Ben Aitken - The Marmalade Diaries - The True Story of an Odd Couple

21 October 2020. Im moving in with Winnie. Shes 85 and lost her husband Henry ten months ago. Her children feel she could do with someone in the house (someone other than themselves, presumably), for a bit of security and to assist with odd jobs, including but not limited to fetching coal and removing lids. I saw the room advertised online. When I clocked how low the rent was, I wondered if there was a catch. Turns out the catch was Winnie.

Winnies got the space. Shes naturally gifted in this regard. Its a six-bedroom Victorian job. Detached. Halfway up a hill. Whopping garden. In every way opposed to any dwelling Ive hitherto inhabited. Ill be lodging in a small flat at the top of the house, where the servants used to recuperate and share notes regarding the general pleasantness of their masters. Im promised a view of Croydon.

Winnie Carter, 85, widow. Thats pretty much all I know. That and she likes to garden and talk about paintings. She used to volunteer as a guide at a couple of art galleries, Im told, illuminating the human condition via Titian and so on. Her son, Stewart, a diplomat who lives six miles away, said that Im not to mind his mothers ways, whatever that means. He said that once Im accustomed to her idiosyncrasies things will settle down.

Of course I asked about the novel coronavirus sweeping the globe, about whether Winnie would prefer me to keep my distance and so on. The opposite, said Stewart. Shes fit and relaxed, said Stewart. Just dont snog each other, said Stewart. I cant help thinking Stewart wouldnt mind if his mum popped off early so he might inherit his old bedroom sooner.

I stand in the driveway and size up the house. Name: Windy Ridge. Windows: sash, single glazed. Brick: yellow. Door: red. Knocker: unusual. Stewart answers the door.

Hello!

Stewart?

Ben?

We fist bump two modern souls in sync. I offer my fist to Winnie. She just looks at it then shuffles past me Im just going to check on the bins. Nice to meet you too.

The next hour or so is a bit of a blur. Stewart shows me how to do the alarm, how to lock the garage door, how to lock the back door, how to lock the front door, which bottles of wine are worth more than I am, etc. the practical stuff. Then Winnie and I sign a contract, about how under no circumstances am I to inherit the house. Id read the contract in advance, so put my name on the line without ado. Winnie hadnt read it in advance, and doesnt intend to read it now by the look of it. Shes not fussed. Yes, yes give him a key. I cant help thinking my moving in is more for the familys sake than hers. I suspect I got the nod from Winnie less because she reckons Ill be terrific company and more because I used to be a carer for a lad with cerebral palsy. Winnies eldest son has cerebral palsy, you see, and I wouldnt be surprised if my new housemate planned to send me in his direction twice a week. Though Id struggle to be of much use to Arthur at the moment. Apparently hes in a care home a few streets away that currently has a zero-tolerance policy to visitors. Whatever the reason Winnies given me the nod, Im grateful to have got it.

I climb the stairs. And then again. Up to the top a sort of flat, with bedroom and kitchen and bathroom and study. I size up my new nest. Odd, always, to arrive at a new place. Odder still a new home. Even odder the home of a person resident for 50 years, newly widowed.

Why this move? Surely there were more likely housing options? Yes and no. Yes at my age one should (if they are the least bit attentive to orthodoxy) be trying to buy their first home, or trying to move in with their partner(s), or trying to rent a room in a part of town not dominated by people drawing a pension (or several, as the case may be). No I dont have the money to live where Id like, or with whom Id like. I would have to work for 300 years to afford this property outright. London: attractive, repulsive.

But its not just the money. Its not just that the rent is 200 quid a month. My decision was also based on recent events. A couple of years ago I went on a series of holidays with people twice and thrice my age: all-inclusive coach holidays whereupon I played umpteen games of bingo and copped countless anecdotes about rationing and Thatcher. I wrote a book about my intergenerational travels. The Gran Tour was not endorsed by Richard and Judy and nor was the book in anyway a bestseller. (Unless we count a particular fifteen-minute window in a particular bookshop in Norwich when I bought four copies myself.) But it did pay a very significant dividend: it equipped me with the knowledge that an older housemate is no more likely to be unbearable than a younger one.

It doesnt take long for me to deduce that Winnie isnt a keen chef. I pick up on the idea when she says, about ten minutes after Stewart has left, So whats for supper?

I play it safe and do a bolognaise, and in the process use the wrong pot or pan about a dozen times. (Its fair to say shes pedantic about kitchenware.) She takes one mouthful (still on her feet, which is a novel approach) and then declares it amusing, which, as far as Im aware, isnt a condition bolognaise aspires to. I serve the pasta with some focaccia which she describes as determined looking. Shes certainly got a way of putting things.

We eat at the dining table, which dominates one side of the sitting room, which boasts two sets of French windows that give onto the garden. Theres a sofa, two boardroom-style swivel chairs, a reclining armchair, another chair made from what appears to be pinewood, several dressers and a corner cabinet (I believe the term is), wherein, for all I know, are the remains of Winnies previous tenant. Im not usually one for furniture I tend to just sit on the stuff and get on with it but I make a point of mentioning all this because its pretty much all Im mentioning to Winnie over dinner. My conversational tactic so far has essentially been say what you see. Ill give you a taster.