That little flat won me over straight away. Small, tidy, the furniture was all vintage, even the old Yugoslav cabinet with crystal glassware. A rug on the wall, a sooty kettle on the stove, and an ancient “Bush” fridge humming away in the kitchen. There was even a wireless set in the living room—an old thing, crackling away with the BBC Home Service. Warm, familiar, with its faint hiss and the occasional old tune. No telly, not that I minded.
I’d come home from the factory, turn up the wireless, put the kettle on the hob. Pour myself a cuppa, breathe in the steam, and stand by the window, staring out at the street. The wireless droning on while I watched the world go by—dark blue sky, smudged little stars, a crescent moon hanging like a bent coin. No one to talk to, really. Just me in that little flat. That’s how it was, till I met my new neighbour. Alfie, his name was. Good lad.
One night, I came back late, bone-achingly tired from a long shift at the lathe, legs like jelly. Walked into the kitchen, and there he was—Alfie—sitting there, looking at me. My first thought was to give him a proper telling-off, maybe even swat him away, but then he fixed me with those bright little eyes of his, and my hand just dropped. Put the kettle on and sat beside him, him watching me, me watching him. Didn’t budge. Just sat there, quiet as anything.
Poured myself a brew, got some digestives out of the packet, laid ’em on the table. Alfie stretched his neck at the sight of ’em. Offered him one, but he just gave it a sniff, turned away polite-like, and listened to the wireless with me. Caught up on the news, heard what was happening in the world, then off to bed I went. Alfie stayed put in the kitchen, listening to the radio. Come morning, he’d vanished—off on his own business, I suppose. Me? The factory was waiting, my faithful lathe with it. What he got up to, I had no idea. But come evening, there he was again, just as I got home and plonked my shopping on the table—dried haddock, a jug of cold bitter, and some oat biscuits. And that’s how we started living together, me and Alfie.
I’d come home, pour myself a pint from the jug, pick at the fish, and natter away at him. He never touched the stuff, bless him. Just listened. Silent. Only when I went on too much would he start pacing the kitchen—back and forth, back and forth—then settle down again, sitting there with those bright little eyes. Listening. And I felt better for it. Got it all off my chest, left the muck behind. Alfie knew that, so he never said a word.
Loved the wireless, he did. Especially the old songs. Sometimes I’d come home, and the kitchen’d be empty. Turn on the radio, put the kettle on, turn around—and there he was. Sitting there, listening, eyes shining. Happy as anything. So was I. We’d have our supper, listen to the wireless, talk late into the night. Told him everything—what was new at the factory, what shipments had come in, how old Bill nearly got caught half-cut on the job. Even told him about my past. Alfie listened, sharp as a tack. Never said a word, just shone those eyes at me and took it all in. Good lad. Loved hearing about my service days most of all.
Oh, I told him everything. How I’d ended up at the front as a lad, how I nearly got captured, how the tanks burned. Talked about hot porridge, the concussion I took. And Alfie just listened. Sharp, he was. Not many can hold a conversation without speaking, but Alfie could. Told him about my mates, my comrades, wiped away a stingy tear or two, and he’d look at me—soft-like—touch my hand, and just like that, it’d ease. Lucky I was, having a neighbour like that. Loved him, and he loved me. ’Cept when I came home drunk. Then he’d give me that reproachful look and turn away. Even the wireless lost its charm for him then.
One night I came back worse for wear after a session with the lads, and Alfie took one look at me and darted into the other room. Felt rotten, drowning my sorrows instead of sharing them with him like I used to. Shoved the bottle in the fridge, turned on the wireless, lit a fag. Right miserable I was. But when I was low, Alfie always came back—even if he was cross. And he did that time. Sat beside me, touched my hand, just looked at me in that quiet way of his. Started moaning about life, chasing the bitterness with smoke, till I realised—what was I griping for? Had a roof, food, even a friend who’d listen and sit with me. Ah, well. Cleared out all the spirits after that. Only kept the bitter and the haddock. Alfie didn’t mind that. He’d sit there, sniff the fish, and listen till I turned in. Knew he stayed up longer sometimes, hearing the wireless while I slept.
Then one day, he was gone. A whole week, not a peep. Felt empty without him. Grown used to our late-night kitchen talks. Turned on the radio, clinked bottles about—still no Alfie. Devil got the better of me, sent me off to the shop for a bottle. Glum as anything. But Ginny, the shop girl, just planted her hands on her hips and shook her head. Didn’t sell me a drop—handed me some pasties instead. Spud-filled ones. Three days later, she came round to mine. Rosy-cheeked, smiling, kind as anything. Made some soup, baked more pasties, had a proper chat before darting off. Said she’d pop by tomorrow to check on me.
After she left, it hit me—how much I’d missed kindness. Before, Alfie’d kept me right, stopped me drinking, brightened my nights. Now I was alone. But Ginny must’ve spotted something in my eyes that evening at the shop. The pasties, then the visit. Good woman. Loved her books. Started coming round regular after that. Just because. Cooked supper, kept me company. I’d talk about the war; she’d talk about romance novels and French kings. Me looking back, her looking forward. Hadn’t heard laughter in that flat for years. The proper sort, warm and real.
A month or so later, I asked Ginny to the pictures. Nervous as a schoolboy—burned a hole in my best shirt ironing it. Lucky I had a spare. Been years since I’d done anything proper social. The lads didn’t count—saw ’em every day at the factory. But this was different. Culture, company… Ginny. Pretty as a picture. Watched the film, walked through the park, had ice cream in cones and fizzy pop. Lovely time. Grew as fond of her as I had been of Alfie.
Knew that when I got home from work, she’d be at the stove. Wireless murmuring in the background, soft and cosy. Grew so used to her I got scared. What if she vanished like Alfie? Left me alone again. Mustered my courage one day, asked her to marry me. She dropped the ladle in shock, then burst into tears. Said yes.
We had a quiet little do. Just close friends. Except I didn’t have any. Alfie was gone, and Ginny wouldn’ve understood a friend like him anyway. Still felt a pang. Alfie’d have been chuffed for me. Chuffed my life had changed. Proper changed.
A year later, I was foreman at the factory. Two months after that, Lizzie was born. Our little girl. Flat was noisy now, full of life. And I realised what’d been missing all along. People. Family. Someone to pull me out of the loneliness, same as Alfie had.
Two years on, sat on the sofa watching the telly, a shout came from the kitchen. Rushed in to find Ginny standing on a chair, ladle in hand, and there on the table—a scruffy little sparrow. Old, tatty. Looked at me with those bright little eyes, and my heart near stopped. Ginny asked why I was crying. Couldn’t answer. Just stared at the bird. Told her—*That’s Alfie. He’s back.*
My old friend.
