Knock, knock

Three or four times a week I walk down the road and rap twice with the heavy knocker on Margery’s home-made front door. Always twice, with the same force and tempo, so that she and the dog know that it’s me. And the dog, Joe, an old fat collie, always replies with joyful, musical barking because he knows I’ve come to take him out for his walk.

Margery moves slowly, so there is usually an interval between my double knock and her opening the door. Since her stroke she’s lost her appetite, and when she finally opens the door she’s always a little more skeletal than when I saw her last. Amazingly, considering how frail and forgetful she is, she still manages to order a taxi and go into town once a week for a shampoo and set. But as the contours of the skull beneath the skin become more apparent, her newly coiffed hair looks disconcertingly like a badly fitting helmet.

Eventually I hear her muttering to herself on the other side of the door and then her fumbling weakly with latch. If the door fails to open, it’s because it’s locked and she has to go and find the key. Knowing how long that can take, I bend down and shout suggestions through the letterbox. It’s usually in the peg bag, or, failing that, in the tea caddy. Sometimes she forgets what she’s supposed to be looking for, then she forgets that there’s someone at the door, then she goes and makes herself comfortable in front of the television and I have to knock and start the entry procedure all over again.

Margery’s husband, Cyril, died about five years ago. He was a gentle, humorous, practical man and always making or mending something.