The little flat felt right the moment I stepped in. Small, tidy, with old-fashioned furniture everywhere—even a proper oak sideboard with crystal glassware. A worn-out rug hung on the wall, a soot-stained kettle sat on the stove, and an ancient “Belling” fridge hummed in the corner. An old wireless set crackled in the living room, chattering away with faint hisses and the warm, familiar tones of Radio 4. No telly, not that I minded.
I’d come home from work, turn up the wireless, and put the kettle on. Pouring steaming water into a chipped mug, I’d breathe in the fragrant steam and stare out the window. The radio prattled on while I watched the street—the deep blue sky, the smudged pinpricks of stars, the jagged slice of moon—in silence. Who was there to talk to? Just me in that little flat.
Until I met the new neighbour. Alfie, they called him. Alf. Decent lad.
One evening, I came home late, aching from hours at the lathe, legs numb as pudding. Walked into the kitchen, and there he sat—Alf—staring at me. First, I nearly shouted, nearly fetched the belt, but then he looked up with those bright, shining eyes, and my hand just dropped. Put the kettle on and sat beside him. We studied each other. He didn’t leave. Just stayed quiet.
Poured myself tea, set out some digestives from the packet. Alf stretched his neck at the sight. Held one out to him; he sniffed, politely turned away, and settled in to listen to the radio. We caught the news, learned what was happening in the world, and then I went to bed. Alf stayed in the kitchen, listening. By morning, he’d vanished—off on his own business, I reckoned. Me, I had the factory and my trusty lathe. His day, though, remained a mystery.
He’d return in the evening, just as I got home and set the shopping bag on the table—dried haddock, a chilled jug of ale, oat biscuits. That’s how we lived. Me and Alf. I’d pour a pint, peel the fish, and chat away while Alf listened, silent. He never drank, couldn’t, but he’d sit there, bright-eyed, taking it all in. Sometimes, if I got too worked up, he’d pace the kitchen—back and forth—then settle again. Didn’t need words. Just listened. And it helped. Said my piece, poured out the bitterness, felt lighter after. Alf knew that.
Loved the wireless, he did—especially the old tunes. Some nights, I’d come in, and he wouldn’t be there. Turn on the radio, set the kettle, turn around—and there he’d be in his spot, listening, those bright eyes fixed on me. Made us both happy. We’d eat, listen, talk late—about work, the new steel shipment, how old Bill nearly got caught tipsy. I’d tell him about my past too. The war. Nearly getting captured, the burning tanks, the hot stew in the trenches. The concussion. Alf listened. Clever like that. Not many can say so much by saying nothing.
Told him about my mates, wiped the odd tear, and he’d just rest a paw on my hand—comfort without a word. Lucky, I was. Loved him, and he loved me. Only time he’d turn away was if I stumbled in drunk. Disapproving stare, ignored the radio.
One night, I came home legless, and Alf bolted to the bedroom. Shame washed over me—pouring whisky over my past instead of sharing it with him like before. Tossed the bottle in the bin, turned on the wireless, lit a smoke. Felt wretched. But Alf always came when I was low. Even if he was cross. This time too. Sat beside me, touched my hand, just watching. Started grumbling about life, chasing bitterness with smoke. Then it hit me—why whinge? Had a roof, food, even a friend who’d listen. Chuckled, poured out the last of the drink. Stuck to ale and fish after that. Alf didn’t mind. Sniffed the haddock, listened till I turned in. Knew he stayed up longer, keeping watch while I slept.
Then one day, he was gone. A whole week. Missed our late-night kitchen talks. Played the wireless loud, clanked bottles—nothing. Nearly caved, almost bought a bottle, but Dottie at the shop planted hands on hips, shook her head. No drink—just gave me meat pies instead. Three days later, she turned up on my doorstep. Rosy-cheeked, smiling, kind. Made stew, baked more pies, chatted a bit, then hurried off—stock-taking, she said. Promised to check in tomorrow.
When she left, it struck me—how much I’d missed kindness. Alf kept me steady, listened, kept me from the bottle, brightened my nights. Now I was alone again. But Dottie must’ve seen something in my eyes that night in the shop. Gave me pies, then came calling. Good woman. Loved her books. Started visiting often—cooked supper, talked. I told her about the war; she told me about knights and queens. Me stuck in the past, her dreaming ahead. Laughter filled the flat for the first time in years.
A month later, I asked her to the pictures. Nervous as a schoolboy—even burned my best shirt ironing it. Good thing I had a spare. Long time since I’d been out proper. The lads at the factory didn’t count. This was different—company, culture… Dottie. Pretty as a porcelain doll. Watched the film, strolled the park, ate ice cream in cones, sipped fizzy pop. Happy. Grew used to her like I had with Alf.
Knew she’d be at the stove when I got home, the wireless murmuring soft in the background. Grew so comfortable, it scared me. What if she vanished like Alf? Took a breath, asked her to marry me. She dropped the ladle, cried, and said yes.
We had a small do—just close friends. Mine were few. Alf was gone, and Dottie wouldn’t have understood him anyway. Still, it ached. Alf would’ve been chuffed. Chuffed life had turned.
A year later, I was made foreman. Two months after, Lizzie was born. The flat came alive—noisy, joyful. And I realised what I’d been missing. Not just company, but life itself. People who keep you from loneliness, like Alf once did.
Two years on, I was on the sofa watching the news when a shriek came from the kitchen. Rushed in—Dottie stood on a chair, ladle raised, while a scruffy old sparrow perched on the table. Ruffled, tired. Looked at me with those bright, shining eyes, and my heart stopped. Dottie asked why I was crying. Couldn’t speak. Just stared. “It’s Alf,” I said. “Alf came back.”
My old friend.
