The knocker-upper

Dad sat by the window deep in thought. 

He was holding his usual cup of morning coffee in one hand while the other balanced his chin. Spirals of steam rose up from the coffee into the air, getting lost in the beam of the sun's rays. Outside, the village was waking up. The thrushes were singing, welcoming the new day, while all around the neighbouring houses, people began their daily lives.

It was another Friday and the year was 1920.  A twelve-year-old me was already dressed up in uniform, ready to go to school. I had just come down the stairs of our humble cottage when I came across this scene and a little voice whispered to me to stop and not interfere.

Dad was a handsome middle-aged man. The wrinkles on his forehead and his worn-out demeanour did nothing to hide that. He carried the same hairstyle for the last six years- adamantly refusing anyone's suggestion that he change it. 

People saw this as dad being stubborn, but I knew the truth. I knew it was out of fear. Dad hated the new; he hated changes. This was why for him every day had to be the same. Other than the clothes he wore, nothing hardly ever changed: he would wake up in the early morning for his knocker-upper duties, take me to school right after, do a bit of joiner work for a few people, and meet up with his friends at the local pub on Saturdays after he left me at nan's house. That same routine, for as long as I could remember.

Apparently, dad hadn't always been like this.  At least that's what nan would tell me. I liked my visits to nan. They were always interesting in one way or the other. Nan still had so much energy within her, it was hard to believe she was seventy years old. Just the other week, I heard from one of my classmates that they'd seen my gran climb over a fence.

"Charlie," my classmate confronted me. "Does your nan own a plot in the town's communal gardens?"

"Yes, why?" I asked.

He burst out laughing in surprise.

"Your nan is something else, I'll tell you that. My dad and I were on our way to Johnny’s Meat Shop when we came across her. She was climbing over the main fence of the communal gardens! My dad thought something had happened, that she was running away from a thief or something, so he rushed to see if he could help her. Turns out, she forgot her keys to the main gate and thought it was pointless to go back, and decided to climb the fence instead!"

I stood there with my mouth open, shocked. My grandmother had pulled off some wild stunts over the years, but nothing quite like this. What puzzled me the most was why she hadn't said anything about this to neither me nor my dad.

The only good reason I could come up with was how annoyed she knew my dad would be. Not that she cared. She was too feisty and independent to bother. Or maybe I was wrong?

I found out soon enough that this was the case. My dad found out soon after what my gran had pulled off and confronted her immediately. Dad wasn't one to get angry, but when he did, he turned into a blazing thunderstorm, ready to cast lightning on anyone. I can still remember how the argument went. Dad had come to pick me up from the pub. He'd probably heard the story from one of his friends that evening. I don't think I'll ever forget it. I had never seen him so livid.

"What were you thinking?" dad shouted as soon as he barged into the house. My grandmother tried to play dumb for the first few seconds but that didn't work for too long.

"You could have hurt yourself! At your age too!"

My dad went on and on while my grandmother said nothing. In fact, she bowed her head meekly and didn’t meet his eyes. That's the second reason why I'll never forget that scene- I had never seen my grandmother as quiet as a guilty child before then. 

My dad stormed off with me that day and kept cursing on the way home. After a few hours though, he calmed down. That evening, he picked up the receiver and called my nan to apologise. But my nan understood his behaviour. Ever since our mother passed away he was in a lugubrious state. Languished. As if waiting to vanish from the earth. Nan's actions could have cost her her life and dad couldn't handle another person dying on him- not at this stage when he still wasn't over the loss of my mother.

Dad loved my mother: he really did. I only asked him once how they met but dad changed the subject. He was still so hurt that he couldn't even talk about her. So I found out from nan who was more than glad to share the story with her then six-year-old niece.

"You see," Nan began enthusiastically (when she started like this, you knew it was going to be a good one). "Back in the late 1800s,  your dad was fifteen years old and started his job as a knocker-upper."

"Alarm clocks were either expensive or unreliable back then and you could make a decent amount going about neighbourhoods and rapping on people’s windows. So, your dad decided to help us-your grandfather and me- this way."

A small smile appeared on my face which my grandmother must have noticed because she smiled as well. Dad had always done anything to support those closest to him, even from a young age. I could tell nan was very proud of him. She continued: 

"One day, your father was doing his usual rounds when he knocked on the window of one of the wealthier families of the neighbourhood he was contracted to. Just as he was about to move on, the window opened and a bucket of water landed on his head, followed by the angry voice of a young lady, "You're supposed to be knocking on the window next to mine! How dare you ruin my sleep?". Well, your dad looked up and claims he fell in love instantly. It was your mother. She was a feisty one and that's why I liked her. Your dad kept knocking on that window every day until your mother finally agreed to meet with him. Not even her father could stop that. He fired your father as soon as he got wind of what he was doing but that didn't stop a boy in love. Oh, they were crazy about each other, Charlie. I've never seen two people so in love. Soon, your mother, against the wishes of her father, married yours, and then you came into the world."

Nan gave me a warm smile as she reached out for my hand and put it into hers. That was how she ended the story.

Back to that morning where my dad sat by the window with his coffee, I looked at the clock and decided I had to break his reverie, otherwise, I would be late for school.

Without a word, I went up and sat across from him at our small kitchen table.

Dad gave me a side glance and put his hand down from his chin. He brought both hands to the coffee mug and leaned back on his seat, giving me a thorough look.

"I miss her too, dad," I said suddenly. His eyes widened for a split second before a thin smile appeared on his face.

"I’m glad I have you, Charlie," he relaxed. 

“Is that why you still do your knocker-upper duties, as an ode to mom?"

My dad paused for a moment, his eyebrow cocked at me.

"You're a wise child, Charlie. You really are."

I ignored his words. I knew what I was. Sometimes, I wondered why adults could be so silly sometimes.

"We should appreciate what we have now dad. You never know if things could get worse."

My dad nodded in agreement. Another smile appeared on his face as he looked at me proudly. He loved me and I loved him. We had each other and he knew we had to appreciate that. Because, just as I predicted, things got worse. Not only for us but for the world as we knew it.