**Diary Entry – An Old Friend**
The flat caught my eye at once—small, tidy, furnished with worn but sturdy pieces, even a vintage oak cabinet with glass trinkets inside. A faded rug hung on the wall, a soot-stained kettle on the stove, and an old fridge humming in the kitchen. Best of all, a radio perched on the shelf, crackling out the BBC with that warm, familiar hiss. No telly, but I didn’t mind.
After work, I’d turn the radio up, boil the kettle, and cradle a steaming mug by the window, watching the street below. The voices murmured as I stared at the deep blue sky, the smudged pinpricks of stars, the pale curve of the moon. No one to talk to—just me in that little flat. Until my new neighbour showed up. Alfie, he was called. Good lad.
Late one evening, I stumbled in bone-tired from the factory, my back aching and legs like lead. Walked into the kitchen, and there he sat—Alfie—staring at me. I nearly reached for my belt out of habit, but something in those bright, watchful eyes stopped me. Put the kettle on instead and sat beside him. Neither of us spoke. Just shared the quiet.
Poured myself tea, laid out a biscuit from the packet. Alfie stretched his neck, sniffed it politely, then ignored it, turning back to the radio. We listened to the news, the world’s troubles, then I turned in. Left him there, ears pricked. By morning, he’d vanished—off on his own business, I supposed. Mine was the factory and the clattering machines. But come evening, he returned just as I unpacked groceries: salted crisps, a cold pint of bitter, and digestives. And so we lived. Me and Alfie.
Home late, I’d pour a drink, crunch crisps, and talk at him. He never drank, of course—just listened. Silent, except when I got too worked up. Then he’d pace the kitchen, back and forth, till he calmed and settled again, those bright eyes fixed on me. It helped. Letting the day’s grit spill out, leaving me lighter. Alfie knew that.
He loved the radio, especially the old songs. Some nights I’d come home, switch it on, and before the kettle boiled, he’d be there, listening. It was comfort—for him, for me. Supper, the wireless, and talks stretched past midnight. I told him everything—new lathes at work, old Tom nearly sacked for drinking. Even the past. The war. Tanks burning, near-captures, the taste of cold porridge. Alfie listened well. Not many can hold a conversation in silence, but he could. When my voice cracked over lost mates, he’d press close, nudge my hand, and suddenly it wasn’t so heavy. Lucky, that. He only hated when I came home drunk—turned away, even the radio forgotten.
Once, after a bender, I found him hiding in the bedroom. Shame hit me like a brick. Stashed the bottle, lit a fag, and let the radio hum. Then he came, silent but there, paw on my knee till my grumbling turned to gratitude. Tossed the booze after that. Just bitter and crisps from then on. Alfie didn’t mind—sniffed the salt, listened till I dozed off.
Then he vanished. A week without him. The flat felt hollow. I rattled bottles, cranked the wireless, but no Alfie. Nearly bought whisky out of gloom, but Betty at the shop clucked, shook her head, and shoved pastries at me instead. Three days later, she turned up on my step—rosy, smiling, arms full of stew and fresh bakes. Stayed just long enough to talk, then left, promising to check in.
That night, I realised—I’d missed kindness. Alfie kept me steady, but now Betty filled the quiet. She came often after that, cooking, chatting. I’d ramble about the war; she’d chatter about romance novels. Laughter returned to those walls.
A month later, I asked her to the pictures. Burnt my best shirt ironing it, nerves buzzing. The flick, a stroll, ice cream in paper cups—like being young again. Soon, she was part of the flat, humming at the stove, the radio low. I grew afraid—what if she left, like Alfie? So I asked her to stay. Properly. She dropped her ladle, cried, and said yes.
We married quietly—just close friends, though mine were gone. Alfie would’ve been glad, I think. Life had shifted.
A year later, I made foreman. Two months after that, our Lily was born. Noise, chaos, joy. I finally understood—what I’d lacked was life itself. People.
Then one evening, as the telly droned, a shriek from the kitchen. Betty stood on a chair, brandishing a spoon, while a scruffy old sparrow perched on the table. Our eyes met—those same bright, knowing ones—and my throat locked.
“Who’s this?” Betty asked, puzzled by my tears.
I could barely speak. “Alfie,” I managed. “He’s come back.”
My old friend.
