The little flat won me over straight away. Small, tidy, with old-fashioned furniture everywhere—even a mahogany sideboard with crystal glasses. A rug on the wall, a sooty kettle on the stove, and an ancient Frigidaire in the kitchen. And in the sitting room, an old wireless hung, crackling away with the comforting hum of the BBC Home Service. Warm, full of static, playing old tunes. No telly, but I didn’t mind.
I’d come home from work, turn up the wireless, and put the kettle on. Pour steaming water into a chipped mug, breathe in the fragrant steam, and stand by the window, watching the world outside. The wireless prattled on, and I stared at the sky—deep blue, studded with faint, blurry stars, a lopsided moon hanging above. Silent. Who was there to talk to? I lived alone in that little flat. That’s how it was until I met my new neighbour. His name was Albert—Albie. A good lad.
I’d come back late from work one day, stiff from hours at the lathe, my legs like lead. Walked into the kitchen, and there he was. Albie. Sitting there, staring at me. I nearly lashed out, reached for my belt—but then he looked up with those bright, gleaming eyes, and my hand dropped. Put the kettle on and sat beside him. Just stared at each other. He didn’t leave. Just sat quiet.
Poured myself a cuppa, fetched a packet of digestives, and laid them out. Albie’s neck stretched at the sight of them. I offered him one—he sniffed, politely turned away, and just listened to the wireless. We caught the news, learned what was happening in the world, then off to bed I went. Albie stayed in the kitchen, listening. By morning, he’d vanished. Off on his own business, I supposed. The factory waited for me, my faithful lathe, but his doings? No idea. He only returned in the evening when I got home, just as I set down my shopping—dried haddock, a jug of cold ale, some oat biscuits. And so we lived together. Me and Albie.
I’d pour a pint, peel the fish, and natter away while Albie listened. Never touched a drop himself—where’d he be with ale? Just sat there, quiet. Now and then, if I got too worked up, he’d pace the kitchen—back and forth—then settle down again, those bright eyes fixed on me. Listening. And it was good. Get it all out, the weight lifting from my chest. Albie knew that. That’s why he stayed quiet.
He loved the wireless, especially the old songs. Sometimes I’d come home, and he’d be gone—turn on the radio, put the kettle on, turn around—and there he was, perched, listening, those gleaming eyes on me. Happy. Both of us. We’d eat, listen to the wireless, chatter late into the night. I told him everything. New machines at the factory, how old Tom nearly got caught half-cut. Even stories from my past. Albie listened, bright-eyed and silent. Clever, he was. Not many can hold a conversation with silence, but Albie could. I’d ramble on about mates, old comrades, wipe away a stingy tear—and he’d look at me, all pitying, brush my hand, and just like that, the weight eased. Lucky, I was, with a neighbour like that. Loved him, and he loved me. Hated it when I came home soused, though. Would turn away, disapproval in his stare, ignoring even the wireless.
One night I came home legless after a lock-in with the lads. Albie took one look and vanished into the bedroom. Shame curled in me—drowning the past in gin instead of sharing it with him, like before. Stashed the bottle in the icebox, clicked on the wireless, lit a fag. Gloom settled, and when gloom came, Albie always came back. Even if he was cross. And he did. Sat beside me, touched my hand, and said nothing. So I moaned about life, chasing the bitterness with smoke. Then realised—what was there to moan about? Roof over my head, food, even a friend who’d listen, soothe, and stay quiet. Bloody hell. Tossed out all the spirits after that. Only let myself have cold ale and haddock. Albie didn’t mind. Would sit, sniff the fish, and listen till I turned in. Knew he stayed in the kitchen long after, listening, while I dreamed.
Then one day, he vanished. A whole week, no sign. Lonely without him. Grown used to our midnight kitchen talks. Clattered bottles, turned up the wireless—nothing. Devil nearly drove me to the off-license. Glum as sin. But Betty behind the counter planted her hands on her hips and shook her head. Refused me the bottle, but pressed meat pies on me instead. Spuds inside. Three days later, she turned up at my doorstep. Rosy-cheeked, smiling, kind. Made soup, baked more pies, chatted awhile, then dashed off—stocktake at the shop, she said. Promised to check on me tomorrow.
After she left, it hit me—how much I’d missed kindness. Before, Albie kept me right, listened, wouldn’t let me drink, brightened my evenings. Now I was alone. But Betty must’ve seen something in my eyes that night at the shop. Gave me pies, then came calling. Good woman. Loved her books. She started visiting often. Just because. Cooked supper, kept me talking. I’d tell her about the army; she’d natter about Jane Austen and kings of old. Me dwelling on the past, her dreaming ahead. Laughter hadn’t rung in that flat for years. Good laughter, honest.
A month later, I asked her to the pictures. Nervous as a schoolboy. Burned a hole in my best shirt with the iron while tidying up. Lucky I had a spare. Been ages since I’d gone out proper—lads at the factory didn’t count. This was company, culture, and… Betty. Pretty as a storybook lass. Watched the film, strolled the park, ate ice cream in little tubs, sipped fizzy pop. Lovely evening. Grew used to her, like I had to Albie.
Knew when I got home from work, she’d be at the stove. Wireless murmuring in the sitting room. Soft, cosy. Grew so used to her it scared me. What if she vanished like Albie? Left me alone again. One day, I steeled myself, walked up, and asked her to marry me. She dropped her ladle in shock, then burst into tears. Said yes.
Had a little do. Modest, just close friends. Except I didn’t have any. Albie was gone, and Betty wouldn’t have understood a friend like him. Still felt sad. Albie would’ve been chuffed. Chuffed my life had turned around. Proper turned around.
A year later, I was foreman at the factory. Two months after that, little Emily came along. Our daughter. The flat filled with noise, joy. And I realised what had been missing. Life. Family. Friends. The ones who’d save me from loneliness, like Albie had.
Two years later, I was sprawled on the sofa, half-listening to the news, when a shriek came from the kitchen. Rushed in—Betty standing on a chair, ladle in hand, and on the table, a ruffled little sparrow. Old, scruffy. Looked at me with those bright, gleaming eyes, and my heart near stopped. Betty asked why I was crying. I couldn’t answer. Just stared at the bird. “It’s Albie,” I said. “Albie’s come back. My old friend.”
My Albie.
