More than two years have passed since Robin Gibb of the Bee Gees died, aged 62, of kidney failure after a determined battle against cancer.

But in the magnificent 13th-century mansion he shared with his wife Dwina in Thame, Oxfordshire, little has changed.

There are countless silver-framed photographs of Robin with his brothers Maurice – his twin – who died aged 53 in 2003 from a heart attack, and Barry, the only surviving Bee Gee, as well as pictures of the youngest, Andy, who died aged 30 in 1988 from a heart condition exacerbated by cocaine addiction.

On the walls, along with fine oil paintings, hang rows of gold and silver discs marking their 200 million record sales.

There are more photographs of the Bee Gees with almost every celebrity of the past 50 years. In the corner of the huge timbered sitting room stands a full suit of armour, and a bust of Winston Churchill, one of Robin’s heroes.

‘There’s no need to change anything,’ says Dwina softly. ‘Why would I? I want to feel Robin is still around. I’ve kept all the photographs up and everything as it was. What’s the point of making changes? Robin was a whole part of this house. I can’t understand why people change things after someone passes away, saying they can’t live with photographs around them. I think that’s ridiculous if you loved someone.

‘After Robin died we saturated ourselves with him – watching videos, films, everything that featured him, so that we could remember and hold on to those precious memories. His is an amazing legacy and I feel very proud that I was with him during the birth of many of those songs.’

But these days, there’s one important difference that has brought life and happiness back into the dark rooms of the vast house: the arrival of baby Maxwell-Robin Gibb, born to Robin and Dwina’s son Robin-John, 31, known as RJ, and his partner Megan.

The family celebrated little Maxwell’s first birthday on 16 July. ‘The baby has brought joy, because we were in a very dark space after Robin left,’ Dwina says.

‘All the wit and humour, love and music, and the eccentricity of Robin had suddenly gone. There was a void. Then there was suddenly something to look forward to – the birth of Maxwell, 14 months after Robin had died.

‘Until then it was very lonely. It didn’t matter how many people were here, I still felt lonely because it’s strange when your partner goes – as anyone who has lost someone they love discovers; there’s definitely a shift in the consciousness. It’s been difficult to fill the gap Robin has left, especially in the evenings.

‘When everyone else was asleep, if he wasn’t composing, Robin and I would talk for hours. I miss that. I miss my companion. Or I’d be lying in bed while Robin was working and the house would be filled with his music.

‘I could hear the piano in the middle of the night, his voice like an angel singing a beautiful new song, or hear the keyboards and the song he was developing. I’ve always loved the creative buzz. It’s very infectious and it makes you feel you want to create too. There’s something wonderful about that.

‘Suddenly all that had gone and it took some time to realise it. Robin had such presence. He was a comedian as much as he was a musician. There was never a dull moment. You never knew what was going to happen next.

‘The arrival of the baby has really been helpful. When you’re in the middle of grief, suddenly you have to pull yourself together because there’s a new life there. And babies are lovely, scrunchy little things. So you want to make them smile and laugh and give them a happy childhood. A new life has begun here and I’m embracing my role as a grandmother, although when he grows up he’ll probably call me Nana Dwina.’

She adds, ‘I do wish Robin had known there was a baby on the way before he died. He loved children and would have been thrilled to know that one was going to arrive in this household. But the news of that came afterwards.

‘So it was a real surprise – a beautiful surprise. I was thrilled. He does little things in the same way Robin did. The way he used to sit with his thumb over the third finger. He’s got acute hearing, too, just as Robin had. Robin could hear a fax machine going from three floors away.’

Dwina’s been throwing herself into babysitting duties when RJ and Megan, who live in the mansion’s gatehouse, want to go out. ‘Yes, I love it. I had the baby all day yesterday. It was just delightful. We have a big playpen here because he’s learning to walk.’

To help her deal with her grief, Dwina, an artist and writer, went back to completing her first play, Last Confessions Of A Scallywag, a farce set in Ireland about a man on his deathbed who wants to make peace with everyone he’s offended and meet his maker with a clear conscience.

So he decides to do the most heartless thing a scallywag can do – tell the truth – to friends, neighbours and loved ones. Then, satisfied with the chaos he’s created, he prepares to die… only he doesn’t die.

It’s currently on at The Mill at Sonning Theatre in Berkshire, and Dwina, from Northern Ireland herself, explains how the idea came about.

‘I had an uncle who was on his deathbed for about 20 years. So it was sort of inspired by him. It’s a combination of wit and wisdom and I love the twists and turns of farce. Robin loved farce as well. We used to go and see all the old Brian Rix comedies in the West End.

‘He liked any kind of slapstick. Sometimes he’d dress up as different characters and make short films of himself. He greatly admired Chaplin, Groucho Marx and The Goons. It was like living with genius and madness at the same time.’

She says writing the play was cathartic. ‘It helped me get through everything. It also reminded me of when Robin and I used to go to Donegal on holiday. We had such good times there. We went to the Donegal Festival and they had a wife-carrying competition. I said to Robin, “We’re not going in for that.” I said if we did, I should be carrying him!’ The play will have its first reading at a New York theatre later this year, and Dwina’s already working on two more plays, both comedies.

One of the themes in the farce is womanising. The only time Dwina’s own marriage was really put to the test was when it emerged Robin had an eight-year affair with their live-in housekeeper Claire Yang, then 34, which led to the birth of a baby girl, Snow, who’s now five.

Robin had asked the executors of his £26 million estate to make sure Snow is properly looked after. Miss Yang has been allowed to keep the £850,000 house he bought for her in Amersham, Buckinghamshire, and today Dwina says on this delicate subject, ‘She and Snow have been provided for.’

Understandably, Dwina was angry at the time. When I ask now how she dealt with this upsetting period in her life, she says simply, I’ve never been a jealous person – my attitude has always been live and let live. People who are creative are often very different, I think, from conventional couples. I don’t know – I can’t answer very much really.

‘Creative and artistic people live in a different way, maybe. There’s a certain kind of freedom I suppose we have. We always had that in our marriage, but we knew we both deeply loved each other.’

She points out that she and Robin shared the same birthday, 22 December – she was born in 1952, Robin in 1949. ‘The strength of our relationship was that we were dedicated to each other and no matter what happened in our lives, we knew we’d always be together. No matter what happened and no matter who would try to interfere.’

As well as RJ and Snow, Robin also had two children from his first marriage, Spencer, 42, a musician, and Melissa, 40, a translator. Their mother, Molly Hullis, a former secretary who worked for The Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein in the 60s, divorced Robin in 1980 and he married Dwina five years later.

Explains Dwina, ‘I didn’t meet Robin until after the divorce, so it was never a case of my taking him away from anybody. Molly’s written some lovely letters to me and she came over from Cyprus, where she lives, to visit his grave. We’ve kept in touch, which is nice. That’s how Robin would have wanted it. When they were teenagers Spencer and Melissa would come to live with us in America for a while when RJ was a baby.’

RJ has inherited his father’s talent for songwriting and singing and can play many instruments, which are scattered about the studio in the house. He’s compiled a new album of his father’s last songs called 50 St Catherine’s Drive – the address of the house where Robin was born in Douglas, Isle Of Man – to be released on 29 September.

The album’s final track, Sydney, is a demo, the last song Robin ever recorded. He’d intended to finish it with Barry for a joint album, but was too unwell. Dwina has said of the track, ‘This fragment of song is poignant, wistful, beautiful and unfinished. He cried when he wrote it, and I wept when I heard it.’

With his other three children looked after financially, Robin left Dwina their home, a former monastery mentioned in the Domesday Book which was once visited by Henry VIII and his wife Anne Boleyn and is set in 100 acres of beautiful grounds. Eventually it will pass to RJ. Would Robin have lived longer if he’d taken things easier?

‘No, he was very ill, although he fought against it right to the end. He became a workaholic during those last two years. It was as if he wanted to cram in as much as he could and not waste a single moment.

‘He was doing his charity work, his last concerts, his last everything. He was trying to get the copyright laws changed in different countries to help young songwriters, artists and authors who were being ripped off. He really seemed to want to get it all done. There was a sense of urgency about everything. He thrived on work – it made him feel alive. If he’d been the type who just gave up and went to bed he would have died much sooner.’

She plans to write a book about her life with Robin. ‘I’d like to write about the wonderful man that he was, as an artist, a writer himself, and of course as a composer. He was multi-talented and he will live forever through those wonderful songs and that unmistakeable singing voice.’

She’s particularly sad for Robin’s mother Barbara, 93, who lives in Miami near her son Barry. ‘How must she feel?’ she says.

‘She’s lost three of her sons. You don’t expect to outlive your children like that. It must be horrendous. Robin dying was a very big blow to her, because she lived with us in our house in Miami for many years. She was very close to him. And poor Barry, the dark days he must go through now, because he doesn’t have his brothers who were all such a part of his family.’

Barry recently admitted there was sometimes friction between the brothers, but Dwina shrugs off their differences. ‘Regardless of anything else that might have gone on between them, they had a special bond.’