A homeless digital stranger knocked on our door two days earlier than Christmas and we invited him in for a cup of tea. He NEVER left: So what would you have got achieved in Rob and Dianne’s sneakers?

December 23, 1975. The knock on the door was not loud, but it was persistent. I was in the living room, listening to Prime Minister Harold Wilson talk about his plans for bringing peace to Northern Ireland, when Dianne called from the kitchen: ‘See who that is, Rob.’

I moved into the winter chill of the hall and walked past our second-hand sideboard, its scratches covered up by a dozen Christmas cards. It had been dark for two hours.

The man on our doorstep was of medium height and had several days’ stubble. Something about him was unusual. At first, I thought it was his clothes – they were creased and dirty, as though he had lived in them for a very long time – but it wasn’t his clothing that was odd, it was his bearing. In spite of his rough appearance, he looked as if whoever lived here would be glad to see him. ‘How can I help you?’ I demanded, in a voice that matched the chill air.

‘Don’t you know who I am? It’s Ronnie Lockwood.’ Of course. How could I have forgotten him and the mayhem he caused the first time we met?

He smiled. ‘Somebody told me where you live.’ He was holding a black plastic sack in his right hand.

I said: ‘What have you got in there?’

‘Just my stuff. But I’ve got this, too.’ And then he held out a package. I peeled back the paper: a frozen chicken. ‘Somebody gave it to me for Christmas,’ he said.

‘Have you got anywhere to cook it?’

He stared at the icy parcel. ‘No.’

‘Di, we’ve got a visitor,’ I shouted in the direction of the kitchen. Dianne and I had been married for four years then and were living on the outskirts of Cardiff. I was 27 years old, at the beginning of what would be a successful career as a solicitor.

‘It’s Ronnie. From the Gospel Hall?’ It was where I had been to Sunday School.

She narrowed her eyes at me, then turned to him. ‘Of course. Ronnie. Would you like some tea or coffee?’

He shrugged. ‘Fine.’

Dianne passed Ronnie his cup. ‘Would you like some sugar?’

‘Fine,’ he answered.

The three of us sat around the kitchen table, long periods of silence being punctuated by Dianne or I asking a question.

Ronnie asked if he could use the toilet. As he passed me, a pungent, acid odour hit me, reminding me of visits to my grandmother in the last weeks of her life. When he had gone upstairs, Dianne said: ‘Shall we invite him to stay for a meal? I’ve got enough for all of us. I can put his chicken in and, if it’s done, he can take it with him afterwards.’

‘Fine,’ I said. She kicked me under the table.

Dianne complains that I’m not much of a conversationalist at parties, but compared to Ronnie, I was in the Champions League.

‘Where are you staying, Ronnie?’ we asked. A shake of the head, silence. ‘Where are you sleeping?’

‘Here and there.’

Ronnie wolfed his meal down, then sat looking at his plate. We all went into the living room to watch Coronation Street. After a while, Dianne developed a coughing fit, aiming surreptitious gestures towards the door.

We realised later that she needn’t have bothered with this subversive effort to get my attention; Ronnie concentrated on only one thing at a time. At that moment he was beamed in on the Rovers Return.

We went into the kitchen. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked. ‘He’s got nowhere to stay. And he smells dreadful.’

There was a moment’s silence. Dianne said: ‘We can’t let him sleep rough tonight.

‘Let’s give him the spare bedroom, then we can talk properly in the morning.’

We went back into the living room, where Ronnie was watching the rolling credits with rapt attention. I sat on the settee next to him. ‘Would you like to stay with us tonight, Ronnie?’

‘Fine,’ he said, staring at the Granada TV logo.

Dianne asked: ‘Would you like a shower before you go to bed?’

‘No, thanks.’

She looked at me in a plea for support, but I shrugged my shoulders. We showed him his room. I found a pair of pyjamas still in their M&S wrapper, and we added a towel and laid them on the bed. I was just dropping off to sleep when Dianne whispered: ‘Are you still awake? We’ve got a man we don’t really know from Adam sleeping two feet away from us. He could do anything.’

I got out of bed and returned with a dining chair, which I wedged under the handle of our bedroom door. Dianne fell asleep, but my mind was racing now – how had this happened?

One minute I’m answering a knock at the door, the next there’s a man staying the night. I calmed down after a while, but I would not have been calm if I had known what was to happen: the man would never leave.

The next morning, Christmas Eve, Dianne woke me at 6.45am.

‘There’s somebody moving around downstairs.’

As I made my way down, I could hear the TV. I opened the living-room door to find Ronnie watching an Open University programme on maths. ‘What are you doing up so early, Ronnie?’

‘I’m an early bird, I am.’

‘What are you watching?’

‘I don’t know.’ He got up from his chair and beckoned me to follow him towards the door. A knowing smile played on his lips. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’

I followed him into the kitchen. He had washed up last night’s dishes and stacked them away. The kitchen was pristine. ‘That’s amazing, Ronnie. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He returned to the living room and settled in front of a bearded lecturer drawing equations on a blackboard. I went upstairs and slid back into bed. Dianne was wide awake. ‘What’s going on down there?’

‘He’s watching an Open University programme on calculus.’ Dianne laughed out loud. ‘And two more things.’

‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’

‘When I passed his room, the door was open.’

‘And?’

‘My pyjamas are still in the wrapping.’ ‘And the second thing?’ ‘He’s done the dishes.’ When I went downstairs again, Ronnie was looking at our Christmas cards. ‘You’ve got a lot of friends,’ he said, before blurting out: ‘I’ve got five cards.’

He produced a small package wrapped in cloth – five greetings cards, the first reading ‘you are 12!’. It was signed: ‘To Ronnie, love Carol.’

A huge grin spread over his face: ‘Look at them all.’ The cards, which spanned his 12th to 16th birthday, were all from Carol, who had worked in the kitchen of a children’s home where Ronnie lived.

I asked if they had stayed in touch. He told me he had once travelled back to the home and asked to see her, but she had left. We turned the TV on and Ronnie sank into an armchair in front of a Western, transfixed. I put the kettle on. ‘Any ideas?’

Dianne spoke slowly. ‘It’s Christmas Eve. He can’t leave today.’ Then, she gave me a look of panic. ‘We’ve got your parents coming for lunch tomorrow.’

‘You’re right. Let’s put them off.’

‘I’m glad you can see the funny side of all this. You invited Ronnie in in the first place; he was in your Sunday school class – I hardly know him.’

She went to the window. It seemed a long time before she spoke, but finally she asked: ‘Rob, do you think I’m selfish?’ ‘Why?’ I replied. ‘You’re one of the least selfish people I know.’

‘Because I don’t want him here. I want us to have a proper Christmas together – just us.’

She started to cry. I turned the kettle off, walked over to the window and put my arm around her shoulder. ‘This is my fault.’

Dianne spoke between sniffles. ‘It’s not your fault. You had to invite him in. And once he was here, we couldn’t not feed him. And then we couldn’t just ask him to leave. I know us, Rob, and we both know he’s with us for Christmas. How could we sleep tonight wondering where he is?’

We went back into the living room. Dianne stood next to the TV. ‘Ronnie, Rob and I would like you to stay with us for Christmas – you’ll be with us until the day after Boxing Day. Would you like to do that?’

Ronnie didn’t take his eyes off the cowboys riding out of town.

‘Fine.’

Dianne looked crestfallen. I felt cross. ‘Ronnie, Di is being really kind – at least look at her when she’s talking to you.’

He turned to look at Dianne, smiled, and said, ‘Sorry. That’s fine.’

Dianne pressed on. ‘Could I put some of your clothes in the wash, Ronnie? Can you get them for me, please?’

He didn’t turn from the TV. ‘I’ll do it later.’

Suddenly, High Noon was about to be re-enacted; only one person could win. Dianne moved into one of several roles she would play during our life with Ronnie – not friend this time, nor even older sister. The woman with no kids as of yet became a mother. ‘Get the bag now, please, Ronnie.’

He got up from his chair as slowly as he could, left the room and climbed the stairs.

Some 12 hours later, we were watching an episode of the prison comedy Porridge. Dianne asked if Ronnie would like to come with us to the midnight carol service, and perhaps have a shower and shave first.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it after Kojak.’

Dianne looked at me as if to say: ‘He’s smarter than he’s letting on.’ Sure enough, the bald-headed champion of American justice was on next.

But Ronnie would give us a surprise. He appeared in the doorway clean, shaven and looking so good I bit my lip. Dianne exclaimed, ‘Well, Ronnie Lockwood – you look handsome.’

A huge smile creased his face. ‘Not bad.’

After Christmas lunch, Ronnie played snooker with my father and turned out to be surprisingly proficient, a skill he had picked up in the care home.

I thought back to his arrival at the Gospel Hall Sunday School. Ms Williams, our teacher, had told us a boy would be joining us who lived in a children’s home, which meant he did not have a mother and father. She gave us a warning about consequences more terrifying than the fires of hell should we be mean to him.

Ronnie, however, obviously hadn’t been warned about misbehaviour. The first thing he did was put one of the other boys in a headlock, then he hid Ms Williams’ handbag under his chair.

Ronnie’s clothes weren’t that different, but there was something about them: the invisible uniform of the children’s home. I’m not sure we were ever deliberately cruel, but he was easy to wind up and he had a problem with his knees – he didn’t seem able to bend them properly – so you had a good chance of being able to outrun him.

One week he didn’t turn up. Nobody, not even Ms Williams, seemed to know what had happened to him. After his triumph at the snooker table, I noticed him shuffle along as he headed for bed. ‘Have you hurt your leg?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s fine. Di will tell you.’

Dianne took a chocolate out of the tin and opened the wrapper: ‘He was eight years old…’

A social worker came for Ronnie on a rainy Tuesday in March 1953. When he had gone to bed the evening before, his mother had said: ‘You’re going on a little holiday tomorrow, Ronnie. It’s just you… I want you to be brave.’

All day Ronnie waited, fear subduing his appetite and dulling his mischievousness, when, finally, there was a knock on the door. He ran upstairs and hid behind a wooden chest in his bedroom.

The door burst open and the shape of Ronnie’s father filled the frame. ‘You get downstairs, now.’

Fighting back tears, Ronnie asked: ‘Where’s Mum?’

‘She’s busy. Now get a move on, the nice lady in the car is waiting for you.’

Outside, a small crowd of children and adults had gathered, and Ronnie kept his head down as his father marched him to the car. He slid into the back seat and clutched his black hold-all close to his chest. As he glanced out of the window, he could see his mum standing at the front door.

She started to walk down the path, but his father held her back. Tears welled up in his eyes and he couldn’t keep them at bay any longer; his whole body was racked with silent sobs.

Suddenly, his mother broke free of his father and ran down the path. ‘It’s just for a few days, Ronnie,’ she shouted. Before she could reach the car, it lurched away. Ronnie turned to look at his mum through the rear window, unable to see clearly through a blur of tears.

When Ronnie arrived, he had to be dragged out of the car by a big, barrel-chested man. He was so frightened he soiled his trousers. Once he’d changed, the man took him out in the yard and told one of the bigger boys in his dorm to ‘show him the ropes’.

A group started around, chanting ‘walk the wall’. Two of them grabbed his arms and led him to a 10ft-high wall, bits of glass cemented into the top. ‘Walk the whole way round – then you’ll be one of us,’ the tallest boy said. Another made Ronnie take his shoes and socks off.

He had almost made it when someone picked up a long stick and started prodding his leg. Ronnie stepped forward in panic and, as he put his foot down, he felt a searing pain.

Yanking it up, he saw blood pouring from a wound where the glass had ripped into his skin. And then he started to wobble. He tried hard to balance on one foot. And then he fell, on his feet. There was a sickening cracking sound.

‘He hurt his knees so badly he had to have two operations on each of them. He was in hospital for six weeks,’ said Dianne. ‘They play up when he’s been standing too long.’

A sadness wedged in the pit of my stomach.

Aged 11, Ronnie was told he was being sent to ‘a school for subnormal boys’. And so a small boy with learning difficulties was sent hundreds of miles away to a place where he had no family or friends, and no teachers or social workers who knew him. When Ronnie was 16, another social worker drove him back to Cardiff and left him in a dingy basement bedsit with a frying pan, two saucepans and a few plates.

It was time to fend for himself – but, of course, he was not capable of doing so.

On Boxing Day, Dianne and I drove to Cardiff’s Roath Park, where hundreds of families were walking around its 30-acre lake, feeding the ducks or out in boats. We found an empty bench and lifted our faces to the winter sun. I went to get us an ice cream and, when I returned, she was gazing at the kids in the playground.

‘Do you think we’ll ever have children?’

‘What – in addition to the one we’ve got?’ ‘Don’t. It’s not funny. What are we going to do?’ ‘What – about having kids?’ ‘No – about Ronnie. You know he won’t be going tomorrow, don’t you? We can’t slide into this, Rob. We’re already in way above our heads.’

We agreed to keep Ronnie with us another night and speak to the team at the local homeless shelter who could, surely, find him somewhere to stay.

Each morning Ronnie was up early, tidying the kitchen. He was at once the most frustrating and the easiest guest. He demanded nothing – not even conversation. Like the battered and scratched sideboard in our hallway he, surprisingly, fitted.

When Dianne and I woke two days after Christmas, we had no idea that by the end of the day we would have taken a step that would change our lives for ever.

When we got to the homeless shelter, food was being served to a haphazard queue – some still wearing their overcoats and hats. The ‘office’ was a room no more than 8 sq ft large with packets of soup, pasta and toilet rolls piled up against the walls.

Kevin, the manager, said they could find Ronnie a bed for a night or two, but that would not help in the long-term.

Ronnie needed a job. Kevin wrote down the name of a contact at the Jobcentre: ‘He’s pretty sympathetic to our kind of guys. The only problem is that even with good will, to get a job, you need an address.

‘But to get an address, you need money – and that normally means a job. Ronnie’s in the Catch-22 situation that affects most of the people here.’

Dianne was thoughtful. When she spoke, it was almost a syllable at a time. ‘What if we could keep him with us while he tried to get a job?’

Kevin breathed in deeply. ‘Well, that would be brilliant for Ronnie, but there’s no knowing how long that would take, and even if he does get a job, how long he would stay in it.’

Dianne looked at me, and then back at Kevin as she said: ‘But it would give him a chance, wouldn’t it?’

We had to give him that chance.

Adapted from A Knock At The Door by Rob Parsons, to be published by Harper Collins on November 21 at £18.99. © 2024 Rob Parsons. To order a copy for £17.09 (offer valid to 23/11/24; UK P&P free on orders over £25) go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.