Transported back to my youth by knock of unexpected caller

You know the one – a travelling pedlar arrives at stately Lee Hall and asks for permission to leave his large pack overnight. The bag actually contains a dwarf who is supposed to climb out of the pack in the dead of night and unlock the doors to admit robbers.

Our newly-installed doorbell bing-bonged, an event rare enough for me to leap up from my chair and spill a significant proportion of the coffee I had just made, and send the dog careering round the garden with hackles raised and teeth bared.

“Who is it?” asked Mrs Hextol, putting my clairvoyant skills to their usual test through one closed door and another with frosted glass.

After making sure the dog was locked up, I eventually opened the door to find an engaging fellow in his late teens on the step, struggling under the weight of an enormous back pack.

And when his opening remark was “I’m a young offender…” I immediately expected him to tell me he was walking the Pennine Way, but would soon be back from Kirk Yetholm, and in the meantime would I be prepared to store his pack in readiness for his return.

I was starting to curse the fact I didn’t have a blunderbuss called Copenhagen to hand, but when the young man finally laid down his burden, there were no signs of any persons of restricted growth therein.

It was, in fact, full of the sort of gear that used to be advertised in the classified section of Sunday newspapers, from chamois leathers and lint removers to magic devices to keep salads fresh and stop bananas going brown.

There were king-sized bendy dusters that transformed into hoses to wash the car, and if I had looked further, I am sure there would have been a device for getting stones out of horses’ hooves, and a Big Slipper to keep your feet warm while watching the telly.

The young man explained that while he had been a bit naughty in the past, he was now a reformed character and had been sent on a rehabilitation programme from the young offenders’ institute as a door to door salesman of devices you never knew you needed.

Quite satisfied that he was genuine, and not casing the joint – the still ravening dog would have removed any temptation anyway, I’m sure – I purchased a couple of trifles, and sent him on his way with a warm and sincere handshake.

But his visit left me thinking about the disappearance of personal callers to our homes in the days of universal telecommunications and the spread of social media.

When I was growing up, there was a constant stream of people knocking at my parents’ door, including exotic men from the subcontinent, dramatically bearded with their heads swathed in the sort of colourful turbans we had only previously seen in comic books.

They carried battered suitcases, from which came a constant stream of dishcloths, tea towels and enormous tins of Mansion and Red Cardinal floor polish, but I know of no-one who ever bought anything off the Turban Men as they were daringly dubbed.

Other visitors ranged from children asking if we were coming out to catch tadpoles, go bird nesting or collect bonfire wood, to neighbours wanting to borrow a cup of sugar, a cigarette or on one memorable occasion, a condom.

As well as social calls, there was always the thunderously imperious knock of the rent man, the rat-a-tat of assorted insurance men and clothing club men and the visit from the man who collected the Littlewoods pools money on a Friday night.

Others didn’t even come to the door, but tooted their horns outside, and a steady stream of head-scarfed housewives would trot out to an entire fleet of travelling shops, from the Co-op van and the pop man to the local butcher and the bread van.

All callers ran the risk of being seduced by the heady aromas of my father’s super potent home-made wines, which he was keen to try out on unwary visitors. One trainee insurance man didn’t have the heart to say no to a small libation of dandelion and hawthorn berry beaujolais – and some hours later, had to be carried away semi-conscious by his furious wife.