Knocker-upper: "A person whose job was to go from house to house in the early morning and wake up workers by tapping on the bedroom window with a long pole or similarly convenient implement. " - Wiktionary.
It was early Monday morning, just before dawn,
that I was awakened by a loud, insistent tapping on my bedroom window. Wondering who
it was, and how on Earth someone could be knocking on the window of a second-story flat,
I eventually managed to force myself out of bed. Rubbing the sleep from my
eyes, I staggered over to the window, which my sleep-deprived brain took some
time to open. When I looked out, I saw a young woman grinning up at me. She was
a lanky brunette somewhere in her early twenties, wearing a woolly jumper, a
matching skirt, and a flat cap balanced on her head, and was joyfully waving a
long pole in greeting. Clearly, the stick was how she'd managed to tap on my
window. "Finally, you're up! Good
morning, sir!"
I stared back at her, stunned at this behaviour. Before
I could think of a response, the woman had walked away, cheerily whistling a
tune. What on Earth was going on?
I stumbled back to bed, once again reflecting on
the strangeness of Londoners. I already had enough of that from my neighbour
Sheena, with whom I had a couple of disagreements – I had not expected to find
another madwoman so close to home.
The following day, around the same time, I once
again heard tapping. I rose, making sure I was properly awake and
ready to speak before moving over to the window. If it turned out to be the
same woman, I wanted to be able to ask her to explain herself before she left.
I hoped it was – the thought of there being more than one hooligan roaming the
streets rapping on people's windows in the dark was too much to bear.
"At last!" she laughed when I opened the
window. "You were a lot harder to wake today. Good morning," she
said, tipping her cap and turning to leave.
"Wait a second," I called out.
"What's going on? Why are you doing this?"
"Well, I'm the knocker-upper, sir!" she exclaimed.
When she realized from the look on my face that this meant nothing to me, she
explained, "It's a service you find in big cities. I go from flat to flat,
waking people up so they can go to work on time!" There was more than a
hint of condescension in her voice; presumably, she'd realized from my accent
that I wasn't a Londoner.
"Well, I am a night watchman, and I don't
need to be at work any time soon – in fact, it's only a few hours since my
shift ended. So you can stop knocking on MY window," I informed her as
civilly as I managed.
"Oh no, sir," she said, shaking her
head. "When I'm hired to do a job, I do it."
"I haven't hired you," I told her, still
trying to keep my voice calm.
"Oh, I know, sir," she grinned.
"Your wife did."
"I'm not married!" I called out, but
she'd already started to walk away, looking for her next victim.
When I was awoken on Wednesday by the familiar knocking, I buried my face in my pillow and resolved to ignore her until she
went away. When you work all night, having some stranger wake you up after only
a few hours of sleep, on the orders of an imaginary wife, is not particularly
pleasant. However, as the minutes slowly dragged on, it was clear that she was
not stopping until she'd wished me good morning. Sighing, I admitted defeat and
rose from bed.
"Good morning! Wow, you slept soundly today!
No wonder your wife needs help walking you up. Or maybe she doesn't need to get
up as early as you do."
"I DON'T have to get up early – and I don't
have a wife," I repeated, once again trying my best to keep my voice
level. "So I suggest you stop bothering me, never knock on my window
again, and go find someone who DOES need to be woken up."
"Oh, no, sir!" she said. "I've been
paid to do my job, and do my job I shall! See you tomorrow!" Before I
could respond, she'd tipped her cap and left.
I leaned out of the window, sighing my
frustration. How could I get through her dense skull? Glancing up, I could see
a hint of red curls from one of the other windows, and I realized that my
neighbour Sheena was watching me through her window, a smirk on her face. Like
I said, we'd had quite a few disagreements, so I wasn't surprised to see the
young woman taking pleasure from my suffering. She'd shown a sadistic streak on
occasion.
On Thursday, when I was once again wrenched from
my pleasant dreams by an insistent knocking, I decided I was done being nice.
Slamming my window open, I did not let her call out her customary greeting, but
yelled "Stop knocking on my window! I have told you repeatedly that I do
not need your services. I have not hired you, and I don't have a wife. If you
knock on my window again, young lady, you will regret it. I warn you." I
glared down at her, hoping she'd finally got the message.
The girl only laughed. "Yes, a lot of people
are grumpy in the morning. See you tomorrow," she called before leaving,
whistling merrily.
I shook my head as I returned to bed. She'd
finally pushed me too far. She'd decided to test me, and I was going to show
her that I meant what I said. She'd been warned, and now, she would suffer the
consequences.
