Someone comes to the front door, which is wide open to let in the sunshine, lifts the heavy brass knocker, and lets it fall, once. I’m upstairs, in a dark bedroom, bent over the laptop. I don’t hear anyone go to the door to answer it.
The visitor waits patiently, then after perhaps half a minute touches the doorbell just enough to make it bubble into life. A modest ring. Not peremptory.
Still no one comes. I’m feeling far too unsociable today to haul myself out of my swivel chair and put on an appropriate face for dealing with strangers at the door. For whoever it is must be a stranger. Anyone familiar with this house knows there’s no need to knock or ring, let alone do both. Someone answer the door for crying out loud, I think.
The bedroom door handle is an arm’s length away. I reach out, pull open the door six inches, lean across and peer down.
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