The small flat charmed me at once. It was compact, tidy, with vintage furniture—even a mahogany cabinet with crystal glassware. A rug hung on the wall, a slightly sooty kettle sat on the stove, and an old fridge hummed in the kitchen. A radio played softly in the living room, crackling faintly as it broadcast songs from years gone by. No telly, but I didn’t mind.
After work, I’d come home, turn up the radio, and put the kettle on. I’d pour steaming water into a chipped mug, breathe in the fragrant steam, and stand by the window, watching the street outside. The radio chattered, and I stared at the darkening sky, the faint pinpricks of stars, the jagged edge of the moon. No one to talk to—just me in that little flat. Until I met my new neighbour. Alfie, his name was. Good lad.
That night, I came home late, exhausted after a long shift at the factory, my back aching, my legs like lead. Walked into the kitchen, and there he was. Alfie. Sitting there, watching me. I almost snapped, nearly reached for my belt, but then he looked at me with those bright eyes, and my hand dropped. I put the kettle on and sat beside him. We stared at each other in silence.
Poured myself tea, pulled out some biscuits, and laid them on the table. Alfie stretched his neck, eyeing them. I offered him one—he sniffed it politely, turned away, and just listened to the radio. The news droned on about the state of the world, then I went to bed. Alfie stayed, ears pricked. By morning, he was gone—off on his own business. Me? The factory waited, the machines humming.
Evenings became our ritual. I’d crack open a cold lager from the jug, peel some dried haddock, and talk while Alfie listened. He never drank, just watched with those gleaming eyes. Sometimes, if I got too worked up, he’d pace the kitchen—back and forth—until he settled again. Then he’d hop back onto the chair and just look at me. Knew how to listen, that one. Let me pour out all the bitterness inside till I felt lighter.
He loved the radio, especially the old songs. Some nights I’d come home, and he wouldn’t be there—but the moment I switched it on, he’d appear, drawn to the sound. We’d sit together, me talking, him silent, till late. I told him everything—the factory gossip, the new shipments of steel, how old Pete nearly got caught half-cut on the job. Even the past—things I never said aloud. About my service days, the war, the close calls. The burning tanks, the hot rations, the concussion that still rang in my ears. Alfie listened. Not many know how to say nothing just right—but he did. Sometimes, when my voice cracked, he’d press his paw to my hand, and the weight eased.
Hated it when I came home buzzed, though. One night, after too many pints with the lads, he hid under the table. Shame burned through me—I was drowning the past instead of sharing it, the way we used to. Stashed the bottle, lit a fag, and stared at the radio. Then he padded over, nudged my knee, and sat quietly. So I unloaded, smoke bitter on my tongue, till I realised—what was I moaning for? I had a roof, food, even a mate who’d stick by me, no questions. Next day, I chucked out the booze. Just kept the lager and haddock. Alfie never complained.
Then one week, he vanished. The flat felt hollow. Radio on full blast, clattering bottles—nothing brought him back. One evening, I stormed into the shop, ready to buy a bottle of regret. But Betty, the shopkeeper, folded her arms and shook her head. Instead, she handed me a bag of pasties—savoury, warm. Three days later, she turned up at my door, rosy-cheeked and smiling, a pot of stew in her hands. Chatted while I ate, then said she’d pop by tomorrow.
Something shifted then. Alfie had kept me steady—now Betty filled the quiet with laughter. She came often after that, cooking, talking books—she loved a good romance. Me? I told war stories; she talked of dukes and ballrooms.
A month later, I asked her to the pictures. Spent ages ironing my shirt—burned a hole in it, panicking. The film was forgettable, but the walk after, the ice cream in little cups, the way she laughed—that stuck.
Soon, she was always there when I got home, stirring something at the stove while the radio murmured. I got used to it—then scared. What if she left, like Alfie? One evening, I blurted it out—asked her to marry me. She dropped the ladle, cried, then said yes.
We had a small wedding—just a few friends. Mine were few. Alfie was gone, and Betty wouldn’t have understood him anyway. Still, I reckon he’d have been chuffed.
A year later, I got promoted at the factory. Two months after that, our Millie was born. The flat brimmed with noise, with life.
Then, two years on, Betty shrieked from the kitchen. I ran in—she stood on a chair, waving a spoon. On the table, a scruffy little sparrow ruffled its feathers.
It looked at me—those same bright eyes.
Betty asked why I was crying.
I couldn’t speak. Just whispered, *It’s Alfie. He’s back.*
My old mate.
