And a bird flew up out of the turret Above the Traveller’s head And he smote upon the door a second time: ’Is there anybody there?’ he said.2 One wintry Saturday afternoon, with weekend chores done and the evening meal of Bœuf Bourguignon already beginning to waft savoury promises from the kitchen, with my wife and I each curled up in an armchair with a good book, a knock came at the front door. A quick glance through the front window revealed a tall, elderly man with an uncanny resemblance to my father, dead some 30 years earlier. The caller was looking uncertainly at the house and door as if on second thoughts his knocking might have been regretted, as if he feared a possible rebuff from the householder he had just disturbed. I did not recognise the caller but felt somehow that I should have … so I opened the door with neither smile nor scowl on my face but with frank and even friendly curiosity. The visitor looked up, smiled and held out his hand. ‘Hello, John. It’s Tom Flanagan.
