my trousers and socks, pull the curtains, get under the duvet, and am usually asleep in minutes. Having two glasses of wine every lunch is a help, of course. When I tell people I drink every lunchtime, as well as in the evening, they say: ‘Goodness, I couldn’t drink at lunch. I would fall asleep.’ I say: ‘Precisely. That’s the point.’

MOST times I sleep soundly for 40 minutes. If for some reason I can’t sleep, I just lie there for 30 minutes, then get up. I have at least rested. I am ready to do some more words, shift some more sentences. Claire never has an afternoon kip. She is always frightfully busy all day long, doing household jobs.

I didn’t sleep, of course. That first afternoon in Ryde I was too excited. So, after 30 minutes, I got up and wandered round the bedroom, wondering where I was. This happens to me all the time. Even in my own bedroom. I think I should leave chalk marks on the floor, so I can find the lavatory in the night.

Claire was busy chucking out the curtains, sheets and towels which Cathy had kindly left, saying ‘Ugh, horrible!’ as she did so. I couldn’t see what was horrible about them. But I didn’t want to have an argument on our first day.

I explored the whole house again, all ten rooms – four bedrooms, front sitting room, dining room, kitchen, utility room, two bathrooms, plus three WCs. Even though it is on just two floors, it felt very spacious.

Then we went off to explore the beach. We turned right, heading along the promenade, and soon left the amusements behind. Not that I minded them. They were all traditional seaside attractions, like the pier itself, part of English social history and architecture for 150 years.

Even this late in the season, the middle of September, there were still plenty of families about, enjoying themselves on the sand. And there were no rowdies, no horrible music, nothing to disrupt the peaceful scene.

I decided to have a swim. I had put on my cossie just in case I should be tempted. The sand was deliciously warm to walk on and the water so inviting.

I gave Claire my mobile. ‘Hold this, pet,’ I said. ‘I want you to do some shots of me swimming.’ ‘Do I have to?’ she said.

As soon as I was in the water I started swimming, even though it was still quite shallow. The worldwide audience would never know the actual depth from the video.

I turned and waved frantically at Claire.

I could see her filming, and she waved back. Then I swam out a bit more, till I really was in deeper water. I did my flash backstroke, a few yards of my stylish crawl, then my sedate breaststroke, wondering how many other people on the beach were admiring my amazing bathing feats and thinking to themselves, Goodness, he is a jolly good swimmer for his age.

I did a really fast racing crawl, with my head down, then started waving at Claire again. But I couldn’t see her. That’s funny. But then I didn’t have my specs on, that must be the reason

As I scanned the beach, the families I had noticed earlier had also seemed to have walked on. Which was strange. Perhaps Claire had spotted someone with a dog and gone off to talk to them. She is a sucker for any dog, always bending down and patting them, slobbering over them, then starting some boring, doggie dialogue with the owners. Where the hell has she gone, and all the others?

Then I realised it was not Claire or the other people who had moved – it was me. I thought I had been doing so well, but in fact I had been swept along by the incoming tide.

I was now being carried by a swirling current and was heading straight for Ryde Pier. If I had not realised in time that I was being swept along by a fierce current, I might well have been dashed against its pillars.

Oh, God, how stupid of me. I managed to summon up all my feeble strength and struck out for shore. No wonder no one was swimming at this end. Unlike silly old me, the locals knew all about the strength of the tides.

I eventually managed to drag my poor old body back on to the sand and lay there like a beached whale. Then I hauled myself to my feet and staggered about two hundred yards back along the beach – where I saw that Claire was standing at exactly the same spot I had left her. And she was indeed talking to some woman with a dog and had not seen that I had been swept away.

Typical of me, in a way. Even at my great age, I am far too impulsive for my own good. But I learned one thing on our first day in paradise. Don’t swim at the Ryde Pier end of the beach. Head towards Appley Bay, where the quality swim and play. And the sensible.

That evening we had supper outside in our courtyard. Claire lit candles, put cushions on the chairs and set the table beautifully. It was awfully romantic and lovely.

We drank a lot and once again congratulated ourselves on being

I’ve been spoiled and allowed a lot of selfish behaviour

so clever and fortunate as to have found not just a lovely house, but one with so many attractions and wonders, right on our doorstep.

THERE were two things I had worried about – well, at least wondered about – lurking at the back of my mind, when we first decided to up sticks and acquire a home in the Isle of Wight. Firstly, at my age, how will I cope with things going wrong? It is one thing to have an exciting new project but, in old age, will I be able to sort and solve unforeseen problems without despairing, becoming depressed and regretting the whole thing?

When you are young, you are full of mental and physical energy. You will have a go at solving most problems. I was for ever clambering up on the roof to fix a tile and stop a leak. Now I can hardly get up the stairs to bed, far less climb into the loft.

Secondly, how will we get on, Claire and I, living properly together for the first time? Weekends and exotic holidays in the Caribbean are all very well. Living cheek-by-jowl, day after day, all warts and wrinkles and annoying habits fully exposed, might well result in some unpleasant discoveries.

To begin with, we were, like the whole nation, further cloistered together, thanks to the effects of lockdown. When the Government issued area-specific regulations in the form of tiers, the Isle of Wight had been one of the few lucky places remaining under the lightest restrictions in tier one.

But on New Year’s Eve 2020, we joined most of the rest of England under the strictest level, tier four, and social intercourse disappeared. Claire and I both love drinks with friends, gatherings and gossip. Thrown totally upon each other, would we now become bored and frustrated and annoy the hell out of each other? Well, I am 85. Come on. Can’t radically change much now. Nor do I think I want to.

My marriage lasted 55 years. I am proud of that, but I did rather get spoiled and was allowed a lot of selfish and unthinking behaviour.

As I was pondering all these things, we hit two really serious problems. A few weeks ago we’d noticed some dark patches on the wall in the dining room. Then one day we saw that the wall was wet. Dripping wet, in fact. And the plaster had started to crumble. Oh God, we have rising damp.

I went online and contacted a firm with a suitable-sounding name: the Isle of Wight Damp Proof Company.

Dave, the man in charge, took ages to come as he had so much work. When he did appear, he took out his little testing thing, checked the walls, and said the whole dining room had serious damp. His estimate for doing the worst two walls was £2,500. I practically collapsed. Plus VAT. Oh, God!

He could do it, but not for another month.

While we were waiting, something else went wrong – the bloody drains. The sink, which had blocked a few weeks ago, but we seemed to have sorted, started playing up again.

We got two firms to come and look at it. They put a camera down a manhole in the courtyard. They both agreed a soil pipe was the cause, something was blocking it. The whole yard would have to be dug up and the pipes going into the main drain ripped up. It was going to cost another £1,200 – plus VAT.

Did I swear and moan! The insurance agreed that I was covered for this, but only for 70 per cent of the final costs. And again, the firm in question could not do it for another month. We were beginning to think that nothing ever happens quickly in the Isle of Wight.

The damp and the drains turned out only to be the start of it. The oven started playing up, then the washing machine and the dishwasher – all of which we’d inherited.

Claire got some kitchen experts in, who charged £95 just for the callout. They showed her what was wrong with the oven, but said the dishwasher and washing machine were ancient; new ones would be cheaper than repairs.

Claire ordered replacements from Currys. They had, of course, to be fitted, which meant more complications and expense and waiting in. The old dishwasher had been integrated – don’t ask me what that means – so a handyman had to be found to do some magic on the woodwork before the new one could be installed.

One evening I went into what we were calling Claire’s office – our spare bedroom. She was on her computer about to order a new fridge. ‘The fridge is fine,’ I said. ‘It always keeps my sauvignon blanc chilled, so what more do we want it for?’

‘The fridge light,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t go on when I open the fridge. I have tried to replace it, but they don’t make them any more.’

‘Give me strength,’ I said. Bloody manufacturers of domestic products – and mobiles and computers; in fact, everything today. They do this all the time, just to make you upgrade.

She insisted she needed a light in the fridge. Now it was getting into winter, she wanted to see exactly what she had inside.

‘Use a torch,’ I said.

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘I’m not. This is becoming pure indulgence…’

She was furious at this, and stormed off. I took it back, realising I had gone too far.

Claire – like my wife before her – thinks I am potty, not just tight, pointlessly saving a few pennies. I used to say it was because I was brought up during the Second World War, when we had to waste nothing, turn off all the lights, drink our own bath water and boil our old clogs for supper.

But this is not quite logical. My wife was also brought up in the war, but did not turn out to be a penny-pincher. With Claire, I can go on about the blackouts and rationing, scrimping and saving without her pointing that out.

Not that she is a spendthrift – I must say that or I will be for it. It is just that if she is buying something, she doesn’t want the shoddy or the shabby, the ugly or the nasty, and certainly not the cheap. Unlike me.

I try to bite my tongue and not make too many comments when she buys new things for the house. But as we spend longer alone together, just the two of us, I seem to be upsetting her more often. I think I am simply making a helpful suggestion.

Such as why does she not make a list and just go to Tesco once a week instead of every day? Bleach, why does she keep buying bleach? Is she drinking it?

‘You are always criticising me,’ she said one day, flouncing upstairs to her room.

I was not criticising her. Well, I didn’t think I was. I’m not like that. I’m a happy and cheerful sort of person.

That, of course, is my image of myself. It’s probably b ****** s. I am beginning to realise I can be a bit of a pain. In a long marriage, one party often gives up complaining and simply switches off, or decides to ignore the other’s annoying habits.

My wife was certainly annoyed by my continual rabbiting on. ‘Do me a favour,’ she would say. ‘Don’t talk for the next half hour.’

She also used to say that, even though I struck people as being relaxed and agreeable, I could be bossy and dominating. In the end, she said, I always got what I wanted. I denied all that. But now, I could see the same thing happening again.

These were real differences emerging between us, piddling

She thinks I’m potty, not just tight, pointlessly saving a few pennies

I realised how much I needed her, loved her. I vowed to mend my ways

IN TOMORROW’S DAILY MAIL COUPLES HAVE ROWS FOR TWO REASONS: SEX AND MONEY

though they were. None of it seemed serious, so far. Just normal life, accepting passing irritations, which all couples go through.

After one particularly fraught week, we had to go back to London for a few days. I am sure I had been tiring her out, chuntering on. She probably did need a break from me. And me from her.

We wanted to see our respective houses, check if our lodgers had trashed them, but most of all we wanted to see our dear families. We had both missed our children and grandchildren.

BACK home in London, after one night away from Claire, alone in my house, I was so lonely. After another night, I was desperate to see her, I was missing her so much. I realised how much I needed her, wanted her, loved her. Despite the silly petty little aggravations, all of them piddling.

It was such a relief, after our short sojourn in London, to be returning together to the island.

I vowed to myself to try to mend my ways and say nothing that might smack of criticism. I am so grateful, all the time, for everything she does for me, for us, for the house.

When we got into bed on our first night back, in our little love nest,

I told her about The Beatles, how John and Paul used to have awful arguments over their company Apple, all about how it should be run, and by whom.

It led to the lawyers being brought in, to the band suing each other, shouting and screaming.

During one day at the Apple offices, with their respective advisers, having yet more awful rows, John and Paul happened to go to the lavatory at the same time.

As they were standing there, exhausted, John turned to Paul, pushed his specs up high on his forehead, and said: ‘Paul, it’s only me.’

Then they returned to the boardroom and continued arguing with each other.

I said to Claire: ‘When I do p*** you off in the future, we must never go to bed on an argument. We must recite this mantra: “We are so lucky!”’

Which, of course, we are. Having a new home, a new project, on a new island, and most of all, having each other.

© Hunter Davies 2022

Adapted from Love In Old Age: My Year In The Wight House, by Hunter Davies, to be published by Head of Zeus on September 1 at £21.99. To order a copy for £19.79, go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937 before September 3. Free UK delivery on orders over £20.