The Brass Knob by Marian Jenkins - March 2008

The down stairs front door slammed.  Gone.  Alone at last.  The decorators had finished for the day.  Fumes of wet paint permeated the whole house making her feel dizzy and nauseous.The rooms down stairs had been gutted before the paint and emulsion could be applied to surfaces and here she was in a bedroom overfilled to capacity with books, framed pictures, vases, plants, mirrors and knick-knacks.  There was a passageway to the bed but no room to change the king-size duvet cover and bedding or to dress and undress without standing on the top of the middle of the bed.

She laid down on the bed, too stressed to care.  She would venture down stairs to make some food for supper later when she was convinced that they really had gone and left her in peace with no chance that they would return.

Hours later, after resting, nature called and she roused herself to visit the ‘loo’.  She made her hazardous way to the door.  She turned, twisted, rattled, pulled and pushed and the brass door knob came off in her hand.

She made her way back to the bed but was unable to think properly as the call of nature was too insistent and the uric acid was entering her blood stream and clouding her brain.

Thank God for the vases.  No, the rose bud vase was useless, where was the extra large glass vase with the dried twig display? 

She pulled madly at the nearest stack of boxes.  Fool, it wouldn’t be there - search behind, scan the horizon for twigs - fast.

Ah-ha, there were two bluebell jar / vases atop the wardrobe behind the stacked books.  They would have to do.  The relief.  It’s the simple things in life that give the greatest pleasure.  What to do with the contents?  Out of the window?  There were windows but they were firmly closed against the winter winds and there were books and boxes of goods stacked high and several containers deep in front of them.  Where to stack the boxes to make a pathway to the windows  and where was the key to unlock the double glazed units?  She remembered that there was still a law in existence permitting the pouring of ‘dirty water’ from first story windows but not clean water.  But what good was that if she couldn’t open the windows?

She spied the crate of jams and preserves and made a mental note that she could eat the contents and use the containers if her predicament persisted.  She thought longingly of the sausage sandwiches that she had intended to make for supper.

What if she was still incarcerated tomorrow morning?  Who would let the decorators in?  Would they knock in vain and go away with out investigating?  How could she alert them to her situation? 

How could she alert anyone and get help?  The mobile telephone signal was only accessible at the bottom of the front garden.  Also, it was now way past 8p.m.  What work person would not have shut up shop and gone home leaving the ‘phone on answer phone mode?  Semiphore was of no use no sun and anyway no one would understand even if she could have persuaded the energy saving light bulbs to have reacted swiftly enough.  She could try knocking on the window in morse with the broom handle but was there anyone near enough to hear let alone interpret?

The best thing to do was to think.  How the hell does a door knob work?  Was it the knob or the interior mysterious workings that harboured the fault?  Come on, a man had invented it so it couldn’t be that difficult.

She saw a dictionary protruding from a pile of books and grabbed it.  Shaft.  Long cylindrical rotating rod upon which are fixed parts for transmission of motive power.  There were two knobs, inside and outside which would be connected by a shaft, not necessarily round but square would make sense.  The square shaft would not only connect the two knobs but the angles of a square shaft would turn a latch to open the door.  So she would have to remove the knob and either find something to grip and turn the shaft or, if the shaft was broken, try to find an angled substitute to activate the latch.

The knob came off in her hand with minimal effort.  She could still see the shaft and decided to try and turn the shaft using the craft pliers in the box of materials stacked at the back of the room. Success.  She felt very pleased with herself.  It did immense good to her self esteem, confidence and dissipated her stress levels.  She made her way to the kitchen and made a sausage sandwich.  To hell with it, she was celebrating - she made another sandwich.