The pretty Victorian house in Kentish Town is painted saffron yellow with a flight of steep steps leading up to its front door and black iron railings, and is in a cul-de-sac of the secretive sort London does so well. I am about to meet Nina Stibbe, although this is not where she lives; it is the house of the writer Deborah Moggach (about which more in a moment). Stibbe is hanging out in Moggach’s sitting room, which is filled with paintings, books and rugs, and I greet her with an unplanned hug, helplessly under the illusion – probably like most of her readers – that she is an old friend. I find it unaccountable, I tell her, that we have never met face to face.
The best introduction to Nina Stibbe, for anyone yet to come across her, is her own: Love, Nina (2014) was based on letters written to her sister about life in Gloucester Crescent, Camden Town as nanny to the sons of Mary-Kay Wilmers, then editor of the London Review of Books. The book charmed because of its fresh, entertaining and not-in-the-slightest awed take on celebrated neighbours – Alan Bennett, Claire Tomalin, Karel Reisz and others – and became a BBC series in 2016. But the best thing about the book was Stibbe herself. She grew up in rural Leicestershire and was (and is) uncommonly nice and funny. Part of the satisfaction of reading her was the realisation that, on the quiet, she was becoming an ace writer herself – a Camden Town Cinderella, destined for the literary ball.
Although middle-aged when Love, Nina was published, Stibbe was only 20 when she wrote the letters. Since then she has published five more books, including a couple of novels and now, a new memoir: Went to London, Took the Dog. It is, in one sense, a sequel to the first, in that it describes a return to north London to become the tenant of Deborah Moggach, whom she had met – but only fleetingly – in the Gloucester Crescent days (that is why we are in Moggach’s house now). The new book is written in Stibbe’s recognisably entertaining tone but she is no longer a quirky ingenue, and this introduces shade to the book. She is 61, with two grownup children and a cockapoo named Peggy, and although she lightly refers to her time in London as a “sabbatical”, it was not uncomplicated because she was separating from her husband, Mark Nunney, and was away from Cornwall, where she has lived for the past couple of decades.
Moggach is gamely poised this morning to talk about being a landlady, but throughout the year (April 2022 to March 2023) that Stibbe was under her roof, she was firing on all cylinders herself, publishing a collection of short stories, Fool for Love, touring around the UK with her play, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, and working on a novel and a television documentary. Not bad for 75 – or any age. Moggach goes downstairs to put the kettle on and I follow her. In Went to London…, Stibbe refers to her as Debby. Should I call her Debby? “Everyone does,” Moggach replies. She has glamour, an easy manner, a big laugh.
She takes two cups of tea back up to the sitting room. Stibbe is short-haired and tomboyishly dressed, with a bright-eyed look as if a joke were brimming over and about to spill (it does: she rolls her eyes teasingly at me because Moggach has neglected to make her a cup of tea). They sit side by side and Stibbe explains how the year together took off. She had got chatting to the writer Sathnam Sanghera, Moggach’s former lodger, at a literary party, and when he mentioned that he was moving house, Stibbe found herself asking where it was he had been. In no time, she would be offering herself to Moggach as his replacement: “I’m a keen gardener and happy to put my hand down the drain,” she vouched. She added that she had a dog, and Moggach replied that she loved dogs and the deal was sealed.
One of the delightful things about Stibbe is that she is not a snob about content. Nothing is too minor to get her attention: an unreliable dishwasher, plants with special needs, physical afflictions that come with being older. Space is also given to anti-rodent potpourri – little saucers of cinnamon that she placed around the house. Moggach was hilariously nonplussed by these and today reveals, to Stibbe’s dismay, that the mice have since made a comeback. Her gift for seeing the absurd never deserts Stibbe: she could not write a misery memoir if she tried. In the book, she protectively skips the reasons for her marriage breakdown but confesses: “It’s so inconvenient, complicated and sad. It drags others down and it feels selfish and weak to not just plod on.”
It must sometimes have been hard to keep her spark going? She admits she felt alienated by London at first: “I was wandering around like a rich tourist, buying flavoured soaps and little bunches of flowers, and didn’t feel properly plugged in.” But she found the house “relaxing”, and whenever Moggach was at home she had fabulous company. The feeling was mutual: “It was like having a long conversation, interrupted only by sleep or absence,” Moggach says. “It was incredibly lovely to know Nina was here, as I’m now pretty much on my own and had missed having someone in the house I could have a laugh with – and we didn’t half have a laugh.” Stibbe agrees: “Ah, we did. I’d get in through the front door and Debby would shout: ‘Come in darling and tell me everything’, because the thing about Debby is that, though she talks a lot, she’s also a listener – and talkers often aren’t.”
Did they discuss Stibbe’s marriage? “All the time,” Moggach says, and adds: “I’m nearly 15 years older so have been more round the block and had two marriages and two long relationships, so I had quite a lot to draw from.” Stibbe says: “Debby was very fair, didn’t go into a man-bashing thing and cared about everyone involved. We talked about it a lot. We went deep, didn’t we, Deb?” Stibbe adds that Moggach taught her not to worry. “I watched and learned. You get on with life, you get on your bike and go and see some art and that makes your day. Also, you get on with your work.” Moggach looks thoughtful: “The worry thing is interesting,” she says, “I struck you as not being worried but I worry all the time when I’m alone.” Stibbe wonders: “Was it having me there that made you not worry?” “Yes, it helped hugely.”
Stibbe’s cast list in the new book includes a different generation of writers from her first. Novelists Nick Hornby, Cathy Rentzenbrink and Meg Mason feature as pals, but not all her friends were happy to be named. Rachel Dearborn (a pseudonym) is encountered in Hampstead as a “critical, slightly cynical person” but my several vigorous attempts to identify her fail. Less provocatively, you get engaging glimpses of Stibbe’s children. Eva has recently graduated from Central Saint Martins and Alfie is doing an MA in politics at LSE. Both work in the cafe of her old charge Sam Frears in Primrose Hill. “And they used to come here all the time,” says Stibbe. “It was absolute heaven,” says Moggach.
Stibbe says nothing in Went to London, Took the Dog about her dog’s character – was she protecting Peggy’s privacy too? “The word that springs to mind,” she says, “is neurotic. She is needy, affectionate and delightful, but wants to be with her alpha female.” In the book, Stibbe wonders: “Does Debby actually like Peggy? I can’t tell.” And did she? “I was a bit hurt,” Moggach owns, “because Peggy didn’t like me. She ignored me. I found her quite dull, to tell the truth.” Stibbe rallies: “Can I say that Peggy was up against a family dog Debby frequently looks after?” Moggach: “Cookie is a lively cockapoo that looks like a dachshund with very, very short legs and a retriever’s head… I look like more of a cockapoo than Cookie does.” “Yeah, you do…” Stibbe says in an encouraging tone (insults doubling as compliments one of her specialities).
Another thing I noticed in the book is how she reminds you that life is not, after all, about connections but about non sequiturs. Even amusingly unrelated opinions cosy up together: “Don’t know which I like least: people recommending meditation, or having conspiracy theory tendencies.”
Before I leave, I look round Moggach’s artistically ad hoc back garden and notice an odd terracotta object on its side. “A toad abode,” Stibbe exclaims delightedly. She bought it for Moggach after their shared elation on sighting a toad. “I loved doing the garden,” Stibbe now says wistfully. “It made Debby happy and that was lovely.” Towards the end of our conversation, she mentions working on a new novel and says she is currently based in Falmouth and then, suddenly, she declares: “I’m thinking I’ll probably come back to London and try and find some money to buy a flat. I feel I’m too far away.” And Moggach exclaims: “Really, really?” “Yes,” she says.
Went to London, Took the Dog: A Diary by Nina Stibbe is published by Picador (£16.99). To support the Guardian and Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply