By Isle of Wight Observer
My new best friend is a bestselling author, so here’s hoping a little of his talent rubs off on me.
Hunter Davies – for it is he – is a much-loved Sunday Times columnist, who’s written dozens of books. Career highlights include the only ever official authorised biography of the Beatles. Sir Paul McCartney asked him to do it, and they became firm friends, even taking family holidays together. Hunter also wrote a terrific ‘insider’ book about Tottenham Hotspur FC, the long-suffering Holmes family’s team of choice. As if that wasn’t enough, he also wrote the ‘Eddie Stobart Story’, the rise and rise of the Cumbrian haulage giant. As a rags to riches haulage man myself, that one was right up my A road.
When I heard Hunter had bought a house in Ryde, I resolved to get in touch; perhaps I could engineer a meeting. I knew we’d get on; we have so much in common. Sadly, he’s not here full-time, so our get together remained on my long ‘to do’ list, until I heard he’d written a new book, ‘Letters to Margaret, Confessions to my Late Wife’. It’s a brilliantly simple idea – bereavement counsellors often suggest you write to someone who has died. Putting your thoughts down on paper can really help with grief.
Without challenge or interruption, you can explain how their passing is affecting you and how you’re feeling. You’re able to let them know what the family is up to, and ‘pass on’ the latest gossip. You might even want to apologise for any wrongdoing.
Hunter does a bit of all that in the book, and knows Margaret will disapprove of certain aspects of his new life without her. He kindly sent a copy over and, after a few email exchanges, last weekend, we met for lunch at Robert Thompson’s classy new grill in Ryde. Sadly, Robert himself was on holiday – the absolute cheek of it.
Hunter arrived dressed colourfully, accompanied by Miranda, his lovely new partner. Both were excellent company. Amusingly, Hunter mostly interviewed me, but did find a moment to admit he’s spent a lifetime shamelessly turning every single thing that happened to him into copy. His late wife, bestselling author Margaret Forster, did no such thing; she stuck to novels.
Hunter’s letters are informative and funny. Occasionally he seeks Margaret’s advice or approval, or relates behaviour of which he knows she’ll disapprove. Amusingly, he details his online search for female company, awkwardly using the Saga dating site. He relates lunchtime assignations with potential mates, most of whom seem distinctly uninterested in what he calls a “full relationship”. He’s mercifully vague on detail – but definitely gives the impression he wants more than just friendship. Which of us at 20, believed 40-year-olds still have sex? At 40, we wondered if 60-year-olds were still at it. Hunter gives hope to those who can’t imagine ever going without, even octogenarians like him.
Until her death in 2016, he and Margaret were very happily married for 56 years. The description in the book, about her long-term illness and demise, is poignant. What he subsequently did with her ashes is appalling and yet mildly amusing – in fact typical Hunter.
Margaret was a very private person, and for the last decades of her life, didn’t go anywhere. Hunter remains a committed social butterfly. Even aged 88, he’s leading a fabulously busy life, including meeting fellow chancers like me for a spot of lunch. He told me he’s excited to be moving house again, “Because I wanted a sea view.”
He’s the eternal optimist who does everything at a gallop. As he says, at his age, “There’s no time to mess around; you need to get on with it.”
He’s quite the character, dear Hunter, and his new book is definitely worth a read.