My brother and I went to school around the corner from our house in London.  Our garden backed onto the convent playing fields and teachers would jokingly tell my father to throw us over the wall!

He never took them up on their suggestion!

We would walk home for lunch every day and as we didn’t have a doorbell we ‘d sharply rap the knocker as we had been taught to do.

Three sharp raps indicated that we were friend not foe!

But we were children and I sometimes got carried away, with a little goading from my brother.

Other times I would second guess my rapping ability.

Had the first, in the series of three, been heard?  Perhaps my mittens had muffled the sound?

After rapping we waited patiently, for a second, and when our mother didn’t appear I fell on the door knocker again and ventured three more raps.

Occassionally I would give my brother permission to rap.  This was always a mistake because he was a boy and didn’t fully grasp the meaning of rules.  He’d rap until he was ready to stop, usually when mother opened the door with a scowl and an admonition,

“You always take the guilt off your coming home.”

I had no idea what she meant by this but judging by the look on her face I’d guess she wasn’t amused.

My brother was oblivious pushing past her to get inside to his soldiers.  Mornings at English primary schools wre long and boring for little boys.

I pondered her words, why would she feel guilty about us coming home for lunch?  She always had our meal ready, she always answered the door, she was never doing anything else.

What filled her moments before our arrival home with guilt?  And when we were over zealous in our wish to be granted admission to our home, how was the guilt taken off?

This phrase was logged away in my subconscious with other sayings my mother had that were equally as indiscernible,

“A stitch in time saves nine,” nine what?

“You should be seen and not heard,” why couldn’t I ever talk?

“Think of the poor starving children in India..” I did every time I was reminded to when I left food on my plate.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth…” I never discovered what a gift horse was and how looking it in the mouth had anything to do with the gift I was less than excited about?

Years later when my mother’s phrase about guilt popped into the forefront of my memory I realised that the “guilt” she was referring to was the “gilt” of a highly polished piece of metal.

She had meant that when we defied the rules of knocking, her excitement, the shiny gilt on our anticipated arrival, vaporised.