The old couple have vanished from my view. Hard to believe: they were there for so long. Gone too, the snatches of their rumpus. The tiffs and bouts grew louder as the man’s mobility and faculties diminished – but, even then, they seemed to me perfect companions, he the milder one, she, the more forceful, though half his size.

Their apartment was adjacent to mine and a few floors below, and I’d catch her cleaning windows or pegging dishcloths, a diminutive demon, tackling tasks with vim. She loved leaning over the rail and flapping towels. Every morning she swept the narrow balcony, claiming it with the clatter of her broom. Her husband would often sit out there on his own, absorbed for hours in a hobby, hunched over a jigsaw, or gluing matchsticks together, plump fingers at work. His most recent and largest creation – a bird – was crafted with wire. It bore some resemblance to a hadeda, a pair of which, huge and ungainly and bonded for life, honk intermittently as they wander our lawn. A misaligned call-and-response, the honk duet blends with the beaky creatures’ general style. The wire bird, eventually completed, took its permanent place on the tiny table. It was not moved, even for his lunch tray. It towered over tea and a biscuit. Day and night it stood there, silent, never sleeping. I wondered what the hadedas made of their clumsy clone – a threat, a competitor, or just an odd, aloof neighbour keeping to its territory?

The couple only once had a real fight, a furious falling out with extra-loud screeches, shrill accusations and awful responses. Before this, I’d never heard the man shout in anger. As usual, the balcony scenes were played in full view. The Punch-and-Judy show lasted several days, and hinged around a piece of paper that the woman waved and flapped and, every so often, reread. Was it a legal document, an old love letter, some secret exposed? I found the fights upsetting and was relieved when the waters subsided and the old order was reinstated – lunch, tea, squabbles – their lives back on a comforting schedule.

They yelled out of habit. Wrapped up in their own world, were they unaware of the reach of their racket, or unconcerned? Strangely, I only bumped into the woman once. She recognised me, having viewed me on my balcony, and from an identical distance. I wondered if she had a story about me. We exchanged a few words, but she didn’t seem to need anyone except the man she’d squabbled with for decades.

The last time I saw him, he was sitting in his chair which, for the first time, was not facing the little table but had been turned to look out over the lawn. He was making the croaking sound of the hadedas, over and over. Calling. Calling …

And now the blinds are down and there’s only a silent broom on the balcony.

– Michael Pettit