Grandmother's illness (part 1)

I cannot leave the subject of medical matters without mentioning my grandmother's health problems. I remember that traumatic morning as if it were yesterday. I can still bring to mind the taste and the colour of that day.
By the time I was seven I could dress myself more or less, although I still needed help with things like buttons and sashes, positioned, as they mostly were, inconveniently at the back of my dresses, and having my long hair put into two neat plaits. My grandmother used to do all of this for me in the morning as my mother had to start out quite early for work. Although we lived in central London, it would still take her over half an hour to get to the West End.
But this particular morning was in winter, and a cold, dark, grey morning it was too. Suddenly the bedroom door opened and I hardly recognised the old, grey woman who shuffled in, holding on to the arm of the settee for support, as she spoke to me in a voice a little more than a whisper. "Josephine, get dressed, get dressed" She repeated, without really knowing properly what she was saying, I suspected.
My world had fallen on its head and I didn't recognise it any more. It was to happen to me again, years later under different circumstances, and in both instances, things would never quite be the same as before. Both occasions were seismic faults in my life.
As my grandmother sat slumped on the settee, trying to catch her breath, I decided that finding another adult was probably the best course of action. These were the days before most people had private telephones, but that was a minor detail, beause there were at least half a dozen adults in the neighbourhood, indeed, in the house, that I could call on for help.
The landlady of the house, Mrs Brown, was no special friend of mine as she didn't like children much, and except on very rare occasions, made no secret of it either. Nevertheless, she was in, whereas the friendly lady with the baby upstairs was out. It was not without a certain amount of trepidation that I knocked on her door. The 'Dragon's Den' would have been a good name for her part of the house in my opinion. But on realising that something serious was afoot upstairs, she was with us in minutes, wearing her floral overall and still wiping her hands on a tea towel and she climbed the two flights of stairs to our flat.
It was at this stage, that my seven-year-old self was sent on a very important mission. I was given the Doctor's telephone number and told to go to the phone box round the corner, about five-minutes' walk away. Standing on tip-toe, I lifted the black, heavy receiver and put four pennies in the box. The dialing tone seemed endless but then a voice answered. It was at this point that I had to press button A, not button B, otherwise I would have been cut off and my four pennies would have clattered into the little recepticle below.
Somehow, I must have given the doctor's receptionist at least enough correct information, for the doctor to be with us half an hour later. Maureen, next door had also been sent to phone the doctor, I learned afterwards, just in case, but the doctor was already on his way.
And sure enough, a few minutes after she had got back, we heard a knock on the door. We hadn't told him that it was two knocks for our flat, three for the flat at the top of the house and one for Mrs Brown. But it didn't matter. I was sent down to open the door. My legs were the youngest, was the reason given. So I went running down the eighteen stairs covered with brown, cracked lino,and down the hallway which was also covered with brown lino. How I used to long for carpet, like my aunts had in their nice houses. For me in those days, carpet on the stairs represented the very height of luxury.

This has got to be continued tomorrow as I have been told in no uncertain terms by my beloved husband, that he wants his tea at six (it is now five-thirty) and I should 'Blog off'